Sophia's Secret

by Susanna Kearsley

  She wished she had some way to know what he was thinking, with his grey eyes fixed so seriously on their hands together, but he made no comment, and at length he simply twined his fingers through her own and brought her hand to rest above his heart.

  The light was changing all around them to the light of early evening, and she knew they did not have much time before they’d be expected back for supper. She asked, ‘Shall we walk again to Ardendraught?’

  ‘No. Not today.’ He did not loose his hold on her, but closed his eyes again in such a way that she knew, from these past days of observing him, that he was deep in thought.

  She waited, and at last he said, ‘When I am gone, what will ye do?’

  She tried to keep her answer light. ‘I’ll throw myself at Rory.’

  Moray’s chest moved with his laughter, but he turned her face to his. His eyes were open now. ‘I would be serious. The countess will want to be seeing ye married, for your sake. Will you take a husband?’

  ‘John…’

  ‘Will you?’

  Pushing at him suddenly, she made him let her up and sat so that her back was to him and he could not see her face. ‘How can you ask me that?’

  ‘I think I have a right.’ His voice was quiet, and it gave her hope that he, too, might be looking on the prospect of his leaving with regret.

  Head down, she answered, ‘No. When you have gone, I will not marry someone else.’

  ‘Why not?’ His question gave no quarter, and Sophia knew he would not let the subject rest until he’d had a truthful answer.

  Sifting sand again, she watched it spilling freely from her palm, unwilling to be held. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘my sister made me promise her I’d never give my hand unless I also gave my heart. And you have that.’ She spread her fingers, setting loose the final fall of sand, and Moray, raising himself up on to one elbow, caught her hand in his again.

  ‘Ye give me more than I deserve,’ he said.

  ‘You have a poor opinion of yourself.’

  ‘No, lass. An honest one.’ With eyes still darkly serious, he contemplated their linked hands a second time, and then in one swift rolling motion stood, and helped her up to stand beside him. ‘Come.’

  She saw their shadows stretching long across the sand, towards the sea, and knew the sun was moving ever lower in the west, above the line of distant hills. It touched the sky and clouds with gold, and caught her vision in a burst of shifting rays when Moray turned her to its light, and set her hand upon his arm, and led her back along the beach.

  He did not take her by the main path that went up and through the crow’s wood, but along the shore itself and up the hill that stood between themselves and Slains. From here she saw the castle stretched before them in the distance, and the gardens running down to meet the dovecote that clung bravely to the gully’s edge, among the gorse and grasses. Then the path was leading down again. It brought them to the bottom of the gully with its quiet grove of chestnut, ash and sycamore trees blotting out all sound except their footsteps and the cooing of the wood doves and the gurgle of the burn whose water ran to meet the sea.

  As they approached the footbridge set across the water, Moray asked her, without warning, ‘Do ye love me?’

  She stopped walking. ‘John.’

  ‘’Tis but a simple thing to answer. Do ye love me?’

  He was mad, she thought, completely mad, to ask her such a question in the open, here, but looking in his eyes she lost the will to tell him so. ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Then, since I have your heart already, let me have your hand.’

  She stared, and told herself that she could not have heard him properly. He surely only meant to hold her hand, she thought, and not—

  ‘Sophia.’ With a careful touch he smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear, as though he wished to better see her face. ‘I’m asking if ye’ll marry me.’

  A woman who was sane, she knew, would have the wit to tell him that they could not hope to marry, that the countess and the earl would not permit it, that it was a lovely dream, and nothing more…but standing now as she was standing, with her face reflected in the grey eyes fixed with steady purpose on her own, she could not bring herself to think the thing impossible. She swallowed back the sudden swell of feeling that was rising in her chest, and gave her answer with a wordless nod.

  The smile that touched his eyes was one she never would forget. ‘Then come with me.’

  ‘What, now?’ That was enough to free her from the spell. ‘Oh, John, you know that we cannot. The Bishop never will agree to—’

  ‘Damn the Bishop,’ was his mild reply. ‘He has no say in our affairs.’

  ‘And who will marry us, if not the Bishop?’

  ‘My brother Robert makes his living in the law, and he would tell you that a marriage made by handfast is as binding as a marriage made in Kirk.’

  She knew of handfasting. She’d even seen it done when she was but a girl, and she recalled her mother’s explanation that the sacrament of marriage was the only one that did not need a priest, because the man and woman were themselves the ministers, and bound themselves together by their words. Handfast was frowned upon these days, but practised still – an old tradition of a bygone age when priests were not so plentiful, especially in lonelier locations, and the joining of a man’s hand to a woman’s was a simpler thing.

  ‘Sophia.’ Holding out his hand to her, he said, ‘Will ye come with me?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘’Tis best done over water.’

  In the middle of the bridge he stopped, and drew her round to face him, while beneath their feet the water, turned half-golden by the sun, slipped through the shadow of the arch of wood and flowed on without care towards the sea.

  They were alone. He took her two hands in his larger ones.

  ‘I take ye to my wedded wife,’ he said, his voice so quiet that the water sang above it. ‘Now, lass, tell me that ye’ll have me for your husband.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  She raised her gaze to his. ‘I take you to my wedded husband.’ Then, because that seemed unfinished somehow, she invoked the name of God the Father, and the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

  ‘I thought,’ said Moray, ‘ye did not believe.’

  ‘Then it can do no harm to ask His blessing.’

  ‘No.’ His fingers tightened briefly on her own, as if he understood her need to hold, by any means, this little piece of happiness. ‘No, it can do no harm.’

  Sophia looked at him. ‘Are we then married?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘We are.’ She heard the pride, and a faint challenge, in his words. ‘And ye can tell that to the countess when she comes to try to marry ye to someone else.’ His kiss was warm, and deep, and too soon ended. ‘That’s for now. The rest will have to keep, else we’ll be late to Erroll’s table.’

  So then, thought Sophia, it was done. A touch of hands, words over water, and a kiss, and everything was changed. It was a little thing, and yet she felt the change within herself so very keenly she was sure the Earl of Erroll or the countess would be quick to see it also, and remark upon it. But the evening passed without an incident.

  At supper, Moray and Sophia sat in their accustomed chairs, across from one another, and behaved for all the world as if things were the same as they had been that morning, though Sophia feared that, in her effort not to stare and so betray her feelings, she had erred too far the other way, and hardly looked at him at all.

  The only person who had taken note was Kirsty. After supper, in the corridor, she caught Sophia passing. ‘Have ye quarrelled?’

  ‘What?’ Sophia asked.

  ‘Yourself and Mr Moray. Ye were quiet all the meal. Has he upset ye, in some way?’

  ‘Oh. No,’ she said. ‘He has done nothing to upset me.’

  Kirsty, unconvinced, looked closely at Sophia’s flushing face. ‘What is it, then? And I’ll not have ye say ’tis naethin,’ was
her warning, as Sophia made to speak.

  She wanted desperately to tell, to share some measure of her happiness with Kirsty, but her fear of putting Moray into danger bound her tongue. She summoned up a weary smile and said, ‘’Tis only that my head aches.’

  ‘And nae wonder, with the walks that ye’ve been taking in all weathers. Ye’ll be bringing on a fever,’ Kirsty chided her. ‘No matter what the bards may say, there’s no romance in dying for a man.’

  It was pure instinct made Sophia lift her head. ‘What do you know about my walks with Mr Moray?’

  ‘Ye can put the blame on Rory. He’s aye seeing things, he is, though he’ll not speak of them to any soul but me, and that but rarely.’

  Glancing up and down the corridor for reassurance that they were alone, Sophia asked, ‘And what does Rory tell you?’

  ‘That yourself and Mr Moray were this evening on the bridge down by the burn, and holding hands, and talking serious. ’Tis why I thought ye must have quarrelled after, for ye did not seem, tonight, as if—’ She broke off, as though something had just suddenly occurred to her, and as her eyes were widening, Sophia pleaded,

  ‘Kirsty, you must promise me you’ll never say what you’ve just said, to anyone. Not anyone.’

  ‘Ye’ve married him!’ The words came in a whisper, half accusing, half delighted. ‘Ye’ve married him by handfast, have ye not?’

  ‘Oh, Kirsty, please.’

  ‘I’ll never tell. Ye needn’t fear I’ll tell, nor Rory, either. But Sophia,’ she said, in a whisper still, ‘what will ye do?’

  Sophia did not know what she would do. She had not planned this. It had happened of its own accord, and she’d had little time to think about the future.

  Kirsty looked at her with sympathy, and envy, and then, breaking forth a smile, reached out to grab her hand. ‘Come now, I’ve something I would give ye for a wedding present.’

  ‘Kirsty…’

  ‘Come, his lordship and her ladyship do have your Mr Moray deep in conference in the drawing room. Ye’ll nae be missed. And anyway, ye have an aching head,’ she nudged Sophia’s memory, ‘do ye not?’

  The servants’ rooms were at the far end of the castle. Kirsty’s window overlooked the stables, where she nightly would see Rory tending to the stalls and horses. Underneath the window stood a simple box, and from this Kirsty drew a length of fine white fabric. When she held it up, Sophia saw it was a nightgown, delicately broidered with pale vines and flowers intertwined, and edged at neck and sleeves with bits of lace.

  ‘’Tis my own work,’ said Kirsty proudly. ‘I’ve not yet finished all the flowers, but I’d thought I’d have more time afore the countess planned a marriage for ye. I didna ken that ye would be arranging one yerself.’

  The holland fabric ran like silk between Sophia’s fingers. ‘Kirsty, it is beautiful,’ she said, so touched that she could feel the spring of tears behind her eyes. ‘Wherever did you find the time, with all your duties?’

  ‘Well, now,’ Kirsty turned the praise aside, self-consciously, ‘it helps me to relax at night. I made one for my sister when she married, and ye’ve been a second sister to me since ye did arrive, and so I thought it only right that ye should have one, too. I ken ye canna wear it here at Slains, but when ye’ve gone to France…’ She paused then, as Sophia turned her gaze towards the floor. ‘He will take ye to France when he goes, will he not?’

  Sophia thought of what he’d told her on the bridge when she had asked if they were truly married: Ye can tell that to the countess, when she comes to try to marry ye to someone else. Still looking down, she said to Kirsty, ‘No. He does not mean to take me with him.’

  ‘But why not?’

  She did not know. She only knew that Moray came to no decision lightly, without cause. She raised her head, and showed a smile she did not feel. ‘It is enough that he did take me for his wife.’

  Fine words, she thought, and bravely spoken, but they did not cheer her then, nor yet an hour later, when she summoned them a second time within her mind as she stood lonely in her chamber.

  The wind had changed from off the sea, and cooled the air so sharply that, although it was now early June, the fires had been lit. She shivered out of gown and shift beside the warmth of her small hearth, and let the lovely nightgown slide like satin down her arms, her shoulders, till its hemline softly brushed her feet. Before the looking-glass, she stood and stared at her reflection, seeing not herself but an uncertain bride, with brightly curling hair and shining eyes and cheeks that seemed so highly coloured that she raised her hands to cover them.

  A voice spoke from the darkness. ‘Christ,’ said Moray, ‘you are beautiful.’

  Sophia dropped her hands, and wheeled about. She could not see him clearly, just his shape, deep in the shadows of the corner of the chamber. He was standing with his back against the wall, beyond the flicker of the firelight.

  His quiet voice would not have carried through the walls, she knew, and she took care to keep her own voice just as low. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Ye needn’t look so nervous. ’Tis no crime,’ he said, ‘for me to watch my wife prepare for bed.’

  Her face grew warmer still within the pause that followed, and she felt his eyes upon her.

  ‘Where,’ he asked her, slow and with appreciation, ‘did ye get that garment?’

  Smoothing both her hands along the soft folds of the nightgown, she replied, ‘It was a wedding gift, from Kirsty.’

  ‘So ye’ve told her, then.’ His voice held mild surprise.

  ‘She knew already. Rory saw us on the footbridge.’

  ‘Well, I don’t doubt they’ll keep the secret. And ’twill be some comfort to ye, having Kirsty to confide in.’ When I’m gone. He did not speak the words, and yet they hung as clearly in the air between them as if they’d been said aloud.

  Sophia wrapped her arms around herself as though she’d felt a sudden chill. ‘Will you not come into the light? I cannot see you. ’Tis like talking to a ghost.’

  She heard the slight, half-laughing breath that told her he was smiling, but he did not leave his place against the wall. ‘Two years ago,’ he said, ‘when Colonel Hooke first came to treat in Scotland, he did set a secret meeting with the Duke of Hamilton at Holyroodhouse. A daring thing, and dangerous for both of them if they had been discovered. Hooke did tell me that the chamber where they met was kept in darkness, by the order of the duke, so that if he were later asked if he had seen Hooke, he could answer with full honesty that he had not.’

  ‘And do you then intend that we should do the same?’ she asked him lightly. ‘So that if the countess asks me, I can tell her with my conscience clear that I did never see you in this room?’

  ‘It is a thought, at that.’ His tone was quietly amused. ‘Ye’ve no great gift for lying, lass.’

  ‘I’ll have no need to lie. And you already gave me leave to tell the countess we were man and wife.’

  ‘Aye, so I did, but only if she aims you at the altar with another man. Till then, ’tis best we keep it private. Just for us.’ She heard his shoulders shift against the stone, and then he stepped into the light, and smiled. ‘This night is ours alone.’

  And she did close her eyes, although she had not meant to, and stood trembling while he came to her, his hardened hands not hard at all as they brushed warm upon her hair, her upturned face, her shoulders. There they stopped, and slipped beneath the lace-edged neckline of the nightgown. Moray’s head bent so the angle of his jawline pressed her cheek, his mouth against her ear. She felt his warm breath stir her hair. He asked, ‘Why are ye shaking? Are ye frightened?’

  Not quite trusting to her voice, she shook her head.

  He said, ‘I would not have ye fear me.’

  ‘I do not.’ She found the words, but in a voice that trembled, too. ‘I do not fear you, John. I love you.’

  His mouth travelled in a smile across her cheek, and once again the hands upon her shoulders moved beneath t
he nightgown, and the silken fabric whispered to the floor. And as he lifted her, his mouth came down on hers with so much strength of feeling that the world behind her tight-shut eyes began to spin, and seemed no longer dark, but filled with bursting lights of wonderment.

  Against her lips he breathed, ‘I love ye more.’

  The time for words was over.

  She woke, to hear the roaring of the sea beneath her windows and the raging of the wind against the walls that made the air within the room bite cold against her skin. The fire was failing on the hearth, small licks of dying flame that cast half-hearted shadows on the floorboards and gave little light to see by.

  She shivered at the thunder of the passing storm, and stirred to rise and tend the fire, but Moray stopped her.

  ‘Let it be,’ he mumbled, low, against her neck. ‘We will have warmth enough.’ And then his arm came round her, solid, safe, and drew her firmly back against the shelter of his chest, and she felt peace, and turned her face against the pillow, and she slept.

  Chapter Fourteen

  With my hand I smoothed the scrap of paper on which I had scribbled those few lines, when I had woken from the dream I’d had that final night in France. It seemed an age ago, in some ways, that I’d dreamt it, and in other ways it seemed like only yesterday.

  I’d wondered where that fragment would fit in, and now I knew.

  Knew, too, why that one night had left so strong a memory it had travelled down the centuries to haunt my dreams, as well.

  ‘Good morning.’ Graham’s voice was rough with sleep. He had his jeans on, and a shirt, but it was hanging open, and his chest and feet were bare. ‘Have you seen Angus?’

  ‘He got up with me. And he’s been out,’ I said. ‘He’s fine.’ The spaniel, curled beneath my work table, rolled both his eyes up without stirring from his comfortable position and, convinced that no one needed him, went back to his contented daydreams.