Sophia's Secret

by Susanna Kearsley

  ‘I did hear that he was well enough to tell old Mrs Robinson to mind her own affairs.’

  The elder Mrs Kerr said, ‘Oh aye? When was this?’

  ‘Two days ago, or three, I am not certain. But I have been told that Mrs Robinson did call upon the widow McClelland, to tell her that keeping a man in her house, kin or no, was inviting a scandal.’

  ‘Oh aye.’ The older woman sniffed. ‘’Twas likely envy, for I cannot call to mind that Mrs Robinson did ever keep a man in her own house besides her husband, and he was not much to sing about.’

  Sophia smiled privately as Mr Kerr said, ‘Mother!’ and the older woman waved him off and carried on, ‘So Mr McClelland…what name does he go by?’

  ‘’Tis David, I think,’ said young Mrs Kerr.

  ‘So then David McClelland was not pleased to have such advice?’

  ‘Not at all.’ And the young woman smiled as well. ‘I am told he has neither the amiable looks nor the soft-spoken ways of his brother. He told Mrs Robinson straight out that those who saw sin in his sister-in-law must carry sin in their own hearts, to colour their view.’

  The older woman’s mouth twitched. ‘Did he, indeed?’

  ‘Aye. And then he suggested she be on her way.’

  ‘That will make him no friends,’ was the dour Mrs Kerr’s observation. ‘Still, I must say for my own part this does make me view him favourably. I do prefer a person who defends a woman’s honour over one who seeks to stain it. But,’ she said, ‘if you should have the chance this afternoon, you might wish to tell the young widow McClelland more gently to look to appearances, for she is not wise to put her mourning off so soon. A wife should mourn her husband properly.’

  Sophia felt another stab of sorrow near her heart. The food left on her plate had lost all its appeal, and had no taste. She tried to eat it, but the effort was so slight that even Mr Kerr took note.

  ‘Why, Mistress Paterson, are you not well?’

  She raised a hand to shield her eyes. ‘I have a dreadful headache. Do forgive me,’ she excused herself, and grateful for the chance to leave the table made her way upstairs.

  She was not made to go to kirk that afternoon. She heard the others leaving while she lay upon her bed, dry-eyed, and mourned the only way she could, in private. But that too was interrupted by a knocking at her door.

  Sophia answered, dull, ‘Come in.’

  The maid who entered was, though young, as unlike Kirsty in her manner as could be – head down and timid and not wanting to be spoken to. There was no question here of making friends among the servants, they kept closely to themselves. Sophia often longed for Kirsty’s laughter, and their walks and talks and confidences. Kirsty would have cheered her now, and drawn the curtains wide to let the light in, but the maid here only stood inside the door and said, ‘Beg pardon, Mistress, but there’s someone come to see you.’

  Sophia did not look around. ‘Do give them my apologies. I am not well.’ It would most likely only be some prying neighbour who had seen that she was not in kirk, and wished to know the reason why. She’d had her share of visitors these past months, all curious to view this new young stranger in their midst who’d lived so openly with Jacobites. Like the young widow McClelland, Sophia had been offered much advice as to how to conduct herself, and she had listened and smiled and endured. But today she was not in the mood for it.

  Still the maid hovered. ‘I told him so, Mistress, but he seemed quite sure you’d be wanting to see him. He said he was kin.’

  Sophia rolled over at that, for she could not think who…? ‘Did he give you his name?’

  ‘He did not.’

  With a frown, she rose slowly and smoothed out her gown. As she went down the stairs she could hear someone moving around in the front room, the leisurely steps of a man wearing boots. Either he – or more likely the maid – had been careful to leave the door standing fully open to the entry hall, mindful of the fact that there was no one in the house to serve as chaperone, but because he had crossed to stand before the mantelpiece she did not see him until she had stepped into the room.

  He had his back to her, head angled slightly while he took a close look at the paintings done in miniature that hung upon the wall, his stance and manner so like Moray’s that the memory tugged again a little painfully before Sophia caught herself and realised who it was. She gave a happy cry of recognition, and as Colonel Graeme turned she gave no thought to what was proper, only rushed across the room into his hard embrace.

  There was no need to say the words, to speak aloud of sorrow or of sympathy. It passed between them anyway, in silence, as she pressed her face against his shoulder. ‘I did fear you had been killed,’ she whispered.

  ‘Lass.’ The single word held roughness, as though he were deeply touched by her concern. ‘Did I not tell ye I would keep my head well down?’ He held her tightly for a moment, and then pushed her back so he could have a look at her. ‘The maid said ye were ill.’

  Sophia looked back at the doorway, and the quiet maid still standing there, and knowing that whatever happened in this room would be told to the Kerrs, Sophia gathered her emotions into something like composure. ‘It is all right, you may go,’ she told the maid. ‘This is my uncle, come from Perthshire.’

  With a nod, the maid retreated, and Sophia turned again to look at Colonel Graeme’s face, and found him smiling.

  ‘Neatly done,’ he said, ‘although ye might have thought to have her bring a dram for me afore she went. I’ve had no whisky yet the day, and it has been a long hard road from Perthshire.’

  ‘Did you really come from there?’

  He shook his head. ‘I took passage over from Brest, lass, and sailed into Kirkcudbright harbour on Saturday last.’

  ‘You have been here a week?’ She could scarcely believe it.

  ‘I’d have come to see ye sooner, but I had a bout of sickness on board ship, and it was lingering, and I’d no wish to pass it on to you. And anyway, it’s been the devil’s task to get ye on your own. I thought it an uncommon bit of luck to see the others trooping off to kirk without ye, so I told myself ’twas time I paid a call.’

  She could not fully take it in, that he was truly here. She sat, and motioned him to do the same, and said, ‘I had a letter from the countess not three days ago, and she did make no mention of your coming.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ he said, and took a chair close by, ‘she likely was not told. Few people ken I am in Scotland.’

  ‘But how then did you know I was not at Slains, but in Kirkcudbright?’

  He spoke low, as she had spoken, in a voice not meant to leave the room. ‘’Twas not the countess, lass, who telt me where to find ye. ’Twas the queen herself, at Saint-Germain.’

  ‘The queen?’ She shook her head, confused. ‘But—’

  ‘It would seem a wee bird once did sing to her that you were John’s own lass, and since he’d always had her favour she did take a special interest in your welfare. She brought you to Kirkcudbright.’

  ‘No.’ It sounded too incredible. ‘The Duchess of Gordon did find me this place.’

  ‘Aye. And who has the ear of the Duchess of Gordon?’ He eyed her with patience. ‘When you set your mind to leaving Slains, the countess wrote her brother and her brother telt the queen, and it was she who asked the duchess if she’d find a home to suit ye here.’ He watched while she absorbed this, then went on, ‘So when the word got round the king had plans to send me here as well, the queen was quick to tell me where ye were.’

  She felt at sea again. ‘The king has sent you here?’

  ‘Oh aye.’ He settled back at that, although he did not raise his voice. ‘By his own order.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘I am here to guard a spy.’

  ‘A spy.’ She did not like the word. ‘Like Captain Ogilvie?’

  ‘No, lass. This man does risk himself for our own cause and has a right to my protection, and a need of it besides, for even though the Presbyterians
do claim to take King Jamie’s part, they would not think so kindly of a fellow Presbyterian who now has turned a Jacobite and seeks to move among them as a spy.’

  Sophia thought of the expression in the elder Mrs Kerr’s eyes when she’d spoken of King James, and knew that many others here were of a like mind. ‘So you are sent to keep him safe?’

  ‘Aye, for the time that he is here, afore he goes across to Ireland, to Ulster, for ’tis there King Jamie wishes to have eyes and ears and voices that can turn men to his cause. I’ll not be needed there. But we must wait awhile afore he makes the crossing, for the sickness that did strike me on the ship from France did strike him harder, and he’s not yet well enough to travel.’

  Something made a faint connection in Sophia’s memory – something Mr Kerr had said this very day while they’d been sitting at the midday meal, about a man who had but lately come to live here in Kirkcudbright, and who was not well. ‘This spy of yours,’ she asked the colonel, curious, ‘would his name be McClelland?’

  She could tell from his reaction that it was. ‘And how the devil would ye come to think of that?’

  ‘The people of this house do take an interest in their neighbours. And your Mr McClelland, by choosing to stay with his sister-in-law, has been giving them much to discuss. I am told he defended her honour most ably, in spite of his illness.’

  The colonel half smiled. ‘Aye, he would. She’s a sweet lass, and was good enough to take him in despite the fact they had not met afore this and she barely has the means to keep her own self and her wee son fed and clothed. Who was it attacking her honour?’

  ‘An elderly woman of rigid opinions.’

  ‘Aye well, he’d have measured his words, then. But illness or no, I don’t doubt he’d cross swords with a man who spoke ill of the lassie.’ He glanced at her sideways, assessing. ‘You’ll not yet have met him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then let me tell ye a bit about David McClelland. He came from Kirkcudbright, or near to it anyway, he and his brother, but when they were wee lads their father took ill and died, and they were sent into Ireland, where they had kin. David’s brother, being older, was apprenticed to a cooper and became one in his own right, and returned here several years ago. But David,’ said the colonel, ‘had a different sort of soul, and had a yearning for adventure, so he took up with the Royal Irish Regiment and went to fight in Flanders. That’s the other side from us, ye ken. I likely faced him once or twice myself across a battlefield.’

  Sophia had gone silent, looking down at her linked fingers while she thought. She asked him quietly, ‘Was he at Malplaquet?’

  ‘He was.’ She felt his eyes upon her face. ‘But no man who did fight at Malplaquet came out the same as he went in, and David McClelland was changed by that day more than most men.’

  She gave a small nod. She had heard many tales of that battle these past months, and many accounts had been printed and widely discussed in the drawing rooms here, so she knew it had been an unthinkably bloody and brutal encounter beyond even what the most hardened old soldier could bring to his mind. While she might bear resentment that David McClelland had fought on the opposite side, against Moray, she knew any man who had lived through that day was deserving of sympathy.

  Colonel Graeme carried on, ‘He was too badly wounded in the battle to continue with his regiment, and after that he came to serve King Jamie, and has served him with a loyalty that none would dare to question.’

  She was mindful of the earlier betrayals that had touched both him and Moray. ‘You are certain that he does deserve your trust?’

  ‘Aye, lass. As certain as my life.’ He was still watching her. ‘I’d like for ye to meet him. Will ye come with me?’

  ‘What, now?’ She glanced instinctively toward the open doorway to the entry hall. ‘It would not be so wise for me to leave the house when everyone believes I have a headache.’

  With a crinkle at the corners of his eyes he said, ‘Ye’ve done things in the past that were not wise, and have survived them. Come, ’twill be two hours yet till your good hosts are home from kirk, and ye can tell the servants that ye have a mind to go out walking with your uncle, which is no more than the truth.’ She knew that look, the one that dared her to accept his challenge, knowing that she would. ‘My mother always said a walk in open air was the best way to cure the headache. Tell them that.’

  ‘All right. I will.’ Her chin went up with something of her old defiance, and he gave a nod.

  ‘Good lass.’

  Outside, she drew the loose hood of her cloak up so it all but hid her face, though there was no one in the High Street to observe them. There was nothing but the quiet of a Sunday afternoon with everybody gone to kirk, including, most likely, the widow McClelland. She asked, ‘Does David McClelland have no other kin in Kirkcudbright?’

  ‘No, not anymore. Nor in Ireland, for all his kin there have died off.’

  ‘He’s alone, then.’ She knew what that felt like. She thought to herself that it must have been hard coming back to this place after being so wounded in war, to be ill and surrounded by strangers.

  The colonel was reading her thoughts. ‘You’re much alike, the two of ye. ’Twill do ye good to meet.’ They’d reached the turning of the High Street where the old stone mercat cross stood lonely in the empty marketplace.

  Sophia said, ‘Perhaps he will not wish to have a visitor.’

  Colonel Graeme felt more sure that he would welcome the diversion. ‘He is not a man to lie so long abed. It fouls his temper. And as fascinating as I am myself, I do suspect he’s borne enough of my own company these past weeks.’

  She smiled at that, and then fell into sober thought once more. ‘Is he recovered of his wounds?’

  The colonel shrugged. ‘He has a limp that he will carry all his life, for he did nearly lose his leg. And he was shot below his heart, which left his lungs so weakened that the illness we encountered on the ship did strike him badly. But in all, he was most fortunate. So many in those woods of Malplaquet did not survive.’ And then he too fell silent.

  They did not have far to walk before they reached the house – a stone-built, square-walled building huddled close against its neighbours, with its windows standing open to the warming air of spring.

  ‘He may be sleeping,’ warned the colonel as they entered, so Sophia kept behind him as he knocked upon the door to the front room. There was a brief word of reply, which she could barely hear, and then the colonel swung the door full open, motioning that she should step inside.

  The room was dim, the curtains only partly drawn as though the daylight was not wanted here.

  The man they’d come to see was up and standing at the window with his back to them, so that Sophia only saw his squared stance and his shoulders and the brown hair fastened back above the collar of his shirt. He wore no coat, just breeks and boots, and in the fine white shirt he stood there still and pale and like a ghost, the only thing of light in that dull room.

  He spoke again, not looking round, his voice grown hoarser from the illness. ‘Did ye see her? Was she well?’

  ‘She will be now,’ the colonel gently said, and stepping back retreated to the entry hall and closed the door behind him.

  Sophia could not move from where she stood. Could not believe it.

  Then he turned, a ghost no longer, but a breathing man. A living man, whose shadowed eyes grew brighter in the grip of hard emotion as he left the window and in two strides crossed to fold her in his arms, his touch as careful as it had been on their wedding night, as fierce as it had been at their last parting.

  Still she could not move or speak, not even when he took her face in both his hands and brushed away her tears and drew a ragged breath himself, and in a voice she had not thought to hear again he said, ‘I told ye I’d come back to ye.’

  And then his mouth came down on hers and for a long time after that there were no words at all.

  XXIII

  The village of Malplaqu
et stood at the border of Flanders and France, with deep woods to the north and the south. On September 11th, the morning of battle, the French had been firmly dug into those woods and were waiting for first light, and for the attack of the massed Allied forces – the English and Germans and Dutch fighting now with the great Duke of Marlborough.

  Dawn had come, and brought a dense mist rolling from the fields into the wood to make grey phantoms of the men who crouched there, waiting, weary from a lack of rations and a night of little sleep. The Allied armies used that mist to hide their movements; when it cleared they started firing, and a short while after that they gave the signal and began the fight in earnest, throwing everything they had against the wood.

  It seemed to Moray there were four of them for every one of his own men. The air hung thick with smoke and screams and cannon-fire, the edges of the wood were set ablaze by the artillery, and men on both sides fell beneath the fury of the guns and flashing swords.

  He fell himself at midday. The cut across his leg came first, and brought him to his knees so that he scarcely felt the pistol shot that tore him near his heart and knocked him down to lie in leaves and mud among the dying and the dead. He could not move. The pain within his chest was so consuming he could only breathe by concentrating, and although he willed his arms to find the strength to lift him, drag him, anything, they would not answer.

  He could hear the sounds of struggle moving past him, leaving him behind – the clash of men and steel, the raw-voiced yells and rush of feet and sound of branches splintering, and further off the thunder on the ground that shook the forest as the cavalry advance of countless horses and their sabre-wielding riders started down upon the battlefield beyond.

  And some time after that there came a silence that to Moray was more horrible than any sound of war, because it was not truly silence. In the dimness of the shattered wood, where smoke yet rolled across the trampled undergrowth and mingled with the smells of fire and blood, he heard the moans and anguished praying of the fallen. Some men prayed for life and some for death, in languages as varied as their uniforms – the Dutch and Germans and the Scots and French and English tangled side by side, for all men looked alike when they were dying.