Ian had noticed the reaction of his brother and his guest. On one or two occasions he had caught their gaze and both had been startled by the expression in those dark eyes. When they joined the women in the drawing room Ian had gone directly to where Frances sat, stood behind her, and, with lordly possessiveness, placed a hand on her shoulder. It was a picture that remained vividly in Douglas’s mind, that image of Ian standing behind Frances, with the firelight illuminating the thick fall of his dark hair and his dark, challenging eyes.
There was one other picture from that summer that Douglas remembered clearly. It had been the end of August. Frances and Ian had ridden out toward Glencoe earlier in the day, when Sir Donal had unexpectedly arrived at Castle Hunter. Douglas had volunteered to find Frances and let her know her father had come.
The pass of Glencoe was a haunted place. Douglas had always felt that the savage betrayal of the massacre, when a company of Campbell soldiers had put to the sword the Macdonald clan who had housed them with sacred Highland hospitality, had imprinted itself on the landscape. The precipitous rock faces that surround the pass were like a savage army of gaunt peaks, scarred by bleak ravines. The place was heavy with brooding melancholy, even in the sunlight of a fair August day.
The girl and boy whom Douglas sought did not seem to be aware of any unpleasant atmosphere. They were standing near the great flat rock that heads the glen. Instinctively Douglas pulled his horse up. The picture they made, with the mountains of Beinn Phada, Gearr Aonach, and Aonach Dubh as their backdrop, was stunning enough to cause him to want to capture it in memory. He watched them for a moment, with a painter’s abstract eye.
As Douglas looked on Frances shook her head at something Ian was saying to her. In response he laughed and pulled at the ribbon that was tying back her hair. It gave, and the heavy shining mass of it swung loose. The girl snatched at the ribbon and as she turned toward him he caught her shoulders. Frances had grown quite tall, but she had to tip her head back to look up into Ian’s face.
He said something to her, and then, as Douglas watched helplessly, his mouth came down on hers and her head tilted back so that her hair fell in a curtain of pale gold over the arm that had pulled her hard against him. Her own arms went up to circle his neck.
Douglas dug his heels into the sides of his horse and rode forward. They moved apart slowly at his approach. Frances’s eyes were like emeralds. Ian’s face looked both fierce and wary. He kept Frances’s hand in his. In the end Douglas had not said anything, and they had returned together to the castle.
It was Alan’s death the following year that had driven a rift between them. Frances had been at Castle Hunter when word came in early August that he had fallen in the Battle of Talavera. He was five years older than Ian, and had joined the army when he left Cambridge. He had been in the Peninsula for only six months.
Lady Lochaber was distraught. The rest of the family sincerely mourned for Alan, but she seemed inconsolable. Ian loved his mother, and when she had begged him to promise her he would stay out of the army, he had done so. It was a promise he almost instantly regretted.
Douglas had sympathized with him. All his life Ian had planned to join the army. As a younger son, it was one of the few professions open to him. He was a Roman Catholic, so there was no family living waiting for him as there was for so many of the younger sons of the English nobility who belonged to the Church of England. His religion also barred him from representing his family constituency in the House of Commons. And while Ian was hardly a deeply religious person, he would as soon have thought of changing his religion as changing the color of his hair. He was a Macdonald of Lochaber, and the Macdonalds of Lochaber had always been Catholics.
And so what was left for him was the army or the law.
For Ian it had always been the army. It was a profession for which Douglas had always thought him well suited. He had the instant, unreflecting courage of all great soldiers, as well as the kind of personality that commanded instant admiration and respect - an invaluable quality in an officer. Furthermore, he was interested in international politics, and Douglas and he had talked for many hours about Britain’s intervention in the Peninsula War.
Ian was a Scot, a passionate believer in individual liberty and the rights of all nations to rule themselves as they chose. Napoleon’s invasion of Spain was, to his mind, indefensible. Both he and Douglas had agreed that the freedom of Spain was well worth fighting for.
Only now he would not be fighting. A Cambridge career and the law were the only goals left for him. He did not find them attractive. And Douglas, watching sympathetically, saw another frustration arise for Ian. For the very first time, Frances was against him.
The problem with detachment, Douglas often reflected, wryly, was that you tended to see all sides of an issue. He understood and empathized with Ian. He also saw Frances’s point of view with compassionate comprehension.
Alan’s death had jolted Frances profoundly. She was not deeply interested in causes or ideology, and her knowledge of what was happening in Spain and Portugal was limited. She knew Ian was going to join the army, but she had not thought much beyond the vision of him dressed in regimentals and looking magnificent. He had been shrewd enough not to dwell upon his ardor for war in her presence.
But Alan was dead. Douglas would always remember her expression in the weeks that followed the message from the War Department. The childlike, trusting look he had loved was gone. In its place was a gray look of worry that had drained the youth from her face. The look had gone only after Lady Lochaber extracted that promise from Ian.
When Ian turned to Frances for understanding, he got only a face of stone. The romantic haze had cleared from before her eyes and she saw the future in the cold, sunless light of reality. “You’re no good to me dead on some battlefield in Portugal,” she had said to him brutally within Douglas’s hearing one day. “The law is a perfectly good profession. We can live quite comfortably on my money and on what you make.” And, finally, out of her fear and out of her youth, she had given him an ultimatum. “I won’t marry you if you become a soldier.”
Now Ian had succeeded in getting himself thrown out of Cambridge. There would be no career in the law. He was determined, Douglas knew, to force his mother to release him from his promise. He had always been her favorite son. He was confident she would give in. And, knowing Ian, Douglas was also sure that he thought he could win Frances over. In the past she had always done what he wanted her to do. But Douglas, remembering that austere and somber look he had seen on her face, was very much afraid those days were over.
Chapter Three
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever,
For nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!
—ROBERT BURNS
The season of 1810 was remembered in the social history of London as the year Frances Stewart made her come-out. In succeeding years the story of the impact she made on the sophisticated London ton would assume proportions that were almost mythical. The reality was astounding enough, as Douglas Macdonald often thought, when he heard it talked about in future years. He had been there and watched it all, the private drama as well as the public success.
It began at the ball given by her aunt, Lady Mary Graham. Lady Mary had a house in Hanover Square and, as the wife of Frances’s mother’s only brother, she had graciously offered to introduce her niece into society. Lady Mary was English, the daughter of an earl, and very well established in society. Her marble hall was filled as Douglas, dressed in evening attire, came in the great front door. There was a rainbow of color, the sound of expensive fabrics rustling, the scent of many different perfumes, and the noise of chatter. Frances stood with her aunt and uncle on the wide landing at the top of the stairs, greeting her guests as their turns came to be presented.
Douglas never remembered what she was wearing, only that it was white and fell gracefully about her tall, slim figure. Her ash-gold h
air was caught in combs off her face with just a few tendrils allowed to escape and curl on her cheek. Douglas felt an ache at the back of his throat as he looked at her.
“Douglas!” There was a flash of very white teeth as she smiled at him. “It’s so nice to see someone I know,” she said sincerely.
“I don’t think you will lack company, Frances,” he answered dryly.
She held his hand for a minute longer, then the major-domo boomed “His Grace the Duke of Grafton and Her Grace the Duchess.” Frances turned to greet them, and Douglas passed on to the Reception Room. The crystal chandeliers were ablaze with light and the French windows, which faced the garden at the back of the house, were opened. Viscount Winburton, who had preceded Douglas through the line, turned to him, “Did I hear Miss Stewart say she knew you?”
“That’s right,” Douglas replied calmly. “Since she was twelve years old, in fact. I’m Douglas Macdonald and I live with the Macdonalds of Lochaber. Lady Lochaber is Miss Stewart’s godmother.”
“I’m Winburton.” The young man held out his hand. “Where did she come from?” he asked dazedly. “I’ve never seen a more beautiful girl.”
It was a refrain Douglas was to hear all that night and throughout the following weeks. At every ball Frances went to, she was surrounded by a throng of men. Her admirers included all of the most eligible bachelors in London: a duke, a duke’s heir, a marquis, two viscounts, an earl, and an earl’s heir, to name the most prominent. Frances’s religion was obviously more than made up for by her beauty, her charm, and her modestly respectable inheritance. In fact the atmosphere among those vying for her attention rapidly became extremely tense, with each one jealously looking for a special sign that would show where her favor really lay.
Young as she was, however, Frances was quite experienced in fending off overly enthusiastic admirers. She was friendly to everyone and sentimental with no one.
Douglas watched her play this dangerous game with growing alarm. She had a purpose in this elaborate London debut. He could see it in the dense green of her eyes and in the defiant tilt of her perfect jaw. The marriage proposals poured in and all Frances would ever say was “I’m not sure I wish to marry anyone. I need to see a little more of the world before I make such a difficult decision. Please don’t speak of it yet.” And she would smile her enchanting smile and leave them waiting. And hoping.
Douglas was almost certain that this effortless collection of would-be husbands was for Ian’s benefit. He was a younger son, poor enough to need a profession to increase his income, and only twenty years of age. The contrast between his status and her London admirers would be enough to give anyone pause. She seemed to be at pains to demonstrate that if he didn’t want to marry her, there were plenty of others who did. It was the only reason Douglas could find to account for her behavior; Frances did not ordinarily try to exploit her beauty. He was certain she had no real interest in any of the men who dogged her footsteps. Until Robert Sedburgh entered the picture.
It was Charlie who introduced them. Lord Robert was in Alan’s regiment, and had sought Charlie out to offer his regrets over Alan’s death. Lord Robert was himself on leave in order to recuperate from a shoulder wound. He had been staying with his parents, the Earl and Countess of Aysgarth, and had come up to London now that he was recovered. He looked up Charlie and Charlie brought him along to the Eversly Ball. It was there he met Frances for the first time.
Robert Sedburgh was one of the most likable men of his time. His thoughtfulness in seeking out Charlie to speak of Alan was typical of his character. He was tall, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a warmly attractive smile. He would one day inherit immense wealth and large estates. He served as an aide to Lord Wellington and was due to return to the Peninsula as soon as he had completely regained his health. Then he met Frances.
He had more success than the rest of her followers. Frances really liked him. It would be hard not to. He was witty, charming, handsome, and twenty-six years of age. He was a man who would occupy a position of great responsibility, great opportunity, great wealth, and great power. His wife would be a woman of great consideration. A girl might do much worse than trust herself to such a man. It seemed to Douglas that Frances was tempted.
“When shall I wish you happy?” he said to her one day in the sunny back room of her aunt’s house where he was painting her portrait.
She was normally a good subject, sitting quietly upright in the pose he had suggested, but now she turned her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean when are you going to accept Robert Sedburgh?”
Her eyebrows raised a trifle. “He hasn’t asked me,” she said. Then, as he continued to look at her, the comers of her mouth deepened. “He hasn’t had the chance,” she admitted.
“He will find one.”
“I suppose so.”
He put his brush down. “Frances,” he said gently, “if you don’t want Lord Robert, what do you want?”
Her hands moved restlessly and then were still again. She raised her chin and looked at him. Her eyes were somber. “You know me too well, Douglas.”
“My question still stands.”
She got up and walked to the window. With her back to him she said, “I want Ian of course. But I want him here, with me, not off in some other country fighting somebody else’s war.”
“You said yourself he won’t go to the Peninsula.”
She turned around to face him. “Not while his mother keeps him to his promise. But how long, Douglas, do you think she’ll hold out against him? You know what Ian is like when he wants something. Determined. Ruthless even. He succeeded in getting himself thrown out of Cambridge. Now that he’s out of school he’ll raise more hell than Scotland’s seen since the ‘45. She’ll give in. Ian’s her favorite. She could never stand up against him.”
He looked at her suddenly bleak face. “The very qualities you love Ian for are the ones you’re trying to smash, Frances,” he said gently. “If you want a kind, gentle, calm, considerate man, who will unfailingly put your wishes and your welfare before his own, marry Robert Sedburgh. He will cherish and guard you all his life. You’ll be safe with him.”
Her face was closed and aloof. “I don’t care about being safe.”
“Yes, you do,” he contradicted her. “You want to keep Ian safe, at any rate. But you would smother him, Frances. Ian doesn’t want to feel safe. He wants to feel alive.”
“He doesn’t need to go to war to feel alive,” she said bitterly.
“No, but he needs to feel he is using his brains, his courage, his determination. He needs to feel extended, Frances.” He leaned forward, doing his best for Ian, trying to make her understand. “He loves you, you know that. But it isn’t enough, Frances. It would be for Robert Sedburgh. But not for Ian.”
He looked at her pale set face. She knew that, he thought. It was what she could not forgive.
Chapter Four
We twa hae run about the braes
And pou’d the gowans fine,
But we’ve wander’d monie a weary fit
Sin’ auld lang syne.
—ROBERT BURNS
The Countess of Pemberly gave a ball in early July that was one of the highlights of that year’s season. By this time betting in the clubs was heavily in favor of Robert Sedburgh’s being accepted by the reigning belle, Frances Stewart. Lord Robert himself was only waiting for the appropriate opportunity to speak to Frances. He had already declared himself to her uncle.
“I wish you luck, Sedburgh,” Alexander Graham had said with amusement. “If I had a pound for every man in this town who wants to marry Frances, I’d be a rich man.”
“I know,” Lord Robert had replied ruefully. “I can only say she won’t find a man who loves her more than I do.” ‘
Alexander had clapped him on the shoulder. “If she has any sense she’ll take you, boy. But I’m afraid Frances is like her mother. You can’t count on her doing the sensible thing when it comes to marriage. A
nd her father will let her do as she pleases. Within reason, of course.”
Lord Robert had some reason to believe that he pleased Frances, and it was with a mixture of hope and apprehension that he asked her to walk out into the garden with him about halfway through the Pemberly ball.
Frances was feeling restless and unsettled and was not as careful as she usually was. Her refusal to give Lord Robert an opening was not part of a calculated game; it came, rather, from a certain fear. He was not a man one could take lightly. But tonight she was feeling oppressed by the crush of people, and the heat, and she agreed to step outside with him.
They walked to the small fountain that stood in the center of the garden, and Frances took a deep breath. “It is lovely out here,” she said, delicately touching a rose that bloomed on a bush close beside her.
“It’s enchanting,” he replied sincerely, looking at her.
“You’re easily enchanted, my lord,” Frances said smiling.
“No, I’m not easily enchanted.” He paused a minute. “But you’ve enchanted me, Miss Stewart.” He reached out and took her hand. “My feelings can’t be unknown to you,” he continued quietly. “It would give me enormous happiness if you would consent to be my wife.”
Imperceptibly she had stiffened. “I would never marry a soldier,” said Frances.
He smiled in relief. “Is that all? But of course I wouldn’t expect you to many a man who was going off to war. I should resign my commission. We would live at Aysgarth; my mother and father would love you. But if you decided you didn’t want to live with them, we could live wherever you chose. I have a great number of houses. Or I could buy another one. It shall all be just as you wish.”
Frances looked at him with inscrutable eyes. “You would give up the army for me?”
“I would do anything for you, Miss Stewart,” said Robert Sedburgh, in the kindest, tenderest voice Frances had ever heard. “I love you.”
Joan Wolf Page 2