Joan Wolf

by The Scottish Lord

  She didn’t drop her eyes. “I wrote to tell them, of course.”

  Ian suddenly bent his head so that his eyes were shielded from her. “You just can’t let him go, can you?” he asked softly. Then, as Frances stared at him in utter stupefaction, he looked up and his face was a stranger’s mask. “Do what you want with Nell,” he said in a clipped voice. “You will anyway no matter what I say.” And he walked out of the room.

  Frances sat in bewildered silence which slowly smoldered into anger the more she thought about what he had said. Little did Ian care about her loyalties and her obligations. He had never forgiven her for not telling him about Nell. That was clear to her now. Well, if he thought he was going to just erase four years out of Nell’s life he was mistaken. With bitterness in her heart, Frances summoned her maid and finished dressing for the theater.

  Chapter Twenty

  To luve unluvit it is ane pane

  —ALEXANDER SCOTT

  Frances did not enjoy her theater party that evening. She and Margaret had been invited to share the box of the Earl of Carstairs, a Scot who was very influential in English society. He was thirty years of age, unmarried, good looking, and wealthy. Frances did not think it would hurt to give Margaret the opportunity to become better acquainted with him. Unfortunately her plans did not include the presence of James Campbell.

  He came into the box a few minutes before the play began and Frances felt Margaret stiffen beside her. They exchanged a few brief pleasantries and then the lights dimmed and everyone’s eyes turned to the stage. However, even Edmund Kean’s demonically energetic Richard III could not keep the attention of three of the watchers in the Earl of Carstairs’s box.

  Margaret sat like a statue, but Frances was not fooled by that quiet composure. And James Campbell on the other side of her was equally tense. From time to time he glanced from the stage to Margaret. There was something in the straight lines of her profile that caused his hands to close hard on the edge of the box. When the intermission came he turned and said immediately, “Would you care to take a stroll into the lobby, Miss Macdonald?”

  “Yes,” said Margaret, and without further words the two of them left the box. Frances frowned slightly but made no attempt to follow them.

  Lord Carstairs was not at all displeased to be left with Frances, and after a few minutes his box filled with the usual collection of her friends and admirers. Margaret and Campbell returned a few minutes before the curtain rose again. She looked pale but calm, and the rest of the evening passed in relatively easy accord.

  Frances slept later than usual the next morning and as soon as she got up she was assailed by a wave of nausea. She quickly got back into bed and lay quietly, feeling the sickness slowly subside. She drifted back to sleep, and when she awoke two hours later she felt fine. She dressed slowly, an abstracted expression on her face. This was the fifth day this had occurred, and the stirrings of hope she had resolutely been beating down were now too strong to ignore. She was almost sure she was with child.

  Uppermost in her emotions was relief. She had lived with Robert Sedburgh for two years after Nell’s birth and she had never conceived. She had begun to be afraid that she never would; that God was punishing her for her sin with Ian. Rob had laughed when she told him this and said not to worry, they would have children in time. Frances, who very much wanted to give him a son to make up for all her own shortcomings, had not been so confident.

  But this morning’s queasiness was too familiar for her to disregard any longer. She had had it only once before. That, and the unusual sleepiness she had been experiencing lately.

  She was going to have a baby. Her heart swelled and she yearned with dizzy tenderness toward the time when she would once more hold an infant in her arms, feel the downy softness of its fragile head under her lips. She smiled radiantly. How pleased Ian would be.

  At this point in her imaginings she came thumping uncomfortably back to earth. The memory of her last encounter with him was unpleasantly clear. She had been bitterly angry with him and he with her. But she could not harbor anger in her heart now. She was anchored to Ian by ties far stronger than the strongest chain; ties that she could not cut without breaking herself in two. Why fight him, then? She would put her resentment behind her and, when she told him of the coming baby, he would do the same.

  Frances went down to lunch feeling comfortably hungry and looking forward to meeting her husband. When he didn’t appear she was not overly disturbed and she made plans to go shopping with Margaret. When Margaret asked if she were feeling well she replied composedly, “Oh, yes. Just a trifle tired. I need to sleep later in London than I do at home.”

  Margaret was preoccupied with her own thoughts and did not notice anything odd in Frances, who had always had the energy of a young lioness, confessing that a few parties had tired her out. Margaret had had a very interesting conversation with James Campbell of Ardkinglas that morning at Hookham’s lending library, and she was looking forward to seeing him at Lady Cowper’s ball that evening. She had too many problems of her own at the moment to worry about her sister-in-law. Consequently they dropped Nell and her nurse at Aysgarth House and then spent an abstracted but busy afternoon at the Pantheon Bazaar.

  ****

  Ian was not home for dinner either, and arrived only to change into evening dress in time to escort his wife and sister to the Cowpers’ ball. His face was hard and unyielding and his eyes did not soften as he regarded Frances, breathtaking in a gown of water green Italian silk with an opera comb set behind the heavy knot of ash-blonde hair on the crown of her head. She smiled at him tentatively but he said only, “I’m sorry to be late. Let’s go.” Then he looked at her again as he held her cloak and frowned. “Isn’t that dress rather low cut?”

  She looked surprised. “For Edinburgh perhaps, but for London it is really quite conservative.”

  He stared for a minute at the beautiful curve of her breasts, discreetly revealed by the scooped neckline of green silk. He shrugged. “If you want to show yourself to the world it’s your affair I suppose. I can’t say I like it.”

  Her long green eyes narrowed with dawning temper. “You never did have any taste in clothes,” she said sweetly, took her cloak from his hands and walked out of the room.

  The ride in the coach to the Cowpers’ was distinctly uncomfortable. Margaret chatted gamely but got little assistance from either of her companions and at last she gave it up. As soon as they arrived Ian disappeared in the direction of the card room, Frances was claimed by four different men, and Margaret agreed to dance with James Campbell.

  About half way through the evening, Ian appeared with the Condessa de Losada, a Spanish widow who had been enlivening London society for the past several months. The Condessa was about thirty years of age, with a voluptuous figure, heavy-lidded brown eyes, and a full, sensual mouth. Any man who looked at her immediately thought of one thing only, but she had remained surprisingly elusive for one so obviously tantalizing. There was talk of a liaison between her and the Duke of Leyburn, but no one was certain of their exact relationship. She had been in Sussex for the past month, so this was the first time her path had crossed the Lochabers’.

  “Who is that?” Frances asked Douglas, who was waiting to partner her in the next set.

  Douglas looked. “That is the Condessa de Losada,” he replied. “She is the widow of a rich Spaniard and has been gracing our shores for a few months now.”

  As they watched, Ian smiled down at the Condessa and, putting a hand on her waist, led her onto the floor. “Well!” said Frances, indignation trembling in her voice. “And to think he had the audacity to make nasty comments about my neckline! If hers were any lower she’d fall out of it.”

  There was certainly a great deal of the luscious Condessa on view, but Ian didn’t appear to be at all scandalized. The Condessa gave him a smile that could only be labeled seductive, and he bent his head to murmur something in her ear.

  The waltz music started and Do
uglas lightly clasped Frances around the waist and swung her into the dance. He could feel the tenseness of her body as they went round the room.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked gently. “Surely you’re not upset because Ian is dancing with the Condessa?”

  “Upset?” Green panther’s eyes looked into his. “Of course I’m not upset. What a silly thing to say, Douglas.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he replied automatically, but a faint furrow appeared between his brows. When Frances looked like this she made him nervous.

  His apprehension was not allayed as the evening progressed. Ian appeared to be engrossed by the Condessa, who was making the most blatant bid for a man’s attention that anyone had ever seen her make. Frances did not seem to be concerned, but there was a wintry remoteness about her that Douglas did not like at all. She spent half an hour in serious conversation with James Campbell of Ardkinglas, but otherwise her behavior appeared to be perfectly normal. However, she came up to him as everyone was going into supper and asked if he would take her home.

  “What about Margaret?” he asked, although that was not the question that was on his mind.

  “My aunt is here. She will keep an eye on Margaret. I hate to drag her away so early but I am really very tired.”

  She did look tired, Douglas thought. The skin under her eyes had a faint bluish cast, and though she walked as uprightly as ever it appeared to be an effort for her. “Are you all right, Frances?” he asked anxiously.

  “I am fine. Just tired. Will you take me home, Douglas?”

  “Of course. Wait here and I’ll get your cloak.” She gave him a shadowy smile and gratefully sank down on a chair of gilt wood. She was so tired she was dizzy with it. It had come over her during the last half hour, an exhaustion so all-encompassing that it even doused the flames of her anger at Ian. But she would not ask him to take her home. It was with enormous gratitude that she saw Douglas returning with her cloak.

  “Dear Douglas,” she murmured. “Where would I ever be without your kindness?”

  Douglas’s jaw clenched tightly as they went down the front stairs. He put her in the coach and then got in himself, giving the Mount Street direction to the driver. Her head was leaned back against the upholstery and her eyes were closed. “Frances,” he said urgently. “Are you sure you aren’t ill?”

  “I’m quite sure.” She opened her eyes and smiled reassuringly at him.

  He left her in the front hall of her house and got back into the coach he had borrowed to return to the Cowpers’. It wasn’t fair, he thought angrily, that she could still do this to him. She was in trouble. He knew it. And he still could not bear to see her unhappy. It had been like this for as long as he could remember.

  Ian. His anger suddenly burned hot against his cousin. What the hell was the matter with Ian?

  * * * *

  Ian himself wasn’t quite sure what was wrong with him. He only knew that suddenly he was desperately jealous of Frances. She had always attracted men as honey attracts flies and it had never bothered him before. Now it did.

  He saw her go out with Douglas and abruptly abandoned his Condessa to get himself a drink, which he took back into the card room. He stood by the window gazing out at the London street, and his thoughts were not pleasant.

  Frances had spent a long time with that Campbell fellow, he thought. They had both looked very serious. What could they have been discussing?

  He took a long swallow of champagne. The problem, he thought bitterly, was that he was no longer sure that Frances loved him. He had never been jealous before because he had always known that no one else mattered to Frances but him. It had been the rock-bottom certainty of his life—her love for him and his for her. But that certainty existed no longer.

  She still loved Robert Sedburgh. He was almost sure of it. It was why she refused to let Nell break her ties to the Aysgarths. It was why she refused to allow him to give Nell his name. His sister’s words came back to him: “She never talks about her husband, but I’m afraid she thinks about him.” Ian was afraid of that also.

  It gnawed at him. He knew he should take what she had to give him and be grateful for it but he couldn’t. He couldn’t be certain of her. She had married him because of Nell, and who knew when she would come to regret it? When she would once again turn from him to someone else, someone who, like Sedburgh, was all that he was not?

  “Ian!” Douglas’s voice interrupted his thoughts and he turned, an expression of such brooding bitterness on his face that Douglas was startled. “I took Frances home,” he said after a moment. “She said she was tired, but I don’t think she looked well.”

  “I see. Thank you, Douglas.” Douglas hesitated a moment before the rock-hard mask of his cousin’s face, then he shrugged, turned, and left Ian standing alone by the window.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  0 waly, waly, gin love be bonnie

  A little time while it is new!

  But when ‘tis auld it waxeth cauld,

  And fades awa’ like morning dew.

  —ANONYMOUS

  Ian and Margaret returned home a little after two that evening. Ian let his valet help him undress, then dismissed him. He hesitated for a moment, then quietly opened the connecting door between his room and Frances’s and went in. She was deeply asleep, turned a little on one side, her face on her arm like a child. He was stepping back to return to his own room when she stirred slightly and opened her eyes. “Ian?” she asked in a voice foggy with sleep.

  “Yes. I’m sorry I woke you but Douglas said you weren’t feeling well.”

  She rolled over and pushed her hair off her cheek. “I’m all right. I was just tired.”

  “Then go back to sleep. I’m sorry I disturbed you.” But he didn’t move away, just stood there looking at her, his head bent so that his dark hair swung forward and the light from the candle he carried slid over the line of his cheek, spiked now with the shadow of his lowered black lashes. She smiled at him sleepily and then yawned. He took a step back toward the bed and said, “What were you and Ardkinglas talking about for so long tonight?”

  Dear God, thought Frances blinking at him in astonishment, how did he ever notice that conversation? She had thought he was too busy with the Condessa.

  The Condessa. At that Frances sat up in bed, her back ramrod straight. “I might ask you what you were doing drooling all over that half-naked Spaniard.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Frances,” he said irritably.

  “Ridiculous!” She felt tears sting her eyes and angrily she dashed her hand against her cheeks. “I’m not the one who looked ridiculous.”

  Ian stared at her in surprise, irritation turning to concern. She was clearly upset. Frances never cries, he thought as he sat down on the bed beside her. Pregnancy, however, was affecting the stability of her emotions and her mouth trembled as the tears streamed down her face. He put an arm around her. “Sweetheart, don’t cry,” he begged. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Then, as she only cried harder, “Frances, please stop crying!”

  But her head was buried in his shoulder and she was sobbing now in earnest. Once started, she couldn’t seem to stop. “You yelled at me about my dress!” she wept into his soaked dressing gown.

  He was patting her soothingly on the back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t mean it. It was a beautiful dress. You looked beautiful.”

  She hiccupped. “You didn’t even dance with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, feeling like a talking parrot who only knew one phrase. The sobs seemed to be slowing and he gently stroked her hair. “Sh, sh, now, mo chridhe. The Condessa is not worth all this grief, believe me.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and, tipping her face up, carefully dried her eyes, then gave it to her. “Blow,” he said. She did and he leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “Now go back to sleep, please. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He stood up.

  “All right,” she replied in a watery v
oice, and lay back again, her hair spilled over the pillow. He pulled the cover over her shoulder, touched her lightly on the cheek, then went quietly back to his own room, shaken himself by the unexpected scene. It was not until he was blowing out the candle that an unnerving thought struck him. She had never answered his question about James Campbell of Ardkinglas. ^

  As the days went by it became increasingly clear to Frances that Margaret was meeting James Campbell outside the shelter of her chaperonage. It was all done so casually—a chance meeting at the library, at the shops, in the park. Only the encounters were planned, and the man and girl were not engaged in careless flirtation. This was the real thing, but it was happening between two people who were separated by a blood enmity that made the quarrel between the Montagues and the Capulets seem trivial. What was worse, Frances was afraid that Ian suspected. There was no mistaking his growing hostility to Campbell. It was all right to join with the Campbells in business, but a marriage between the families would obviously be unthinkable in his eyes. He was displeased with her as well, probably for failing to prevent his sister from enjoying the company of this hereditary enemy.

  Frances was caught in the middle. She wanted to please Ian, but all her sympathy was with Margaret, whose proud young soul was torn by conflicting emotions. She came in one afternoon to hear Margaret picking out a tune on the piano in the drawing room. She recognized it instantly. It was the Macdonald battle song. She listened as Margaret sang bleakly in Gaelic:

  Fallen race of Campbell—disloyal, untrue.

  No clan in the Highlands will sorrow for you. But the birds of Loch Lcven are wheeling on high,

  And Lochaber’s wolves hear the Macdonald’s cry:

  ‘Come feast! Come feast! where the falsehearted lie!’

  The music stopped, Margaret bowed her head, and Frances said gently, “Would you like to talk about him, Maggie? I’ll help you if I can.”