Dawn on a Distant Shore

by Sara Donati

  Elizabeth put her arms around the girl and she felt her trembling, as she herself trembled. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Flora pulled away, and wiped her face. “Take care of Isabel,” she said. “She’s all I have.” And she ran off, her heels kicking up the hem of her skirt.

  Nathaniel paced the room while she talked, asking questions now and then but mostly listening. When Elizabeth had recounted her last remarkable conversation with the young Countess of Loudoun, he stopped in his tracks.

  “Walter Campbell’s not a complete idiot,” he said grudgingly. “It would be easier to get rid of all of us at once if he got us on that ship.”

  “I am so glad you approve of his methods,” said Elizabeth dryly.

  He grunted as he slipped the pistol back into its holster. Elizabeth lifted Daniel, still napping, into the cradle of her arms. He stretched and turned toward her, nuzzling sleepily. The weight of him was an anchor that brought her back to herself; she was still shaking a little, and she could not get Isabel’s face out of her mind.

  There was the sound of a carriage pulling up at the door, and Elizabeth was overcome with dread. She said, “The last time I had this feeling was when I set off by myself to fetch Robbie and I didn’t know if I’d find you alive when I came back.”

  “That took a good end, and so will this,” said Nathaniel, meeting her gaze. He was perfectly calm, and that did her more good than any promises.

  “This time we’re together, Boots. That makes all the difference.”

  • • •

  The coach was pulled by a double team of eight horses. It had been outfitted for an invalid, with one seat as broad as a bed and deeply upholstered for comfort. Lady Isabel sat partially upright, her back supported by cushions and her body wedged carefully in place with pillows. She held her hat with its veils in her lap, perhaps because she felt she had nothing more to hide from Elizabeth; perhaps because she wanted Nathaniel to see her for what she was.

  He showed no surprise at the sight of her ruined face, but Isabel hadn’t anticipated Daniel. She looked from the baby to Nathaniel and back again.

  “It’s nae wunder that ma faither doesna want tae let ye leave,” she said. “For sae many years he’s wanted a son, and got none. And there ye sit, the answer tae aa his woes.”

  “It ain’t that easy,” said Nathaniel.

  “Oh, but it is,” said Isabel, closing her eyes briefly. “Let me explain it tae ye, for I’m sure Moncrieff nivver did.”

  Nathaniel might have stopped her, but Elizabeth put a hand on his arm. Isabel saw this, and she dropped her gaze to study her gloves as she spoke.

  “What ye must understan’ is this: I go tae my grave childless, and that will leave my faither wi’ nae legal issue. If Daniel Bonner will no’ come forward as the son o’ Jamie Scott and claim Carryck, the peerage title will be extinguished and the lands will go tae the Campbells of Breadalbane anyway, according tae the entail o’ 1541.”

  “Carryck could claim Jennet as his own,” said Nathaniel.

  Something slid across Isabel’s face—jealousy or perhaps simple disbelief—before she banished it. “He could try tae claim her. But Breadalbane will prevail in the courts, that’s a certainty.”

  Elizabeth said, “And if he married again, and had a son?”

  “It’s that verra thing that Breadalbane fears above aa else,” Isabel conceded. “But I dinna think my faither can bring himsel’ tae leave Jean, and it’s been ten years since she brought a livin’ child intae the world.”

  Nathaniel had been watching Isabel with a blank expression, but now he leaned forward suddenly and said, “Why is it you want to see Dupuis?”

  Isabel lifted her head to look hard at him, her eyes intelligent and calculating, so strangely human and familiar in a face stippled bronze and black. For a long moment she was silent, but then she pushed out a sigh and answered him with a question of her own.

  “Why should I care if ye think the worst o’ me? I’ll soon be deid.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” said Nathaniel.

  “But I will,” said Isabel with a weary smile. “If ye’ll listen tae the whole story. And if I live through the tellin’ o’ it.”

  “I met Walter Campbell at the Lammas Fair five years syne,” began Isabel. “I was twenty-five years old, and nae man called me his sweetheart. Pridefu’, they said o’ me. Bonnie Isabel, the laird’s massie dauchter. It’s true, I was proud o’ my beauty—but it was my faither wha sent the suitors awa’. ‘A dauchter o’ Carryck canna marry where she chooses,’ he said that tae me oft and oft. ‘Ye owe Carryck fealty.’ And I—” She smiled bitterly. “I believed him.

  “But I was young, and it wasna easy. David Chisholm—perhaps ye’ve seen him in the village. He’s marrit these six years. David wanted me, and I wad ha’ taken him. But he didna suit my faither, and sae I did as I was tolt, and turned my face awa’ fra him. And there were others.” She looked up at Elizabeth. “Ye wadna believe it tae see me now, but the lads liked tae see me weel enouch.

  “But it was aa for naucht. My faither let it be kennt that nane o’ them wad do. They aa thoucht he wanted a title for me, or a rich man, anither fortune tae add tae his own. They didna ken the truth o’ it, that he wad see me married tae a Catholic, or no’ at aa. Wi’ time I tired o’ waitin’ and said that I wanted tae be wed, but he wad tell me tae bide a while longer. ‘Soon ye’ll ken him, yer guidman.’ He said it sae oft, and I trusted him. Fool that I was.

  “And then came Lammas Fair. I went doon tae the village wi’ Simon, for he luved naethin’ better than a fair in summer. I begged Jean tae come, too, but she couldna get awa’. She gave aa the servants leave tae go, but she must stay behind wi’ wee Jennet, for the bairn was puirly.

  “And a fine evenin’ it was, warm and bright and the smell o’ fresh hay sae heavy in the air, and there was music. Mick Lun played the fiddle and there was a pennywhistle and a bodhrán, too. That was when the auld minister was still in Carryckton, and he didna mind a bit o’ dancin’. That’s how I met Walter, ye see. He fetched me tae the dance.”

  She paused, her breath coming a little faster now. Elizabeth leaned forward, but she held up a hand. “Let me rest for a moment,” she said. “And then I must tell the rest.”

  For a while Elizabeth watched the cloud shadows chase each other across the rippling barley, waiting for Isabel to find the strength to tell them this story she did not really want to hear. She felt the need to reach out and touch Nathaniel, but she held back for fear of making Isabel feel all the more isolated.

  “Perhaps ye willna believe me, but he didna tell me his whole name, and I didna ask,” she continued after a while. “It was naethin’ tae me but a flirtation. The others were afraid o’ my faither, but this stranger wi’ a clever tongue and a quick foot didna seem tae care that I was the laird’s dauchter, and that pleased me.

  “When it was time tae be awa’ hame, he tolt me he wad spend the nicht in the hayrigs were I tae promise tae come the next evening and dance wi’ him agin. And I gave him that promise, but naethin’ else. No’ even a kiss.

  “Simon and I, we walked up the brae singin’ and laughin’. It had come tae rain, but we were in high spirits and didna mind. Do ye ken where the road turns sudden like and dips around a great outcroppin’ o’ stone?”

  Nathaniel nodded.

  “Aye, weel. He was there, waitin’ for us.”

  “Walter?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Moncrieff,” said Isabel. “Angus Moncrieff, stinkin’ o’ whisky. I can see him still by the light o’ his lantern, though I’ve tried my best these five years tae forget. And he stops us, Simon and me, and he says ‘The whore and the whoreson, what a lovely pair.’ ”

  Isabel had been watching the countryside pass by the window as she spoke, but she turned now to look at Elizabeth, her patchwork face drawn tight in remembered anger. “He called me a whore, untouched as I was.”

  Nathaniel’s look of skepticism had be
en replaced by one of unease. “You don’t have to tell the rest of this if you don’t want to.”

  “But I do,” said Isabel dully. “If Faither Dupuis is already gone, then ye must be my confessors.” Her voice was very weak, but she smiled. “Why are ye surprised? Did ye think that marrying a Campbell makes me less o’ a Catholic? I thoucht at first I could leave the church behind, but then I fell ill and ever since I’ve had a yearnin’—Ye wadna understand.” She stopped herself.

  Daniel squirmed and fussed on Elizabeth’s lap, and she was glad of the distraction. Isabel did not know about Contrecoeur, but should they tell her? She cast a glance at Nathaniel and he shook his head very slightly.

  Isabel took no note, wound up again in her story.

  “Angus Moncrieff called me a whore tae my face. But I was innocent, and that gave me the strength tae stand up and call him a liar. It was a mistake, drunk as he was. His face went aa still and white, and he stepped closer tae us baith. I remember that Simon was shakin’ and sae was I, I suppose. And Moncrieff says in a voice sae soft and fine: ‘I saw ye wi’ Breadalbane’s bastard, pressin’ yersel’ against him, lettin’ him put his hands on ye. Did ye spread yer legs for him under the corn rigs, or did he cover yer back like the bitch in heat ye are?’”

  Elizabeth rocked Daniel closer to her and made herself listen.

  “He was fu’ drunk, but I wasna afraid—foolish lass that I was. I wad ha’ laughed in his face at the idea o’ a Breadalbane come tae the Lammas Fair in Carryckton, if he hadna called me a whore. I raised my hand tae him, and he struck me doon, and Simon too when he came tae help me. And I shouted at him: ‘Wha gives ye the richt tae raise yer hand tae me, Angus Moncrieff? Wha are ye but my faither’s factor, and perhaps no’ much longer that?’

  “He smiled at me then and in perfect calm he said, ‘I’ll marry ye yet, and then I’ll teach ye richt and proper wha yer faither canna be bothered tae teach ye.’ He looked at Simon then, cowerin’ on the road, and he said ‘Ask the whoreson’s mither what a guid teacher the laird is when he’s got a willin’ lass as pupil.’”

  Isabel’s hands had begun to twitch in her lap, and her voice seemed to fail her completely. She closed her eyes.

  “Is that how you learned about your father’s attachment to Jean Hope?” Elizabeth asked.

  Isabel nodded. “But I dinna believe him. I couldna believe him.” She had begun to perspire very heavily.

  Nathaniel glanced uneasily at Elizabeth, and she leaned forward. “Flora gave me laudanum,” she said. “To make you more comfortable.”

  “Comfort is for the grave,” said Isabel shortly. “I will finish this tale, and should it be the end o’ me. Unless yer afeart tae hear it?” She looked at Nathaniel as she said this, and there was a flash there of the young woman who had challenged Angus Moncrieff on the mountain road.

  “Go on,” said Nathaniel. “We’re listening.”

  “Ye’ll think me aye donnert tae hear me admit it, but I nivver thoucht o’ Jean wi’ my faither. When Jennet came intae the world I believed—Ach, what does it matter now? I thoucht Jean was layin’ wi’ one o’ the earl’s men but that she wadna marry for my sake. What an eijit I was.”

  The anger was still there, in the way she raised her head as she talked, in the set of her jaw while she gathered her thoughts. Elizabeth remembered Hannah’s story of her: a headstrong young woman who did not see what she did not care to see. It was hard to believe this was the same lady.

  Her voice rough now with the effort, Isabel took up the story again. “I couldna think o’ Jean wi’ my faither, and no more could I think o’ mysel’ wi’ Moncrieff. There he stood in the rain, sae proud o’ himsel’. Mair than fifty, narrow o’ shoulder and slack o’ gut, a mean-spirited, cankert auld man wi’ naethin’ tae recommend him as a husband but the scapular he wore aroond his neck. I didna believe that my faither wad wed me tae sic a man, Catholic or no, and I laughed in his face. I said, ‘I’ll take every Campbell in Scotland tae my bed afore I’ll marry ye, Angus Moncrieff.’ And I saw too late what I had done.”

  Moncrieff’s face rose before Elizabeth, contorted in rage about the Campbells. A sick knot rose in her throat. Nathaniel put his hand on hers, and she clasped it with all her strength.

  “Ye can guess the rest. He threw me tae the ground. Simon screamed and screamed, but he wadna stop. I foucht him—” She paused. “I foucht him until he hit me in the heid sae hard that I saw stars. And then he finished what he had started.”

  She reached over and touched Elizabeth gently. “Dinna greet for me, Mrs. Bonner. It’s lang syne, and tears enouch ha’ been shed on account o’ Angus Moncrieff. And look, the bairn is teary eyed, too. May I hold him?”

  Nathaniel took Daniel and settled him on Isabel’s lap. The baby looked up at her soulfully, and she ran her fingers through his curls. “What a braw laddie ye are, Daniel Bonner. Come, lay yer heid.”

  The baby seemed to understand her needs as well as his own, for he put his face against her thin chest, content to let her pet him. “Baith o’ mine were laddies,” she said, almost to herself. “But neither lived mair than a day. Walter wanted a son tae inherit my faither’s title, but I wanted tae raise up a lad tae bring me Moncrieff’s heart, still beatin’. The hardest thing aboot dyin’ is that he goes unpunished. And perhaps that’s why I’m tellin’ you this tale.” She met Nathaniel’s gaze, and then looked away again before he could say anything.

  “When I came tae masel’ agin, I was alone on the road. My heid hurt and my knees were wabblin’, but I feared Moncrieff had killt Simon, and sae I set aff hame as fast as I could, unsteady as I was. And I found him, too, just where I thoucht he micht be if he had got awa’ frae Moncrieff. He was hidin’ in the fairy wood. Feverish already, and shakin’ wi’ it.

  “I luved Simon like a brither, though he was nane o’ my bluid. And we sat taegither in the rain, shiverin’ and greetin’, and holdin’ on tae one anither. And then I said tae him, ‘Come, Simon, come. We must rouse the laird and tell him that Moncrieff has lost his mind. He’ll send the men oot tae find him, and they’ll kill him where he stands.’ But the lad wadna leave aff wailin’, and sae I rocked him and sang tae him quiet, there in the darkened fairy wood wi’ the summer rain comin’ doon. By and by he settled, and then he put his arms aroond my neck—I can feel him still, shiverin’—and he said, ‘Moncrieff is aye mad, but he’s no’ a liar.’

  “And that’s how I came tae learn the truth aboot my faither. ‘Ye owe Carryck fealty,’ he said tae me sae many times. And the while he was preachin’ at me aboot my duty tae Carryck, he was wi’ Jean. He sent David Chisholm awa’—a finer man ye’ll nivver ken, for aa he’s a Protestant—and promised his only dauchter and heir tae Angus Moncrieff.

  “And sae I left. I left Simon there feverish in the rain, and I ran back doon tae the village tae find Walter. And I asked him was it true, was he truly a Campbell o’ Breadalbane? And when he said it was, I asked him tae take me awa’. Even a day earlier I wad ha’ cut my own throat rather than take up wi’ a Campbell, but not then. Not then. I turned my back on Carryck, and Simon.

  “It didna take lang for me tae learn the truth aboot Walter. I was naethin’ mair tae him than a way tae win Carryck for his faither, and gain his favor. And then word came o’ Simon, deid o’ the fever he took that nicht in the fairy wood, and I saw then that I had nae choice. I marrit Walter Campbell, and went tae live at Loudoun Castle when his faither made him curator. Flora was my only joy in those years, orphaned as she was and needin’ me.

  “Perhaps now ye’ll understand,” she said softly. “It’s my fault that Simon died. If I die unshriven, I’ll burn for aa eternity. And now I’ll take the laudanum, if ye’d be sae kind.”

  She slept so deeply that they might have talked, but Elizabeth had drawn deep inside herself and Nathaniel knew that there would be no comfort for her now; no words would wash away those pictures Isabel had drawn for them. It would take blood to do that.

  There were re
asons enough to kill Angus Moncrieff: weeks spent in the Montréal gaol, Hawkeye and Robbie lost, sailors drowned, children stolen, the new tremble in Curiosity’s hands, Elizabeth convulsed in agony, her eyes blank with fear. Reason enough, but he might have walked away and left the man standing, until today. Now when Angus Moncrieff died it would be for all those things, but most of all it would be for Isabel Scott Campbell, once of Carryckcastle. My cousin. Nathaniel thought it to himself for the first time, and knew that it was so. And it would be for Simon Hope.

  No matter how he went back over the stories they had heard about Simon from Jennet and Isabel, it just didn’t add up. That a boy as strong as Simon was said to be taking a fever in a summer rain and dying of it four weeks later made no sense. On the other hand, Simon had been the only witness when Moncrieff raped the laird’s daughter, and that put him in a situation more dangerous than a summer cold.

  Elizabeth put Daniel to the breast, leaning against Nathaniel for support. He put his arm around her and when his wife and son had fallen asleep he stayed awake to keep watch, his free hand on the butt of his pistol, his thumb moving slowly back and forth over the polished wooden stock.

  They were traveling alongside the Moffat Water, no more than an hour away from Carryckcastle, when a sharp high whistle followed by rough shouting caused the horses to break their stride. The driver bellowed oaths as the coach jerked to a halt.

  Nathaniel held Elizabeth steady with one arm while he leaned forward to stop Isabel from rolling off the makeshift bed. The laudanum had done its work and she hardly stirred, but Elizabeth came awake immediately as did the boy, stretching and fussing in her arms.

  “What is it?” She clutched Daniel to her and he cried louder. “Nathaniel? Are we being attacked?”

  “Highwaymen, it looks like,” he said, trying to get a look at the horsemen who had come up on the coach without making a target of himself.

  “Highwaymen in broad daylight?” Elizabeth was angry enough to march out there and confront them—he had seen her do things like that before—so Nathaniel got hold of her.