The Winter Sea (44 page)

And what else could I do, I thought, but take her at her word?

XXII

A
FTER THE FIRST MONTH
Sophia had stopped trying to keep track of days, they were so much alike—all filled with prayer and quiet work and sober conversation. Only Sundays stood out from the rest, for she had found them quite exhausting when she’d first arrived among the Presbyterians: up early and to prayers, and then to kirk at ten, and briefly home to eat a meager meal of bread and egg before returning to the kirk at two, and sitting through the sermons all the afternoon, by which time she was far too tired to enjoy the supper that was served at night, or take full part in all the evening prayers and singing that were yet to follow before she could take herself upstairs to bed.

The Countess of Erroll, while a woman of devotion, had kept Sundays in the manner of a true Episcopalian—a morning service followed by a midday meal that made the table groan and had left everyone quite lazy and content to spend the leavings of the day in happy idleness.

It was on Sundays that Sophia missed her life at Slains the most, and though the people of this house where she was living now—the Kerrs—had been most kind to her, and welcoming, she felt a certain sadness on a Sunday. Although she tried to hide it, her feelings must have shown upon her face as she sat now among the family while they ate their cold noon meal, for Mrs Kerr had long been watching her and finally said, ‘Sophia, I do fear that you must find us very dreary, after living in the north. I have been told the Earl of Erroll and his mother keep a lively house.’

Sophia liked Mrs Kerr, a soft-faced woman younger by some ten years than her husband. Mr Kerr, a man of mild temperament and pleasant manners, had a somber air about him that had not yet fully claimed his wife, so she was more inclined to smile. Not like her husband’s mother, Mrs Kerr the elder, who although she had displayed at times a cutting wit, still turned a disapproving face toward the world in general.

The older woman said, not looking up, ‘I should imagine Mistress Paterson, like any decent woman, would be relishing the quiet after suffering the company of such a house as Slains.’

Her son said, ‘Mother.’

‘Do not “Mother” me, my lad. You know full well what my opinion is of all this foolish talk of bringing back the king, and what I think of those who entertain the notion, and that does include yourself,’ she told him, with a sidelong glance that put him in his place. ‘You mark my words, he may now promise us that he’ll not interfere in our religion, but the instant he sets foot on Scottish soil you’ll hear him pipe a different tune. He is a papist, and you cannot trust a papist.’

Mr Kerr remarked that he would sooner trust a papist than an Englishman.

‘On your head be it, then,’ his mother said, and turning in her seat she asked Sophia, ‘What is your opinion, Mistress Paterson?’

But Sophia had been living here three months, and knew enough to step around the trap. ‘I am afraid I have not met that many papists. And no Englishmen at all.’

The elder Mrs Kerr could not contain a quirking of her mouth that spoilt her dour expression for an instant. ‘Aye, well then you have been fortunate.’ Her study of Sophia held new interest. ‘Tell me, how is it you came to be at Slains? The Duchess of Gordon has told us your family did come from this place, and that you had been brought up not far from Kirkcudbright. What took you so far from your home?’

‘I am kin to the Countess of Erroll.’ She said it with pride, and for all of her weariness sat a bit straighter. ‘I went there at her invitation.’

‘I see. And what made you come back?’

There it was, that sharp twist at her heart that was now so familiar she’d learned to breathe through it. She spoke the lie lightly, ‘I thought I had stayed long enough in the north.’

Mr Kerr nodded. ‘I seem to remember the Duchess of Gordon did say you were keen to come back to the place of your birth.’

Young Mrs Kerr was thinking. ‘Is the duchess not a papist?’

‘The Duchess of Gordon,’ her mother-in-law said firmly, ‘is a woman quite above the common mark, who at her heart I am convinced is Presbyterian.’

Sophia had heard much about the duchess since she’d come here. Colonel Hooke, as she recalled, had spoken much about his correspondence with the duchess, who despite her Catholic faith had gained the trust and high regard of the great chieftains of the Western Shires, those fervent Presbyterians who had been just as outraged by the Union as the Jacobites, and who had sought to join their forces in a fight to guard the Scottish crown against the English. From her Edinburgh home she served as a go-between, fully aware she was narrowly watched by the agents of Queen Anne and by the less visible spies of the Duke of Hamilton.

The duke, Sophia had learned, was distrusted as much by the Presbyterians as by the Jacobites, since it was he who had stopped them from rising in protest of the Union when it might have done some good. She’d also been told he had sent a private envoy once to tell the western chieftains they would better serve themselves by giving him the crown in place of James, since he alone could guard their interests. But they would not undertake such treason, and had earned the duke’s fierce enmity.

The rumor was he regularly turned his eye toward the west, and that his spies yet walked among the people of this shire, but he would dare not make a move here, with the people so against him. Sophia knew that, in Kirkcudbright, she was safe. And anyway, with Moray dead, she’d be of little value to the duke.

Mr Kerr, at the head of the table, was slicing the meat for the next course when young Mrs Kerr changed the subject.

‘Did you see the widow McClelland in kirk? She has put off her mourning.’

Her husband shrugged. ‘Aye, well ’tis almost a year now.’

His wife replied, ‘I should not doubt that it has more to do with the arrival of her husband’s brother.
He
was not in kirk this morning.’

Mr Kerr remarked he would not know the man to see him. ‘I am told he is not well.’

Sophia knew that Mr Kerr was trying not to let the conversation dwindle into gossip, but it was no use. His wife had that peculiar light of interest in her eyes that people got when they were speaking of the actions of another.

‘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 color 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 favorably. I do prefer a person who defends a woman’s honor 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 neighbor 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 realized 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 harbor 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 favor 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.’