The Winter Sea (6 page)

The bed squeaked loudly when I lay on it, but to my weary face the pillowcase felt soft and cool, and when I slipped beneath the freshly-laundered warmth of sheets and blankets I could feel my state of consciousness slip, too.

I should have slept.

But what I saw when my eyes closed was neither darkness nor a dream.

I saw a river, and green hills with trees below a sky of summer blue. Although I didn’t recognize the place, the image would not leave. It went on playing like a private film within my mind until I lost all sense of being tired.

I rose, and went to write.

II

S
HE DREAMT OF THE
woods, and the soft western hills, and the River Dee dancing in sunlight beyond the green fields, and the soft waving touch of the high grasses bowing before her wherever she walked. She could feel the clean air of the morning, the cool gentle breeze, and the happiness carried upon it, while nearby her mother sat singing a tune that Sophia could only remember in dreams…

It was gone, words and all, when she opened her eyes. And the sun was gone, too. Here, the light was a harder flat grey, and it couldn’t reach into the bedchamber’s corners, so they stayed in darkness, although she knew well from what she’d seen last night by the candle that there would be little to hide in the shadows. The room was a plain one, with only one tapestry trying to soften the stark grey stone walls, and one painting—a portrait of some unknown woman with sad-looking eyes—hanging over the mantel. Below both of those lay a hearth that was too small to be any match for the wail of the wind at the rain-spattered glass of the window.

She clutched a blanket to her for protection from the cold, and rose, and crossed to see what view she had. She hoped for hills, or trees…though she could not remember seeing trees upon the landscape when they had approached the house last night. In fact, this part of Scotland seemed quite bare of vegetation save the gorse and rougher grasses that grew close beside the sea. The salt, perhaps, made it impossible for anything more delicate to grow.

Another angry blast of rain assailed the window as she reached it. For a moment she saw nothing, then the wind chased off the water in thin, sideways-running rivulets, and let her see beyond the glass.

The sight was unexpected, and it stole her breath. She saw the sea, and nothing else. She might have been aboard a ship, with days of journeying between herself and land, and nothing round her but the grey sky and the storm-grey waves that stretched forever to the grey horizon. She’d been warned by the Countess of Erroll at supper last night that the walls of Slains Castle had been, at some places, set close to the cliffs, but it seemed to Sophia the walls must rise straight from the rock for her chamber to have such a view, and that there could be nothing below but a sheer drop of stone wall and precipice, down to the boiling foam of the sea round the rocks of the shore.

The wind hurled a fierce blast of rain at her window and turning, she drew near the small fire and took her best gown from the clothes-press, doing what she could to make herself presentable. It had been her mother’s gown, and was not nearly as in fashion as the one that the countess had been wearing last night, but the soft blue color suited her, and with her hair combed carefully and pinned into its style she felt more capable of facing what might come.

She did not know, yet, her position in this house. It had not been discussed at supper, the countess seeming quite content to feed her guests and see their needs attended to with gracious hospitality that asked for nothing in return, and gave Sophia hope that here indeed might be the kind and happy home whose promise she had followed all these days and nights since she had first begun her eastward journey.

But life, if nothing else, had taught her promises weren’t always to be counted on, and what appeared at first a shining chance might end in bitter disappointment.

Drawing in a calming breath, she squared her shoulders, smoothed her hands along the bodice of her dress, and went downstairs. It was yet early, and it seemed she was the only one awake. She moved from empty room to empty room, and since the house was large, with many doorways, she soon found herself quite turned around, and might have gone on wandering if she had not become aware of sounds of life from one rear hallway—voices, and a clanking that she took to be a kettle, and a snatch of cheerful singing drew her steps toward the kitchen door. She had no doubt it was the kitchen. Even through the paneled oak, the warmth and comfortable smells of cooking reached to make her welcome, and the door itself swung open to her touch.

It was a long and well-scrubbed kitchen, with a massive hearth at one end and a flagstone floor, and one long table, very plain, at which a young man, roughly dressed, was sitting with a pipe between his teeth, chair tilted back, his booted feet crossed at the ankles. He hadn’t seen Sophia yet, because his eyes were for the girl who had been singing and who, having perhaps reached a place in her song where the words were forgotten, had happily changed to a hum while she laid out a tray with clean dishes.

And at the hearth, a woman, middle-aged, stood with her broad back turned to both of them, and stirred at something in an open kettle. That something, to Sophia, smelled like barley, and her stomach gave a hungry twist, and so she said, ‘Good morning.’

The humming stopped. The young man’s chair thumped down, and all three heads came round in mild surprise.

The girl spoke first. She cleared her throat. ‘Good morning, mistress. Were ye wishing something?’

‘Is that broth?’

‘Aye. But ye’ll be having more than that, the day, for breakfast. I’ll be serving in the dining room in half an hour’s time.’

‘I…could I please just have a bowl of that, in here? Would that be possible?’

The mild surprise grew more pronounced. Sophia stood uncomfortably and sought the words to tell them she was not accustomed to a great house such as this, that hers had always been a simple life—not poor, exactly, but not far above their own place in the order of society—and that, to her, this clean and cheery kitchen had an air of home about it that the dining room did not.

The older woman, who till now had stood in silence at the hearth, looked Sophia up and down and said, ‘Come have a seat, then, mistress, if it pleases ye. Rory, shift your great and useless self and let the lady sit.’

‘Oh, please,’ Sophia said, ‘I didn’t mean—’

The young man, Rory, stood without a protest, and with no change of expression to betray what he might think of this intrusion. ‘Time I got on with my work,’ was all he said before he left by the back corridor. Sophia heard the swing of hinges followed by the slamming of a door that sent a wave of chill air swirling through the kitchen’s warmth.

‘I didn’t mean that anyone should leave,’ Sophia said.

‘’Tis nae your doing,’ said the older woman firmly. ‘’Tis my own. The loon would sit there half the morning if he thought I’d let him do it. Kirsty, bring a bowl and spoon, so I can serve our guest her morning draught.’

Kirsty looked to be about Sophia’s age, if not a little younger, with black curling hair and wide eyes. She moved, as Rory had, with the kind of swift obedience that came not out of fear, but from respect. ‘Aye, Mrs Grant.’

Sophia sat and ate the hot broth, saying nothing lest she might disrupt these women more than she already had. She felt their eyes upon her as they moved about their work, and she was glad when she had finished and could push away the bowl, and thank them.

Mrs Grant assured her it had been no trouble. ‘But,’ she added, carefully, ‘I dinna think that it would please the countess if ye were to make a habit of it.’

Sophia glanced up, hopeful that the servants might already know what place she was to have within the household. ‘Am I then to take meals with the family?’

‘Aye, of course, and where else?’ Mrs Grant asked, ‘with ye being kin to the countess?’

Sophia said, slowly, ‘There are many levels of kinship.’

The older woman looked at her a moment, long, as though she sought to read behind those words, and then she hoisted another kettle onto its hook and said, ‘Nae to the Countess of Erroll, there aren’t.’

‘She seems a good woman.’

‘The best of all women. I’ve workit in this kitchen thirty years, since I was ages with Kirsty, and I ken the countess’s ways mair than most, and I’ll tell ye ye’ll nae find her equal on God’s earth.’ Her sideways glance smiled. ‘Did ye think ye’d be put into service?’

‘I did not know what to expect,’ said Sophia, not wanting to bare all her longings and fears to a stranger. The past was the past, after all, and what cared these two women for how she had struggled since losing her parents? She showed them a smile of her own. ‘But I see I have come to a good place.’

Again Mrs Grant’s eyes searched hard for a heartbeat before she said, ‘Aye, that ye have. Kirsty.’

Kirsty turned round.

‘They’ll be missing our guest in the dining room, presently. Best ye should show her the way.’

‘Aye,’ said Kirsty. ‘I’ll do that.’

Sophia stood, gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

The creases on Mrs Grant’s face that had looked stern beforehand now seemed to have been carved by smiles. ‘Ach, ’tis nae bother, mistress. Just mind now that ye eat your meal at table, else they’ll ken that I’ve been feedin ye in secret.’

In the end, Sophia found she had no trouble eating everything that Kirsty served. The four days’ ride from Edinburgh had left her feeling ravenous, and Mrs Grant’s good cooking rivaled anything she’d eaten at the Duke of Hamilton’s own table.

If the Countess of Erroll had wondered at Sophia’s late arrival to the dining room, she made no comment on it, only asked her in a friendly way if she had found the chamber to her liking.

‘Thank you, yes. I rested well.’

‘It is a plain room,’ said the countess, ‘and the fire must work to warm it, but the view is quite unequalled. On those days when the weather is fine, you must look to the sunrise, and tell me if it’s not the prettiest one you have seen.’

Mr Hall, reaching for bread, gave Sophia a confiding wink. ‘That would be only one day of each month, my dear. The Lord has favored Slains in many ways, not least by providing this castle with such an amiable mistress, but He prefers, for reasons of His own, to leave those favors wrapped in fog and foul winds. If you should see the sunrise twice before the summer comes, then you may count yourself most fortunate.’

The countess laughed. ‘Good Mr Hall, you’ll make the poor lass melancholy. I grant that you yourself have never seen Slains in fair weather, but the sun shines even here, from time to time.’

She looked a younger woman when she laughed. She would have been approaching sixty, so Sophia judged, and yet her face was firm and well-complexioned, and her eyes were clear and knowing, lively with intelligence. They noticed when Sophia’s own gaze traveled to the portraits hung to each side of the window.

‘They are both handsome men,’ the countess told her, ‘are they not? That is my husband, the late earl. The artist gave him a stern countenance, but he was a most kindly man, in life. The other is my son, Charles, who is now the Earl of Erroll and, by birthright of that title, Lord High Constable of Scotland. Or what may be left of Scotland,’ she said, drily, ‘now that parliament has ratified the Union.’

Mr Hall said, ‘Yes, it is a troubling thing.’

‘An injury,’ the countess said, ‘which I do hope will not go long unanswered.’

Mr Hall glanced at Sophia in the way her uncle had when a discussion touched on something he had not thought fit for her to hear. He asked, ‘How does your son? I do regret I have not seen him much of late, in Edinburgh. Is he well?’

‘Quite well, I thank you, Mr Hall.’

‘His Grace the Duke of Hamilton remarked to me the other day he feared the Earl of Erroll did think ill of him, because the earl no longer keeps his company.’

The countess sat back to let Kirsty clear the empty plate away, and smiled a careful smile that had an edge of warning to it. ‘I do not know my son’s opinions, nor yet his affairs.’

‘Of course not, no. I did not think that you should do so. I was only saying that the duke—’

‘Is surely man enough to ask directly of my son that which he wishes to be told, and not rely upon my word in such a matter.’

It was a soft rebuke, but Mr Hall accepted it. ‘My lady, I apologize. I did not mean to give offence.’

‘And none is taken, Mr Hall.’ She deftly brought the conversation back to firmer ground. ‘You are not pressed to carry on your travels just at present, are you?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘I am pleased to hear it. We could do with a man’s company at Slains. There has been little entertainment here this winter, and our neighbors have kept closely to their own estates. I do confess that I have found the days here very dull, of late.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Hall, ‘these next few weeks will bring a change.’

The countess smiled. ‘I do depend upon it.’ Turning to include Sophia, she said, ‘And I shall have no great fear of boredom now, with such a lively young companion. It is you, my dear, whom I suspect will find this house so dull that you will wish yourself away from it.’

Sophia said, ‘I can assure you I will not.’ She said that with more certainty than she had first intended, and she added in a lighter voice, ‘I am not used to towns or cities. I do much prefer a quiet life.’

‘That I can give you,’ said the countess. ‘For a time, at least. Until the families round us learn that I have now a pretty, unwed kinswoman who bides with me, for then I fear that we may be lain siege to by the curious.’ Her eyes danced warmly, welcoming the sport.

Sophia took it in good part, and made no comment. She had no expectations of local young men clamoring for her attentions, for she knew that she was no rare beauty—just an ordinary girl of common parentage, without an income or a dowry that could make a man of good birth think she was desirable.

Mr Hall remarked, ‘Then it is just as well that I should stay, to help you fight them off.’ He pushed his chair back on the floor. ‘But now, with your indulgence, I must go and write a letter to His Grace, so to acquaint him with my plans. You have the means, my lady, do you not, to see that such a message reaches Edinburgh?’

The countess answered that she did, and with a formal bow he left them, wishing them good morning. The little maid, Kirsty, moved to clear his plate as well, and the countess said, ‘Kirsty, I do owe you thanks for showing Mistress Paterson the way to us this morning. It was fortunate that she did find you.’

Kirsty glanced up in surprise, and seemed to pause a moment as if seeking how to twist the truth, before she said, ‘My lady, ye’ve no need to thank me. All I did was meet her in the passageway. She would have found ye here without my help.’