An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (68 page)

Her gown hung loosely and her eyes were enormous and dark-shadowed. And yet her suffering only seemed to increase her beauty. There was something almost transparent about her little face, as if the gallant spirit within was showing through the walls of the flesh as a light might shine through a thinly curtained window.

At York Iona had taken the stagecoach, a big unwieldy affair drawn by four horses which, although changed at frequent intervals, never appeared to exert themselves unduly.

And now at last she had reached London. Anxiously she felt in the pocket of her dress to see if the piece of paper Dr. Farquharson had given her was safe. If she had lost that, she would be lost indeed, for she had but a few shillings left in her purse.

It was humiliating to realise that she would have to ask a stranger, however warm his sympathies might be to the Jacobite Cause, for the loan of her fare to France. But somehow, Iona thought, she would contrive to pay him back, however long it took her to earn it.

At the back of her mind was a tiny aching fear that the gentleman whose name Dr. Farquharson had given her might be no longer there!

Suppose he had gone away, suppose after all he had changed his mind and fugitive Jacobites could no longer be certain of his assistance. But as the torturing thoughts arose within her, Iona’s wholesome common sense managed to thrust them away. Fate had looked after her so far and it would not fail her now.

The man sitting opposite her in the coach was, she had learned, connected with a Bank. Now he pulled a big gold watch from his pocket.

“Nigh on three o’clock,” he announced. “This plaguey coach is five hours late again. I shall protest, as I have protested before. ’Tis disgraceful that they can’t run them to better time.”

“You’re lucky it isn’t five days late,” someone said languidly from a far comer.

“Lucky indeed!” the gentleman in banking snorted. “In these days of improved travelling facilities, when I make an appointment in London for 16th September, I expect to keep it.”

So it was 16th September, Iona thought. She had lost count of the days, for one had seemed very like another since she left Skaig. She wondered on what date she would arrive in Paris, and then decided with a sudden unusual bitterness it would matter very little to anyone save herself.

“We’re nearing the old Bedford, we are,” the fat woman said suddenly, bending forward to rub a large puffy hand against the window. “And ’tis glad I’ll be to see it. The ale they sell there is the best in London, and if I says that, I knows what I’m talking about, I can assure you.”

The other passengers paid no attention to her. They were gathering their belongings together, setting their hats on their heads, buttoning their gloves and generally titivating themselves in an effort to improve their travel-stained untidiness.

Iona pulled her grey cloak over her shoulders and tied the ribbons at her neck. She was well aware that her gown was sadly creased after all the travelling. She had done her best to clean it every night and to start the day with a spotless muslin fichu round her shoulders, but nothing could really improve its shabbiness. It looked worn and a little grubby and it was a constant regret that she had not brought more gowns with her from Skaig.

‘After all,’ she thought to herself, ‘One dress is a pitiably poor wardrobe when journeying for such a wearisome length of time.’

“Here we are!” the fat woman cried and, turning to Iona, she added, “Goodbye, my ducks, take care of yourself. I hope there’s someone meeting you. You oughtn’t to be walking about London with a pretty face like yours.”

Iona smiled at her reassuringly, but at the same time she felt an aching loneliness at the thought that no one would be meeting her. It seemed that she alone of everyone in the coach was unsure where she would lay her head that night.

The horses finally drew up. Ostlers came running to their heads, the doors were opened and the steps let down, as everyone pushed and shoved in their haste to descend.

Iona was almost the last to leave the coach. She was in no particular hurry, so she sat back while the others hustled past her, and then, carrying her small bundle, she descended slowly and with a dignity that was an intrinsic part of her.

Several coaches were drawn up outside the Bedford Inn. Some were just departing and their conductors had already raised the long brass horns to their lips, while the coachmen, red-faced and foul-mouthed, were whipping up the leaders.

Others were arriving, the horses sweating and dusty, the passengers tired and disagreeable. It was a scene of turmoil and confusion and for a moment Iona, watching bustling ostlers, sweating porters and the embarking and disembarking passengers, felt bewildered and lost.

Suddenly beside her a voice said,

“At last! I knew, if I waited long enough, you would come.”

She started violently and the last vestige of colour was drained from her already pale cheeks. Looking down at her, seeming immeasurably taller and bigger, stood the Duke.

Speechlessly she stared at him and realised that he was smiling. She had never before seen him so happy. He bent down, took her hand in his, and raised it very gently to his lips.

“I have waited for two weeks,” he said. “Where have you been? I was half afraid I would never find you again.”

“ I have been – been coming – here,” Iona replied, “but why, oh why, have you been waiting for me?”

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” the Duke asked, and something in his tone made her drop her eyes before his and sent the colour rushing tumultuously back into her cheeks.

“My carriage is waiting,” the Duke said, “but first, you must be hungry. I have a private room in the hotel. Shall we repair there?”

Without waiting for her permission he took her arm and escorted her through the melée of horses and pedestrians into the hotel. There he led the way to a small room at the back away from the noise of the bars and overlooking a well kept garden.

A fire was burning brightly in an open fireplace, and the dark oak panelling was a perfect background to Iona’s shining head as she pushed back her hood. A waiter appeared and the Duke gave an order. The door shut behind him and they were alone.

For a moment the Duke stood looking at Iona, making no effort to move to her side, only watching her intently from where he stood, his eyes taking in the sharpened lines of her heart-shaped face and the soft shadows beneath her eyes.

After a moment Iona quivered beneath his regard, her hands went first to her hair, then to her dress in a vain effort to smooth the creases from it.

“I am untidy, Your Grace,” she said in a quick, breathless little voice. “I would not have you see me in such a state. But why have you come? You make it so much, much more – difficult.”

There was a break in her voice and she turned half away from him towards the fire.

“What do I make more difficult?” the Duke asked quietly.

“For me to go away,” Iona answered miserably, almost as if she spoke to herself, and then with a great effort she raised her head and faced him squarely. “Can Your Grace not understand that I must go, that it is impossible for me to stay with you even if you would have me?”

The Duke took several steps to her side, but there he stood silent, his eyes searching her averted face. At his coming Iona trembled and was conscious of a sudden flame leaping within herself so that she dropped her head and dared not look at him. The Duke waited a few seconds and then he said softly,

“Will you not look at me, Iona?”

She did not move or reply, and after a second he said,

“Look at me!”

This time his words were a command, and in answer Iona flung back her head suddenly. Her expression was strained, her lips tight-pressed against each other, and her eyes tragic. For a long, long moment the Duke looked down at her then he said,

“Oh, my darling, did you think I would ever let you go?”

At the words Iona swayed a little and would have fallen if he had not put out his arms and held her steady. As he did so, she cried out, her hands warding him off with an almost pitiful effort.

“It is impossible, quite impossible,” she cried. “Please believe this and do not humiliate me by forcing me to tell you more. Only know that I cannot be yours. Never! Never! For your sake – for the sake of all you honour and hold most sacred.”

It was as if the Duke had not heard her, for slowly, tenderly and with a strength she could not withstand, he overcame her resistance until at last she was encircled by his arms, her body close against his, her head against his shoulder.

She felt a sudden joy invade her, yet still she strove against surrender, holding herself stiff and tense even while every nerve in her body cried out to her to let his love sweep her away in a flood tide of ecstasy.

“Is there really anything you are afraid to tell me?” the Duke asked.

“Not afraid,” Iona answered in a whisper, “but ashamed. Let me go!”

“No!”

His answer seemed to ring out and desperately, driven by her conscience and by her sense of honour, Iona made one last attempt at resistance. With a sudden movement she wrenched herself free from the Duke and, retreating from him, stood behind a wing-backed chair.

“Listen to me,” she said. “You have got to listen – but if you touch me again I – cannot tell you – for I love you-love you with all my heart and soul – but it is because I love you so – so deeply that I cannot do – what you ask.”

Her voice faltered for a moment and then she went on,

“Your Grace has a great position, you have a name respected and honoured throughout the length and breadth of Scotland. People look up to you and honour you as – indeed I do – and because of such things, and – because you are who you are – I can never be your wife.”

“And why not?”

For a moment Iona shut her eyes. For one despairing moment she wished she might die before she need answer the question she had most dreaded to hear from his lips.

Then, not looking at him, her long lashes veiling her eyes as they stared unseeingly at her hands gripping the back of the chair, she stammered,

“I have no name – I have never had one – I was brought up by my guardian, Major James Drummond. When I was old enough to understand, he told me that he could never reveal to me – the name of my parents. All that he could tell me was – that I was of Scottish blood and that – I had been christened Iona.”

Iona’s voice broke completely and then wildly she cried out through her tears,

“Now go – and go – quickly.”

Her hands went up to her eyes. She stood there trembling all over, fighting against the tempest of her tears which threatened to overwhelm her, and even as she strove for self control, she listened for the sound of the Duke’s footsteps retreating, the sound of the door closing as he went out of her life.

Then suddenly she heard him make a movement and almost despite herself she looked from between her fingers. She had a glimpse of his face almost transfigured by the tenderness of his expression as he went down on one knee beside her and raising the hem of her dusty, creased gown, kissed it reverently. For a moment he knelt there, then he rose to his feet and drawing her hands from her face held them tightly in both of his.

“My dear, foolish, little love,” he said very softly. “Have you forgotten that you are already my wife?”

Iona’s fingers quivered in his, but he would not release them.

“But that – that was not – binding,” she said. “It was just an expedient – to allow me to escape – from the hands of the English.”

“Expedient or not,” the Duke replied firmly, “according to the law of Scotland – your law and mine, my darling – we are married.”

“But – but – ” Iona faltered.

“There is no but,” the Duke said masterfully. “You are mine and nothing that you can say or do will ever persuade me to let you go.”

Now it was impossible for Iona to hide the happiness that enveloped her and left her speechless, lighting her eyes until they shone like stars, parting her lips through which her breath came quickly.

The Duke drew her towards him, once again she was in his arms, and this time his mouth sought hers and found her lips.

She felt him take possession of her, felt a wonder and a magic sweep over her in utter and complete surrender of herself. She clung to him, for a moment the world was lost and forgotten and she was carried into a heaven of sweet contentment where there was only the Duke and her overwhelming love for him.

When he released her, she felt for a moment dazed and hardly conscious of where she was. She awoke to reality at a knock on the door. The waiter had returned with the food the Duke had ordered.

What she ate or drank Iona had no idea. She could only sit beside the Duke, her hand in his, and know that her life had changed from one of drab uncertainty into a golden rapture which she was half afraid to question.

They ate almost in silence until after a while the Duke, drawing her to her feet and wrapping her cloak around her, said,

“We must go now, my love, for there is much to do before night falls.”

“What have we to do?” Iona asked wonderingly.

But he only smiled at her reassuringly and answered

“You will see!”

He threw a guinea on the table and led Iona from the quietness of the little room at the back of the hotel into the tumult and noise outside, where a coach of claret and silver with the Ducal coat of arms emblazoned on the door, drawn by a pair of horses and attended by a coachman and two footmen, stood waiting. The Duke handed her inside and Iona sank back against the satin padded cushions, comparing it with the hard discomfort of the stagecoach.

They drove off and she bent forward eagerly, looking through the windows at the streets of London, at the houses of wood and plaster with their square-paned windows, at the fine churches raising their great spires to the sky and the labyrinth of streets, lanes, alleys, courts and yards.

There were Sedan chairs with their attendants often arrayed in gorgeous liveries, there were coaches dazzlingly painted and gilded, their footmen watching disdainfully the passers-by being splashed by the muck thrown up by the wheels and horses’ hoofs, from the gutters in the centre of the streets.