Clandara (22 page)

They dined together most evenings, and the doctor said he could go downstairs and later dress and walk about a little. By the end of the month he would be well enough to return to his duties with the Prince. Charles himself had been to see him once; it was an honour which caused much jealousy among the other clans who had also suffered dead and wounded, but it bound James to him as he had never been bound before. And it made Janet Douglas love him. Whatever those close to him said, accusing him of recklessness and pride and vanity, Charles did not share his family's failing of forgetting those who served them in adversity.

“I hope Hugh didn't tire you,” she said. “I've brought some peaches; they've ripened beautifully this summer. Let me peel one for you.”

“I've had enough,” he said. “You've hardly eaten anything, and you look tired. I shan't be lying here much longer. I told that old fool if he didn't let me up I'd get up and walk back to Holyrood myself!”

“Don't be so impatient.” Janet cleared the tray away and rang for the maid who looked after James. “If you reopen that shoulder you'll be lying here for weeks, and heaven knows how I should bear it!”

“Heaven knows how you bear it now,” he said. “But I must remind you that I didn't ask to be brought here … there must be other houses in Edinburgh besides yours …”

“I know you're better, because you want to quarrel,” she said calmly. “But you're not quite well enough to do it yet. In a week's time I'll bicker with you to your heart's content. But if you're going to be angry I'll go downstairs.”

“Go where you please,” he snarled, suddenly angry with her, but angrier still with himself. “No doubt you've found some lonely gentleman in the Prince's service who needs a companion for the night. Go down and go to hell!”

To his surprise she did not move. Her face went very white, and the bright blue eyes grew dark. He had never seen her angry before and it gave him a feeling of intense relief.

“If you ever say anything like that to me again,” she said, “I'll have my servants drag you out of that bed and throw you into the street. And, since you mention it, I do need a companion, so let's hope you pay me that much back as soon as possible.”

He lay back on the pillow and laughed.

“I'll pay for it now, rather than be one moment more in your debt! Come here, my ministering whore, and let me show you whether I'm recovered yet or not!” He caught her arm and when she pulled away from him he winced and swore. Immediately she stopped, leaving her arm in his grip, and at the sight of his face twisted with pain, she leant down and kissed him on the lips. His other arm came up and held her; she could see that his wound hurt him, but nothing would persuade him to release her or admit to his own weakness. His mouth closed upon hers and he kissed her fiercely, and she abandoned herself to it, hungry and trembling, until at last he let her go and fell back, white and sick with the effort.

She leant over him, and smoothed the lank, dark hair from his forehead. When he opened his eyes she smiled at him, and her face was soft and beautiful with tenderness.

“If you were sick to death you'd be worth twenty men in their full health,' she whispered. “It's no good, James; there'll never be another man except yourself. I beg of you, don't taunt me with that any more. But even if you do I shall forgive you. If you spat in my face I should still love you. I always will.”

It was the first time that she had ever said it to him, and when he did not answer she turned to go. But as she did so, he caught her hand and held it.

“Stay with me.” The voice was so low she could hardly hear it. “Stay with me as you did that night.” And turning his head away from her, James wept.

“Near to death,” Katharine whispered. “I knew it, Annie. I told you I knew something had happened to him …”

“That was a month ago,” Annie said sharply. They were alone in Katharine's bedroom at Clandara, and nothing she had said about the mysterious Mrs. Douglas had affected her mistress like the repetition of the merchant's words. “He was brought back near to death.”

“He's fully recovered,” Annie said again. “I've told you so a dozen times, milady. I don't know why you're sitting there with your face as white as your gown, when there's nothing wrong with the villain!”

“How do you know?” Katharine demanded. “How do you know he's all right when you don't even know the nature of his wounds? … He isn't dead, that's all! He may have lost an arm or a leg … he might even be blinded. Oh, merciful God, why didn't I go myself!” And she covered her face with her trembling hands and began to weep. Annie looked at her in mixed exasperation and distress. The exasperation won.

“Well, that's fine gratitude, I must say! There's a great fool I was, risking my very neck to go on your errand, and all ye say is ye wish ye'd gone yourself! And so do I wish it, milady, so do I!”

“Oh, don't be so foolish, Annie. Of course I'm grateful … but don't you see that this is worse than before? Knowing him wounded, nearly dead, and not knowing how badly or whether he will have to fight again … Annie!” She got up suddenly. “Annie, it's no use, I'm going to Edinburgh!”

“Mother of Jesus!” The oath escaped Annie before she could help herself. She stared at Katharine as if she were mad. “Go to Edinburgh! And for what, may I ask? … To find him? Oh, milady, I think ye're out of your head …”

“Perhaps. Perhaps I am.” Katharine went to the wall mirror; her reflection stared back at her, drawn and desperate, the face of the woman who had cursed James and sent him away with words of the most remorseless hate. And now, with her brother's murder still unrevenged, she was prepared to go and look for him because he was wounded … She should have been glad; she should have been full of vengeful feelings, but instead her heart was aching with anxiety and there was nothing left with which to pretend to herself that she did not love him still.

She did not move from the mirror but spoke aloud in front of it, watching herself.

“Oh, my God, what a fool I've been. That's all I want, just to see him and tell him, and then go away and forget him for ever …”

“Ye'll never do that,” Annie said bitterly. “Look well at what you see there; look at the dark shadows and the lines from crying and worrying … what are ye doing to your beauty? And all for the sake of a man who's hardly lost you than he's bedded down with someone else! Have ye no pride, milady? … How much did he love you that he could find this widow so quickly? … Dugal said she followed him from Perth!”

Katharine shrugged.

“I don't care who he's found,” she said. “I don't care about anything except knowing he's whole and strong again. And I'm going to find out.” She turned and mocked the anxious woman who stood watching her. “You'd be happy to see me married to Mr. Ogilvie, wouldn't you, Annie? Kind, safe Mr. Ogilvie … well, you never will unless I see James Macdonald once more.”

“And your father,” Annie muttered. “What of him? What will he say to this?”

“He won't know,” she answered. “Edinburgh is a large city. There are hundreds there seeking the Prince's audience. When I go there I shall go with Mr. Ogilvie, and Father can't object to that. In fact,” she began to touch her hair and straighten the neck of her white dress, “I know he'll welcome it. He's as fond of the match between Henry and myself as all the rest of you.”

“Go if ye must,” Annie said at last. “But if ye do find him, no good will come of it.” She turned her back on Katharine and went into the clothes-closet. The two women did not speak again while Katharine dressed for dinner. And that night it was she who suggested to Henry that they wait on in the Green Salon after her father had retired.

“My beloved, am I hurting you? …”

“No, no, you're not hurting me at all …”

Katharine drew his head down and shut her eyes and let him kiss her over and over again, and she linked her hands behind his neck and waited for the response which she knew would not come. His hands were firm and they trembled as they touched her, but the touch meant nothing. Her body was stiff and lifeless; she felt the discomfort of his urgent kisses and the strain of his embrace and endured them in horrible calm. She pitied Henry so much in those moments that she could only urge him on to kiss her because she could not bring herself to tell the final lie and say she loved him.

It seemed impossible that she had once held another man and returned every caress until her passions threatened to swamp her self-control completely. And more impossible still that she had only to think of him for those same sensations to return. At last she could bear it no longer. She drew away and asked Henry to compose himself and give her time to do the same.

His handsome face was flushed and happy.

“Oh, Katharine, if you only knew how I have longed to do that … for all these weeks it's been a torment to me!”

“It needn't be again,” she said gently. “Dear Henry, I'm not worthy of you, not worthy in the least.” And this she meant with all her heart. But she went on for the same reason as she had submitted to his lovemaking. “I've kept my promise to you in the garden, haven't I? I told you all is not lost.”

He turned to her, so painfully eager that he stammered like a boy.

“Do you mean that you love me … Katharine?”

“Be patient,” she said gently. “Please be patient. Remember what I've suffered. Don't ask me to love you yet.”

“I know.” He bent and kissed both her hands. “I'm selfish and thoughtless. Forgive me, my dear heart. I won't try to hurry you.”

She got up and began to walk up and down.

“It's this house,” she said. “It's so full of memories of the past. Robert's death and my betrothal … everywhere I turn I see reminders. Henry, if only we could go away!

He stared at her in surprise. “Away? But where, my darling? I can only offer to marry you immediately and take you back with me to Spey House—”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, that's not what I want. Not yet,” she amended. “Henry, I'd like to go to Edinburgh! Annie has told me it's full of people and there's so much excitement with the Prince there. You were going to see him, anyway! Why not take me too, just for a visit? Father won't refuse, he'll be delighted … Annie says there's a ball at Holyrood at the end of this month – we could go to it and present ourselves.”

“Katharine, Katharine, wait a moment,” he protested. “Why do you want to go to Holyrood … your father won't allow it, you know that!”

“Oh yes, he will, if you ask him.” She came back and sat beside him, and gave him her hand. “Please take me; it's the one thing in the world I really want to do. Take me to Edinburgh. I'll have a new gown made and we'll go to Holyrood and see the Prince. After all, if you're going to fight for him, I ought to see him too.”

Without reminders, in a city where life was full of excitement and expectancy, he would have a chance to awaken her love as well as her gratitude. He had been swept away by the power of his own passion, but a few moments of reflection afterwards had shown him that Katharine's submission was not the same as her response. She did not love him and he knew it. But she would, either before marriage or after it. He did not care which came first.

“We will go then,” he said gently. “I'll ask your father.” She looked at him and, on an impulse, reached forward and kissed him.

“Dear Henry. Thank you.”

“No thanks are needed,” he said quietly. “I only want to make you happy.”

“They're going to Edinburgh tomorrow,” Jean Macdonald said. “I heard that maid of hers talking to the steward about it. She's going with them.”

The Countess was sewing by the window, making the most of the fading autumn light. When it grew dark she sat alone with Jean, more often in silence, for her eyes hurt her and she was unable to embroider by candlelight without incurring violent headaches. The Earl had kept his promise to Katharine. Since that night more than two months ago, he had not come to his wife's room. The marks he had left on her body had disappeared. The bruises were faded, but the mark on her mind was a permanent one. She no longer dreamed of him and woke shrieking until Jean ran in and calmed her, but she sat for hours without speaking, and often there was a vacant look in her pale eyes which frightened the young girl. Her mistress was a little turned; she was apt to sit there smiling at nothing, and when the maid asked her what was amusing her she only shook her head and did not answer. But the smile was full of meaning; it flickered across her colourless lips as pictures flickered through her mind, pictures of death and torture, fire and disaster in which the Earl and his daughter struggled and shrieked in helpless agony.

She raised her head and stared at Jean, frowning a little. “Who's going to Edinburgh, did you say?”

“
She
is,” Jean repeated. “And this Mr. Ogilvie, who's been staying here. Tomorrow; I told you, milady.”

“Ah, so you did. Mr. Ogilvie … I seem to remember him. He used to visit here. A very quiet and pleasant gentleman with as much spirit in him as a sheep. He was her suitor too, now I recall. How James would laugh if he could see them. I expect she's going to marry him.”

And the Countess's face grew dark and her lips twisted angrily. “James never had her,” she went on under her breath as if she were speaking to herself. “He was a fool; I know he had the opportunity and she wouldn't have refused him. I remember seeing them come in from the turret walk after that ball, and her face was so full of concupiscence it made me sick. Quite sick. Henry Ogilvie won't satisfy her the way my cousin James would have done. He is so big and strong, Jean, so much a man … when I was a girl I used to shut my eyes and dream of him and imagine … oh, you've no idea what I used to imagine,” and she laughed. The maid looked away in embarrassment, her cheeks scarlet. The Countess sometimes rambled on like this, her talk full of sly sexual allusions. And then she would suddenly go into her bedroom and shut the door and Jean would hear her weeping.