Gosford's Daughter (22 page)

On a windy April day with fitful sunshine, Dallas
Fraser arrived with Rosmairi, Flora, seven trunks, five boxes, and
a large sea chest. Iain Fraser and Magnus had sailed to Italy in
mid-March. Dallas had decided to visit her relatives in Edinburgh
and announced that she and her daughters would join the court as
soon as the King returned to Edinburgh.

“
He’s gone north to patch up some
wretched quarrel between Huntly and Caithness,” Dallas said, as
Flora and Rosmairi unpacked their baggage. “I believe Huntly’s
sister will wed with Caithness to cement the reconciliation of the
two families.”

Sorcha blanched at Caithness’ name. “Caithness is a
vicious beast,” Sorcha declared, noting her mother’s scrutiny. “I
feel sorry for the Gordon lass.”

“
I don’t,” said Dallas. “She has the
brains of a pigeon. And how do you know Caithness?”

Sorcha winced. “I met him here in Edinburgh. He makes
a poor impression.”

“
I haven’t seen him since he was a
lad.” Dallas flipped her unbound hair over her shoulders. “Yes, I
do believe he murdered some people. His father’s gaolers, as I
recall.” She shrugged and began to remove the mauve riding jacket,
with its padded shoulders and black-braid trim. “How I wish I’d
arrived before Rob left! Do you know, I was absolutely certain he’d
never get permission?” She sighed and shook her head. “I’m uneasy.
Mary Stuart has never brought our family anything but
trouble.”

Sorcha could hardly refute her mother’s words. She
glanced at Rosmairi, who was hanging up a dazzling ball gown of
teal satin brocade shot with gold. Rosmairi looked taller, more
composed, yet somehow detached. Sorcha wondered if she’d seen
George Gordon since the attempted elopement. She was anxious to
talk to her sister alone.

The opportunity came that night. Aunt Tarrill had
rearranged her guests, putting Sorcha and Rosmairi together, while
Ailis joined Flora in a smaller bedroom. Dallas took over the
chamber vacated by Rob, though part of her wardrobe had to be
stored elsewhere.

“
It would appear that our Lady
Mother intends to stay awhile,” Sorcha remarked as she and Rosmairi
prepared for bed.

“
She does.” Rosmairi brushed her
red-gold hair vigorously. “Father will be away until August. I
doubt that we’ll go home before then.”

“
Damn.” Sorcha snatched her
nightshift and put it on over her head. “I’d begun to yearn for
summer in the Highlands,” she said, her voiced muffled by the
shift.

“
What? I can’t hear you.” Rosmairi
stood up, impatiently thrusting the hairbrush aside.

Sorcha repeated her words, but didn’t wait for a
response. “Tell me, Ros, what makes you so cross?”

With brisk, efficient motions, Rosmairi wound her
hair into a single plait. “What would you think?” She threw Sorcha
a challenging look. “Did you really believe that I’d forget George
Gordon so easily?”

Sorcha stared at her sister. “Well … I suppose I
haven’t thought about it much one way or the other.” She saw
Rosmairi’s cheeks turn pink as cherry blossoms. “I mean, I thought
about
you
a great deal. But I hoped you’d dismiss George
from your mind, seeing that he was a feckless sort.”

For one brief instant, it appeared that the
overbright gray eyes would shed tears upon the flushed cheeks. But
Rosmairi drew herself up straight and emitted a sharp little laugh.
“What does it matter? What’s done is done, but that doesn’t mean I
can’t regret it.” She moved with unwonted dignity toward the
casement that looked out over the Canongate. “I’ve had time to
think since you left home.” She glanced down into the street, where
a McVurrich servant was extinguishing the light that each burgher
was required to keep burning until curfew. Church bells sounded,
from nearby Holy Trinity, and farther off, from Saint Giles.
Rosmairi turned back to gaze unblinkingly at Sorcha. “I lost
George; Johnny Grant threw you over. But it’s not the same. I love
George.” She lifted her chin, and suddenly Sorcha saw less of the
lass and more of the woman.

Rosmairi was gliding to the prie-dieu, where she fell
to her knees. “I must say my prayers. Good night, Sorcha.”

Sorcha tugged the counterpane back and crawled into
bed. Rosmairi was wrong, at least about one thing—Sorcha also knew
of love. But she dared not admit it.

Rosmairi’s nocturnal devotions went on and on.
Drowsily thinking to herself that such piety would make Uncle
Donald envious, Sorcha drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Holyrood Palace wasn’t one of King Jamie’s favorite
residences. He preferred his country dwellings, particularly
Falkland, where the hunting was superior. But a king must
occasionally live in his capital, so Jamie returned with his court
the last week of April.

Dallas had been surprised to learn that Sorcha
already had an invitation to court, personally extended by the
King. Sorcha, however, was vague about how she’d met Jamie and
suggested that they should seek formal permission for her mother
and sister to visit Holyrood. Dallas merely scoffed, asserting that
Jamie was her nephew by marriage and that she needed no such
ceremony.

As it turned out, Dallas was right. While Jamie
welcomed Sorcha with considerable warmth, he seemed well pleased to
see Dallas and to reacquaint himself with Rosmairi, who had been a
very small child the last time they’d met. But it was Sorcha he
sent for the next day, greeting her in his chambers just before
noon.

“
We’re to have a tournament for May
Day,” he announced, piling up a stack of books and haphazardly
shoving them onto a shelf. “It will be very dull, with Moray
winning all the prizes. But at least it will make the Master of
Gray envious. Though,” he added, thoughtfully pulling on his long
chin, “I dislike it when Patrick is angry. He becomes quite
ungovernable.”

Sorcha picked up Morton and set him on her lap.
“Moray and Gray are both at court?”

“
Oh, yes, and at each other’s
throats like two cocks in a pit.” The King glanced out the window,
which looked toward the adjacent rocky mount of Arthur’s Seat.
“Pray tell me, Coz,” he asked with a tinge of diffidence, “is your
sister like you?”

Still considering the dilemma of eventually
confronting both Moray and Gray, Sorcha was caught off guard by the
question. “Rosmairi? Well, not exactly. She’s quieter. And more
sweet natured. Usually,” she amended, thinking of her sister’s
recent change in temperament.

“
Ah.” Jamie nodded, still in a
ruminative mood. He looked at Sorcha with cautious eyes. “She is
bonnie, is she not?”

“
Aye, very bonnie.” Sorcha spoke
with a sister’s loyalty, though bemused by Jamie’s comments. “Your
Grace, don’t tell me Ros caught your fancy!” She gave the King a
teasing smile.

Jamie stood very straight, his face quite solemn. The
spaniel grew alert in Sorcha’s lap, his ears pricked with apparent
interest. “I’m of an age where dalliance is part of my royal
prerogative,” he declared, then seeing Sorcha’s flabbergasted
expression, hastened to add, “I mean no dishonor to your sister.
Many highborn ladies, including your own Fraser grandmother, have
been eager to let the Kings of Scotland bestow … uh, favors
upon them.”

“
Favors, my backside,” Sorcha
retorted, then softened as she noticed that Jamie was flushing.
“Excuse my capricious tongue, Your Grace, but I can’t speak for
Rosmairi. And to be honest, I’m somewhat surprised.”

Jamie’s flush deepened. “You’ve heard …
tales?”

Having bearded the subject, Sorcha could do nothing
but plunge ahead. She felt Morton quiver in her lap and patted him
reassuringly. “You’ve scarcely kept your preference for males a
secret, My Lord. Nor should you, if that is your predilection. You
are, after all, the King.”

Jamie let out a long breath in apparent relief. The
narrow shoulders slumped as he flopped down in his chair of state,
one leg flung over the carved oak arm. “Many despise me for such
perversities. But I’ve never known the affection of women, save for
my wet nurse. Frankly, I always thought
her
a trifle
odd.”

Morton had grown restive. Sorcha let the dog down
from her lap and smoothed her black skirts. “If you seek female
companionship, you’ll find Rosmairi personable. However, I doubt
she’d be willing to follow in her grandmother’s footsteps,” Sorcha
added with a wry smile. “We need no more royal bastards to
complicate our family situation.”

Somewhat to Sorcha’s surprise, Jamie’s chest seemed
to expand with pride at the suggestion he might father a child. “I
shall respect her virtue, yet I find her comely. She doesn’t paint
her face, though her hair is too long. But then,” he added
musingly, “so is yours. I’ve been taught that cosmetics and flowing
tresses are lures of the devil.”

As if by reflex, Sorcha ran a hand through her own
long black hair. “I’m not one for paints and such myself, but I
should find bald women devilishly frightening.”

Jamie burst into a giggle, the high, piercing sound
that Sorcha was getting used to. Clearly, it bothered Morton not a
whit, as he shambled into a corner of the audience chamber and
relieved himself in a gilded box.

A discreet rap on the door cut short Jamie’s
laughter. Simeon appeared, announcing that the King had a visitor.
Sorcha stiffened in her chair, almost certain that either the
Master of Gray or the Earl of Moray was about to appear. But it was
Lord John Hamilton, tall, broad shouldered and distinguished in a
blue doublet that flirted with the royal purple.

Hamilton bowed courteously before the King. “The
tournament is about to begin, Your Grace.”

Jamie turned fretful. “Is it to last all
afternoon?”

An indulgent smile touched Hamilton’s mouth. “Not
quite. We’ll adjourn before five to a fountain of wine in the
courtyard.”

“
Ah.” Jamie nodded in satisfaction,
then motioned at Sorcha. “Have you met Lord Hamilton? He is
recently returned from exile.” The King spoke with a certain
smugness, as if he enjoyed putting one of his most important lords
in a potentially embarrassing situation.

But Sorcha had stood up, proffering her hand to
Hamilton. “I’ve not seen you in several years, sir. I’m Sorcha
Fraser of Beauly.”

Hamilton expressed his pleasure as he kissed Sorcha’s
fingertips, then gripped them firmly in his own. “Why, my dear
child, I’d not have known you! It’s been so long since I’ve
ventured into the Highlands.” He smiled broadly, surveying her from
head to toe with his frank brown-eyed gaze. “Who do you look like?
Your father’s coloring, I’d say, but your mother’s features
predominate. It’s an enchanting combination.”

“
Thank you.” He let go of her hand,
and Sorcha bobbed him a curtsy. “My mother and sister are also at
court,” she blurted.

“
Are they indeed?” Hamilton’s smile
stayed in place. “I shall be delighted to call upon them, as will
Margaret. My wife is very fond of your Lady Mother.” He turned back
to the King, who was clearly bored by the entire exchange. “Shall
we go, Your Grace?”

Jamie went, with Hamilton following, and Sorcha was
left standing alone in the middle of the audience chamber. She
supposed she should also attend the tournament, but was even less
enthused over the idea than King Jamie. The prospect of watching
Moray devastate his opponents and bask in the acclaim of the
courtiers was unsettling. Sorcha had been at court for only a day,
and already she was restless and uncomfortable. The song of the sea
and the scent of the pine called her home, though she knew she
could not escape from herself.

Sorcha was rescued from the May Day tournament by her
mother, who had summoned the best dressmaker in Edinburgh to
Holyrood. If Dallas had been surprised that her eldest daughter
seemed to prefer a two-hour fitting session to an afternoon of
athletic competition, she made no comment. At least not then. But
after supper, which Dallas had elected to take in their rooms, she
dispatched Rosmairi on an errand and sat Sorcha down for a serious
talk.

“
If you think I’ve been unaware of
the change in you since my arrival in Edinburgh, you’re mistaken,”
Dallas announced, plumping up the pillows behind her on a
delicately carved French divan. “I’ve merely been waiting for you
to come to me. But since you’ve kept silent, I think it’s time to
discover what troubles you.” She gave her daughter a sardonic, but
loving smile. “Mothers have a way of knowing.”

Sorcha’s initial reaction was to deny that she had
any problems. Certainly in the first seventeen years of her life at
Gosford’s End nothing more serious than a quarrel with her sister
and brothers, or rebellion against her parents’ discipline had
raffled the calm waters of her life. Until she’d been jilted. Then
there was Niall, of course, and the Earl of Moray. Most of all,
there was Gavin Napier. Sorcha’s life had been turned upside
down.

In an uncertain voice that gathered strength as she
went along, Sorcha unwound the tale of her adventures since leaving
the Highlands. To her daughter’s astonishment, Dallas listened in
virtual silence, only occasionally offering a word of encouragement
or understanding. It was strange, Sorcha thought fleetingly, how
her mother could rant and explode over life’s minor irritations,
but when it came to serious matters, Dallas was amazingly
self-controlled.

She was, of course, visibly upset by Sorcha’s
somewhat abbreviated account of the carriage ride with Gray and
Caithness. And when Sorcha finally admitted that she was in love
with Father Napier, Dallas almost dropped her wine goblet.