Gosford's Daughter (23 page)

“
Sweet Jesu,” she breathed, the
brown eyes wide, “that priest! Dear child, you’ve been beset by an
uncommonly cruel fate these past months. Only Moray sounds
normal!”

“
If being married is normal for the
seducer of maids,” Sorcha murmured, biting her lip.

Dallas snorted. “It often is. Oh, fie, Sorcha, what a
dreadful thing to happen with loathsome Caithness! How sorry I feel
for his Gordon bride. If we tell your father, he’ll kill him.
Perhaps we’d better keep it to ourselves.”

“
I’ve considered killing Caithness
myself,” Sorcha remarked dryly. “Indeed, I’m not anxious to see
Gray again. Or Moray,” she added on a lower note, plucking at the
hem of her peignoir, which she’d put on after the fitting session.
“I like Moray,” Sorcha said, looking somewhat confused, “but I
shouldn’t wish to encourage him.”

“
Remarkably mature of you,” Dallas
stated in a firm voice, but her thoughts were already elsewhere.
“By the Mass, I wish you and Ros could have more governance over
your hearts!” Dallas was on her feet, marching up and down the
bedchamber, her rust-colored gown snapping around her heels like
the flames of a crackling bonfire. “Fie, why Ros tried to run off
with that wretched rodent, Huntly, baffles me! I worry about her.”
Dallas stopped stomping and eyed Sorcha directly. “And you—I
wonder.” The brown eyes were speculative but
compassionate.

Sorcha looked away and changed the subject. “I saw
Lord Hamilton today,” she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone. “Lady
Hamilton is here, too, I gather.”

“
Oh?” Dallas picked up a slim silver
vase, rearranging some errant jonquils. “It’s been a long time
since I’ve seen them. John was sent packing with the other Lords of
the Congregation when Arran assumed influence and stole both lands
and title from John’s brother, James. Of course,” she went on,
placing the vase back down on a marble-topped table, “James has
been quite mad for years. I trust John is using Gray’s influence
with the King to set matters aright.”

“
Lord Hamilton has always seemed
like a kindly man,” Sorcha said, wondering if such a breed truly
existed. “I remember when he and Father took us fishing in Glen
Urquhart.”

A reminiscent smile touched Dallas’s lips. “Ah, so do
I. Ros developed a stomach complaint and Margaret Hamilton talked
of nothing but the children she’d born by her first husband, the
Earl of Cassilis. The woman has a penchant for bed-wetting
anecdotes. Still, it will be pleasant to see her. And John.” Dallas
was at the dressing table, sorting through a jewelry case. For
Sorcha, it was a comforting sight. She felt better for pouring out
her problems to her mother. Yet Sorcha knew that even her
resourceful mother could not resolve the problem of Father Napier.
No one could do that; it was up to Sorcha to find an answer for
herself.

Rosmairi had gone hunting with the King. Her aversion
to the kill had evoked resistance, which Jamie mistook for maidenly
modesty. But Sorcha had argued that Jamie was in dire need of
female companionship. If only to help him break the spell of such
unnatural beings as the Master of Gray, Rosmairi must accept the
royal invitation.

“
She insists I should have gone
instead,” Sorcha told her mother as they strolled the gardens of
Holyrood on a fine May morning. “In truth, I wasn’t
asked.”

Dallas smiled at her elder daughter. “Nor was I, but
they’ll spend most of their time seeking game instead of killing
it. No wonder the King, with his love of the hunt, prefers his
residences outside the city.”

Sorcha concurred, though she suspected that the royal
party would go no farther than Hunter’s Bog and Salisbury Craigs,
which lay not far from Holyrood. Even now, she and Dallas were
heading in the same direction, with Saint Margaret’s Loch just
ahead. The area was part of the royal park that Jamie’s—and
Sorcha’s—grandfather, James V, had converted into a hunting area.
Guarded at one end by the rocky mound of Arthur’s Seat, and Saint
Anthony’s Chapel at the other, it had also provided Queen Mary with
many hours of sport during her brief reign. For Dallas, their
stroll was evocative, taking her back in time to the years she had
spent serving Mary Stuart, a bittersweet time of political betrayal
and the discovery of love for Iain Fraser.

“
Sweet Jesu,” Dallas mused, glancing
back toward the gray stones of the palace, “such memories!” She
drew a deep breath, as if savoring those far-off days in the air
itself. Sorcha expected a wealth of oft-told stories to tumble from
her mother’s lips, but instead Dallas spoke of the present. “I’ve
been meaning to tell you,” she said in a brisk, yet unnatural tone,
“that Niall sailed with your father and Magnus. Your sire hopes it
is a way of … making amends.”

Ignoring her mother’s inquiring sidelong glance,
Sorcha said nothing. She was glad for Niall, but somehow their
brief romantic interlude seemed as long ago as her mother’s
reminiscences.

Yet the past suddenly merged into the present as
Sorcha looked up to see Lord John Hamilton, who had strolled out
along the edge of Saint Margaret’s Loch with his young wife.

Both Hamiltons smiled broadly as they recognized
Dallas. Lord John held out his arms in greeting, and Dallas
embraced him warmly. She kissed Margaret on both cheeks, then
brought Sorcha forward.

“
How she has grown!” Margaret
exclaimed. “My good husband told me he’d seen her here at Holyrood,
no longer a wee bairn but a bonnie lass.” Margaret Hamilton was in
her thirties, a ruddy-complexioned redhead with a boyish figure and
a radiant smile.

As her elders turned their talk to Hamilton’s exile,
Iain Fraser’s commercial ventures, and whose kinfolk had married
whom, Sorcha grew bored. Discreetly withdrawing, she wandered off
to seek the shade of birches that grew close to Saint Anthony’s
Well. Sitting down on a grassy mound, with a view of the small
chapel to her right, Sorcha picked off a buttercup and wished the
heavy feeling inside her breast would go away. She managed to mask
her longing well enough during the day, but at night, alone in the
dark, she felt lost and empty. The worst time was upon awakening,
when her wits were still dulled by sleep and it would take a few
slow, agonizing moments to remember that Gavin Napier was gone,
perhaps forever.

“
Have you made a wish in the well?”
The pleasant voice came from behind Sorcha, but there was no
mistaking its owner. Slowly, she turned to see the Earl of Moray,
attired in hunting garb and leading a sorrel gelding. When Sorcha
didn’t reply at once, Moray tethered the horse to a sapling and
spoke with less than his usual assurance: “My mount went lame while
we pursued a deer in the direction of Crow Hill. I decided to
return to Holyrood this way.”

Getting to her feet, Sorcha tossed the buttercup
aside and shook out her skirts. “Your horse is a fine animal,” she
said without emotion. “How did it become lame?”

“
I’m not certain. We were racing
along between the bog and the hill, having flushed the deer from a
nearby copse. Suddenly Stow faltered, so I turned back this way.”
Moray forced a smile. “Strange that I should find you here …
alone.”

“
Not so strange, since I had an urge
for solitude.” She gave Moray a stony look, then swiftly strode to
the horse, which was munching the long grasses. Sorcha bent down
and gently lifted first one front hoof and then the other. “Ah,”
she exclaimed, “it’s but a pebble. Have you got a
knife?”

Moray did, and handed the weapon to Sorcha, who
deftly excised the pebble while the horse stood patiently, as if
aware that she meant to help, not harm. “There,” said Sorcha,
dropping the pebble at the foot of the sapling and patting the
horse’s neck. “Now you can gallop again, Stow.” She barely glanced
at Moray as she brushed past him. “And you may rejoin the hunt, My
Lord.”

Moray put out a hand to touch Sorcha’s arm.
“Please … Sorcha, please.” His tone was urgent, almost
desperate. “I must hear you say you don’t despise me for what
happened at Linlithgow.”

“
God’s teeth.” Sorcha stood
motionless, Moray’s hand still on her arm. Painfully aware of the
sadness in his usually sparkling blue eyes, she turned to face him.
“I don’t despise you, sir. I respect and admire you immensely. But
I don’t love you. You have a wife. There can be nothing between us,
unless we can be friends. The burden of restraint lies with
you.”

A faint breeze stirred the birch trees. Stow looked
up from the grasses, stretching his graceful neck skyward. Moray’s
grip on Sorcha’s arm tightened as his face grew darker. “Do you
think I married for love? I had both of the late Regent Moray’s
fatherless daughters thrust upon me and was forced to choose one as
my wife. I’m fond of Elizabeth; she’s a sweet child, but I don’t
love her. Am I to be condemned to a lifetime of being loveless and
alone?” Moray spoke with passion, no vestige left of the proud
Stewart or noble earl, but only a young man facing rejection by the
woman he loved.

Sorcha could scarcely remain unmoved, yet she
hesitated to offer him comfort lest he mistake it for acceptance of
his advances. “I don’t know what to say,” she confessed in a hollow
voice, the green eyes troubled.

Moray sighed as he finally let go of her arm. “As you
will. But I don’t intend to give up so easily. For now, I’ll rest
content that you don’t find me contemptible.”

“
Of course not.” Sorcha spoke more
briskly. “I find you most gallant. And—” Sorcha cast about for the
appropriate word—“appealing.” She winced inwardly as she saw
Moray’s gaze turn quizzical. “Imposing? Gracious?” Sorcha threw up
her hands. “God’s teeth, you’d be as fine a man as I know if you
weren’t in love with me! I feel like a twittering
ninny!”

Moray couldn’t repress his laughter. “Which is
doubtless why I love you. There’s no pretense, no guile.”
Reluctantly, he moved toward Stow, who was still cropping what was
left of the grasses in the vicinity. “At least think on my words.
You may find the world a more loveless, lonely place than you
imagined.”

Sorcha saw the bittersweet smile and raised a hand in
farewell. Moments later, she was hurrying past the chapel, along
Saint Margaret’s Loch, and through the gardens of Holyrood with the
wind in her hair and sadness in her eyes.

The King of Scotland was greatly agitated. He
shambled about his chamber, rubbing his temples and spitting even
more than usual when he spoke. Despite his youth, he looked old and
wizened. “I am sick of them all!” he cried, pounding a fist against
the stone wall of Holyrood. “Most of all, I am sick of my mother!
Is there no end to her complaints?” He whirled on Sorcha and wagged
a finger in her face. “I will not write to her again! Never, do you
hear? She has plagued me since I was born!”

Sorcha tried to conceal her ironic expression. “Has
she reacted badly to the bond of association you plan to sign with
Queen Elizabeth?”

“
Naturally.” James looked highly
indignant. “She feels that the bond will forever cut off her
chances to rule with me. God Almighty, I’m a man, not a child! She
hasn’t reigned over this country for almost twenty years. Nor did
she do it well while she was on the throne.” He loped over to an
écritoire
, where sheaves of correspondence lay in an untidy
heap. “What’s more, she constantly whines about her household.
Paulet, her latest gaoler, has eliminated several positions. I’m
amazed your brother and his tutor weren’t turned back. But now, one
of her ladies is with child.” James flipped up a long sheet of
paper and peered at the elegant French handwriting. “Barbara
Mowbray, married to a man named Curle.” He studied the letter for a
moment, then tossed it aside. “Barbara has a sister, Gillis, who is
being allowed to replace her. However, Gillis is a timid creature
and unwilling to travel to England without a lady of equal social
status.” Jamie made a distasteful face and shook his head.
“Females! Sorcha, why can’t they be more like you?”

“
I have no idea,” Sorcha replied
with a little shrug. “I’m an ordinary person, just a simple
Highland maid.” She pointed to a silver bowl that boasted a design
of entwined ivy. “Are those oranges in there?”

The King glanced at the bowl. “Aye, bounty from King
Philip of Spain’s emissary. Would you like one?”

“
How kind of you to ask,” said
Sorcha, grasping an orange and peeling it with her fingernails.
“And you?”

Jamie shook his head. “They give me a rash. Or do I
get that from some sort of melon?” He frowned. “No matter, I’d
prefer a rash to these plaguing women.” The King turned suddenly
shy and shifted from one foot to the other. “Will you go with
Gillis?” he asked in an anxious voice.

Sorcha had just put two orange segments into her
mouth. The green eyes widened and she all but swallowed the fruit
whole. “To England? To serve Queen Mary?” She made no attempt to
conceal her astonishment. “God’s teeth, I’d rather go to
Africa!”

Jamie waved his big, awkward hands at her. “Nay, nay,
Coz, it’s not so terrible in England. My mother lives in a fine
manor house, only recently built, and she’s allowed to ride and
hunt, and eats well. It wouldn’t be for long, just until Barbara
Mowbray has her bairn. Or Gillis becomes brave.” He approached
Sorcha, who was shaking her head even as she devoured more orange
slices. “I thought it would be ideal, since your brother is there.
And his venerable tutor.”

Sorcha choked on the orange. Being mewed up at
Chartley with Gavin Napier would be heart-wrenching. Yet such
propinquity might dispel her love for him. If she could see him
daily, carrying out his duties as a priest—offering up Mass,
changing the bread and wine into the body and blood of
Christ—perhaps she would be able to still her longing.