Gosford's Daughter (45 page)

“
Now we converse,
ja
?” Queen
Anne was looking charmingly eager as Jean tucked the last curl into
place with a turquoise-studded comb. “I ask today the questions.”
She beamed brightly at Sorcha. “It is charmed I am to meet you.
Where from do you ail?”

“
Hail
. With an
h
,”
corrected Sorcha. “I hail,” she replied, breathing heavily into the
second word for emphasis, “from the Highlands. I love my homeland
very much.” The slow, stilted speech managed to carry conviction.
Indeed, this time when she had returned home, it had been much
harder to leave. Instead of loosening with the years, the ties of
family seemed to grow tighter. Magnus and his wife had a new baby
son and were building a home overlooking Beauly Firth, just an
hour’s ride from Gosford’s End. Rosmairi and Armand had been
married in the chapel at Beauly in late January. While the new
groom was anxious to go to Edinburgh and seek out Marie-Louise,
Rosmairi begged him to stay in the north at least until spring. By
then, she was pregnant, and now Armand wouldn’t leave her side
until after the babe’s birth in October. So Sorcha had gone
instead, seeing herself as the envoy-designate in the search for a
woman who could disappear for years at a time. Sorcha’s reluctance,
however, was tempered by the notion that if Gavin Napier ever came
back to Scotland, he would first pass through Edinburgh.

The Queen had turned to Jean. “I admire your gown. It
is yellow …” She paused to point at Jean’s sleeves. “And
blue.” Anne indicated the embroidered overskirt. “Your eyes are
blue, too. Like mine.”

“
Excellent, Your Majesty!” Jean
enthused. “Your gown is white and purple and ….”

A knock from the anteroom interrupted Jean’s recital.
Sorcha rose to answer it, but her hand froze on the crystal knob
when she saw the Earl of Moray standing before her. “My Lord,” she
said in an uncertain voice. “I didn’t know you were at court!”

“
Only since yesterday.” Moray
smiled, the blue eyes taking in every detail of Sorcha’s altered
appearance. In the almost three years since Sorcha had last seen
him, the Earl had matured; his handsome face was more finely
etched, the auburn hair just a shade darker. He was as lean and fit
as ever and, if anything, had grown even better looking. Sorcha
marveled that she was not moved by his obvious attraction and
wondered if her indifference showed.

There was no way of knowing, since Moray managed to
tear himself away from studying Sorcha to hurry toward the Queen
and kneel at her hem with an artful bow of homage. “Your Majesty,”
he exclaimed, introducing himself, “I have heard that our sovereign
liege calls you his ‘Juno of the North.’ How apt!” He smiled
winningly at Anne, who seemed quite overcome by his effusive, yet
open manner. “I offer my humble self in your service, now and
always.”

Anne glanced questioningly from Sorcha to Jean, who
both nodded imperceptibly. “But,
ja
, aye, for certain!” Anne
replied heartily, bidding Moray rise. “You are cousin,
ja
?
So many cousins, half of Scotland, I think!”

For once, Sorcha had to agree with the Queen’s
assessment. Moray was seating himself in a chair next to Anne’s as
she had insisted, and within moments, they were chattering away
like old friends. Anne’s conversational skills seemed to flourish
in his company. Sorcha and Jean withdrew to the far end of the
room, exchanging bemused glances.

The budding friendship was interrupted some twenty
minutes later by King Jamie, who greeted Moray warmly and then
announced that the court would move that very day to Falkland. “I
must hunt,” he announced, puffing up his thin chest in the
direction of his bride. “I grow bored in Edinburgh, and you must
see more of your new domain.”

Anne was excited by the prospect. It had seemed to
Sorcha that after less than two months in the capital, the Queen
had also grown bored. But Anne’s attention span wasn’t long; Sorcha
had the feeling that she would grow bored almost anywhere, unless
she was dancing or playing cards, avocations frowned upon by the
more stalwart presbyters.

Maids were summoned immediately, and a flurry of
activity ensued. Sorcha was dismissed to tend to her own packing
and, by chance, left the Queen’s chambers at the same time Moray
did. The anteroom was deserted, and Moray paused, blocking the
outer door.

“
It’s been a very long time,” he
said lightly, his hands remaining motionless at his sides. “Time
seems to have turned you from Circe into Aphrodite.”

The comparison reminded Sorcha of Marie-Louise, and
her alter ego, Athene. Unconsciously, Sorcha made a face, which
Moray took for displeasure. “Forgive me, I grow too familiar.” His
skin darkened, and he inclined his head to one side. “I know little
of what has happened to you in recent times. Is it true you’ve been
in France?”

Sorcha had been about to apologize for misleading
Moray but changed her mind. “I stayed in a convent for a while with
my sister, yes.” She offered Moray a cool smile. “But these past
months I’ve been at home in the Highlands.”

Moray turned quite serious. “I see. Is it true that
your younger brother is going to become a priest?”

Sorcha was at once on guard. For all his
open-mindedness, the Earl of Moray was still a staunch Protestant.
“Is that a concern of yours, My Lord?” she inquired archly. “I
would have thought that Johnny Grant would be more interested,
having been appointed by the Privy Council to search out Papists in
the district of Moray.”

The Earl’s handsome face seemed to grow even darker.
“Young Grant is more fanatical than I in such matters. But then,”
Moray said, with a forced shrug of indifference, “that is why he
has been assigned the duty and I was not.”

A sharp little laugh spurted from Sorcha’s lips. “If
I were Johnny, I’d not go searching for Papists at Gosford’s End.
He didn’t dare venture near our property while I was there.”

Moray started to speak, apparently reconsidered, and
rubbed his forehead vigorously. “You are displeased to see me,
that’s clear. Why?” The blue eyes were genuinely perplexed.

Sorcha stared at Moray for a long moment without
blinking. “Why, indeed,” she echoed, on a weary sigh. She clamped
her lips together as Jean Gordon Sinclair emerged from the Queen’s
chamber carrying three hatboxes, the top one threatening to topple
over. “Here, let me help,” Sorcha insisted, going to Jean and
taking one of the boxes. Turning to Moray, Sorcha made an awkward
little curtsy. “Pray excuse me, My Lord, but I must make ready for
Falkland.” Over her shoulder, she threw him a warmer smile than
she’d offered earlier and was faintly touched to see the pleasure
that clearly showed in his eyes. Another time, another place …
the words tripped unbidden through her mind, and Sorcha suddenly
felt weighed down by more than Queen Anne’s hatbox.

A
ilis Frizell had again
joined Sorcha on the journey to Edinburgh. While the serving girl
had rarely complained about staying in the Highlands during
Sorcha’s time in France, Dallas realized that once having been
exposed to the stimulation of the city and the court, an alert,
intelligent girl such as Ailis wouldn’t be satisfied with the
comparatively dull and unexacting routine at Gosford’s End. At
least not until she was married and had a family to tend, a
prospect which was not yet imminent. So Ailis had gone south with
Sorcha, and both young women were well pleased.

It was Ailis who now oversaw the loading of their
baggage onto a cart already sagging with the other attendants’
gear. Sorcha stood close by with the Countess of Moray and three of
her children. Moray’s wife had seemed genuinely pleased to see
Sorcha again, and while rather pale, she displayed signs of having
grown more self-confident and talkative since their last meeting.
The countess spoke with pride of her four children, particularly
the infant, May, who resided placidly in the arms of a chunky wet
nurse.

“
She’s a good bairn,’’ the countess
remarked, motioning for the wet nurse to draw nearer so that Sorcha
could get a better view. “Jamie and Francis and Meg cried a great
deal. But,” she rhapsodized, “my wee May is all smiles.” To prove
her point, the Countess tickled the baby’s rosy cheek and was
rewarded with a coo of pleasure followed by a hiccup.

Seeing that the courtiers were beginning to saddle
up, Sorcha gave little May a pat on the head and turned to call for
Ailis, who had momentarily disappeared in a sea of carts and
wagons. But it was Doles McVurrich, not Ailis, who was hurrying up
the drive of Holyrood, trying to wedge her way through the train of
animals and vehicles that had begun to kick up dust and gravel as
they moved away from the royal palace.

Doles was out of breath, and her cheeks were
becomingly flushed when she finally spotted her cousin. Now
maturing into adolescence, Doles had grown considerably taller, and
while she was still rather plain, the promise of a handsome woman
was unfolding in the regularity of her features and the soft new
curves of her body.

“
Coz!” Doles cried, waving at
Sorcha. “Thank heaven I found you!” Hurrying with a coltish gait,
Doles sketched the merest of curtsies to the Countess of Moray
before taking Sorcha by the hand. “Please, come to our house! My
father is very ill and my Lady Mother sent me to fetch
you.”

Sorcha hesitated only long enough to tell Ailis to
ride out with the others to Falkland. After a minimum of protest,
the serving girl shrugged her wide shoulders and turned away.
Sorcha and Doles all but ran down the drive and past the Girth
Cross into the Canongate. As ever, a number of local citizens had
gathered to watch the King and his new bride ride out of the palace
precincts. Doles led Sorcha around them by a shortcut through Lord
Seton’s garden, and moments later, they had emerged by the entrance
to a goldsmith’s shop, just above the old Canongate Tolbooth.

“
What’s wrong with your sire?”
Sorcha asked as they slowed their pace upon sighting the house in
Panmure Close just ahead. She had seen Uncle Donald and Aunt
Tarrill twice since her return to Edinburgh, and except for looking
somewhat tired the last time, he had appeared in good
health.

Doles pushed open the wrought iron gate that
separated the house from the street. “He complained of his stomach
this morning and decided against going to his bank.” From over her
shoulder, Doles gave Sorcha a meaningful look. “You know how
ghastly he must have felt if he wouldn’t attend to his business.”
She paused to open the front door. “Then, just about half an hour
ago, he collapsed. We sent for Dr. Hunter, who is with him
now.”

“
Sorcha!” Tarrill’s skirts gave a
mighty rustle as she ran to embrace her niece. “I was afraid you’d
already left! Dr. Hunter said he’d heard the court was going to
Falkland.” She stepped back, her long face drawn with anxiety.
“Praise God, Donald seems better. The good doctor thinks your uncle
works too hard.”

“
I wouldn’t discount it,” Sorcha
said dryly, reminding Tarrill of Dallas. “Shall I go see
him?”

Tarrill, momentarily lost in reverie, shook her head.
“Dr. Hunter says he must sleep.” She linked her arms with Sorcha
and Doles, leading them into the parlor, where the sun shone in
patches through the mullioned windows. “I have been a bit selfish,”
Tarrill admitted as she sat down in a big upholstered armchair
while Sorcha and Doles seated themselves on a cut-velvet divan.
“For just a few minutes, when I feared the worst, I desperately
wanted my own kin to comfort me.”

Sorcha pulled off the suede gloves with their heavily
embroidered cuffs and nodded in sympathy. “Of course. But where is
Aunt Glennie?”

Tarrill rolled her dark eyes, shedding sentimentality
like a second skin. She reached for the comfit dish by her side and
passed it to Sorcha and Doles. “Your Aunt Glennie’s comings and
goings are quite unpredictable ever since she took up with that
mapmaker from Leith. Morpeth, his name is, and widowed twice over
like Glennie, but close to twenty years older, and colors his hair
the most monstrous shade of red.” Tarrill chewed aggressively on
the sweet she had popped into her mouth.

Turning to Doles, she asked her to bring them some
wine. “A chilled bottle,” Tarrill called after her daughter. “I
fear the day grows overwarm. Now,” she said, rearranging her skirts
and putting her feet up on the footstool that matched the one in
front of Sorcha, “you must tell me of your adventures in England
and France. We’ve had no opportunity to talk privately since you
got back to Edinburgh.”

Judging from her aunt’s relaxed attitude, not only
had her worries about Uncle Donald subsided but she also seemed to
be in the mood for a long gossip. If Sorcha left right now, she
could still catch up with the rear van of the royal entourage. Yet,
she was loath to go, aware of how lonesome Aunt Tarrill must get
for the companionship of her Cameron kin. If necessary, Sorcha
could ride alone to Falkland. It wasn’t that far, and the weather
was certainly going to hold. Accepting a frosted goblet of white
wine from Doles, Sorcha commenced her recital, careful to omit
those parts that were too personal—or too distressing—for the ears
of either her aunt or her young cousin. Yet, Sorcha knew, those
intimate details, no matter how harrowing, were precisely what
Tarrill would most enjoy. It seemed almost a pity not to confide in
her kindhearted aunt.

It was midafternoon by the time Sorcha finally
sallied forth from the McVurrich household. The doctor had long
since departed. Uncle Donald still slept, and Aunt Tarrill was
growing a bit drowsy after her fourth goblet. Sorcha was feeling
faintly lightheaded herself as she paused by the Girth Cross to
splash water on her face. Three young boys were trying to give a
cat a bath in the trough that ran around the base of the cross but
the youngsters were having little success. Sorcha noted that the
boys seemed a great deal wetter than the cat.