Gosford's Daughter (53 page)

Their bodies spent, their spirits healed, Sorcha and
Napier lay in each other’s arms for a quiet, blissful time. The
days and nights ahead would bring separation and anxiety and pain.
But for now, Sorcha and Napier were together, inextricably united,
bound by love, their union forged in passion, their future as
uncertain as a November morning.

Sorcha could see Napier’s dark hair curling slightly
along the nape of his neck, and the hard, sure muscles of his
shoulder. Nothing else matters but now, she told herself fiercely.
Nothing will ever matter but him. Not even, she promised, the
thought of defeat.

I
n just six short months,
fashions at court had changed drastically. Queen Anne’s youthful
love of elaborate finery had influenced her ladies’—and to some
extent, even the gentlemen’s—apparel. There was more color, a
greater variety of fabric, and a lavish use of jewels, lace,
ribbons, and exaggerated ruffs for embellishment.

Sorcha, however, found the often cumbersome and
always gaudy toilettes not only unsuitable, but uncomfortable as
well; the great four-foot flare of farthingale across the hips made
most women look like galleons sailing into port. A dressmaker
recommended by the Countess of Moray had accommodated Sorcha’s more
moderate tastes by refining the cartwheellike adornment into a
trimmer, more graceful drape. While the décolleté necklines
emphasized her full bosom, the heavy ornamental detail that usually
descended from the shoulders to well below the waist was much too
rigid. Instead of weighing herself down with rows of gold braid or
bugle beads, she chose seed pearls and satin ribbon. Nor would she
endure wiglets and falls, heated tongs and primping irons. With her
own thick mane, she could pile her hair atop her head, and weave in
several strands to create a simple, yet striking coiffure.

On this mild June night at Holyrood, Sorcha fanned
herself with a clutch of ostrich feathers and watched the other
courtiers join in a dance she hadn’t yet learned. Not that there
hadn’t been time in her two months at court, but Queen Anne was so
enamored of dancing that hardly a night passed by without the
introduction of new steps. But the Queen was enamored in another,
more sinister way: To Sorcha’s great chagrin, she had found
Marie-Louise in attendance on Jamie’s consort.

It was only natural, of course, that the blond,
statuesque foreign-born Anne had felt instant empathy with the
Frenchwoman who was so similar in coloring and stature. Bothwell
had dared introduce Marie-Louise at court that spring while his
wife remained at their Border home of Crichton. Even after he had
been warded in Edinburgh Castle for his involvement with witches,
Marie-Louise had been kept on as one of the ladies of the
bedchamber. Since Sorcha’s appointment was as a
lady-of-the-wardrobe, their paths seldom crossed. It was just as
well, Sorcha realized, since upon those occasions when the two
women did meet, Marie-Louise was invariably and insinuatingly
snide.

She was also seemingly innocuous within the
household, at least as far as Sorcha could discern. Perhaps, with
Bothwell imprisoned, Marie-Louise was biding her time until
sentence should be pronounced. At the moment, Marie-Louise was
cutting a graceful figure on the ballroom floor, despite a damask
farthingale that stretched out almost as far as her arms could
reach. She was dancing with the King, who seemed to be eyeing her
with a quizzical, yet amused expression. The tune ended on a rapid
series of tinkling notes, and the partners bowed low to each other
before parting company. Somewhat to Sorcha’s surprise, the King
shambled from the dance floor, to join her by the long banquet
table at the far end of the room.

“
Oh, Coz,” Jamie said with a sigh,
sorting through a pile of oysters before he found one small enough
to his liking, “I’ve seen too little of you since your return to
court. We have yet to find you a husband. I feel quite guilt-laden
over my neglect.”

Sorcha smiled wryly at her sovereign. His beard had
grown out and his features had sharpened, but he still cut an
insignificant figure. He had, however, taken a firmer grip on the
reins of Scotland in recent times, and the acquisition of a wife
had increased his esteem among his subjects, if not his nobles. And
while it was whispered that he continued to prefer the company of
handsome men, he didn’t shrink from his marital duties. Sorcha
found him changed, but not sufficiently to either lessen her
affection or increase her respect.

“
I can find a husband on my own,”
Sorcha assured Jamie, though her voice held more conviction than
did her heart. Gavin Napier had now been gone for almost eight
months; his most recent letter, received in late May and written in
mid-April, recounted further disarray in the Holy See. Neither he
nor Rob had yet talked to anyone more influential than the
secretaries of a handful of relatively unimportant cardinals.
Napier’s letter reeked of frustration. Sorcha responded with
encouragement, but to herself she admitted
disappointment.

“
Bonnie Rosmairi married a
Frenchman, did she not?” Jamie glanced inquiringly at Sorcha, then
gazed down at the empty oyster shell with distaste. “I think these
are off-season. Perhaps I shall try the scallops
instead.”

“
Rosmairi and her husband are due in
Edinburgh any day now,” Sorcha said, deciding to test the oysters
for herself. “I’m sure they’re looking forward to seeing you.” Out
of the corner of her eye, she saw Marie-Louise dancing with the
Earl of Moray. Sorcha wondered how Armand d’Ailly would react when
he encountered the woman who had destroyed his family. More to the
point, she wondered how Marie-Louise might behave toward a man
whose property she claimed to have in her possession. She swallowed
the raw oyster whole without tasting it, and shuddered.

“
Ah!” exclaimed King James, “I told
you—they’re tainted! Eat no more, Coz, or you’ll be
sick.”

Sorcha didn’t bother to tell her royal cousin that
the oysters had nothing to do with the creeping fear that had
overtaken her. Nor could she have done so had she wanted to. The
Master of Gray had sidled up to the King, managing to rake Sorcha
with a malevolent eye before he put an all-too-familiar hand on his
monarch’s arm. “I must speak alone with you, sire,” he murmured in
his most intimate, mellifluous voice. “It’s a matter most
urgent.”

“
Oh, Patrick, dear Master, it is
always urgent with you.” Jamie sighed with an exasperated air
defused by affection. The King bowed to Sorcha. “Forgive me, Coz,
the Master must beleaguer me with weighty matters of
state.”

Sorcha ignored Gray’s smirk as he led the King away.
A new dance tune was beginning, a galliard which Sorcha knew from
her previous service at court. She was just reaching for an almond
tart when the Earl of Moray bowed low before her. “Will you honor
me with this dance, mistress? I feel as if we are strangers since
you’ve come back to serve Her Grace.”

“
Never that,” Sorcha said rather
absently, dropping the tart back onto the silver tray. She let him
take her arm to steer her out onto the floor, her pine-green gown
fashionably short enough to reveal silver slippers with pearl-gray
buckles. “I’ve not seen your wife tonight,” Sorcha remarked as they
moved in unison to the lively music. “Is she here?”

If Sorcha’s inquiry had been intended as a reminder
of the earl’s marital status, he gave no indication of
embarrassment. “Nay, she has been unwell the past few days. I’ve no
doubt,” he went on cheerfully, “that with the warmer weather, her
health will improve.”

“
Pray convey my heartiest wishes for
her recovery,” Sorcha said. While she and Elizabeth of Moray were
not close friends, the two women had developed a certain
camaraderie.

“
I will tell her,” Moray replied,
his hand resting lightly on Sorcha’s waist as they made a difficult
turn and leap. The blue eyes regarded her with a mixture of
amusement and admiration. Sorcha was vexed by his attitude, though
she would have been hard put to say why. Moray, however, maintained
impeccable decorum even as they moved and touched and all but
embraced in the course of the fast-paced dance. “You have heard, I
presume, that George Gordon was recently released from Borthwick
Castle?”

“
Aye,” Sorcha answered, pausing as
they made their final exacting twirl to end the dance. “His freedom
disturbs me.”

Moray bowed as Sorcha curtsied. “It does that to me
as well.” His smile remained in place, but his face clouded over as
he led Sorcha back to the buffet table. “He has wished me ill for
some time. I think he still resents the fact that years and years
ago, Queen Mary wrested the Moray earldom from his grandfather and
bestowed it upon my wife’s sire. The Gordons don’t give up their
grudges easily.”

“
Few Scots do,” Sorcha pointed out,
popping a sliver of smoked salmon into her mouth. “We nurture old
hurts and humiliations like exotic flowers in a cold
climate.”

Several other hungry courtiers were milling about the
buffet, chattering and laughing, a brilliant mélange of color and
gloss, of musky perfumes and fresh rose water, of precious stones
and gleaming metal. Sorcha edged away, with Moray in her
shadow.

“
The irony is,” she said, when
they’d gained a refuge not far from the empty royal dais, “these
nobles seem so congenial at court. Yet I know that underneath all
that hearty good fellowship, they plot and connive.” At that
moment, she glimpsed Marie-Louise on the Earl of Argyll’s arm, her
blond head thrown back in exuberant mirth. “How many here, I
wonder,” Sorcha murmured, “wish us ill?”

If Moray had an answer, he never had the chance to
give it voice. King Jamie, the Master of Gray, and Secretary
Maitland emerged from a side door, their faces a mixed study in
anger, contempt, and outrage. Queen Anne, who had been allowing the
Earl of Morton to feed her chocolate-covered strawberries, paused
with her mouth open to stare at her lord, who was stamping past
Sorcha onto the dais. James raised his hands for silence, though
most of the assemblage had already gone quite mute.

“
Good friends,” Jamie began, his
high-pitched voice deeper and more resonant than usual, “we have
received calamitous news!” He halted for a moment, sufficiently in
control of his emotions to judge the dramatic effect of his words.
“The Earl of Bothwell has decamped from Edinburgh
Castle!”

A gasp rose from the crowd, followed by a burst of
murmured babble. No one had ever escaped from the castle, with its
stout stone walls set atop the sheer cliffs that dropped straight
down to a bed of jagged rocks. Sorcha locked glances with Moray,
whose look of surprise was tempered by a sudden spark of humor.
Knave that Bothwell was, Sorcha recalled that the kinship he shared
with Moray forged a seemingly unbreakable bond.

King Jamie’s voice rang out again, immediately
stilling his courtiers’ tongues. “Bothwell will be apprehended, of
course. We hold everyone here responsible for his recapture and
will tolerate no assistance on his behalf.” Jamie glared at his
nobles, then made a lax, almost whimsical gesture with one hand.
“So be it. Let us continue our entertainment.”

At Argyll’s side, Marie-Louise had assumed a bland
countenance. Sorcha watched her keenly, wondering if Bothwell would
risk coming to her at Holyrood. But such audacity would be too much
even for him. On the other hand, his daring escape had put an end
to the myth of Edinburgh Castle’s invincibility. Even if Bothwell
were captured within the hour, he had already enhanced his
reputation for wizardlike powers.

“
You’re fond of Bothwell, aren’t
you?” Sorcha asked as Moray nodded politely to dour Secretary
Maitland.

“
I am.” He offered Sorcha his boyish
smile. “Bothwell is an impossible rogue, but boon company. I’d
rather he didn’t persist in his efforts to plague poor Jamie, but
it’s almost as if he’s driven by demons.” Moray fingered his chin
thoughtfully as he watched Sorcha’s eyes return to Marie-Louise,
who was now dancing with the Earl of Atholl. “His mistress is very
beautiful, is she not? I hear he met her some years ago in
France.”

The green eyes slid up to meet Moray’s. “So he did.”
Fanning herself with the ostrich feathers, she suddenly felt quite
impotent, and afraid—for herself, for Gavin Napier, for the King,
and even for Moray.

Ailis had just returned from airing out Sorcha’s
summer gowns prior to packing them away for the colder weather. The
court had spent the past month at Falkland, hunting almost every
day under clear, calm skies. As if on cue, the morning that the
royal caravan headed out for Edinburgh the weather turned cool and
damp, with fog rolling in from the Firth of Forth to shroud the
travelers’ route in a wraithlike mist.

Now, on the day back in the capital, the sun had
finally dispersed the thick hoar, though the late September day
held a sharp chill. “I suppose,” Sorcha remarked to Ailis as she
set the lid down on the bulging clothes chest, “Ros and Armand will
be going home soon. I do hate to see them leave.” While her kinfolk
had not stayed with the court, but in Panmure Close, there had been
the opportunity for many visits during the past two months. Much to
Sorcha’s surprise, there had been no interference from Marie-Louise
concerning the d’Ailly property in France. Uncle Donald had
dutifully sent off the requisite letters of inquiry and had learned
that there were indeed conflicting claims to Armand’s inheritance.
However, despite the loss of the house itself, the land was worth a
substantial sum. Negotiations were now being conducted through the
good offices of a Huguenot banker in La Rochelle who was a longtime
business associate of Uncle Donald’s.