Island of the Swans (16 page)

“Do you
feel
the ache?” he demanded hoarsely, strafing his fingers lightly against the crease where her thigh joined her torso. “Do
you
feel what
I
feel?”

Thomas seemed almost angry. He kept up a steady, maddening rhythm of feathery strokes along the tops of her thighs. Jane felt as if lightning struck whenever his fingers strayed past the last layer of cloth. No one had ever touched her there before and she felt both shy and brazen, wanton and afraid. Soon she was nearly frantic with the waves of pleasure and longing that suddenly exploded within her. She gave a low moan and began to pull at the brass buttons of Thomas’s jacket, their shiny polished surfaces clouding over from her hot, moist breath.

Thomas shifted his weight again and began pressing down on her, his breathing ragged.

“I don’t want it to happen this way,” he groaned. “I wanted it to be—”

Jane stopped his words with a kiss, pulling him on top of her as the heavy folds of her traveling costume surrounded them in a sea of green wool. Her hands sought the silver buckle on the wide belt that encompassed his kilt.

Smiling at her almost sadly, Thomas fumbled at the cloth-covered buttons that stretched along the front of her dress from the base of her throat to below her waist.

Suddenly, a high piercing two-tone bos’n’s whistle penetrated the tiny cabin, signaling a shift in the watch, and slicing the silence of their desperate embrace.

Thomas slumped against her as if suddenly defeated. Slowly he pulled himself off the bunk, and stepped silently toward the small porthole that framed, in miniature, a distant view of Leith. He pressed his forehead against a massive beam on the low-slung ceiling. She could hear footsteps on the deck directly above them.

“I want you so much, Jenny, but I can’t take you like this,” he said in a muffled voice. “Not the first time, in a narrow bunk… not in a hurry.”

Jane swung her legs over the side of the cot and stood up, smoothing her disheveled skirts into neat folds and rebuttoning her bodice. She crossed the cabin and stood behind him. Pressing her breasts to his back, she put her arms around his waist and rested her cheek in the hollow between his shoulder blades.

“No one can say for sure what can happen to people in two years…” she heard him say, his sentence drifting off. “But know this for a fact, Jane Maxwell,” he said vehemently, abruptly turning to face her. “I claim you as my wife and I’ll be back to wed you, if you’ll be true to our promise!”

“No matter where you go, or whatever happens,” she whispered, “I’ll always love you, Thomas Fraser… always, always. I’ll be here when you come back again. We can’t ever
lose
what we have.”

He drew closer within the circle of her arms, the jut of his chin resting lightly on the top of her head.

“Ah… you remember what I said to you that night… before Gordon swept you away,” he murmured, stroking her hair softly. Then, holding her an arm’s length from him as the calls to quarters thundered overhead, Thomas said the words they’d both been dreading. “I think we’d best be going…”

As the two quietly emerged on the top deck, the fading afternoon sunshine suffused the ship with an amber light. It gave a strange, burnished glow to the mellow woods and polished brass which surrounded them. The deck was crowded with seamen who watched them pass by.

Jane forced herself to concentrate on the warmth of Thomas’s hand. As they slowly walked forward together, they saw James and Elizabeth standing close to one another, talking softly. Off the port side, Jane could see the oarsman waiting in the skiff that would soon be returning them to shore. Her aunt and uncle waited at the quarterdeck where a rope and wooden ladder hung over the ship’s side. Elizabeth kissed her husband lightly, brushing her lips beyond his mouth to his ear, clutching him briefly to her.

“Careful, now, darling,” James cautioned, helping his wife make the awkward descent into the unsteady boat.

Jane turned to look at Thomas and could say nothing. She saw her own tears reflected in his glistening eyes. Slowly, they permitted themselves one last embrace. They didn’t kiss, but stood in silence, arms around each other, bathed in the topaz light of the setting sun.

Thomas released her. Ducking her head to avoid his gaze, Jane threw her arms around Uncle James, barely able to stem the sobs she had held in check just moments before.

“Take care of your aunt, lassie, won’t you, now?” her uncle said, his voice cracking.

“I promise, Uncle James,” Jane whispered hoarsely, hugging him tightly once again. “And thank you…” she said as the tears started to spill down her cheeks.

Without looking back at either man, Jane quickly gathered her voluminous skirts and climbed unassisted over the side onto the ladder. Carefully she stepped backward, down step after step, and lowered herself into the prow of the small launch. Careful not to rock the boat, she took a seat on the bench opposite her aunt. The sailor untied the line that was her last link to Thomas and, pushing hard against the rough wooden planking, used his oar to propel his small craft away from the mother ship.

Elizabeth, knowing she was out of earshot of her beloved husband, began to weep quietly. Jane fixed her gaze on the oars, which pulled heavily against the evening tide running swiftly out of the harbor. Despite the opposing current, the skiff skimmed over the water with surprising speed as the sailor found his rhythm and pulled smoothly on the long wooden oars. When, finally, Jane looked back at the ship, all she could see aboard the
Providence
was the silhouette of two men in kilts standing at the railing in the fading light.

Soon, one of the men turned and disappeared, but the taller of the two stayed rooted to the deck until, at length, the descending darkness obscured from Jane’s view the solitary figure of Lieutenant Thomas Fraser of Struy.

Eight

S
EPTEMBER
1766

C
ATHERINE AND THE HOUSEMAID
, F
IONA, GAZED ACROSS THE
upstairs bedchamber openmouthedly as Jane slipped, corsetless, into a diamond-quilted white petticoat that she wore beneath a split over-skirt and slender bodice of ruby red silk. A white cambric fichu around her shoulders discreetly veiled her alluring bosom. Double sleeve ruffles at her elbows completed her sporty outfit, perfect for an afternoon golfing party at Musselburgh Links on this crisp September day.

“I wonder if anyone will suspect my secret when I earn a low score!” Jane laughed, twisting her body, free of her corset’s confining stays, and taking an expert swing with an imaginary club.

“Her ladyship told me to lace you up tight and to say you aren’t to play golf with the lads!” Fiona said reprovingly.

“Well, if you don’t inform her, her ladyship will never
know
whether I wear a bloody corset or not, or whether I play golf, will she, now?” said Jane in a threatening tone.

Fiona was cowed into silence. Noting Catherine’s worried expression, Jane realized that her placid, obedient sister would never understand what so appealed to her about the Scottish national passion.

Golf was one of the few social institutions in the country where most distinctions of rank were ignored. At least as early as the fifteenth century in Scotland, when Dutch traders introduced the sport, even young children were trained to hit the little wooden ball with a long-handled club. Every Scottish youngster was aware that Mary, Queen of Scots had
adored
the game. The fact that she had played a round of golf in 1567 only two days after her husband’s violent death was used in evidence against her at her trial. These days, sadly, male golfers customarily avoided mingling with lady golfers on the links. To be sure, the Fishwives of Musselburgh were allowed their tournament in the dead of winter when few gentlemen frequented the course, but rarely did a woman venture on the greens at midday in good weather. However, over the years, Jane’s uncle James had often proposed an early morning round with his favorite niece and young Thomas, and, with practice, Jane had learned to be proficient in the game.

Jane sighed, and tugged at the pointed corner of her silk bodice once again. A familiar surge of longing swept over her at the memory of Thomas as a small lad, sharing an unwieldy wooden golf club on a mist-shrouded green.

“Fiona, don’t just stand there like a stick!” Jane said crossly, shaking free from her reverie. “Help me fasten these closings on my gown!”

Fiona obediently hooked the fastenings at the back of the dress while Jane smoothed the bodice over her softer, more natural silhouette. Twirling around in place, she laughed out loud.

“Now let them puzzle over the reason this lady’s golf swing is so deadly!”

Jamie Ferguson opened the door to the coach as it came to a halt next to the smooth green fairway of the Musselburgh Links. The heir to estates in Tobago had been Jane’s constant caller since the Hogmanay Ball.

“Jane! Jane… how good it is to see you again!” he cried, with a wide, tooth-filled smile, looking like one of the industrious beavers who dwelt along the banks of the Killantrea near Monreith. As she stepped from the carriage, Jane could see over the young barrister’s powdered wig to the River Esk, which wound its way to the sea sparkling in the distance. “We’ve just laid out supper from our hampers over there,” he said eagerly, taking her arm after a hasty greeting to Catherine and her acknowledged suitor, John Fordyce, who trailed along behind. “Come… come, everyone! Jane’s arrived… now we can begin!”

A small gathering of well-dressed young people lounged beneath a graceful willow tree that arched over the river. Servants unpacked two large wicker hampers bursting with Scotch hare and wheels of Stilton and Gouda cheese. There were plates of codfish, cold salmon, and orange-colored crayfish competing for attention with roasted chicken and smoked pheasant.

“When is the golfing to begin?” Jane inquired with a smile as Jamie spread out another large square of knitted wool on the ground for the new arrivals.

“So
competitive
, Jane dear,” said Marietta Buchanan, sitting stiff and formal on a small chair that some nameless soul had thoughtfully provided for this overweight, overdressed young woman. “You’ve only just graced us with your presence, yet you wish to embarrass us all with your skill. I can’t imagine anyone clever enough to play such a game with one less finger than is customary.”

Jane gazed coldly at Marietta, who took obvious pleasure in seeing her rival flinch. It was well known in their set that she, a Buchanan, had a reasonable chance to be mistress of Jamie Ferguson’s Pitfour House and Jane was proving to be an annoying hindrance. It had been the same story at the Hogmanay Ball when Marietta had captured the attention of the Duke of Gordon, only to have him snatched away by a single, provocative glance from the impudent chit!

Jane arched her brows slightly and summoned a bright, hard smile to her lips.

“Golf can be a difficult game to play under any circumstances, Marietta, my sweet, but, in the Game of Life, ’tis better, I think, to be missing a finger than to be carrying more than the usual number of
chins
!” Marietta emitted an audible gasp at the insult. Jane gestured toward the other members of the golfing party. “I’m so glad we’re eating
first
, before we play,” Jane added wickedly. “I don’t want to miss the spectacle of watching you tuck into this lovely meal, Marietta.”

Stifled laughter erupted around the two women as Jamie’s servants began passing plates to the famished group with samples of the various delicacies. As the general conversation drifted to the summer’s past events, Marietta resumed eating a leg of rabbit dripping with rich red currant sauce.

“Have you heard the latest from Gordon Castle?” a young man named Malcolm McKay said quietly to his host.

“I haven’t seen Alexander in months,” Ferguson responded, helping himself to a chunk of mutton laced with turnips.

“Well,” said Malcolm, his voice rising with excitement, “My man was told by one of three servants who stood witness, that on the thirtieth of July, a wee bairn named George Gordon was baptized at Gordon Castle.”