Island of the Swans (21 page)

Jane nodded her assent. The two young women ran through the deepening dusk toward the Maxwells’ back door.

Upstairs, Jane scrubbed her body with a damp, rough linen cloth, as she often did, despite her mother’s dire warnings that it would bring on ague. She splashed her face with cold water in the basin that rested on the bedside table, while Catherine laid out the voluminous petticoats for Jane’s new white evening gown.

“I don’t know why Mama spent all that money on this,” Jane said, shivering as her exposed flesh began to dry. “I could have worn my blue satin to the ridotto just as well.”

“Perhaps ’twas her way of saying how sorry she was…” Catherine said mildly, lifting the heavy garment over Jane’s head.

“Or perhaps it was her way of laying a trap for Charles Gordon or Jamie Ferguson and the like!” Jane retorted, jutting her chin in the air as she settled the nipped-in waistline above her hips.

“Well, whatever it was… you look lovely!”

“I canna hardly
breathe
!” gasped Jane as Catherine struggled to close the back fastenings. “But ’tis pretty, ’tisn’t it?” she acknowledged, swaying from side to side to appraise the movement of the skirt.

Jane’s smooth shoulders and pale Celtic complexion melded provocatively with the straight lines of the square-cut neckline of the dress, decorated with tiny tucked rows of white bobbin lace.

A knock interrupted their musings over Jane’s ensemble.

“This was just delivered, Mistress Jane,” Fiona said, handing a small packet to her.

“Hurry… open it quickly… before I depart,” Catherine said excitedly, noting the thick wax stag’s head crest that sealed the package. “’Tis from the Duke of Gordon!”

Jane ripped through the wrappings and opened a long, thin box. Inside lay a delicate white ivory fan. She lifted it out of its nest of thin tissue, carefully opening it to its full extension. It was ornately decorated with silver swans painted on the parchment connecting the ribs. She fingered the incredibly soft white swan feathers that edged its border. A note was wedged between two of the ribs.

A few fine feathers for the Flower of Galloway… these come from the Isle of Swans near my home. I look forward to our evening together. I will call for you at eight, if that will suit.

Gordon

“Jane…” breathed Catherine in awe, “the duke intends that you be his companion this evening, not just a member of his party…”

“He’s downstairs in his
coach
!” Fiona added excitedly. “He says he will wait for your answer.”

Jane eyes widened in shock and she sat down on the bed abruptly, her white gown creating a fan of its own on the coverlet.

“I… I can’t… I—”

Jane fell silent midsentence and simply shook her head. Her breathing became heavy and Catherine feared another outburst of tears. The elder sister looked helplessly toward the housemaid, who returned her worried glance.

“I’ll speak to His Grace,” Catherine said at length. “Jane, go down to the sitting room and Fiona will fix you a nice cup of tea or a bit of ale—whatever suits your fancy. You’ll need a bit of bracing to steady your nerves for tonight. I’ll just have a word with the duke and explain—well, I’ll think of something!”

“I’m not
going
!” Jane cried, sounding as if she were a child. “I’m not going at
all
!”

“Yes, you
are
!” Catherine replied firmly. “You’re going with John and me, just as we planned! Down to the sitting room with you, and wipe your eyes! ’Twill be all right!”

And without waiting for further protests, Catherine brushed past Fiona, wondering, as she hurried down the several flights of stairs, how in the world one refused a cordial invitation from a duke.

The early evening had grown surprisingly warm for April, and Catherine diffidently approached the handsome black coach emblazoned with its familiar crest. She tapped on the window and immediately the green velvet curtains were drawn back.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Catherine said awkwardly. “Would it be all right if I spoke to you in the carriage?”

“But of course,” replied Alexander Gordon courteously, the slightest arch of his eyebrow his only sign of surprise at such an unusual request.

Catherine climbed aboard the running step and settled herself opposite his handsome visage. She clasped her hands together nervously in her lap.

“As you may have… heard in the town,” she began uncertainly, “my sister has recently suffered the loss of an old friend…”

“So, I understand,” the Duke of Gordon replied. “My man of business, Charles Gordon, told me of the tragic death of Thomas Fraser at the hands of those savages. Pity. He was rather a hotheaded youth, as I remember, but ’tis a loss, I’m sure, that grieves the entire Maxwell household.”

Catherine swallowed and racked her brains for a way to explain Jane’s fragile emotional state in a manner that would not be insulting to the duke.

“Tonight will be the first time she’s left the house since word of Thomas’s death reached us in February, Your Grace,” Catherine began, screwing up her courage. “I think ’twould be best if she passed the evening in the bosom of her family… I hope you understand, ’tis nothing to do with—”

“—With me,” Alexander interrupted, his finely chiseled features masking whatever thoughts were in his head. “Actually, I understand the strain Mistress Maxwell must be experiencing only too well. That is why I extended my invitation to her so impulsively this evening. And I concur with your decision, Mrs. Fordyce. However,” he continued, “may I be permitted a private word with your sister right now, since I fear the excitement of tonight’s entertainment will preclude an expression of my heartfelt condolences over her loss?”

Catherine was totally nonplussed by his request. He was so correct in his manner, so commanding in his demeanor that she could think of nothing else but acceding to his request and immediately led the way to the small sitting room upstairs.

Jane froze, teacup halfway to her lips, as the two of them entered the chamber. She sat near the fireplace that was black and empty, thanks to the unseasonably warm weather.

“I insisted your kind sister allow me just a word with you before I return to my lodgings to dress for tonight’s festivities,” the Duke of Gordon announced suavely before Jane could speak. Turning to Catherine, he reached for her hand, brushing his lips across the back of her palm.

Perceiving she had been politely, but firmly, dismissed, Catherine glanced quickly at Jane, who appeared as dumbfounded as she was by the Duke of Gordon’s courteous but imperious manner.

“I’ll just be outside the door to have a word with Fiona,” Catherine murmured, “and I’ll return in a moment,” she added, hoping this move would doubly serve propriety and the duke’s demand for some privacy.

Catherine brushed past the threshold while Alexander paused just inside the door. Jane felt his eyes surveying her white satin gown from hem to shoulders before he crossed the chamber and drew up a chair next to hers. He allowed the silence between them to permeate the room and smiled slightly, drawing the fingers of his slender hands together in a pyramid that supported his chin.

“I’m sorry you’ve had such a difficult time,” he said finally. “When Charles Gordon told me you’d be coming with your family to the ridotto tonight in my honor, I wanted to tell you privately how sorry I was over your loss. Frankly, I admire your courage.”

Gently, as if trying to soothe a wayward kitten, he reached for her left hand and held it in his own. Jane flushed slightly, curling her right hand into a fist to disguise her amputated finger.

“When I lost someone close to me, I couldn’t face even my friends for nearly six months. Perhaps you noticed my unsociability the night I saw you at Prestonfield House last winter?” he continued, his thumb grazing hers in feathery strokes. “Alas, ’twas foolish of me. Those close to me only wanted to help.”

His unexpected kindness and heartfelt expression of sympathy took Jane completely off guard. The young aristocrat released her hand from his grasp, but his penetrating gaze forced Jane, almost against her will, to meet his glance. She took a deep breath and forced herself to break the spell. She glanced over at the empty fireplace before looking back at the duke’s broad, finely etched mouth and clear, intelligent hazel eyes.

“I, too, realize now, Your Grace, that my friends and family want to help… indeed, they have,” she said softly. “And I thank you for your kindness in paying this call and, not least, for the exquisite fan.”

“I’m pleased it suits you, and trust you’ll do me the honor of carrying it this evening,” the duke replied, his smile broadening. “Dressed in white, you remind me of the fair inhabitants on the Island of the Swans.”

“That’s in the north, ’tisn’t it?” she inquired, deflecting his compliment.

Privately she knew of the vast tracts of land owned by the Gordons in the Highlands, where all manner of wildlife and game flourished, not to speak of the duke’s prize-winning cattle and sheep.

“Yes,” replied the Duke of Gordon, “on Loch-an-Eilean adjoining my estate at Kinrara, a mere day’s ride from Inverness… or from Gordon Castle, too, for that matter. A family of swans has been nesting there for years, and when they depart in the late spring, we collect the feathers from the reeds and think of lovely things to do with them!”

The duke continued to gaze at her, his eyes darkening with intensity. Jane blushed for no reason she could think of and looked away.

“I-I thank you for your kind invitation to escort me tonight, but…” her voice drifted off.

“I merely thought to spare you the difficulty of coping with the many admirers who haven’t seen you these last months,” he interjected lightly. “They are bound to want to make your reacquaintance this evening. I thought, perhaps, if they saw you on my arm, they would temper their enthusiasm, until such time as you felt strong enough to reenter society with a happier heart.”

A vision of Jamie Ferguson’s buck teeth, protruding from his bulbous lips, swam before her eyes. She hadn’t answered any of his notes of sympathy, but tonight, he was sure to make another approach, no doubt encouraged by Lady Maxwell.

“Would it be possible for Catherine and John Fordyce to accompany us?” Jane asked softly.

“I’ve taken the liberty of requesting they be seated in my box,” he replied. “Our mutual friends, Sir Algernon and Lady Mary, will be sharing ours also… that is, if you will come with me.”

“You anticipated I would say yes?” she asked forthrightly.

“I merely hoped I could offer my protection,” he replied easily, “and I am most delighted you have accepted.”

He rose to make his departure.

“Now I must be off to dress. I pray my rather mundane attire this evening shall not detract from your beauty, Miss Maxwell. Your white satin, with that magnificent chestnut hair, makes you swanlike, indeed. ’Tis nigh impossible to imagine you have ever perched upon a sow!” Before Jane could recover her aplomb, the Duke of Gordon crossed the chamber in a few, swift strides and inclined his head in a gesture of farewell. “I shall return to fetch you one hour hence,” he announced, and vanished through the door.

Eleven

A
s
THE
D
UKE OF
G
ORDON’S BLACK CARRIAGE PULLED UP TO THE
playhouse on Canongate opposite Shoemaker’s Hall, the crowd stepped back a few paces, and two footmen in red and white livery jumped down from their perch. With a theatrical flourish, they threw open the door. Alexander Gordon extended a black satin-clad leg, with its white silk stocking and shining black leather pump distinguished by red kid heels, and alighted gracefully to the cobblestoned pavement.

The onlookers standing near the playhouse entrance exchanged whispered comments about the pleasing cut of his black brocade jacket and smartly embroidered cream-colored waistcoat that set off his lean figure to perfection. The duke’s head was crowned with a simply styled, chalk white wig, neatly tied at the nape of his neck with a black satin ribbon. The crowd hardly had time to absorb the unaffected elegance of his appearance before a collective gasp rose from the throng.

“Who
is
that?” they whispered to each other as a vision in white satin emerged from the coach. From their perspective, the mysterious woman’s face was obscured by a magnificent mass of white feathers fashioned into an ornate fan.

Inside the playhouse, tallow lamps glowed softly against dark red, silk-covered walls. Jane held on to the duke’s arm even more tightly, as he propelled her toward the parted velvet curtains marking the entrance to the auditorium. Everywhere the buzz of the theater crowd seemed to intensify as Jane and Alexander proceeded to their seats.

“’Tisn’t that Jane Maxwell?” a gray-haired matron whispered loudly to the old codger by her side.

“Sink me, will you look who’s with her?” said her companion, whose narrowly set eyes and hooked nose gave him the appearance of a ferret. “’Tis the young Duke of Gordon, I’ll be bound!”