Sophia's Secret (22 page)

She had heard much of the young King James – the ‘Bonny Blackbird’, so they called him, for his dark and handsome looks – and of his younger sister, the Princess Louise Marie, and of the grandeur and gay parties of their exiled court in France, but she had never had occasion to meet someone who had been there, and she longed to know the details. ‘Is it true the king and princess dance all night and hunt all morning?’

‘And make promenades all afternoon?’ His eyes were gently mocking. ‘Aye, I’ve heard it rumoured, too, and it is true they both are young and on occasion have a mind to take such pleasure as they can, and who can blame them, after all that they have lived through. But the duller truth be told, the princess is a lass of charming sensibility, who does comport herself in all ways modestly, and young King Jamie spends his hours attending to his business matters, foreign and domestic, with the diligence that does befit a king. Although,’ he added, so as not to disappoint her, ‘I recall that Twelfth Night last, there was a ball held at Versailles at which King Jamie and the princess danced past midnight, and at four o’clock were dancing still, the princess all in yellow velvet set with jewels, and diamonds in her bonny hair, and some two thousand candles burning round the hall to give the dancers light. And when the ball was over and the king and princess came out in the torchlight of the Cour de Marbre, the Swiss Guard of the French king did salute them to their carriage, and they drove back home to Saint-Germain surrounded by a company of riders, richly dressed, and with the white plume of the Stewarts in their hats.’

Sophia sighed and briefly closed her eyes, imagining the picture. It was so removed from all that she had known, and so romantic. How incredible it all would be, she thought, to have the king at home again. The first King James had fled to exile in the year Sophia had been born, and in her lifetime there had been no King of Scots upon the ancient throne in Edinburgh. But she had listened, raptured, to her elders, as they reminisced about the days when Scotland’s destiny had been its own to manage. ‘Will he truly come?’ she asked.

‘Aye, lass. He’ll come, and set his foot on Scottish soil,’ said Moray. ‘And ’tis my resolve to see the effort does not cost his life.’

She would have asked him more about the court at
Saint-Germain
, but Moray’s gaze had swung away and out to sea, and suddenly he pulled upon the gelding’s reins and brought him to a standstill.

Stopping too, Sophia asked, ‘What is it?’

But whatever it was that John Moray had seen, I decided, would just have to wait until later. With reluctance I depressed the keys to save my work, and switched off my computer.

I was nearly late for lunch.

Angus set up an alarm at my first knock, and went on barking steadily till someone came to answer. Jimmy held the door wide with a smile of welcome. ‘Aye-aye, quine. Come in, and dinna fash yersel aboot the dog, it’s only Angus. He’ll nae bite. Here, gie us yer coat and umbrella, I’ll hang them tae dry.’

It was good to step in from the grey mist and rain to the warmth of the bright narrow hall with its yellowing wallpaper. Today the smells of cooking were not lingering, but fresh and strong. He’d kept his promise, so it seemed, to do a roast of beef, and the richly brown aroma of it met me where I stood, reminding me that I’d been so absorbed in writing that I had forgotten to eat breakfast, and was starving.

Angus, seeing it was me, had stopped his barking and came forward now, tail wagging, to nose round my legs in search of some attention. I bent down to scratch his ears and said, ‘Hi, Angus.’ Then I caught myself, and ran the conversation back a few lines in my mind to reassure myself that Jimmy had made mention of the dog’s name. And he had, but I would have to be more careful, I thought, if I was supposed to be pretending that this was the first time I was meeting Graham.

‘Will ye have a bittie sherry?’ Jimmy offered. ‘My wife aye liked a wee bittie sherry afore Sunday lunch.’

‘Yes, please.’

Following him through into the sitting room, I felt a clutching of anticipation at my ribcage, so I had to draw my breath in deeper, to prepare myself. It might not be the first time I was setting eyes on Graham, but it would be the first time that I’d seen him since he’d kissed me, and I found that I was nervous.

If I hadn’t been so occupied with writing last night, I’d have likely analysed that kiss to death. I’d know today if he had meant it, or if he was having second thoughts about the change of course we had just made in our relationship.

He had his father’s manners. As I came into the sitting room, he stood, and when his eyes met mine they laid my doubts to rest. We might have been the only people in the room.

Except we weren’t.

I hadn’t seen the other person standing to my left until a hand reached out to claim my shoulder, and I felt the brush of Stuart’s breath against my cheek as he bent down to greet me with a smiling kiss that faintly smelt of beer. ‘You see? I told you I’d not be away too long.’ With the hand still on my shoulder, he said, ‘Graham, this is Carrie. Carrie, meet my brother, Graham.’

Thrown off balance by this new turn of events, I went through the motions of the introduction by pure reflex, till the firm electric warmth of Graham’s handshake steadied me. Politely but deliberately, I took a step forward that brought me out of Stuart’s hold, and chose the armchair closest to the one where Graham sat. I then aimed my smile beyond both brothers to their father, who had crossed to offer me the glass he’d filled with care from what appeared to be a newly purchased bottle of dry sherry on the sideboard.

‘Thanks,’ I said, to Jimmy. ‘Lunch smells wonderful.’

‘Ye’ll nae be filled wi’ sic praise efter ye’ve aeten it.’

‘That’s why he’s got us drinking first,’ said Stuart, holding up his own half-finished glass of ale as evidence. Oblivious to my manoeuvre with the chairs, he took the one that faced me, stretching out his legs and shifting Angus to the side. The dog moved grumpily.

‘So,’ Stuart asked me, cheerfully, ‘how did you get along this week, without me?’

‘Oh, I managed.’

Jimmy said, ‘She’s been tae Edinburgh.’

I felt the brush of Graham’s gaze beside me, before Stuart said, ‘To Edinburgh?’ His eyebrows lifted, curious. ‘What for?’

‘Just research.’

‘Aye,’ said Jimmy, ‘awa all the wik she wis, and she didna get hame till late on Friday. Had me fair worriet. I nivver like tae see a quinie travel on her ain at nicht. Fit wye didna ye wait and come up in the morning?’ he asked me.

‘I was ready to come home,’ was all the explanation I could give without revealing that I’d only wanted to get back in time to keep my date with Graham for our driving tour on Saturday.

If he suspected it himself, he kept it hidden. ‘Did you find what you were after?’ Graham asked, and as my head came round he added calmly, ‘With your research?’

‘I found quite a bit, yes.’ And, because it gave me something useful I could focus on, I told him a little of what I had learnt from the Hamilton papers.

Stuart, settling back, asked, ‘And who was the Duke of Hamilton?’

‘James Douglas,’ Graham said, ‘Fourth Duke of Hamilton.’

‘Oh,
him
. Of course.’ He rolled his eyes, and Graham grinned and told his brother, ‘Don’t be such an arse.’

‘We don’t all sleep with history books.’

‘The Duke of Hamilton,’ said Graham slowly, as though speaking to a child, ‘was one of Scotland’s most important men, around the turning of the eighteenth century. He spoke out as a patriot, and had a place in line to Scotland’s throne. In fact, some Protestants, himself included, thought he’d be a better candidate for king than any of the exiled Stewarts.’

‘Aye, well, anyone would have been better than the Stewarts,’ Stuart said, but as he raised his glass the curving of his mouth showed he was goading Graham purposely.

Ignoring him, Graham asked me, ‘Does he play a great role in your book?’

‘The duke? He’s around in the background a lot. The story, so far, has kept pretty much to Slains, but there’s a scene at the beginning where he briefly meets my heroine in Edinburgh. And my characters, of course, all have opinions on the duke’s connection to the Union.’

‘So do some historians.’

Stuart drained his glass and said, ‘You’re losing me, again. What Union?’

Graham paused, then in a dry voice told me, ‘You’ll excuse my brother. His appreciation of our country’s past begins and ends with
Braveheart
.’

Stuart tried his best to look offended, but he couldn’t. In his easy-going way, he said, ‘Well, go on, then. Enlighten me.’

Graham’s eyes were indulgent. ‘Robert the Bruce was in
Braveheart
, so you’ll ken who he was?’

‘Aye. The King of Scotland.’

‘And his daughter married the High Steward, so from that you’ve got the “Stewart” line, which went through two more Roberts and a heap of Jameses before coming down to Mary, Queen of Scots. You’ve heard of her?’

‘Nice girl, bad marriages,’ said Stuart, sitting back to play along.

‘And Mary’s son, another James, became the heir to Queen Elizabeth of England, who died without a child. So now you’ve got a Stewart being King of Scotland
and
of England, though he acts more English, now, than Scots, and rarely even sets a foot up here. Nor does his son, King Charles the First, who gets a bit too cocky with his powers, so along come Cromwell and his men to say they’ve had enough of kings, and they depose King Charles the First and cut his head off.’

‘With you so far.’

‘Then the English, after years of Civil War and having Cromwell and his parliament in charge awhile, decide that they’d be better off with kings, after all, so they invite the old king’s son, Charles Stewart – Charles the Second – to come back and take the throne. And when he dies in 1685, his brother James becomes the king, which would be no real problem, only James is Catholic.
Very
Catholic. And not only do the English fear he’s trying to edge out their hard-won Protestant religion, they also fear he’ll enter an alliance with the Catholic King of France, who’s their worst enemy.’

He paused to take a drink from his own glass which, like his father’s, held neat whisky. Then he went on with the story.

‘The aristocracy in England starts to think of getting rid of James and putting someone on the throne who’ll be a Protestant, as they are, and against the French. And they have the perfect candidate in front of them, for James’s eldest daughter, Mary, has a Protestant husband who’s been waging war against the French for years, and who has had his eye upon the English throne since long before that – William, Prince of Orange. It doesn’t matter that he’s Dutch because he’s Mary’s husband, so if she’s made queen, he’ll only need an act of Parliament to rule as king beside her.

‘But just as the aristocrats are making all their plans, King James’s second wife gives birth to a son. Now the English have a problem, because male heirs trump females. So they put around a rumour that the newborn prince is not a prince at all, but just a common child that James had smuggled into his queen’s chamber in a warming pan, to give himself an heir. It’s not the most convincing story, but to those who want a reason to rise up against James, it’s enough.

‘What follows isn’t quite a war – it’s more a game of chess, with knights and nobles changing sides – and within six months James, his queen, and their wee heir have fled to France. It’s not the first time James has done this, mind – when he was just a lad and his own father, Charles I, was in the middle of a Civil War, James was taken by his mother into France for safety. And although his father was beheaded and the Stewarts had to live awhile in exile, in the end the English asked them to come back and take the throne. So James remembers this, and trusts the same will happen now if he just keeps his head down, waits things out. And so he takes his queen and prince to live at Saint-Germain, where he spent his own exile as a lad, and by the spring of 1689 his daughter Mary and her husband William have the English throne, and Scotland, having held a vote, declares for William, too.

‘So now,’ he said, ‘our country’s split in factions – those who, mostly Presbyterian, can stomach having Mary for a queen because she’s Scottish and a Protestant besides, and those who think she’s got no right to rule, not with her father living and a brother who’s ahead of her in line. This second group, the ones who want to put King James back on the throne, are called the Jacobites,’ he said, ‘from “Jacobus”, the Latin name for “James”.’

Stuart raised his hand. ‘Am I allowed another drink?’

‘Aye.’ Graham smiled, and took another swig of whisky while his brother briefly left the room, returning with a full glass and a question for their father.

‘Should the oven still be on?’

‘Ach, na.’ And rising, Jimmy left the room with urgency.

As Stuart took his seat again, he said to me, ‘He’s never met a roast he hasn’t burnt past recognition.’

Graham shared the joke and shrugged. ‘We eat them, all the same.’

‘I’m only warning her,’ said Stuart. ‘Anyhow, where were we? I was asking, I believe, about the Union, and so far you haven’t mentioned it.’ To me, as an aside, ‘These academics always ramble on.’

‘So, with King William on the throne,’ said Graham, patiently recapping, ‘we’ve got Scotland in a muddle, and enjoying one long chain of rotten luck. Towards the last years of the century, the harvests are so poor that people starve to death in droves, while English laws and tariffs choke out Scottish trade and navigation. And when a Scottish company scrapes up enough investment for a colony at Darien, in Panama, to take a bit of trade away from England’s East India Company, the English slam it hard by cutting off supplies and aid that might have helped the colonists survive. When Darien fails, the investors lose everything. Scotland is not only broke, but in debt, and we have nothing left to sell,’ he said, ‘except our independence.