Sophia's Secret (51 page)

Before the fire, the wooden chess board with its small carved armies waited patiently upon its table, but looking at it only called to mind the fact that they had had no word of Colonel Graeme yet, from France, and did not know if he was numbered in the wounded or the dead of Malplaquet. His quick grin crossed her memory and she turned from it, her back towards the chess board as she trailed her hand instead along the gilded leather bindings of the nearest bookshelf, searching out of habit for the book that she had sought out more than any other these past years – the newer volume, plainly bound, of Dryden’s
King Arthur, or the British Worthy
. The pages that had once been lightly used now showed the marks of frequent reading, for this book had always managed to bring Moray close, somehow, despite the miles between them.

It still did. She felt the same connection when she held it that she’d felt before, and when she chose a random page and read the lines they spoke to her as strongly and as surely as they’d always done, although they did not speak this time of love but of defeat, a subject fitting to her mood:

‘Furle up our Colours, and Unbrace our Drums;

Dislodge betimes, and quit this fatal Coast.’

She heard the door behind her softly open and then close again, and heard the slow distinctive rustle of the gown across the floor that marked the countess’s approach. Sophia, looking down still at the open book, remarked, ‘I have so often read this play I ought to know its lines as well as any actor, yet I still find phrases here that do surprise me.’

Drawing close, the countess asked, ‘Which play is that?’ and read the title, and her eyebrow lifted slightly. ‘I suspect, my dear, that you may be the only person in this house who has attempted reading that at all. If it amuses you, then take it with you as my gift.’

Had it been any other book she might have raised a protest, but she wanted it so badly for herself she merely closed her hands around it and said thank you.

‘Not at all. You must take several, now I think of it.’ The countess scanned the shelves with newfound purpose. ‘The Duchess of Gordon does assure me she has lodged you with the very best of families in Kirkcudbright, but notwithstanding that, my dear, they are still Cameronians, devoutly Presbyterian, and likely will have little use for pleasures such as reading. No, you must take some books from here, else you’ll have nothing there to read but dry religious tracts.’ She chose some volumes, took them down and stacked them near the chess board. ‘I shall have these added to your box. Here, let me have the Dryden, too.’ She stretched her hand to take it from Sophia, who released it with reluctance, but with heartfelt thanks.

‘You are too kind.’

‘Did you imagine I would send you all that way with nothing?’ Looking down herself, the countess made a show of straightening the edges of the books as though that small act mattered greatly. ‘I presume that you are yet resolved to go? I would not have you think you cannot change your mind. ’Tis not too late.’

Sophia tried to smile. ‘I doubt the servants who have laboured these past days to make arrangements for my leaving would be pleased were I to change my mind.’

‘There are none here who wish to see you leave. The servants would be overjoyed to see you stay at Slains.’ She met Sophia’s eyes. ‘And so would I.’

‘I wish I could.’ Sophia felt the stir of sadness. ‘But there are too many memories here, of him.’

‘I understand.’ The countess always seemed so strong that sometimes it was easy to forget that she had also lost a husband, not so long ago, and knew what it was like to live with memories. ‘There may yet come a time when you do count them as a comfort.’ And her eyes were very gentle on Sophia’s downturned face. ‘It does get easier, in time.’

Sophia knew it did. She knew from having lost her parents and her sister that the sharpness of her grieving would be blunted by the passing years, and yet she also knew that losing Moray had cut deeper than the others put together. His death had left her feeling more alone than she had ever felt before, and she herself might well grow old and die before enough years passed to dull the pain she carried now inside her.

There were footsteps in the corridor; a soft knock at the door.

‘Do you feel strong enough to do this?’ asked the countess, and Sophia bit her lip and shook her head before she answered, ‘But I must.’

‘My dear, you need not if it brings you too much pain. The child is not yet two years old, and being such a young age is not likely to remember.’

It was, Sophia thought, the very argument she’d made to Moray when he’d told her of his infant nephew, whom he’d never had the chance to meet. She understood his answer, now. Deliberately, she raised her head and in a quiet voice replied, ‘I will remember
her
.’

The countess studied her a moment with concern, then gave a nod and crossed to let in Kirsty’s sister, leading Anna by the hand.

The little girl was finely dressed as though for church, with ribbons in her hair. She did not venture far into the room, but stood and held fast to the skirts of Kirsty’s sister, who looked over at Sophia in apology. ‘She did not sleep well last night, she was troubled by her teeth. I fear she’s out of sorts, the day.’

Sophia’s smile was brief, and understanding. ‘We are none of us as cheerful as we should be.’

‘I will leave her here alone with you a moment if you wish it, but—’

‘There is no need.’ Sophia shook her head. ‘It is enough that I should see her. Come, and sit with me.’

They sat where she’d so often sat with Colonel Graeme by the fire, the chess men lined up tidily across the board between them. Anna seemed to find them fascinating. Kirsty’s sister would have kept the little girl from touching, but the countess, who’d stayed standing by the mantelpiece, insisted that the child could do no harm. ‘The men are made of wood, and cannot easily be broken.’

Not like real soldiers, thought Sophia with a pang of sudden sorrow. Moray would not ever see his daughter’s face, nor see those small, fair features form the image of his own as Anna, with her father’s focused concentration, lifted knights and bishops from the board by turns and held them in her little hands.

Sophia watched in silence. She had spent the past days planning this farewell, rehearsing what she meant to do and say, but now that it had come the words seemed out of place. How did you tell a child who did not know you were her mother that you loved her, and that leaving her was all at once the bravest and the worst thing you had done in all your life, and that you’d miss her more than she would ever know?

And what, Sophia asked herself, would be the point? She knew within her own heart that the countess had been right, that Anna’s mind was yet too young to hold this memory; that as surely as the wind and waves would shift the sands till next year’s coastline bore no imprint of the one the year before, so too the passing days would reshape Anna’s mind until Sophia was forgotten.

Which was only as it should be, she decided, biting down upon her lip to stop its sudden trembling.

Reaching out, she stroked the softness of her daughter’s hair, and lightly coughed to clear her voice. ‘You have such lovely curls,’ she said to Anna. ‘Will you give me one?’

She did not doubt the answer; Anna always had been quick to share. And sure enough, the child gave an unhesitating nod and stepped in closer while Sophia chose one ringlet from beneath the mass of curls and gently snipped it with her sewing scissors. ‘There,’ she said, and would have straightened, but the little girl reached up herself to wind her tiny fingers in Sophia’s hair, in imitation.

And that one small touch, so unexpected, made Sophia close her eyes against the sharpness of emotion.

She felt, in that brief instant, as she’d felt when it had only been herself and Anna newly born, and lying in the bed at Mrs Malcolm’s, with the wonder of her daughter sleeping warm against her body and the feeling of those baby fingers clutching both her hair and Moray’s silver ring…and suddenly she felt she could not bear it, what she knew she had to do.

It was not fair. Not fair. She wanted Anna back, to be her own again. Her own and no one else’s. And she would have sold her soul at any price to turn time back and make it possible, but time would not be turned. And as the pain of that reality tore through her like a knife, she heard her daughter’s voice say, ‘Mama?’ and the blade drove deeper still, because Sophia knew the word had not been meant for her.

She breathed, and swallowed hard, and when her eyes came open there was nothing but their shining brightness to betray her weakening.

Anna said a second time to Kirsty’s sister, ‘Mama?’, and the other woman asked, her own voice curiously husky, ‘Do ye want to have a lock of Mistress Paterson’s, to keep?’

Sophia said, ‘My curls are not as nice as yours,’ but Anna tugged with firm insistence, so Sophia raised the scissors to her own hair and cut off a piece from where those baby fingers had so often clung in sleep.

‘Aye,’ said Kirsty’s sister, when the child turned round to show her prize. ‘It is a bonny gift, and one ye’ll want to treasure. Let me borrow this wee ribbon and we’ll cut it into two, and then ye both can bind your curls to keep them better.’ Over Anna’s head her eyes sought out Sophia’s. ‘I will send ye more.’

Sophia’s fingers trembled so they could not tie the ribbon, but she folded it together with the curl into her handkerchief. ‘The one is all I need.’

The other woman’s eyes were helpless in their sympathy. ‘If there is anything at all…’

‘Just keep her safe.’

And Kirsty’s sister gave a nod, as though she could not speak herself. And in the silence of the room both women, and the countess too, looked down at Anna, who in childish oblivion had once again begun to move the pieces on the chess board.

With an almost steady smile, Sophia asked, ‘Which one do you like best, then, Anna? Which one is your favourite?’

She had expected that the little girl would choose a knight – the horses’ heads had held her interest longest – or a castle tower, but the child, after some consideration, chose a different piece and showed it on her outstretched hand: a single, fallen pawn.

Sophia thought of Colonel Graeme, when he’d taught her how to play the game, explaining of the pawns: ‘These wee men here, they’re not allowed to make decisions. They can only put one foot afore the other…’

Looking down, she saw the pieces of the chess set scattered anyhow across the board and lying on their sides like soldiers felled in battle, and she saw that in their midst one piece still stood: the black-haired king.

She looked again at Anna’s pawn and blinked to keep the tears back, but her smile held. ‘Yes, that one is my favourite, too.’

And careless of propriety, she bent to wrap her arms round Anna one last time and hold her close, and make a final memory of the scent of her, the feel of her, the softness of the brush of curls against her cheek, so she’d have that at least to keep her company through all the hollow years to come. Then quickly – for the little girl, confused, had started drawing back – Sophia kissed the top of Anna’s head and loosed her hold. ‘It is all right, my darling, you can go.’

Anna stood her ground a moment longer staring upwards as though somehow she suspected more was going on than she could understand. Her solemn face and watchful eyes were so like Moray’s at that instant that Sophia felt a painful twist of memory, like a hand that tugged against her heart and stopped it in mid-beat. She drew a shaking breath, determined, and her heart resumed its rhythm once again.

As all things must.

Still Anna stood and watched in silence, and Sophia tried to smile again but could not manage it, nor raise her voice much higher than a whisper. ‘Go,’ she gently urged the child. ‘Go to your mother.’

And she did not cry. Not then. Not even when the little girl was led away, with one last backward look that would forever haunt Sophia’s dreams. She did not cry. She only rose and went to stand before the window, where the cold wind off the sea was blasting hard against the glass and wailing still that it could not come in, while last night’s rain yet clung hard to the panes like frozen tears.

The countess did not speak, nor leave her place beside the mantelpiece.

‘So, you see,’ Sophia said, ‘my heart is held forever by this place. I cannot leave but that the greatest part of me remains where Anna is.’

‘It would be so no matter how you left her,’ said the countess. ‘I have said goodbye to my own daughters, one by one.’ Her voice was softly wise. ‘And now to you.’

Sophia turned at that, and saw the sadness in the older woman’s smile.

The countess said, ‘I can assure you it is never such an easy thing to wish a child farewell.’

Beneath that quiet gaze Sophia felt her chin begin to tremble once again, and as the room became a blur she stumbled forward to the countess’s embrace.

‘My dear.’ The countess held her close and stroked her hair as if she were as small as Anna, and in greater need of comfort. ‘I do promise that you will survive this. Faith, my own heart is so scattered round the country now, I marvel that it has the strength each day to keep me standing. But it does,’ she said, and drawing in a steady breath she pulled back just enough to raise a hand to wipe Sophia’s tears. ‘It does. And so will yours.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because it is a heart, and knows no better.’ With her own eyes moist, the countess smoothed the hair back from Sophia’s cheek. ‘But leave whatever part of it you will with us at Slains, and I will care for it,’ she said. ‘And by God’s grace I may yet live to see the day it draws you home.’

‘No,
no
,’ said Jane. ‘You simply can
not
end the book like that. It’s much too sad.’

To emphasise her point, she thumped the final pages of the manuscript down on the dark wood table of our booth in the Kilmarnock Arms, and made our lunch plates rattle.

‘But that’s how it really happened.’

‘I don’t care.’ There was no stopping Jane once she got going, and I was glad there was no one but us in the Lounge Bar this afternoon. The lunch hour itself had been busy, seeing it was Saturday, but now the other tables had been cleared and there was only us. The girl who’d served us had retreated round the corner to the Public Bar, but even that seemed quiet, and to judge by all the footsteps passing by us on the sidewalk most of Cruden Bay today was out of doors. The breeze was chilly, but the sun was shining cheerfully for all that it was worth, so that from where I sat beside the window facing on the street, it looked like spring.