Sophia's Secret (8 page)

Mr Hall remarked, ‘Then it is just as well that I should stay, to help you fight them off.’ He pushed his chair back on the floor. ‘But now, with your indulgence, I must go and write a letter to His Grace, so to acquaint him with my plans. You have the means, my lady, do you not, to see that such a message reaches Edinburgh?’

The countess answered that she did, and with a formal bow he left them, wishing them good morning. The little maid, Kirsty, moved to clear his plate as well, and the countess said, ‘Kirsty, I do owe you thanks for showing Mistress Paterson the way to us this morning. It was fortunate that she did find you.’

Kirsty glanced up in surprise, and seemed to pause a moment as if seeking how to twist the truth, before she said, ‘My lady, ye’ve no need to thank me. All I did was meet her in the passageway. She would have found ye here without my help.’

The countess smiled. ‘That may be so, but I confess I did forget my duties as a hostess, and how simple it can be to lose one’s way, at Slains. If you have finished now, Sophia, come and let me show you round the castle, so you will not need to fear becoming lost.’

The tour was long, and thorough.

At its end the countess showed her to a small room on the ground floor at the corner of the castle. ‘Do you sew?’ she asked.

‘I do, my lady. Is there something you wish mended?’

The answer seemed to strike the countess strangely, for she paused, and turned her gaze upon Sophia for a moment, and then told her, ‘No, I only meant to tell you that this room is good for sewing, as it has the southern light. I am, I fear, an indifferent seamstress myself. My mind does not compose itself to detailed work, but is inclined to drift most shamefully to other thoughts.’ She smiled, but her eyes held to Sophia’s face.

The little room felt warmer than the others, being smaller and more cosy, and with greater light which flooded through the windows and did not permit the gathering of shadows.

The countess asked, ‘How long, Sophia, were you in the household of John Drummond?’

‘Eight years, my lady.’

‘Eight years.’ There was a measured pause. ‘I did not know my kinsman well. We played some time as children long ago, in Perth. He was a most unpleasant child, as I recall. And very fond,’ she said, ‘of breaking things.’ She raised a hand, and with a mother’s touch, smoothed one bright curl back from Sophia’s face. ‘I rather would repair them.’

That was all she said, and all she was to say, about John Drummond.

As the days went on, Sophia came to realise that the countess rarely ventured to speak ill of anyone, for all she was a woman of opinions. And she treated all the servants of her household, from the lowest maid who laboured in the scullery to the
solemn-faced
chaplain himself, with an equal grace and courtesy. But an impression grew upon Sophia, based on nothing greater than a certain guarded tone of voice, a flash of something deeper in the eyes when the countess and Mr Hall were speaking, that the countess did not share his admiration of the Duke of Hamilton.

But she plainly did like Mr Hall, and when three weeks had come and gone the priest was still a guest at Slains, and no one talked of his departure.

Every day he kept the same routine: his morning draught, and then a private hour in which Sophia thought he might have prayed or tended to his business, then in fair or foul weather he would walk along the cliffs above the sea. Sophia envied him those walks. She was herself, by virtue of her sex, expected to keep closer to the castle’s walls, and venture not much further than the kitchen garden, where she felt the ever-watchful eyes of Mrs Grant. But on this day the sky was clearing, and the sun hung like a beacon in it, and there was in every one a restlessness, such as all creatures felt in those first days when dying winter started giving way to spring, and so when Mr Hall announced that he would take his walk, Sophia begged to be allowed to go with him, although he made a protest that the path would be too difficult.

‘It is too far, and over ground too rough. Your slippers would be ruined.’

‘Then I shall wear my old ones. And I do not fear the walk with you to guide me.’

The countess glanced towards her with a blend of understanding and amusement, and then shared that look with Mr Hall. ‘She is most uncommonly healthy. I have no objection to letting her go, if you will see she does take care, when on the cliffs, that she goes not too near the edge.’

He did not take her near the cliffs, but inland, past hard fallow fields and tenant farms, where soft-eyed cows came out to stare, and red-cheeked children peered around the cottage doors and wondered at their passing. To Sophia, this was more familiar than the wilder landscape of the North Sea coast, although a part of her this morning seemed to want to feel that wildness, and she did not mind when Mr Hall suggested they start back to Slains.

The sky above the sea was almost free of cloud, and bright as far as she could see, and while the wind blew strongly it had come around and blew now from the southwest, and it did not seem as cold against her face. The water, too, although still ridged with white, had lost its angry roll and came to shore with better manners, not exploding on the rocks but merely curling foam around them and receding, in an almost soothing rhythm.

It was not the sea itself, though, that Sophia’s gaze was drawn to, but the ship that rode upon it, rode to anchor with its sails
tight-folded
underneath the white cross of Saint Andrew blazoned on a field of Scottish blue.

She hadn’t expected to see a ship so close to land, and so far to the north, and the sight of it took her entirely by surprise. ‘What ship is that?’ she asked.

The sight of the ship appeared to have affected Mr Hall even more strongly than it had herself, for it took him a moment before he replied, and his voice held a curious quality that might have been disappointment, she thought, or displeasure. ‘’Tis the
Royal
William
. Captain Gordon’s ship.’ He looked at it a minute longer, then he said, ‘I wonder if he simply pays the countess his respects, or if he means to come ashore?’

The answer waited for them in the drawing room.

The man who rose for introduction cut a gallant figure. Sophia judged him to be about forty, and good-looking in his naval captain’s uniform, with gold braid on his long blue coat and every button polished, and a white cravat wound elegantly round his throat and knotted, and a curled wig of the latest fashion. But his stance was firm and not the least affected, and his blue eyes were straightforward. ‘Your servant,’ he assured Sophia, when she was presented to him.

‘Captain Gordon,’ said the countess, ‘is an old and valued friend, and does us honour with his company.’ She turned to him. ‘We’ve missed you, Thomas, this past winter. Have you been laid up, or were you on another voyage to the Indies?’

‘The
Royal William
has been these months in the road of Leith, my lady. This is our first journey north.’

‘And where, now, are you bound?’

‘I am commissioned to keep up the old patrol, between the Orkney Isles and Tynemouth, though I do not doubt but that will alter when the Union takes effect.’

Mr Hall said to Sophia, ‘Captain Gordon is the commodore of our Scots navy frigates on the eastern coast, which soon will be absorbed into the navy of Great Britain.’

‘And who then,’ asked the countess, ‘will protect our shores from privateers?’ But she was smiling when she said it, and Sophia had again the sense of being on the outside of a private understanding. ‘Please,’ the countess said, ‘be at your ease, and let us have a proper visit.’ And with that she sat, and called Sophia over to the easy chair beside her, while the gentlemen took rush chairs with red leather cushions nearer to the window.

Sophia was aware of Captain Gordon’s gaze upon her, and because it made her feel a bit uncomfortable, she sought to break the silence. ‘Are there many privateers, sir, who would prey upon our coast?’

‘Aye, that there are,’ the captain said. ‘The French and Spanish have an eye for our Scots shipping.’

Mr Hall’s good-natured comment was, ‘I would suspect their interest profits you far more than it does them. Do you not keep the spoils of any ship you capture?’

‘Aye,’ said Captain Gordon, comfortably. ‘And few ships can outrun the
Royal William
. Even French ones.’

Mr Hall asked, ‘Have you come across a French ship lately?’

‘I’ve not seen one. But I’m told Queen Anne does take a special interest in ships setting out from France this spring. And I am warned, by those above me, to be particularly watchful.’

‘Is that so?’

‘It is.’ The captain’s answer hung in silence for a moment, as though needing thought. And then he shrugged a shoulder and said, ‘Still, it is not easy to be everywhere at once. I dare say anyone determined to slip by me could accomplish it.’

The countess cast a glance towards Sophia, and then lightly changed the subject to the news that Captain Gordon brought from Edinburgh, and gossip of the Union.

When the captain took his leave an hour later, he said fondly to the countess, ‘I remain, my lady Erroll, your most steadfast friend and servant. Trust in that.’

‘I know it, Thomas. Do take care.’

‘There’s none can harm me.’ With a smile, he bent to kiss her hand, and turned the remnants of his smile upon Sophia, though he still addressed the countess. ‘You may well,’ he said, ‘be seeing even more of me this year than you have done. I have a weakness for good company, and God knows my own crew does ill supply it.’ Then he kissed Sophia’s hand as well, and bid farewell to Mr Hall, and left to make his way down to the boat that would return him to his ship.

‘A dashing man, would you not say so?’ asked the countess of Sophia, as they stood and watched him from the window.

‘He is very handsome, yes.’

‘And very loyal, which in these days makes him rare.’

Behind them, Mr Hall spoke up. ‘My lady, if you will excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to.’

‘Yes, of course.’ The countess, turning from the window, nodded, and the priest, too, took his leave, departing with a bow. The countess smiled and sat, and motioned for Sophia to resume her seat. ‘He’s gone, you know, to write the Duke of Hamilton a letter, for he is obliged to tell his master all.’ A pause, and then, ‘What did you think of him?’

‘Of whom, my lady?’

‘The Duke of Hamilton.’

Sophia did not know how to respond. ‘He was quite kind to me.’

‘That is not what I asked, my dear. I asked for your opinion of his character.’ And then, because she saw the consternation on Sophia’s face, ‘Or do you not believe that the opinion of a woman is of value? For I tell you, I would rather have a woman’s thoughts on character than those of any man, because a woman’s thoughts are truer, and less likely to be turned by outward charm.’

‘Then I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you, for I found the duke to be most charming, though we did not speak at length.’

‘What did you speak about?’

‘He asked me my relation to you.’

‘Did he?’ asked the countess in that tone of guarded interest that Sophia was beginning to associate with any conversation that involved the Duke of Hamilton. ‘What else?’

‘We spoke of Darien. He said it was a blessing I had not gone with my parents.’

‘And it was.’

‘And that was all. The interview took but a quarter of an hour, perhaps. No longer.’

‘And you thought him charming.’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Well,’ the countess said, ‘I can forgive you that.’ She gave no further explanation of that statement, nor did she reveal her own opinion of the man, although Sophia reasonably guessed that, in the judgement of the countess, she had been herself deceived.

But nothing else was said about it.

Two more weeks passed, and the days began to lengthen, and the restlessness that held those in the castle in its grasp grew ever stronger.

‘I would ride today,’ the countess said, one morning after breakfast. ‘Will you come with me, Sophia?’

In surprise, Sophia said, ‘Of course.’

‘We need not trouble Mr Hall, I think. He is yet occupied.’ The countess smiled, and added, ‘I believe I have a riding habit that would well become you.’

The countess’s chamber was larger by half than Sophia’s and looked to the sea, too, although it was not as impressive a view, as one wall of the castle intruded upon it. The bed, richly carved, had silk hangings of blue, and the chairs in the room all had backs of the same blue silk, artfully reflected in the gilt-edged looking glass that caught the daylight from the narrow windows. Blue was clearly a favourite colour of the countess, because the velvet riding habit that she spread upon the clothes-press in the ante-chamber was blue as well, a lovely deep blue like a clear loch in autumn.

‘My hair was the same shade as yours once,’ the countess said, ‘and I did always believe that this habit looked well on me. My husband brought it back from France. He chose it, so he said, to match the colour of my eyes.’

‘I could not wear a thing so precious to you.’

‘Nonsense, child. I had rather that you would make use of it than it should lie in a corner, unworn. Besides,’ she added, ‘even were I not in mourning, there is no known magic that could make this fit my waist. Come, take it, wear it, that I might have a companion on my ride.’

The groom who brought the horses round to them was Rory, the same young man whom Sophia had seen rocking on his chair and watching Kirsty in the kitchen that first morning, when she’d lost her way. She’d seen him several times since then, but always he had passed her with a downturned glance, and only nodded briefly to her greeting. ‘He’s nae one for talk,’ was Kirsty’s explanation, when Sophia asked if she had somehow given him offence. ‘He told me once there were so many folk lived in his house when he was just a bairn, that now he likes a bit of peace.’

Sophia said good morning to him anyway, and Rory nodded, silent, as he helped her to the saddle. He had given her the same horse she had ridden north from Edinburgh, a quiet mare with one white stocking and a way of twitching back her ears to catch the slightest sound or word.