Susan Johnson (13 page)

Although she’d never trust him completely, and her bodyguard was ever alert to her security, she’d not heard
from her father since Harbottle. This offered her a modicum of comfort.

Returning to Three Kings in Redesdale almost immediately after leaving Goldiehouse, her spring had been consumed by construction plans. With Munro’s consent, she’d continued to ask his advice, and they’d exchanged letters on a regular basis.
⁶
She’d taken a hand in many of the construction drawings herself, and was proud of her newfound skill. While she’d hired a local master to help her and oversee the building, she’d often think of some new question to ask Munro. By June he’d begun teasing her that they were single-handedly supporting the local postal system, for he often sent along architecture books with his letters. And Mrs. Reid, who always referred to Elizabeth as “that sweet Lady Graham,” had taken to sending along fresh produce or new-baked pies or other household items she thought Elizabeth would enjoy. Recently, the parcels had reached such proportions, two Ravensby men had begun driving them to Redesdale.

And while none of this was deliberately concealed from the Laird of Ravensby, since he’d not been in residence at Goldiehouse except briefly since the exchange at Roundtree, he only became aware of the interchange when he returned from Edinburgh in early June.

Returning from the stables after an early morning ride, the fragrance of Mrs. Reid’s strawberry tarts had drawn him to the kitchen entrance, where he’d found her carefully packing the pastries into cushioned wooden crates.

“Now drive careful like—watch the potholes and no sudden stops,” she admonished the two men helping her arrange the confections in the heavily ladened cart. “I dinna want tha’ pies to be al’ mush for the sweet Lady Graham.”

At the sound of Elizabeth’s name Johnnie literally stopped in his tracks and stood for a moment on the gravel drive, thinking he must have misunderstood.

“An when ye ken the Lady Graham, tell her the new peas are fresh this morn so eat them right soon. And the tatties are from the hothouse, not last season’s. And
we’ll have fresh strawberries for two weeks more, so I’ll be sendin some along next time too.”

Elizabeth’s name shouldn’t have struck him so profoundly. He’d considered Roxie’s company sufficient to reduce memories of Elizabeth Graham to the far reaches of his mind. But this commerce between their homes brought her intimately into his life again. As though they shared a residence again—or at least a housekeeper, he wryly thought. And he struggled with his composure, for he instantly visualized her again as she’d been that last morning in bed. It seemed as though he could smell her.…

Until he realized Mrs. Reid’s clover soap was triggering the sensations. Its fragrance was so vividly reminiscent of Elizabeth’s skin, he’d refused to use it since her departure.

“You’re up early, Johnnie,” Mrs. Reid said, noticing him when she turned around from her ministrations in the cart. “Are ye hungry after your ride?”

He ignored her question and mildly inquired, “What do we have here?” He wanted to know how long the exchanges between his home and Elizabeth’s had been taking place.

“We have goodies for Lady Graham I’m adding to all them books Munro’s always sending. Do ye have a message yerself ye’d be liking to send her? Jed’s memory is perfect.”

Not a message, Johnnie thought, that could be conveyed verbally by Jed. Although some comments came to mind.… Instead, he courteously suggested, “Why don’t you send her some of the new wines? Although,” he added, almost immediately, “they probably won’t travel well.”

“They travel just fine,” Mrs. Reid cheerfully retorted. “I already sent her two cases of champagne, since fine ladies do like that specially.”

He found himself smiling, not only at his lack of control in his household but at the charming picture of Elizabeth enjoying his champagne. Or did she not drink? he wondered. That night in the tower room, she’d refused his offer of wine.

How little he knew of her, he reflected, considering how she’d insinuated herself so powerfully into his thoughts the past months. In Edinburgh Roxie had helped of course to displace the remembrance, as had the busy incoming trade on their ships and his trips to the Continent. But whether he was drinking or sober, awake or sleeping, busy or at leisure, Lady Graham had figured prominently in his thoughts.

“Where’s Munro?” he asked. He found he suddenly wished to know if Munro knew if Elizabeth drank champagne. As if the contentment and rhythm of his day turned on such a triviality.

And when he found his cousin minutes later in the library per Mrs. Reid’s directions, he sank into a chair opposite him and bluntly said, “Does she drink champagne?”

“Are you referring to any ‘she’ in particular?” Munro facetiously replied, looking up owlishly from a rare copy of Vitruvius’
De Architectura
, wondering why it had taken Johnnie so long to come to him for enlightenment. He’d been home for two days.

“Yes, one in particular, and you have two seconds to give me the right answer,” he said in a sulky drawl, “or I’ll have those new walls taken down by sunset.”

“She enjoyed it very much,” Munro primly replied, “but when people are rude to me,” he added with soft emphasis, “I find I forget so many things—”

“Bastard.”

“And I thought you didn’t care about women,” Munro succinctly retorted.

“I don’t care about women, plural. One in particular is driving me insane, as you well know.”

“And the beautiful Roxie isn’t extinguishing the flame?”

“Only transiently. Tell me now, before I strangle you.”

“I accept your apology,” Munro said with a grin. “What do you want to know?”

“What she’s doing, how she looks, is she seeing anyone, mostly is she seeing anyone?”

And Munro commenced to tell Johnnie what he knew.

Numerous questions later, satisfied he’d heard all Munro could tell him, Johnnie thanked his cousin. “She seems content,” he went on, “and her father’s keeping his distance. Good.” And then, as if none of their conversation had taken place, Johnnie said, “Can you be ready to leave with me by the fifteenth?”

“For?”

“The sessions in Edinburgh, of course. Where else?”

“I thought you might be visiting Lady Graham, after your keen curiosity in her life.”

“I may be interested, but I’m not completely witless,” he said with a smile. “Elizabeth Graham represents a veritable Pandora’s box of political and personal repercussions that could raise havoc with my purely
selfish
life,” he added in a lazy drawl. “
No
woman is worth that sacrifice,” he said with finality. “Now if you don’t need me today, after breakfast I’m riding over to the Blackwood estate to check the state of the timber for cutting.” He stood quickly, impatient to be off.

At Munro’s wave of dismissal he smiled and left.

But despite his bland denial about the degree of his interest in Elizabeth, he found it increasingly difficult to dislodge her image from his mind.

And when his estate manager, Gibson, sat down to dinner with Mrs. Reid and the majordomo that evening in Mrs. Reid’s parlor, he said, “The Laird seemed preoccupied at Blackwood today. I had to ask every question twice, and he still didn’t always respond. Do you think the possible war with England’s on his mind?”

“Umph,” Mrs. Reid pronounced. “As if a little war would make him daft. It’s that woman he locked up here for a week. That sweet Lady Graham. If you ask me, he should take himself down to Three Kings and get her off his mind one way or another.”

“But she’s English,” Gibson said, a degree of shock in his voice.

“As if our own Scottish kings haven’t married an
English on occasion,” Mrs. Reid returned with vigor. “And many a magnate has gone south for a wife.”

“But England’s garrisoning the Border castles,” the majordomo reminded her.

“It don’t mean ordinary folk can’t go about their business.”

“But the Laird dinna be ordinary folk,” Gibson noted.

“Aye,” Mrs. Reid said with a sigh, “and I suppose that’s the rub.”

Johnnie had been in Edinburgh for a fortnight before Parliament reconvened on July sixth. For two weeks, talk had been volatile and contentious, days and nights spent at Patrick Steil’s planning tactics. Perhaps a more important battle than any military one, this summer’s session could well determine the future of Scotland’s independence movement.

“Do you think Tweedale will recognize you on the floor today?” Johnnie asked Andrew Fletcher as they walked to Parliament on the first day.

“If not today, tomorrow,” the older man replied.

As it turned out, it was a week later before the Laird from Saltoun had his turn to speak. The opening was delayed to allow nobles from outlying areas to arrive; then challenges to seating had to be resolved, and a day was required to read the letter from Queen Anne. The missive was couched in terms of urgency, if not desperation, after the Parliament of 1703 had failed to approve the Court’s two main objectives: a vote of supply to pay
the armed forces and the approval of the Hanoverian Succession to the throne.

Andrew Fletcher, the natural leader of the Country party, was a man of ideals who appealed to all those weary of the selfish machinations of the Court and its cohorts. He spoke of Scotland’s need for independence in terms of the classical government of Greece; and while many held less visionary opinions than he, most Scotsmen wanted what he wanted.

For the next two weeks, through four sittings of sessions and fourteen days of behind-the-scenes tactical maneuvering by the Court and the opposition, during heated debate where passions ran high, fundamental issues about Scotland’s future were emphatically debated.

Johnnie spoke eloquently against the Navigation Acts that had effectively shut out Scotland from most of the world’s markets unless one’s fleet was equipped with fast cruisers to outrun the British navy. He also spoke twice in defense of the volatile issue of refusing a vote of supply for England’s army, literally putting his life on the line in sessions where hands often rested on swords and the possibility of duels was a daily occurrence. He believed passionately in the issues of independence, and many nights he went without sleep in order to devise new strategies to check an unexpected maneuver of the Court.

The two weeks of trying to pull together fragmented factions in order to pass the necessary resolves culminated on July twenty-fifth, when a new overture was offered on the vote of supply. Essentially Roxburgh suggested that if there was no independence for Scotland, there must be no money for England’s armies. Roxburgh’s overture carried by an overwhelming majority.

Tweedale, the Queen’s Commissioner, immediately adjourned the sessions for ten days, giving him time to parley with London.

Talk ran high that night in Edinburgh and the adjacent countryside of their having won their way clear of England at last, of London being forced to approve the Act of Security or lose the desperately needed funds for the army. Marlborough was even now planning his march
to Blenheim, so military uncertainty was a powerful reason for England to avoid provocation of Scotland. The mood at Roxane’s dinner party the evening of the twenty-fifth was jubilant. A multitude of toasts were proposed to all who had worked so hard to resist the pressures of the Court.

“And may Queensberry burn in hell with his tainted money,” Hatton declared in defiance, raising his glass to the table at large, vilifying the man.

“After he answers for his liability first here on earth,” Johnnie cheerfully noted, his glass, newly refilled, lifted high.

“We’ll pass the resolve on accounts after the adjournment,” Lord Rothes said, his voice raspy after two weeks of shouting in the sessions. “Damned if we won’t. And then Queensberry can pay up the forty-two thousand pounds he used for bribery.”

“Or sell his daughter to you, Lanarck … to raise the money,” Roxane suggested, a faint smile on her lovely face. “So what do all of you plan for the adjournment?” Roxane inquired into the hum of conversation. “Could I interest anyone in a sailing excursion between your councils of war at Patrick Steil’s club?”

And a tentative time and place was settled on for two days hence. Afterward, she smiled down the long table at Johnnie, seated opposite her, playing host tonight to her assembled guests. “Did I mention we’re using your yacht, my dear?” she said.

“No, but since you generally arrange my life without prior notice,” he replied with a grin, “I assumed as much.”

“You flatter me, Ravensby,” she playfully said, his friend as much as his lover. “As if you’d let any woman order your life.”

“Or you, Roxie, let any man dictate to you,” her best friend, Elene, interposed.

“Which, no doubt, is why we get along so well …” Johnnie drawled, lifting his glass to her in salute, genuinely fond of the beautiful flame-haired woman.

“And if you wish to continue such harmonious accord,” Roxane said to Johnnie, rising from her chair, a
teasing light in her violet eyes, “you have thirty minutes to pass the decanter around after we women leave, and then I’ll expect you to bring your political discussion into the drawing room.” Her smile took in the full array of her male guests. “We’ll have spirits for you there.”