The Patriot (27 page)

Pursing his lips he inclined his head and their hands parted.

"It. . . had to be, Andrew," she declared, low-voiced. "And Henry is good, fine. We are . . . very happy."

"I am glad of that, at least!" That was stiff.

"It was for the best," she said, looking into a flickering, aromatic birch-log fire.

"Good! For the best is always . . . admirable!"

"Andrew." She laid a hand on his arm. "You must understand. Or all is
...
a ruin."

He took a deep breath. "Yes. Oh, yes - you are right. Understanding. That is what is required."

"It will come, my dear." She straightened up. "Now - you will be hungry, tired. You will wish to wash, whilst I see to a meal." With relief to both she became the busy, effective housewife, little as he had thought of her as such. "A glass of wine, first? Have you ridden far today?"

"No. Only from Beil . . ."

Later, as they sat at table, with Leezie departed again, although both carefully sought to avoid the subject of the marriage for a while, inevitably they came round to it. They had got to the matter of Henry's release from Haddington Tolbooth when Margaret, in her account of it, hesitated.

"They . . . they required tokens, proofs. That he would no longer work against them, against the government," she said. "It was necessary to give these, give something to convince them."

"But Henry was
not
working against them, was he? He was never the one for that." "He was sending
you
moneys." "My own moneys."

"Yes. But you were an active enemy of the government, condemned. An outlaw. So Henry was - how did Father put it? - compounding your offence. So they imprisoned him and forfeited your estate."

"Yet moneys continued to come. Less, but still some. From whom?"

"Shall we say from your friends, Andrew?" "From
you,
Margaret?"

"Only a little.
I
have not much money. Only what my mother left me." "Your father, then?" "And others. Well-wishers."

"All, all compounding my offence! You and your father and others all putting themselves at risk, for me. Oh, Margaret, Margaret!"

"It was the least that we could do. It had to be."

"Had to be? That is what you said before. About your marriage. It had to be. Why?"

"Do you not see? I told you, tokens were required, to win Henry's release. Here was one. If he was to wed Sir David Carnegie's daughter, we, the Carnegies, would stand as, as sureties. I think that is the word. Sureties for his good behaviour . . ."

"Lord! So you sold yourself to get him out! Because of
my
offence. Of a mercy - not that!"

"No, no - that is nonsense, Andrew. Foolish talk. I did not sell myself. I have always been fond of Henry and he of me. It might have . . . come to that, anyway. He had asked me, more than once. To be his wife. So now, it was . . . convenient."

"Convenient! Convenient for
Henry,
yes! But you! And me . . . and me . . . !"

"Yes, for you, too, Andrew. Moneys could still be sent to you. Henry could watch over your estate, for this Lord Dumbarton in name but really for you. I think, not married to a Carnegie, that would not have been possible."

"Damn the estate and the moneys! What of we?"

"Yes, what of you, Andrew?"

He blinked at the way she said that, and at her direct gaze across the table. He swallowed.

"I loved you. Love you, now. Always shall do. And hoped. Hoped and prayed . . ."

She moistened her lips. "I am sorry, sorry! But-hoping and praying were not enough, my dear. Did you ever say so? Ever write it in words? Ever act the lover?"

"I could not. How could I? A rebel, a hunted man with a price on my head. How could I offer myself to any woman? But I loved you. And thought that you knew it. And, and might, in your heart . . ." He left the rest unsaid.

She said no word either, for a little, but a single tear trickled down her cheek.

He shook his head, then reached out and touched her arm. "Forgive me, lass. It is done and cannot be undone. You are my brother's wife. It will be difficult for me. But difficulties are made to be overcome, they say!"

"Henry and I are . . . happy, Andrew," she said - and that was almost a plea.

"Yes. So you said. I shall not forget, never fear! Now-tell me of your cousin, John Graham, now so great. I saw him in London. But Johnnie Belhaven tells me that he has married
..
. ?"

"Yes. To Jean Cochrane, granddaughter of the Earl of Dundonald
..."

When, presently, it was time to retire, Andrew took her gently in his arms and kissed her brow.

"My dear," he said. "We have new burdens to bear, I fear. I do not wish to add to yours. But
...
I am going to require your good help. You will know that, and understand? I do, and say, unwise things, at times. We will, we must, inevitably see much of each other. It will not be easy. But with your aid and forbearance, I will contrive it. Not to hurt Henry. Nor yourself."

"I shall need help, too, Andrew - do not think otherwise. Go now, my dear - and good night."

Henry Fletcher arrived back from Edinburgh the next afternoon; and however mixed were Andrew's feelings over this reunion, those of his brother were of sheer, uncomplicated joy and affection. Which in turn, of course, helped the other to keep his own in order. Henry had changed, in appearance and manner, remarkably little over the intervening years, still the slight, sensitive, vulnerable-seeming young man, attractive in a boyish way, so essentially prepossessing. Whatever his previous doubts and fears as to their relationship in these new circumstances, it was not long before Andrew was feeling as protective as ever towards his younger brother - with, inevitably, a consequent strengthening of his resolve to keep those relations on a right and proper footing vis-a-vis Margaret. He fairly quickly perceived, also, that the protective fondness was not confined to himself, that Margaret's undisguised affection for her husba
nd had quite a degree of mother
liness about it - which, somehow, was no little comfort to himself.

Henry, naturally, was eager to learn all that had befallen his admired brother during their long separation and Andrew had to satisfy this to some extent before he could do his own questioning. Since Margaret had heard much of it, he suggested that Henry and he should go for a walk, whilst the light lasted, for he longed for some sight of his own place and old haunts. But Henry strongly advised against this, pointing out that there were now many of Lord Dumbarton's people about the Saltoun district, managing the estate, farms, mills and so on, and these must not learn of the Laird's return lest they inform the authorities. Their own folk, no doubt, were to be trusted; but even these would be bound to talk amongst themselves and the word could soon reach other ears. Little as Andrew might relish hiding furtively on his own property, he could not blink the realities of the situation. There was still a price of £1,000 for his head, dead or alive.

So the brothers had to talk walking round and round the comparatively small walled-garden and orchard of the dowery-house, on that crisp afternoon of early January. On the subject of Andrew's danger, He
nry admitted that he was in two
minds. His political enemies were still in power and undoubtedly would wish to apprehend him; but whether they would actually execute him now would depend on the dynastic situation and how much protection Andrew could expect from William of Orange.

"I have served William reasonably well. We may not see eye to eye on all matters, but I do not think he would smile on any who maltreated me, Henry."

"So I would have calculated. If he were King. But how likely is he to become King?"

"In England, I think, very likely. But here, is another matter."

"You believe James could remain King of Scots, with William King of England?"