The Wild Rose of Kilgannon (37 page)

My brother nodded at me. "And for most of us," he said. "Then call him Robbie. It's plain who you're talking about. If someone asks you, tell them he's named after his grandfather. Or his
favourite
uncle. Or Randolph."

"But they won't ask me, Will. They'll just talk about me behind my back and they'll say that he's named after Robert."

"Mary," said Will, "since when do you care what they say about you? Or if you do care, since when do you let it change your
behaviour
? If it bothers you, call him Harry. Or Lowell. Or Keith. Or Boy. Or whatever 'boy' translates into in Gaelic. You're making too much of it. Decide and you'll grow accustomed to it in time."

I met his eyes and smiled at him. "Dear Will," I said, but could say no more. He
gently
took my hand in his.

"It's lovely to have you home, Mary. I hope you'll stay after Alex ... I hope you'll stay. Betty and I must see to Grafton, so you and the boys could live here. I've told you, this will be your home forever. Despite the circumstances, despite everything, it's lovely to have you here." I nodded and ignored my tears and his moist eyes.

"Thank you," I said. "Thank you, Will."

I was walking down the terraces at Kilgannon, going slowly toward the dock. My skirts were
rustling
, the crisp swish of my taffeta petticoats sounding with every step, but I could hear nothing else. That was strange, I knew, for Kilgannon was seldom quiet, but I was unconcerned about that. Or anything. I was detached. There was no one about and I walked toward the loch as if drawn there. The mist hung low over the water, obscuring the surface and the end of the dock. The sun glinted above it and gleamed off the wet grass in the meadow to my right but could not penetrate into the white cloud. At the dock I stopped while the hush roared in my ears and the mist rose higher in front of me. I waited serenely.
Faintly
at first and then slowly, slowly more
distinctly
, came the figure of a man walking toward me from the end of the dock. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore a kilt, and as he grew closer I realized without surprise that it was Alex. He wore the same clothes he'd worn when he'd left Kilgannon, although his legs and feet were bare and his bonnet was missing. His hair was loose and flowed around his shoulders, but something was different. A dark shape was caught in it. As I watched him walk slowly toward me I tried to determine what it was, but I could not. Behind him the dock disappeared into the fog. I could see him clearly now, his expression calm, and as he closed the gap between us I opened my arms for him and smiled.

And then he was in my embrace. Before I closed my eyes I saw that it was seaweed in his hair, and I reached up to touch it. His hair was dry, as were his clothes, but the seaweed was cold and wet, and I withdrew my hand, repulsed, and wrapped my arm around him. He was solid in my arms, his lips next to my ear, and he whispered, "Mary," as he held me to him. I could feel the wool of his plaid next to my cheek, and I tightened my grip. Alex, I thought. At last. But when I opened my eyes he was gone and I saw my arms holding only air. I lowered them slowly, looking at my hands. There was water on the fingers that had touched the seaweed, and I stared at it while the mist enclosed me.

I must have made some sound, for when I woke to find myself sitting in bed, my hands outstretched in front of me, the echo of my voice still hung in the air. Of my room. In Mountgarden. I looked wildly around, expecting at any second to be transported back to
Scotland
. I touched my face and the bedcovers to be sure, but this was all too real. Alex was dead. I was certain of it. I moaned and jumped from the bed, rushing to and fro in a frenzy, as if by moving things from one surface to another I could erase the images I'd seen. Alex was dead. The
memory
of my visit to the Tower washed over me, and I could hear my voice demanding, "Come to me after death. If it is possible, come to me. Promise me!" and his answering, "If it is possible, I will come to you." Oh, dear God, I prayed as I sank to my knees beside the bed. Dear God, do not let this be true. But I could not still the voice in my head that said it was. Alex had come to me as I had asked, and on this icy morning, as I stood on the brink of hysteria, I knew he was gone. He was with Angus now. And
Harry
. And Duncan.

How I got through that day and the next and the next I do not know. It must have been the children that kept me getting up each morning and functioning. I remember
little
of it, only Will worriedly asking me what was wrong and me muttering a reply about seaweed. I knew I was in serious trouble on the third day when Jamie came upon me talking to myself in the hallway.

"Mama," he said, taking my hand in his own and looking into my face with a frightened expression. "Mama, the baby needs you."

I stared down at him, noting the untidy hair falling around his face, the blue eyes dark with fear. Alex must have looked like this at his age. Mary, you cannot do this, I told myself. Ton will not do this. Taking a deep breath, I knelt before him, holding both his hands in mine. He looked into my eyes, waiting. I smiled at Alex's son. "And so do you, Jamie, my love. You need me too. And I need you," I said, gathering him to me. The embrace was no substitute for the one I had dreamed, but it would have to do. He hugged me
tightly
, his arms around my neck.

I waited. What
exactly
I was waiting for I never defined. News. Confirmation. A brisk letter from a stranger that would open, "Dear Madam, I regret to inform you ..." Nothing came. I did not tell Will nor Louisa of my dream; I told no one. I had no doubt they would think me mad, so I kept my fears to myself. They are only fears, I told myself, only fears. I know nothing for certain. But every time I closed my eyes I saw my fingers touching seaweed caught in golden hair and heard his voice whisper my name.

The days passed. Our only visitors were the neighbors and the only letters from Louisa, who wrote daily. And then, on a cold and dark Thursday when Will and Betty were out, I got two letters, one from Gilbey, the other from the high judge, Lord Webster. It was addressed to Mistress MacGannon and I held it in my hand, terrified of what it would say. "Alex," I whispered, but there was no answer.

Lord Webster's letter was brief. He had written to ask me if I wanted to visit my husband. Immediately. I folded Gilbey's letter and put it in my pocket. "Alex," I said. It was a prayer. So my dream had been wrong. Alex was alive.

W
E REQUERED ANGUS IN A SNOWSTORM, BUT I don't think Matthew noticed," wrote Gilbey. "He stood over his father's cairn until we led him away, and then he sat in the hall before the fire, staring into the flames. He fell asleep in front of a bowl of soup and he slept for two days." Angus had been buried on the steep slope that ran up to the mountains on the far side of the loch, next to his Mairi, and his two daughters, near the ruin of the house where Angus and Mairi and Matthew had lived, the house that Angus and Alex had pulled down after Mairi and the baby had died. When the short ceremony was finished, Matthew built the cairn over his father while Gilbey and Dougall and Thomas handed him rocks, their fingers frozen and shaking, then they stood as Seamus played "MacGannon's Return" into the storm.

"We will make sure all is well here, Mary," Gilbey wrote, "and then we'll return to be with you. I'm sending this with a MacDonald who's going to London for his own reasons. We won't be long."

I reread the letter and folded it neatly, putting it in my pocket again, and sighed as I looked out die window. It seemed we were no closer to London than we had been an hour ago. Beside me, Henrietta dozed, her head against the side of the coach, and on the seat opposite, my sleeping baby was strapped into a carrying cradle.

Lord Webster had sent more than a letter. He'd also sent men and a coach, saying that they would accompany me to London. He asked me to come at once, so that, he'd written, "you may see your husband before his sentence is delivered and performed." Performed. I had
little doubt what he meant. One
would not say performed of a pardon. Executions were performed, not amnesties.

Despite the staffs and the boys' strenuous objections, I had gone with the judge's men. It was only a trip to London, I told them. Once at Louisa and Randolph's, I would write and let them know I was safe. They had not been pleased but the thought of seeing Alex swept me past their protests and into the coach. We left an hour after I received the letter, for the judge's men were openly impatient to leave and so was I. Alex, I thought. Of all of our visits, this would be the hardest. And the last. Of that, I had no doubt. My eyes filled with tears again and I chided myself I would have to find some courage before I saw him again.

As we entered London, I peeked out the window trying to see landmarks, but nothing was familiar. When we passed St. Paul's heading east I knew we were not going to Louisa's and knocked on the roof. When that was ignored, I called to the driver. Neither he nor the footmen would answer my questions, and I began to be alarmed. Still, I told myself, it was possible that I was being brought to see Alex before going to Louisa's. We were heading toward the Tower and I comforted myself with that idea until we turned north, away from the river. Then I demanded to know where we were going and threatened to scream unless they told me. That, at least, got a reaction, but not the one I wanted. The coach jolted to a stop and two footmen leapt into the coach with us, waking the baby as they pushed his cradle aside and sat opposite me, their expressions hostile. The coach lurched forward.

"Madam," said a footman through clenched teeth, "you are going to Lord Webster's house. If you scream or attract any further attention to yourself we will make you very quiet. Is that understood?" I lifted my chin but one look at the man, who put a hand on my son and looked at me with obvious meaning, silenced me. I nodded and reached for my child. We rode the rest of the way in uncomfortable stillness, Henrietta looking with huge eyes at me and then at the men. I looked at the baby or out the window, my anger growing. I would have something to say to Lord Webster about this.

When at last we arrived, I stepped onto the gravel driveway of a small manor house on the outskirts of London, isolated and fenced, the foliage dense between the house and the road. I looked up at the shuttered house with a sinking heart, telling myself that Lord Webster intended for me to meet Alex in this secluded spot for the simple reason that it was so hidden. With that thought in mind I went inside. We were led by a silent sullen woman to an upstairs room that faced the driveway. As she closed the door behind her I crossed the room and opened the shutters. And heard the bolt being shot on the door behind me. Turning, I looked across the room in surprise, certain I was mistaken, but Henrietta, who met my eyes with a
started
look, had heard the same thing and said so. I tried the door. It was bolted from the outside and I knocked at first, then banged on it, shouting. There was no answer. Crossing the room again to the window, I looked at the men who had lingered on the gravel below and realized that they were not footmen. They were guards. "Oh, my dear God," I said aloud, "what have I done?"

What I had done was deliver myself, my baby, and the innocent Henrietta into the hands of our enemies. But I did not recognize that at first. No one came near us for two days except to bring us food or water or to empty the chamber pot. My luggage, scanty as it was, had been searched before it was delivered to us, and the speechless woman who served us also took the baby's linen away. She never looked at us. Two men stood guard at our door at all times.

On the evening of the second day, a carriage rolled onto the drive. Henrietta and I watched anxiously as Lord Webster stepped out and walked into the house. Twenty minutes later the guard summoned me. I followed him downstairs, my thoughts in a storm, and was shown into a small
parlour
where I waited. Within moments the judge swept into the room as though it were Westminster. I studied him, trying to determine his purpose. I did not want to anger him if he truly intended to let me see Alex, but I was less than pleased by this treatment. He bowed before sitting ceremoniously in one of the chairs opposite me and watched me with hooded eyes.

"Madam. You will, no doubt, have some questions as to why you have been sequestered here."

"I do," I said,
trying
to keep my tone equivocal.

"I grew
very
weary of you disrupting my court."

I bent my head. "For that I am truly sorry. It was not intended, sir. I was overcome by the announcement of the verdict."

"That was once, Mistress MacGannon. I meant every time you came to court. No one was paying attention to the issues. They were watching you and your husband."

"I am not responsible for that."

"Exactly what your husband said."

I waited, still unsure of this man or his mood. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his bony knees.

"Mistress MacGannon, your husband is dead." I stared at him, unable to think, let alone speak as he watched me with that predatory gaze. "He drowned."

Drowned, I thought, remembering my dream.

"Do you understand?" Webster demanded. I shook my head. "Stupid woman. Your husband drowned whilst attempting to escape."