Clandara (17 page)

“He daren't,” Katharine said. “She'll have to stay where she can't speak. Who knows what will have happened by the time this war is over or where any one of us will be … Mr. Ogilvie is coming to stay with us at the end of the month.”

“Mr. Ogilvie!” Annie's thin face grew bright. “Och, but that's great news! He hasn't been to this house for nigh on two years. Ye'll be happy to see him, I dare say. He was always a favourite with the lord and Lord Robert … Everyone at Clandara liked him.”

“I know.” Katharine stood before her mirror, while Annie unfastened her dress and helped her out of it. Her cambric nightgown was laid out to warm before the fire. “He's on his way to Inverness; he'll only be here a few nights.”

Annie pulled the nightgown over her mistress's head and straightened it, coming round to fasten the strings at her neck and wrists.

“Sit down, milady, and I'll brush out your hair for ye. The end of the month, you said?” She began to hum, and it was the first time she had dared since Robert's death. She remembered Henry Ogilvie well; a fine gentleman, handsome and quiet-spoken and so much in love with the Lady Katharine that he used to follow her about the house like a dog. If she hadn't been sent on that trip to France and met that scoundrel, she'd have been married and living at the Ogilvie's fine mansion house by the Spey. She brushed hard at the long shining hair. If he was coming again there was still hope.

There was always hope in Annie's heart; hope that the Macdonalds would be killed to a man in the first battle, hope that this time Katharine would find in Ogilvie what she had never found before, but hope for her happiness most of all.

When Katharine was in bed she tucked in the covers, settled her dressing-robe and slippers by the end of the bed and then began to examine the dresses hanging in the cupboards.

“What are you doing?” Katharine called out.

“Och, just looking through your wardrobe,” Annie said cheerfully. “It wouldn't do if he were to see you in the same dress you wore when he was last here.”

“It will make no difference what he sees.” Katharine lay back and closed her eyes. “Put out the candles, Annie, and go to bed. I know what you're thinking, and if you dressed me in gold and silver it would make no difference. I sent Mr. Ogilvie away. Nothing has changed since that day. He's coming as an old friend, and it is of no consequence to me whether I see him or not. Now go to bed.”

Annie curtsied and closed the door. She had taken no notice of her mistress, and she went to sleep listing the different gowns she would put out for each day and evening of the visit. She had a very shrewd instinct developed by long and fond observation of the woman she served. That instinct had recognized love when it came in the shape of James Macdonald of Dundrenan, it had recognised passion such as she herself had never known and had no desire to know, and it divined and pitied the agony of mind and desolation of heart which brought her mistress weeping to the ground that night in the gardens a few weeks before, when the marks of her lover's hands were still imprinted on her arms. There was no fighting James Macdonald on his own terms. No swaggering chieftain in the length and breadth of the Highlands could compete with him, but the comforting arms and gentle understanding of someone like Mr. Ogilvie might prove a serious temptation. And incurably optimistic as always, Annie felt that with the Rebellion spreading everywhere and English troops marching out to stop it, it would soon be only the ghost of James that Henry Ogilvie would have to lay.

“If your late husband spent all your money, how is it you've such a fine house?”

Janet Douglas laughed. “I didn't say he spent all,” she corrected. “Besides, I've taken good care of what was left. I'm a thrifty woman, James.”

He looked up at her over his wineglass. Like everything in the house, her table silver and china were of magnificent quality. So was her wine and the food they had just eaten which was served by two footmen.

“Thrift is a great virtue,” he said. “You're an admirable woman. Your late husband must have been a fool to leave you all alone so early!”

“On the contrary, I'm very grateful to him. I couldn't have deceived him with you if he had been alive. He would have squeezed a fortune out of me to cover his blind eye.”

She was so cynical at times that it irritated him. He did not like women to express their distrust of the world. He did not like women to do anything at all except accommodate him when and where he felt like it, to ask no questions and to make no demands. And Janet certainly accommodated him, but she did it without any suggestion that she was bestowing favours. In that situation, and in that only in their developing relationship, she gave the impression that she was receiving one. James finished his wine and she signalled for more to be served him. She did everything quietly and efficiently and with great self-confidence. It made him long to raise his arm and sweep everything off the table. And yet he came. He came most nights during his stay in Perth, and every time he went to bed with her and rose up empty and angry with himself. She had moved out of her brother's house and reopened her own to receive him. It was less embarrassing than meeting in her sister-in-law's home, for Hugh's interest was waning, and already there were nights when Margaret Macpherson had waited until dawn for the lover who did not come.

She was suffering so bitterly from wounded pride that she was packing up to follow her indignant husband, and hoped to be forgiven.

“I saw the Prince again today,” Janet said. “He was out riding in the main street and he was surrounded by women all clamouring to kiss his hand or touch him – his horse could hardly move!”

“If he could lay them all he'd be King of Scotland sooner than he thinks,” James said. “By popular acclaim.”

“What a pity he can't,” she said. “It would save a great deal of bloodshed and give everyone what they want. Will you be very angry with me if I tell you that I hate your going into battle?”

He shrugged. “Why should I be angry? As long as you don't expect to be believed … There'll be someone to take my place fast enough.” To his surprise she flushed; he had never once seen her change colour and her handsome face became quite beautiful.

“There will not be anyone in your place,” she said quietly. “And you can believe that or not as you please. But, for what it's worth, I'm shutting this house when you march on Edinburgh. I have a house there too, and I shall follow the army. I believe it's not unknown,” and she smiled.

“Janet, you're mad,” he said suddenly. “You're a pretty woman with a fortune and you sit there swallowing my insults and letting me make love to you and go, without a word of thanks or anything else … and now you talk of following the army. Give me another glass of wine.”

“I'm not mad in the least,” she said. “I'm very selfish, James. I want to be near you and that's why I'm coming. As for your insults … I understand them too. If I hadn't failed you you wouldn't leave without a word of thanks, as you say. But I'm sure that if I'm persistent and you're patient … you may thank me yet.”

“If you expect me to love you,” he said harshly, “then you will be cruelly disappointed. I am grateful for your company and I appreciate your favours in spite of my boorishness. But that is all.”

“I know,” Janet said gently. “I know very well that there is no love in any of it. I never thought there would be. And you will never be happy, and you'll never appreciate even the poor pleasures I can offer you, unless you tell me what went wrong.”

There was a moment of silence between them then. Janet sat calmly watching him, her extraordinary blue eyes considering him with an expression of gentle patience as if she had all the time in the world. James had never spoken of his personal life or his disastrous love for Katharine. He had told her nothing in spite of her calculated probing; he resented her intrusions and repulsed them brutally. But nothing daunted her. He sometimes felt that if he had struck her she would still look at him and smile and wait.

“You asked me once if she was very beautiful,” he said at last. “If it satisfies your curiosity, I'll answer that. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. If certain things had not happened last July she would by now have been my wife. I thank God for my deliverance! Now I suggest we retire. I can't stay with you till morning; there's a dawn meeting with the Prince.”

Janet rose and held out her hand to him.

“Thank you for that. Come with me now; perhaps I can make you forget her, just for an hour or so.”

It was nearly two years since Henry Ogilvie had been to Clandara; as he sat opposite Katharine and her father in the dining-room the memory of the last time he had seen them both was still so painful to him that he could hardly bear it.

He had loved her always; when she was a little child, wilful and sweet, for ever competing with him and her brother in the wildest games and roughest rides across the moors, Henry had worshipped her and protected her as much as he dared without exposing himself to Robert's teasing. As a girl, approaching maturity, he had marvelled at the way her beauty grew in proportion to her intelligence and grace. And he had come to think of her as his, to partner her automatically in every reel when the piper played for them in the evenings and to take her for long walks or rides from which her brother tactfully absented himself.

And he could remember so well the first time he kissed her, the week before she went to France, a light kiss on the lips which left him trembling and breathless and only made her smile as if it were part of the games they used to play when they were very young. He had known then that passion had not touched her and love was still a stranger to her, but he had believed that both would grow after marriage as they so often did. Her father had approved, insisting only that she went abroad to finish her education in the world, and he had let her go, content to wait and plan for their future.

But as soon as he saw her after her return, he knew that she had changed. There was no tender kiss for him, only a friendly welcome which told him more plainly than words that someone else was in her thoughts. And she had told him so when he approached her, stammering out his love and his hopes for their engagement. She could not accept, she had said gently, because she loved another man, and if that man did not succeed in winning her, then she would never marry. Henry had kissed her hand and wished her well, and left as soon as he could excuse himself. He had not returned to Clandara since, refusing the invitation to the Ball held in July because he knew then who the man was that she preferred to him. But looking at her now, Henry felt his old weakness returning.

James Macdonald had broken her heart, and his betrayal was in her face and in her voice. Not once in the last few hours had he seen her smile, and the Earl was an old, white-headed man.

“We dine quietly these days,” he said to Henry. “Forgive me for not inviting other guests, but as I told you in my letter, this is a house of mourning.”

“I much prefer to be alone with you and Katharine, sir. Believe me I have missed you both.”

He raised his glass to her across the table and she responded with the toast they used in the old days, when Robert was with them and the room was full of noise and laughter.

“To our dear Ogilvie! Do you remember, Henry? …”

“How could I forget?” he answered quietly. “To you, Katharine, and to your father; both as dear to me as mine own.”

“How is your mother?” the Earl asked him. He had been surprised and pleased to see Katharine come down to dinner wearing a fine dress of pale grey satin, her hair elaborately arranged and powdered. She had taken trouble for their guest – or Annie had, he amended – but it was still a good omen and his hopes began to rise a little.

“Very well,” Henry said. “She is away visiting her kinsman the MacLeod at Dunvegan. I thought it best not to leave her alone in Spey House at the moment.”

“I take it that the MacLeod has not joined the Prince,” the Earl said. “Very wise too. Nor have we, though Lovat's son has gone with him. I was surprised he sent no message to us since we're part of his clan.”

“The Fox of the North won't commit himself too easily,” Henry said. The head of the large family of Frasers was a notoriously cautious man, adept at choosing the winning side. He had deserved his nickname and it was given him with admiration.

“He'll wait a while longer before he goes in with the Rebellion; I've even heard it said that he's pretending not to know his eldest son is with the Prince, just to make sure of a foot in both camps!”

“I don't admire that,” Katharine said suddenly. “Fight if you believe in it, or abstain if you don't, but to pit your son against the English and stay neutral yourself – I think it's horrible. Henry, what are
you
going to do?”

“Nothing, if you've any sense,” the Earl interposed. “I tell you it's doomed, the whole enterprise! We've heard from neighbours how the Prince landed without a penny in his pocket and not enough arms to fit out a dozen men! I say it's madness – no French support, no plan of campaign, nothing. Just his name and the old appeal to rally to the Stuarts; I hope to God, Henry, that you won't be fool enough to follow him and rush to ruin like all these other fools.”

“Perhaps they aren't such fools as you think,” Henry said. He had been watching Katharine, knowing that the man who had murdered Robert was with the Prince's army. “I would say there are times when it is better to be a fool for one's honour than a wise man and be safe. That's why I sent my mother to Dunvegan. I too want a foot in both camps if I can.”

“Then you are going?” Katharine asked him. “That's why you're on your way to Inverness.”

“I've not decided,” he admitted. “I won't decide until I've seen the Prince. And if he doesn't take the Capital, then I'll return to Spey House and wait till the war is over. Without Edinburgh, he has no hope of winning. Is that sensible, Katharine, or do you think it cowardly?”