Gosford's Daughter (2 page)

Even as she stood before her mother, the tension
evaporated between them. Dallas, in fact, had gone to a side table
to pour herself a glass of wine. Sorcha flopped down onto one of
the pillows vacated by the children.

“
I suppose you were vexed by my
lecture about your appearance,” Dallas said, settling not in her
armchair but on one of the pillows next to Sorcha.

Sorcha sighed. “Who do you think is going to see me,
some poacher who’s more grime laden than I?”

Dallas wagged a finger in her daughter’s face. “It’s
not a matter of grime, but of attending to your toilette. You’re no
longer a bairn, Sorcha, but a woman.” She gazed down at her goblet,
and a faint smile touched her lips. “I used to be rather careless
about such niceties myself. Before I met your father.”

“
You were?” Sorcha’s round-eyed look
was now genuine. “Weren’t you always modish?”

“
Modish!” Dallas all but spat out
the ruby claret. “I’ve told you a thousand times, we were poor! I
had two dresses before I married your father. Two!” She made the
number sound vulgar. Dallas put the wine goblet down on the
Moroccan carpet and rested her hand on Sorcha’s arm. “Now consider,
you’re quite bonnie, with those big green eyes and your olive skin
and that wavy black hair. Closer to beauty than I ever was, and
never mind comparing yourself to Rosmairi’s red-gold locks and
petal-pink complexion, you’re just as different from her as Magnus
and Rob are from each other.”

That was true enough: like Sorcha, Magnus had
inherited the dark coloring of his parents, but both Rob and
Rosmairi had taken after their royal grandfather. Still, at
fifteen, it was Rosmairi who drew the admiring stares of the local
lads, whether they be Fraser kinsmen or sheep herders returned from
their shielings. But Rosmairi turned to stone if one of them
spoke—even George Gordon, the braw young Earl of Huntly, who caused
her to heave great sighs of yearning. Sorcha was puzzled as to why
her sister grew so tongue-tied. “What’s the mystery, Ros?” she’d
asked a dozen times. “Laddies like George want to talk of hunting
and fishing and throwing the caber—and of themselves. Especially
themselves.”

But Rosmairi would only turn more pink than usual and
shake her red-gold head. Hopeless, Sorcha would think, and knew
instinctively that her mother agreed.

Somehow, Sorcha had managed to lose the thread of
Dallas’s discourse. Only the last few words caught her attention:
“… Then, after Magnus’s marriage to Jean Simpson, your father
and I have agreed to concentrate on yours.”

Sorcha’s jaw dropped. “God’s teeth! What of Johnny
Grant? I thought the matter was decided.”

Dallas waved her hands, the dying light catching a
huge diamond set in silver. “Don’t curse so, Sorcha. Johnny isn’t
suitable. Indeed,” she added, getting up and going to a small,
ornate silver casket where she kept her correspondence, “Johnny has
written us the most appalling letter.” Dallas unfurled the
parchment and straightened it with a bat of her hand. “Heed this,
Sorcha. ‘Being that my grandsire is in poor health and that upon
his departure from this vale of woe, I shall take on the burdensome
duties as Laird of Freuchie, it will be incumbent upon me to choose
a right-minded bride. This decision comes not lightly to me, but is
made after much soul-searching.’ ”

Dallas raised flashing eyes from the letter. “You
see—the witless wretch refuses a Catholic wife. Snaggle-toothed
viper!” She flung the letter aside.

Sorcha sat very still, trying to absorb this
shattering news. All her life, there had been a number of
comforting certainties; it would snow in winter, the flowers would
bloom in spring, the salmon would spawn in the Ness—and she would
marry Johnny Grant. It was an ideal match, rooted in old if uneasy
alliances with Dallas’s MacKintosh clan. The Grants’ native ground
lay to the east and west of Fraser country, making marriage more
feasible than war. Sorcha’s dowry included a large parcel of land
around Stratherrick’s wild yet arable ground.

As for Johnny Grant, he was a personable, honest,
intelligent youth, who—despite her mother’s scathing
remark—suffered from no worse a physical impairment than slightly
crooked front teeth. Indeed, Sorcha found his fresh blond
appearance rather attractive, especially since he had grown old
enough to sport a jaunty beard. He was the same age as Sorcha, but
had been left fatherless three years earlier, forcing him to grow
up before his time. Unfortunately, the result was stodginess rather
than maturity. While he visited Gosford’s End no more than twice a
year, he and Sorcha always found it remarkably easy to resume their
camaraderie. Marriage to Johnny Grant seemed natural, comfortable,
even inevitable. Until now.

“
Is this Johnny’s idea?” Sorcha
demanded as anger began to overcome shock.

Dallas sat down on the cushions. “I don’t know. The
present Laird of Freuchie—as well as Johnny’s father—always favored
the match.” She paused, casting a speculative glance at her
daughter. “Mayhap seeing himself about to inherit the Freuchie
lands and title, he is inclined to demonstrate his
independence.”

The green eyes glittered. “Or has found some other
bride he thinks more comely?” Sorcha’s words were tinged with
bitterness.

“
More Protestant,” Dallas sniffed in
response. “Your father and I would wager that young Johnny is
casting his lot with the ruling majority.”

Over the years, the Protestants in Scotland had
become more firmly entrenched. Queen Mary’s son, James VI, had been
but a babe when his uncle had put him on the throne in his mother’s
place. James of Moray had carefully groomed little King Jamie to
love the Presbyters and loathe the Church of Rome. Only now, Sorcha
reflected, as Jamie grew from boy to man, was he beginning to
demonstrate that while he might be an unwavering Protestant, he was
learning to use one faction against the other. Yet the Catholics
were clearly a minority, having lost ground even in their former
Highland stronghold. It was no wonder that Johnny Grant was eager
to show his allegiance to the reformed religion. But for Sorcha, it
was no comfort.

She leaned toward her mother, chin jutting. “Will
Father avenge this insult?”

Dallas actually retreated a few inches on the
cushions. “Insult? Oh—well, nay, you know how he feels about
unnecessary bloodshed. Besides,” she added hastily, seeing the fire
in Sorcha’s eyes turn to ice, “there was never a formal betrothal.
It was all … just understood.”

“
Understood poorly, it seems,”
Sorcha seethed. “Betrothal or not, am I to be unavenged as well as
humiliated?”

Reasserting her maternal authority, Dallas squared
her slim shoulders, managing to salvage some dignity despite her
squatting position on the cushions. “Here, now—you are not the only
one who has been insulted. We have all suffered, as a family. But
would you send your father and Magnus and Rob off to be butchered
in the name of honor? Don’t be as brainless as Johnny!”

Sorcha shifted her body, one hand pulling at the
long, black strands of hair. “If it’s religion that has changed his
mind, I won’t feel injured. But,” she said with a wave of her
finger, “if it’s some other chit who’s lured him away, I’ll see to
it that he pays for his perfidy! Nor will I be content with a
lesser laird!”

Fleetingly, Dallas considered reminding her daughter
that vengeance belonged to the Lord, that a seventeen-year-old
laddie wasn’t old enough to know his own name, let alone his mind,
and that, in reality, there was probably very little Sorcha could
do to make Johnny Grant lament his decision. But two things held
Dallas back: one was the Highlander’s code of honor, which brooked
no personal wrong; the other was Sorcha herself, wounded,
determined, and incapable of permitting anyone to get away with
what she considered an injustice. As if to prove the point, Dallas
glanced at the floor, where Sorcha had dumped the slimy salmon.
Even when her own mother seemed to have behaved unfairly, Sorcha
would not, could not let the matter rest.

“
The fact remains,” Dallas began in
a calm voice, “that we must now begin anew to find you a husband.
Praise the Holy Mother, Rosmairi is still too young. As for Rob, he
fancies himself in priestly vestments. Though God himself would
risk the wrath of the Presbyters if He flaunted his Catholicism.
Mayhap Rob will outgrow the notion, but until he does, your sire
and I will bide as far as marriage plans are concerned.” She paused
to adjust the short, stiff ruff that fanned out from the bodice of
her gown. “While that drooling nonentity of a king squats on
Scotland’s throne, neither your father nor I are anxious to have
you join the court. But we have thought about your going to
Edinburgh to live with your Aunt Tarrill and Uncle
Donald.”

Sorcha only half heard her mother’s words. She stared
at her tattered serge hem and dwelled on vituperative speeches to
spew at Johnny Grant. All these years, Sorcha had counted herself
fortunate for not having to suffer the indignities of being
bartered away in marriage like a sow going to market. Now, it
seemed, she was just another piece of goods, to be shunted about
from this eligible young lad to that well-off widower.

“
Edinburgh?” she said at last,
scowling at her mother. “I would rather not.”

Dallas shrugged, picked up her goblet, and took a
deep drink. “You needn’t decide immediately. Though if you are to
go, it would be wise to leave before the weather turns foul.”

Absently, Dallas tucked a strand of brown hair back
under its silver net. Only the keenest pair of eyes could find any
traces of gray, and her skin was remarkably unlined. Yet age had
touched her about the eyes and jawline. It had also added character
and strength. She made as if to get up, but stopped, resting on one
knee. “There is no one else here you care about, I gather?”

The question was just a trace too sharp to be devoid
of suspicion. But Sorcha met her mother’s gaze head-on. “No.
Certainly not.” She suppressed a sigh of relief as she saw her
mother give the briefest of nods.

It had not been a real lie. Sorcha knew her mother
was asking if there was anyone else she wished to marry. And there
wasn’t. Niall Fraser had been a groom until just six months ago,
when his master had put him in charge of the stables. He was some
distant kin, of course, but of lowly birth and scarcely a suitable
mate for the daughter of Lord and Lady Fraser of Beauly.

Nor was Sorcha assured of any deep, reciprocal
affection on his part. He appeared to enjoy her company when they
went riding or hunting or fishing or walking over the moors. He
would take her hand when they were away from prying eyes, and there
had been that magical if confusing moment just a week ago by the
burn when he’d tentatively kissed her. Rawboned, tall, auburn
haired but swarthy of skin, Niall had reached his twentieth
birthday that summer. Like all the Fraser servants he could read
and write—Dallas insisted upon that—and he was an expert horseman,
a fine hunter, and an uncannily lucky fisherman. Besides his
ignoble birth, Niall’s only serious flaw was that he seldom
laughed. It wasn’t that he was so somber, but he rarely found humor
in the commonplace situations that often sent Sorcha into peals of
laughter.

It was to Niall that Sorcha fled the following
morning. A heavy mist crouched low over Gosford’s End, all but
hiding the stables until she had nearly reached the door.

Niall was tending a fractious bay mare that seemed to
be suffering from bloat. The feed, he explained, after dismissing
two stable boys so that he and Sorcha might speak privately.

“
It’s new, from this year’s harvest.
She has trouble digesting it,” He frowned deep furrows creasing the
swarthy forehead. “But why only this one? I must make her a special
brew.”

“
My parents want me to live in
Edinburgh,” Sorcha announced, more concerned about her own problems
than those of the bay mare. “I think I’d hate it.” Involuntarily,
she glanced around the stable; such a disparaging opinion of
Edinburgh would be heresy to Lady Fraser.

“
I’ve never been there,” said Niall,
patting the horse’s neck before turning to Sorcha. “ ’Tis said
to be fine, bigger than Inverness.”

“
I don’t care if it’s big as Spain,”
Sorcha declared, hands on hips. “I’d rather stay here where I can
ride and hunt and fish.” With you, she wanted to add, but lacked
the nerve.

“
You’ve been there. Are you so
certain you’d hate it?” The blue eyes were probing, but then they
usually were. Niall liked to ask questions, though at times he
didn’t seem to care much about the answers.

“
It’s full of people, many of them
poor and ragged. It’s noisy, and there are too many Protestants who
make you spend hours in church singing tedious hymns. Some of the
houses are so high you can’t see the sun. I’d feel all closed
up.”

“
Then don’t go.” Niall gave her the
scantest of smiles. “His Lordship won’t force you.”

Sorcha mentally noted that Niall was probably right.
But Lady Fraser was another matter. If her mother had made up her
mind that Sorcha would go to Edinburgh, then it was only a matter
of time.

“
I’m not going to marry Johnny
Grant.” She gave Niall a sidelong glance. “He won’t marry a
Catholic.”

Niall tested the hinges of the bay mare’s stall. “Ah.
Many won’t. They hate popish ways.”

“
I think Johnny hates me.” Sorcha
pouted, but Niall wasn’t watching her. “In all those years he
visited, he never kissed me.”

“
Mayhap he lacked the nerve.” Niall
closed the gate to the stall and turned to face Sorcha. “I hear
we’re overrun with rabbits again. Would you be thinking of thinning
them out with me?”