Shadows in Scarlet (30 page)

So far the account rang true, even if it wasn't word for word what James had told her. Archibald was just the type to pull on his goody two shoes and play tattletale. To play judge and jury. Amanda flipped ahead, breathing hard, anxious to see how he excused James's death. She leaped on the initial when it appeared again.

"...J—, having spent the evening in drinking and gambling with those of the less moderate among the younger officers, discovered in the course of idle conversation the truth of A—'s sudden departure, the warning I had provided, as seemed to me the least courtesy due our host, be he rebel or no, but C.E. did take my admonition as the vilest sort of insult to his own person, and so up the gracious staircase of the house he flew at me, his sword in his hand cutting great wood splinters from the banister, an act I found barbaric in the extreme. But giving me no opportunity to upbraid him for this latest misconduct, he struck me in the face, calling me a traitor to our family name (for, alas, I must admit we shared that noble appellation) and summoned me to the field of honor, whilst I, having little or no taste for such a deadly contest, plied him with soothing words. But he was well into his cups, his breath loathsome with the scent of strong liquor, and he would not accept my mollifying words but termed me a coward. At this juncture I had no choice but to accept his challenge and name as a second my friend Mac—...."

Good God!
Amanda collapsed against back of the settee. The ceiling of the library was white plaster, patterned as intricately as the top of a wedding cake, but she didn't really see it. The shot in the rose-scented dark. A duel. Donald Grant had already reamed his son for dueling.

She dived again into the manuscript, reading faster and faster, her eyes aching from deciphering the faded handwriting. But only a few more words brought the end of the story.

"...our battle was engaged forthwith, fairly and before witnesses, in the dead of night, for the regiment was to move toward the River at dawn. Poor misbegotten C.E. in his besotted haste to have revenge upon the insult he fancied I had dealt him, fired too soon and wildly, whilst my shot, fired as it was without my heart behind it, even so was by the hand of fate directed truly and so did end his unredeemed life. Like some Roman of old, he had drawn his sword in one last effort to have at me, and so in the end came to fall upon it and his own empty scabbard, which was thereby rendered unfit for use. God have mercy upon his soul and upon mine, for this deed haunts me still. My late wife never knew the truth of the matter, but upon my return bearing C.E.'s undamaged sword greeted me with the most appropriate sorrow graved upon her gentle features, and I pray I consequently pursued her favors with all the delicacy appropriate to such a difficult situation.

"As God is my witness my only sin was in the hasty and unsanctified burial of the body, out of fear that those present would be disciplined for dueling, even though none of us had begun that awful process which concluded in such an untimely death. And so to the skirmish at the crossing of the River, to be detailed below, and then coals of fire upon my head when soon afterward, within the confines of Y—, the Earl B—gave to me a letter informing the late J—of his brother's death and so of his accession to the title and the property, which had by the time of the receipt of said letter come to me, by my own hand however unwitting. Oft have I hoped to return to Virginia to provide the poor wretch proper Christian burial, but my hand was stayed by my reluctance to let my dear wife know the truth, and now that she has gone ahead of me to the Elysian Fields I am too old and infirm to accomplish my purpose, God forgive me."

End of the chapter. Was it ever the end of the chapter.

Swearing beneath her breath, Amanda jammed the manuscript back into the folder. Witnesses, she thought. Archibald had witnesses.

She reached for the bundle of letters labeled “Miscellaneous” and flipped through them. She found a note from a tacksman on the estate, a letter from some minor literary light of the period, and—yes, there were two letters dated 1783, one from Major Alexander MacDonald and one from Major Duncan MacPherson, both of His Majesty's 71st Regiment of Foot.

Amanda's patience with period-speak was fraying fast, and she skimmed quickly through the calligraphy. But it was all there: Congratulations to Archibald, Lord Dundreggan, on his recent marriage to Miss Seaton, and roundabout references to the unfortunate incident at—MacPherson at least spelled it out—Melrose, for which Lord Dundreggan bore no fault, as he was but defending his honor against the rash conduct of another.

Yeah, the “Mac——” who'd been Archibald's second would've wanted to whitewash his role in the episode. But MacDonald and MacPherson were majors, second only to Balcarres himself in the regimental pecking order. Archibald's backer had probably been another lieutenant. How many men in a Highland regiment would be named Mac-something, anyway?

Majors MacDonald and MacPherson would have stopped the duel if they'd known about it, but since James and Archibald had gone at it right away—before James had had time to sober up, let alone come to his senses—the ranking officers probably came on the scene after he was dead. They'd had no choice but to acknowledge that his death was his own damn fault. Whether they'd conspired in his hasty burial and the tale of his honorable death in battle, sparing his family the ugly truth, Amanda had no way of knowing. And, after all these years, it no longer mattered. The words had been exchanged. The shot had been fired. The damage was done.

She could see the scene, lit by lanterns, maybe, or torches, the circle of grim-faced men around James's body, his warm, vital body sprawled on the dark and bloody ground.
God.

Amanda massaged her temples. She'd found Archibald's confession after all, only—go figure—it wasn't what she'd expected it to be. And it made sense, damn it. It made perfect sense.

Carrie liked to say that researching the original sources always rearranges your preconceptions. Here was a perfect example—James's story, a verbal optical illusion that changed depending on how Amanda looked at it.

A little over two weeks ago she'd proclaimed she had no romantic illusions. Last week she'd admitted to Carrie that she did. Now those nonexistent fantasies were crashing and burning around her. The smoke of the destruction stung her eyes. But then, she'd walked into the fire with them wide open, hadn't she?

Be careful what you ask for, you might get it.

She crammed the papers back into the folder. The truth, at last, was out. And the damage was done.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Amanda looked around as though she'd never seen the room before. A sandwich and a cup of tea sat on a small table beside the settee. She touched the liquid. It was cold. Someone—Norah?—had brought her lunch and she'd never noticed her, let alone thanked her. Not, Amanda thought, that her work was engrossing or anything.

She stood up and shook the kinks out of her limbs. Malcolm wasn't there. Neither was Cerberus, although the two cats were arranged elegantly on the chairs in front of the fireplace. Margaret looked up, scanned Amanda, dismissed her, and went back to sleep.

The images of a
Star Trek
screen saver filled the computer screen. From the speakers of the CD player came several
a cappella
voices: “What force or guile could not subdue, Through many warlike ages, Is wrought now by a coward few, For hireling traitor's wages. The English steel we could disdain, secure in valor's station; But English gold has been our bane, Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!"

Amanda thought of James, eager to identify with everything English, and his family and the Frasers as well, who placed assimilation above.... Above what? Honor? Or were they just being practical? Scotland had been bled dry in hopeless quests for independence. Quite a few Scots had fought against Bonnie Prince Charlie in the ‘45.

Malcolm's accent suggested a nationalistic streak, but his consulting work for English estates confirmed his practicality. She'd have to ask his opinion when he got back.

Except for the electronic equipment and the colorful covers of some of the books, the room probably hadn't changed much since James's day. Any minute now he could walk in the door, smiling that devastating smile, his eyes filled with pain and doubt.

No, the pain and the doubt had come later, in the coherent moments of his second life. Not that he'd been using doubt and pain to play on Amanda's sympathies. It would never have occurred to him that a woman could find a hint of vulnerability attractive.

Everything James told her was true. It was just that he'd told it from his own point of view. He saw himself as Archibald's innocent victim. Now that Amanda knew the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, she also knew that James had no honor to return home with, and no right to revenge of any kind.
Crap,
she thought.
Double crap.
So much for her memories of him staying untarnished.

At least she finally knew why an officer and a gentleman had ended up buried at the foot of Melrose's garden. Because, his birth aside, James had been no gentleman.

James probably would have won the duel if he hadn't been drunk. So drunk he hadn't realized he was dead. And what had he been drinking? Some kind of rotgut, not the aromatic single-malt she'd smelled on his breath. Which proved that James's appearance and manner had been shaped not only by his image of himself, but by what she'd wanted him to be. No, she didn't have ordinary romantic fantasies. She had George Lucas special-effects epic delusions.

If James was no gentleman, Amanda told herself, then she was no lady. But then, only one of them had been playing by the double standard of the eighteenth century. Malcolm was right, there was no shame in appetite. The shame, the remorse, the chagrin, was in satisfying that appetite with a lie. The truth didn't cancel out the intense relationship she alone had shared with James. What it did was take the pathos out of his permanent departure. And that, too, was a shame.

Yes, she was going to tell his tale, even though the tale wasn't what he thought it was. What he wanted it to be.

Amanda's eyes focussed. Malcolm was standing beside her. Judging by the angle of his brows and mouth, part amused, part wary, he'd been there a while. She collected her scattered wits and smiled up at him.

"Hello, lassie,” he said. “Welcome back. Where have you been?"

"1781, mostly,” she replied. “Having hair-raising adventures in historiography."

"In Archibald's memoirs?"

"Yeah, can you believe it? Let's take a walk outside. I need some air."

"Oh aye, we should be takin’ the sunshine whilst we have it."

Malcolm turned off the CD player. Together they walked down the stairs, past the great hall and the portraits, to which Amanda gave a cold shoulder, to the front door and outside.

In the dazzling afternoon light the grass glistened so green Amanda wanted to swim in it. The green of the hills was paler, brushed with the purple of heather. Gray billows of cloud blended with the tender blue of the mountains to the west. “Is it going to rain?” she asked Malcolm.

"You see yon hillside?” he replied, pointing. “When you can see it, it's goin’ to rain. When you canna see it, it's rainin'."

Amanda laughed. She took deep breaths of the cool, clean air. Side by side she and Malcolm crunched down the driveway. Cerberus loped across the lawn toward them and for a few minutes they played with him. No wonder people kept dogs around, Amanda thought. They had no pretensions whatsoever.

At last Malcolm stood, his knees damp and grass-stained, his hair once again tousled. “So then, I'm wantin’ to hear the amazin’ tale. This way."

He led her through the wrought-iron gate into the walled rose garden. Blossoms of every shape and color nodded against the silvery stone walls, filling the air with fragrance. Amanda craned her neck to look four stories up the tower keep, toward the windows of her bedroom and bath. Cerberus followed, checking out every bush with a sniff and pausing to anoint a few select ones.

A stone bench sat in a sunny corner of the wall, framed by dark pink rambler roses.
The garden,
James had said,
where we plighted our troth.
For a little while, maybe, he and Isabel had been happy together, he handing her a flower with a bow, she accepting with a curtsey. Until he found her passing the time of day with Archibald, who bailed out and left James to his jealous tantrum. It would never have occurred to Isabel, Amanda guessed, to be jealous of James not only speaking to other women but bedding them. Isabel would have the wedding ring and the Mrs. in front of her name, and whatever affairs he carried on after the marriage she would have suffered in silent dignity. Or maybe even relief, considering that Dr. Ruth's How-To books were well in the future.

"A penny for your thoughts,” Malcolm said.

"I'm just glad I didn't live in the eighteenth century.” Amanda sat down on the sun-warmed stone of the bench and patted the space beside her. “Sit down. It's quite a story."

Malcolm sat down. “Fire when ready."

"Oh, I'm ready,” she told him. “It all started when Dr. Hewitt dug up some human bones in the gardens behind Melrose Hall. With all the insignia it didn't take long to identify James. Carrie, my friend at the library, and I started looking into his life. The problem we kept having was why he'd been reported killed in the battle, but turned up buried in the garden."

"I've been wonderin’ that masel'."

Amanda chose her words carefully, saying nothing that didn't have hard evidence to support it. “So I came up with the bright idea that his cousin Archibald found out about Donald's death, which made James the heir and Archibald himself second in line, and killed James for the inheritance—and maybe even for Isabel. He buried James at Melrose but told everyone James had died in the battle and been buried with the other casualties."

Malcolm's eyes widened. “Oh, that's a guid one. Old dry as dust Archibald, a murderer? But I dinna think you found supportin’ evidence the day."