The Winter Sea (35 page)

XVI

T
HE COUNTESS AND THE
colonel were both sitting by Sophia’s bed when she awoke. She heard them talking.

‘’Tis the safest course to take,’ said Colonel Graeme, ‘for ye cannot have him here when Fleming’s ship arrives.’

‘No, that would be disastrous.’ In the soft light of the early morning no lines marked the fine face of the countess. She looked youthful, and determined. ‘No, I do agree he must be led away. But Patrick, let some other person do it. Let my son take on that burden—he is willing, and we would not see you put yourself at risk.’

‘Your son will be more needed here, with what is coming. And I doubt that Captain Ogilvie would follow him as he would me. We are old friends.’ The words were edged with bitter cynicism. ‘I do have his trust.’

The countess waited for a moment before saying, ‘I am sorry.’

‘So am I. He was the very best of men, once.’

‘He must need the money badly.’ It was very like the countess, thought Sophia, to have sympathy enough to seek excuses for a traitor. Colonel Graeme did not share her generosity.

‘A man, when he has fallen on hard times, should seek his friends,’ he said. ‘Not sell them to his enemies.’

The countess could not argue that. She only said, ‘Take care he does not sell you, too.’

‘Och, not to worry. He’ll not have the chance. I’ll not be staying once I get him there. Ye ken yourself, your Ladyship, I’m canny as a fox, and there’ll be holes enough in Edinburgh to hide me.’

On the bed, Sophia came to full awareness now and moved against the pillow, and that movement brought the heads of both the countess and the colonel round. She thought she read relief in both their faces.

‘There,’ the countess said. ‘We’ve woken her. I warned you that we would. How do you feel, my dear?’

Sophia’s head still hurt her, but the dizziness was gone, and though her body ached in places and her limbs felt stiff and bruised, she could not bring herself to make any complaint. ‘I am well, thank you.’

A flash of admiration briefly lit the older woman’s eyes. ‘Brave girl.’ She gave Sophia’s arm a pat. ‘I will let Kirsty know you are awake, so she can bring your morning draught.’

It was a measure of how highly she regarded Colonel Graeme that she left him in the room without a chaperone, although from how he sat, with booted ankles crossed upon the side rail of the bed, his lean frame firmly rooted in the rush-backed chair, Sophia doubted any force would have the power to shift him.

She looked at him and asked, ‘The countess…did you tell her…?’

‘Aye. She kens the whole of it.’ His smile was faint behind the beard. ‘I think if I’d not sent the gardener on his way already to the devil, she’d have had it done herself last night.’

‘And Captain Ogilvie?’

‘I’ve managed to persuade him to accompany me to Edinburgh. I’ve led him to believe there is some matter in the wind down there that does deserve his interest, and that he, as a supporter of King James, will want to witness. ’Twas like saying to a wolf there is a field of lambs yet further on, if ye’ve the wish to feast.’

‘So you are leaving.’ Having said the words out loud, she felt a sadness she could not express, and did not want to think of life at Slains without this man who had become to her a father and a friend.

He did not answer her, but only watched her face a moment, silently. And then he said, ‘Sophia, there is something I would ask ye.’ He had never called her by her Christian name, and from that fact she knew that what he meant to ask was serious. ‘’Tis none of my affair. But on that hill, when Wick was…’ Breaking off, as though he did not think it was a gentlemanly thing to speak of Billy Wick’s intentions, he said only, ‘He made mention of my nephew. And of you.’

She met his gaze, and did not look away. ‘He overheard us speaking in the garden.’

‘Aye, I gathered that.’ He paused, and sifted words to find the right ones. ‘As I said, I’ve no right asking, but I wondered…’

‘You were wondering what Mr Wick had overheard that night that could so interest Captain Ogilvie?’

Apparently relieved by her directness, he said, ‘Aye, that was the size of it.’

Sophia raised a hand to feel the slender chain around her neck. Slowly drawing out the ring from where it lay concealed beneath her bodice, she held it up to show him. There was no need to say anything, to make an explanation. It was plain from Colonel Graeme’s own reaction that the sight of Moray’s ring around her neck told him enough.

His smile was slow. ‘I must confess, I did suspect ye would have caught his eye. We’re not so different, John and I, and were I his age I’d have done no less than try to win ye for myself. But it does please me, lass, to see he did conduct himself with honor. Will ye marry?’

‘I did marry him by handfast, soon before he did return to France.’ She closed her hand around the ring and felt its warmth. ‘The countess does not know. John thought it best to keep the matter secret till he could return. But,’ she went on, not wanting him to think that she’d betrayed his nephew’s wishes, ‘he did say that I might show his kin.’

‘Well, I should hope so.’ He pretended indignation with the small lift of an eyebrow, though his eyes and words were serious. ‘Ye’ll find there’s not a one of us who would not walk through fire to keep ye safe for John, lass. Ye would only have to ask.’

Moray had told her so himself, but she was deeply touched to hear it said aloud by his own kinsman. ‘You have walked through fire for me already, Colonel,’ she said quietly.

‘Aye, so I have. And so I would again,’ he promised, ‘even if ye did not wear that bit of silver round your neck.’

She knew he meant it. Sudden dampness pricked behind her eyes, and since he’d always praised her courage she would not have shown him weakness, so she bent her head and made a show of concentration on concealing Moray’s ring again, lest other eyes should see it. But she did not trust her voice, and did not know the way to let the colonel know how fond she had become of him, and how much she would miss him when he’d gone.

He seemed to know without her saying, for he cleared his throat and stood. ‘Now, come and send your Uncle Patrick on his way, lass, with a smile, if ye can manage it.’

She managed it, and though the smile was not her surest one, it served its purpose, for he took her hand in his and lightly raised it to his lips. ‘I’ve no doubt I’ll be seeing ye again afore too long.’

‘I hope so.’

‘Hope,’ he told her, ‘rarely enters into it. ’Tis action moves the world. If ye mind nothing else I’ve taught ye of the game of chess, mind that: ye cannot leave your men to stand unmoving on the board and hope to win. A soldier must first step upon the battlefield if he does mean to cross it.’

With her hand still lying in his own, she said, ‘But I am not a soldier.’

‘Are ye not?’ He bent to kiss her forehead briefly, warm, then straightened and told her, ‘Well, even a pawn plays a part in defending the king.’

Once again she could feel that same tug of emotion, the longing to thank him for all he had done. ‘Colonel Graeme?’

‘Aye, lass?’

But the words, as before, failed to come. ‘Please be careful.’

‘Och, no need to worry.’ He gave her hand back to her, showing that flash of a smile that was so like his nephew’s. ‘I’ve lived all my years in the army surrounded by officers, lass, and I’ve learned to look out for a knife in the back.’

From the doorway the countess said laughingly, ‘Patrick! That is an impolitic statement to make.’

Unrepentant, he shrugged. ‘’Tis impolitic thinking that keeps me ahead of the devil, your ladyship.’ Casting a glance out the window, he noted the position of the sun above the sea and added, ‘And if I am to stay so, I must be away.’

Sophia watched unhappily as he bade them farewell and left the room, and after he had gone she kept her face turned still towards the door a moment so the countess would not see her eyes.

The countess, having settled once again into her chair beside the bed, said, ‘Colonel Graeme is a good man.’

‘Yes.’

‘He does remind me greatly of his nephew,’ said the countess lightly. ‘Do you not agree?’

Sophia nodded, cautious. ‘They are very much alike, yes.’

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the rattle of the window in the wind, and by the ever-present rush of waves against the line of rocks below the tower. When the countess spoke again her voice was quiet, and the words were simple: ‘Does he know?’

Sophia turned her head upon the pillow, her confusion so apparent that the countess softened even more and asked the question over in a phrasing that was plainer still: ‘Does Mr Moray know that you are carrying his child?’

Sophia felt as though her heart had stopped. She’d been so careful that it seemed impossible the countess could have come to guess the truth. And then she realized, ‘Kirsty told you.’ In dismay, she would have looked away again had not the countess laid a hand upon her own.

‘My dear child, no. No one did tell me. You forget I am myself a mother.’ There was dryness in her tone. ‘You must ask my own sons and daughters how they fared, when they did try to keep a secret from me.’

‘How long have you known?’ Sophia sagged against the pillows.

‘Some few months now.’

‘But you have said nothing.’

‘No. I did trust that you would come to me, in time.’

Sophia cast her gaze down. ‘I had hoped, you see, that John…that he…’

‘He does not know?’

She shook her head, intending to explain and yet not knowing how to start.

The countess gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘My dear, you must not worry. Mr Moray is an honorable man.’

‘He is much more than that.’ Sophia raised her head and drew a breath. ‘He is my husband.’

As the countess stared, surprised, Sophia drew the heavy silver ring upon its chain out for a second time and held it up as evidence. And once again it seemed her heart paused while awaiting the reaction of the woman whose opinion mattered more to her than almost any other’s.

Moments passed. And when Sophia felt she could no longer bear the silent judgment any more, the countess said at last, ‘I see there are some secrets, yet, that can escape my notice.’ She was looking at Sophia’s face as though she had not seen it before now. ‘I would not have imagined you would think to marry without asking my permission.’

Guiltily, Sophia tried to think of an apology. She would have spoken, but the countess had not finished. Reaching out a hand, she brushed Sophia’s hair back from her forehead, motherly. ‘When you did come to Slains, I knew that you had suffered from those years within your uncle’s house. It is a dreadful thing to rob a child of its innocence. ’Tis why I am so glad to see, whatever else he did to you, he did not kill your spirit, nor your independent mind.’ She smiled. ‘And if you would defy your wiser elders, you could do much worse than marry Mr Moray. In my younger days, I would myself have thought him quite a prize.’

It was Sophia’s turn to stare, astonished, with no thought of how to make reply. She had expected punishment, and here she was receiving benediction.

‘But,’ the countess said, ‘there is a place for independence, and a time when you must know enough to put it to one side.’ Her tone was kindly, but decisive. ‘It is no easy thing to birth a child. You are too young, my dear, to bear this burden by yourself.’

Sophia knew that there could be no arguing with those determined eyes. Nor was she in a mood to argue, for in truth the great relief she felt at knowing that the countess knew the whole of it at last had left her peaceful in her mind, with all her fears about the next few months already fading as though they had never been.

The child within her kicked with strength, as if to prove it had not suffered any harm from Wick’s attack, and gathering some of that same strength to her own self, Sophia faced the countess. ‘All I wish, now, is to keep my child from harm.’

‘And so you will,’ the countess promised. ‘But you cannot do this on your own.’ Her set expression made it clear she had been thinking on this long, and knew already what to do. ‘You will need help.’

C
HAPTER
16

J
ANE SET THE PAGES
to the side and said, ‘Well?’

Looking up from my cake plate I asked her, ‘Well what?’

‘I’m intrigued, now. What happens?’

I admitted that I wasn’t sure yet. ‘But of course in those days you just couldn’t have a baby on your own, with no one noticing. And since they’ll be wanting to keep Sophia’s marriage to Moray a secret, I think that the countess is going to send her away, somewhere safe.’

‘And where would that be?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to see.’

‘But if the baby’s due in…’ She was silent for a moment,counting months. ‘In March, then won’t that mean Sophia’s not at Slains for the invasion?’

‘I don’t know.’ I licked the icing from my fork.

She shook her head. ‘How
can
you write a book without a proper plan?’

‘I’ve always done it like this.’

‘Not exactly like this,’ Jane corrected me, running her thumb down the side of the pages to straighten the stack. ‘I’ve never seen you write a book this fast.’

‘It must be the Scottish sea air. I’m inspired.’

I kept my tone carefully light. Jane only knew about the one episode of the castle floor plans, and she’d already put that down to overwork, and I had let her go on thinking that was all that it had been. It was a strange thing, but I found it much easier talking about what was happening to me with someone I barely knew, like Dr Weir, than with someone I felt closer to, like Jane. Or Graham. Maybe it just mattered more to me that they not think that I was crazy.

And I’d known Jane long enough to know there was no place for unexplainable phenomena within her ordered life.

She told me, ‘If you’re so inspired here, you ought to move to Scotland. Buy a little house. There’s one the next street over, coming up for sale.’

Jane’s husband Alan had been clearing dishes from the table where we’d eaten lunch, but now he felt the need to interject, ‘She wouldn’t want to live the next street over, Janie.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’d hardly make yourself invisible, would you? You’d be over there the whole time, nagging. “How’s it going with the book?” and “When will it be finished?”’

‘I would not.’ Jane tried her level best to look indignant.

‘Besides which, Carrie needs her privacy.’

‘She’d have it.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Alan gave his wife a sideways glance. ‘You want her to believe that, after all the grief you’ve given her this morning?’

‘I only said she should have let us fetch her and not come by taxi.’

With a smile, I interjected, ‘All that way. It’s what, ten minutes?’

‘That,’ she said, ‘is not the point.’

‘The point is,’ Alan said, ‘you thought she’d bring a man.’ To me, he added, ‘That was why she made the cake. She’d never bother with a cake for only us.’

Jane couldn’t quite manage to look truly offended with Alan. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath waiting for another one if this is all the thanks I get.’ Shifting position, she sent him the same sort of withering glance she might use on a bothersome publisher. ‘Anyway, when I talked to Carrie last she said that she
might
bring a man.’

‘I did?’

‘You said you’d let me know.’ She gave a shrug as though the wording didn’t matter. ‘It’s the same thing. I just wanted to be welcoming, in case he came.’

Her husband rolled his eyes at me in silence, and I smiled. Jane missed the interchange, because at that same moment baby Jack, upstairs, let out a sudden wail to let us know he had awoken from his nap, and by the time he had been brought downstairs the focus of attention had been shifted on to him.

He was a lovely baby, bright and interested in everything, with Jane’s blue eyes and reddish hair and happy, fearless nature. ‘They’re remarkable things, babies,’ Jane told me. ‘Such little things, and yet once they come into your life they just change it completely. Take over.’

Which led us back to talking of my character, Sophia, and of how her life would change once her child came.

‘I don’t know that I’m actually going to write a scene about the birth itself,’ I said. ‘It isn’t something I’ve experienced.’

‘You’re wise.’ Jane’s voice was dry. ‘Speaking for myself, I can’t think anyone who
has
gone through it really wants to read about it.’ Giving little Jack a hug, she said, ‘The end result’s all right, but I don’t need reminding of the process, thank you all the same.’

I did convince her, though, to talk a little bit about it so I’d have the knowledge there in case I needed it. And by the time we’d finished talking it was nearly two o’clock, and time for me to leave.

I called another taxi, over Jane’s objections.

‘I can drive you,’ was her protest, as she walked me to the door and watched me tuck the story pages back into my briefcase. It was an oversized case, built to carry my laptop computer and a couple of changes of clothes. Jane wouldn’t have missed that, I knew, but I’d already thought up a good explanation.

It was tricky telling lies to Jane, she had such good antennae that you couldn’t get much past her. I had always found it easier to start with something like the truth.

I said, ‘But I’m not going home. I’m going down to Aberdeen. I need to do some research for the book. Depending on how long it takes to find what I’m after, I might just stay over and come back tomorrow.’

She seemed to accept that. She waited in the front hall with me till the taxi came, then said, ‘Hang on a minute, will you?’ and went back into the kitchen and returned with something in a plastic square container. ‘Here, take this.’

‘What is it?’

‘It isn’t for you. It’s for him.’

‘For whom?’

‘You’ll lose your taxi,’ was her warning, as she ran me down the steps and to the waiting cab. She held the door and saw me safely settled in the back before she said, with innocence, ‘You
did
say that he came from Aberdeen?’

She’d nailed me and she knew it, but I made a final sinking effort. ‘Who?’

‘The man who took you walking on the coast path. You did say he was a lecturer, in Aberdeen—in history, am I right?’ Her smile was just this side of being smug. She nodded at the sealed container. ‘See he gets his cake.’

And then she closed the door before I could react, and waved me off while I reflected on the great success she might have had if she had gone to work as a detective. Any criminal, I knew, would not have stood a chance, with Jane.

The Victorian end-of-terrace town house had been built, like most of Aberdeen, with granite. Not the red granite of Slains, but a granite of warm brownish grey that gave all of the houses along Graham’s road a strong look of dependable permanence. A holly hedge lined the short walkway that led to the front steps. His blue-painted door had a polished brass knocker that bore not the head of a lion but that of the bard Robert Burns, but I didn’t get to use it. When the taxi door had slammed behind me Angus had begun to bark, and by the time I’d reached the steps the front door had already opened.

Graham, looking as dependably permanent as the stone-built house itself in a well-worn black sweater and jeans, smiled a welcome. ‘You found it all right, then?’

‘No problem at all.’

He took the briefcase from my hand and looked a question at the plastic square container, which had sparked some new excited sniffing interest from the dog.

‘It’s cake,’ I said. ‘For you.’

‘For me?’

‘Don’t ask.’

He didn’t. Stepping back to let me in, he swung the door shut at our backs and bent to greet me with a kiss. It hit me with a sudden strangeness just how much I’d missed him— missed the comfort of his being there; his undemanding presence. And his touch.

He raised his head. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘Come in. I’ll show you round.’

He’d only bought the house the year before, he told me, and it was in places still a work in progress. The front rooms, with their high bright windows and lovely corniced ceilings, sat half-empty and stripped of their wallpaper, waiting for paint. And upstairs only one of the bedrooms— his own—had been finished, in quiet greens, restful and masculine. The other upstairs rooms, besides the bath, were undecided. It was almost as if he was wearing the house like a new suit of clothes that still needed adjusting—too large in some places, confining in others. Except for downstairs, at the back of the house. There, it was all Graham. Everything fit.

He’d remodeled the kitchen, keeping its Victorian charm while allowing for modern functionality, and knocking out the back wall to add on a glass conservatory that allowed the sunlight to slant in across the wide plank floor. Stuart had said Graham could cook, and I got some sense of this myself from standing in his kitchen, seeing how he had his things arranged. Everything, from the checked tea towel drying on the oven door to the placement of pots and appliances gave the impression of regular, competent use.

And the way Angus flung himself down with a thump and a sigh on the warm sunlit floor of the conservatory with its unpretentious furniture—a solid low-backed sofa and a faded chair with footstool and a stack of books beside it that rose high enough to almost be a table—told me this, too, was a favorite and familiar spot.

I could understand that. If this had been my house, I’d have found it hard to shift myself from here as well, with the sunshine and the view out to the tidy small back garden, where a wooden feeder hung from one bare tree branch for the birds. And there was warmth here from the kitchen, and the comfort of companionship, with Graham banging whistling round the cupboards while he put the kettle on and got the mugs and things for tea.

It surprised even me how seductive I found the whole set up; how easily my mind adapted to the thought of living here, with Graham. I hadn’t lived with anyone since leaving home. I’d always liked my private space. But standing now and watching him, it struck me this was something I could stand and watch repeatedly. Forever.

It was not a feeling that I’d had before, and so I didn’t know exactly what to do with it. This winter was becoming more and more a time of firsts for me.

‘Good cake,’ said Graham, testing it while waiting for the kettle. Holding the plastic container in one hand, he offered me the fork. ‘D’ye want some?’

‘No, thanks. I had two pieces at lunch.’

‘And how did that go, your lunch?’

‘Oh, I had a good time. I always do, with Jane. We talked about the book a lot.’

He glanced towards my briefcase, which he’d set beside the sofa. ‘You did remember to bring your computer?’

‘I didn’t think you’d let me come otherwise.’ When we’d talked on the phone he’d reminded me several times not to forget it.

‘Aye, well, you can laugh, but you’ll thank me when you’re struck by sudden inspiration in the middle of the night, and need to work.’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘You think that I’ll be struck by sudden inspiration, do you?’

Leaning on the worktop with his piece of cake in hand he flashed a faintly wicked smile and said, ‘I mean to do my best.’

The room was strange. I didn’t recognize the placement of the windows or the walls when I first woke, and there was little light to see by. For a moment I lay blinking in confusion, till I felt the solid warmth against my back and felt the rhythmic rise and fall of Graham’s breathing and I knew then where I was.

I closed my eyes, contented, wanting nothing more than just to stay there, with his arm wrapped round me and his head so close behind mine on the pillow that his breath moved through my hair. I felt as I’d felt earlier, that moment in the kitchen when I’d watched him making tea—that I could live this scene repeatedly and never learn to tire of it.

But even as that drowsy realization slumbered through my mind, another scene began to stir and shape itself and nudge me into wakefulness. I fought it, but it fought me back, and in the end I sighed, resigned, and gently lifting Graham’s arm slipped shivering from the blankets, dressed, and went downstairs.

There was no sunlight now in the conservatory kitchen, but the moon cast shadows of its own across the floor where I had left my briefcase. I was cold. Hanging with the jackets on the coat pegs by the back door to the garden was a heavy navy rugby shirt with stripes of red and gold, faded and looking as though it had been through the wars. But it looked warm as well, and I shrugged myself into it, pushing the long sleeves right up to my elbows.