by Joan Wolf
"The English will send more armies against you," said Van.
"I know that well. But if we are Scotland against England, I think the French will come to our assistance."
Van looked at her father somberly. He was looking tired these days, she thought. The victory at Prestonpans had not given him the confidence it had given to Alan and to Niall. "Why does the prince wish to invade?" she asked.
"It is his right. His father is King of England as well as of Scotland. Which is true enough, but to invade England we need more than the clans. And your reports, Van, do not lead me to have much hope in the English rising to join us."
"I do not think they will, Father."
He nodded. "So we are better off staying in Scotland and waiting for France."
Van smoothed her skirt. "The war is a long way from being over, isn't it, Father?" she asked in a low voice.
"A long way, my daughter," he agreed. "Prestonpans was but the first step on a weary road."
She raised her head and looked directly at him, light green-gray eyes into darker gray. "Will we win?"
"If I did not think we could win, I would not have gone out," he replied. "But we can do just so much on our own. We need the French."
Van sat on for a long time in the parlor after Alasdair had gone back to the palace, her mind contemplating soberly and chillingly the prospects before them. As her father had said, it all depended on the French. If the Scots invaded England without French aid, the English would never rise to join them. The clans alone could not hold England.
If they stayed in Scotland they had a better chance of success. But if, as Alasdair suggested, they made this a national war—Scotland against England—and the French came in, still there would be no quick resolution. Van had been in England long enough to know that the English would never allow a bastion of French influence to sit peacefully on their northern border. They would fight to the death to keep Scotland.
The gulf between her and Edward had never seemed so great. There would be no quick or easy solution to this war, no peaceful mending of the breach between her country and his. In fact, it was entirely possible that she might never see him again.
She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle the pain that ripped through her at that thought.
Van sat at Alan's bedside, her eyes on his sleeping face. His wound had become inflamed shortly after his arrival in Edinburgh and he had been very ill with fever. Van and Frances had taken turns sitting with him for the first week of his illness, but for the past few days he had been much better, and Van had become more his companion than his nurse.
Alan's head moved restlessly on its pillow and Van's expression became more alert. After a moment his lashes lifted and his hazel eyes found her. She smiled. "Would you like a drink?" she asked.
"Aye." He pushed himself up on his pillows and accepted the glass she handed him. "You do not need to be spending all your time with me, Van," he said when he had handed the empty glass back to her. "I am much better, thanks to you and to Lady Morar. I feel guilty keeping you from your own activities. Is there not a ball at the palace this night?"
"Aye." She put the glass back on the night table and went to draw the curtains more closely around the windows. She turned back to face him. "I have no wish to be dancing at the palace, Alan," she told him. "Besides, with you ill, whom would I dance with?"
"You would not lack for partners, Van." His green-gold eyes were intent upon her face.
"Perhaps. I don't know. I don't care." She came back to resume her seat at his beside. "Mother is just as happy as I to stay home. Father does nothing but huddle in corners with the chiefs and Lord George Murray, and Niall has no thought for anyone but Jean Cameron, so we are really quite deserted at these affairs. You give us a good excuse not to have to go."
"I am glad, then, I was not wounded in vain," he retorted. Their eyes met and they both laughed.
He settled himself against his pillows. "Tell me about Niall and Jean Cameron."
Van, however, was beginning to frown. Alan had the redhead's fair skin, but right now she thought he looked as white as his pillow cover. She hoped his fever had not come back. She got up and put a competent hand on his forehead. He was cool. He smiled at her in faint amusement as she sat down again. "Well, he certainly seems to be pursuing her," she said, continuing the conversation impeturbably. "At least I imagine that's where he's spending his time. We don't see much of him here."
"Niall has always had a flirt," Alan said comfortably. "I wouldn't refine too much upon it. Although Jean is not just in his usual style."
"Oh?" Van leaned a little forward. "And what is his usual style, Alan?"
But he only grinned and shook his head. "I'm telling nothing."
"Never mind." Van's voice was dry. "I can imagine. I've met his current mistress, and to judge by her, he likes an older, fleshier type than Jean."
Alan sat up so abruptly he jarred his wound. "How the devil did you meet Alison?" he asked, wincing.
"I saw them by chance in the Grassmarket the other day." Her eyes glinted wickedly. "I made Niall introduce me. He was furious."
"I can imagine," Alan replied feelingly.
"She's almost as old as Mother. And not as pretty."
"Niall's known Alison for a long time," Alan said defensively. "She's more a good friend than anything else."
Van's fine lips curled. "I'm sure she is."
Alan looked around the room and his eye fell on the book of plays they had been reading. "Aren't you going to finish reading Tamburlaine to me?" he asked hastily. "It was just getting interesting."
"Not as interesting as this conversation," she replied. Then, as he set his jaw and looked stubborn, she laughed. "All right," and she picked up the red leather-bound volume, took out the marker, gave one more amused glance at Alan, and began to read.
The course of Niall's love affair with Jean Cameron was not running as smoothly as he was accustomed to. He complained of this fact to Alan and Van when he came the following day to make a brief visit to his friend.
"Lady Lochiel is as good as a prison guard," he told them resentfully when Alan asked him how Jean was doing. "It's fine that Lochiel became Jean's guardian when her father died last year, but Lady Lochiel is overdoing her role as chaperon."
"How is she overdoing it?" Van asked curiously.
"I asked Jean to go on a picnic with me to Arthur's Seat," he said indignantly, "and she acted as if I were not to be trusted with a gently reared young lady."
Van was beginning to find him funny. "Well, brother dear, you must admit you don't have the world's finest reputation when it comes to the ladies."
He looked at her as if he could not believe his ears. "What is wrong with my reputation?" he demanded. "I'll have you know, I've never raped anyone in my life."
"Niall!" Alan was slightly scandalized by the way Niall was talking to his sister, but Van never blinked.
"Congratulations," she said cordially.
"I'd never hurt a hair of Jeannie's head," Niall said.
"I'm sure you wouldn't. But look at it from Lady Lochiel's point of view, Niall. Here you are, fresh from your Paris conquests"—she raised a hand as he started to protest, and continued ruthlessly—"living with your Edinburgh mistress, and courting innocent little Jean Cameron. Of course Lady Lochiel doesn't trust you. She assumes the first thing you'll do when you get Jean alone is kiss her."
It was, of course, exactly what he was planning to do.
Van and Alan looked at him, looked at each other, and began to laugh.
Niall stared at his brogues, frowning thoughtfully and ignoring their mirth. "I think I'll move back home," he said after they had fallen quiet.
Van and Alan looked at each other once more.
"Good idea," Alan said in an unsteady voice.
Niall rose to his feet. "I have been thinking of it anyway," he told them loftily. Then, to their disbelieving faces, "Be damned to you both." He grinned good-naturedly. "See you tomorrow, Alan."
He was in the hall when Van caught up with him. "Are you really going to move back home?" she asked.
"Aye." He looked at her in the light of the open door and said impulsively, "Why don't you ride out with me this afternoon, Van? You are looking rather peaked. Do you good to get some fresh air for a change."
She gave him a grateful smile. "I'd love to."
"Good. Change your clothes and I'll be back in an hour with the horses."
They rode out past the army encampment and along toward Arthur's Seat, both of them dressed in trews and plaids, both of them glad to be away from the city.
Niall spoke first. "Alan is looking that much better," he said.
Van smiled faintly. "Aye. Mother says he may even get up tomorrow."
"Good. That means he should be ready to join us when we march for England."
Van stared. "March for England?" she echoed. "When was it decided to march for England?"
He shrugged slightly. "It has not precisely been decided yet. Father and the chiefs are against it. But I think we will march. The prince wants to."
"I know that," Van replied slowly. "Father told me so. But the chiefs may prevail."
"I don't think so." Niall stopped his horse and looked at her. "What else did Father say?"
"That the success of everything depends still upon the French."
"I don't agree, Van," Niall said positively. "I think the clans can carry the day on their own."
"In Scotland, maybe," Van returned somberly. "But not if you invade England, Niall." Her lashes lifted and she looked at him fearlessly. "The English do not want a Stuart. If you think otherwise, my brother, you delude yourself."
"The Whigs do not want him, you mean," Niall retorted quickly. "The Earl of Linton does not want him. But there are plenty of squires and yeomen throughout the country who are loyal to their true king. They will rise to join us. You will see."
"The Earl of Linton has nothing but dislike and contempt for the Stuarts," Van said tonelessly. "He, and others like him, will never rest content with a Stuart on the English throne. And he is a powerful man, Niall. A very powerful man." Her lashes had dropped once more to cover her eyes. "I do not think there will ever be a Stuart restoration in England."
Niall stared at her guarded face. He said suddenly, with savage anger, "Dhé, Van, how could you have wanted to marry him?"
She did not answer and her silence only goaded him into further speech. "He is a Sassenach," Niall said. "Dhé, he even looks like a Viking!"
For some reason that word, a word she had so often called him herself, brought Edward to her mind as he had not been for quite some time. For a brief moment she had a vision of him as he had looked that day at Staplehurst, riding Marcus in the sunshine, showing off for her, he had said. She saw his blue eyes, so full of tenderness and amusement. She heard his voice. The king, he had said, must be responsible to the people. Her throat ached. And, out of an impulse of loyalty toward her lost love, she answered, "We did not like being saddled with a king we did not want. I do not think we should turn around now and do the same thing to the English. Let the prince stay here in Scotland, where he is welcome."
Niall's fingers tightened on his reins and his horse backed. Niall stopped him with a curse, and forced him up to Van's side once more. "You don't still have hopes in Linton's direction, do you?" he said. Then, "Stand, damn you!" The horse sidled and laid back its ears.
"Stop bullying him, Niall," Van said sharply. "You're the one at fault, not the horse. Leave his mouth alone."
"Do you love him still?" Niall asked. His voice was hard. It was the first time they had spoken of Edward Romney since he had brought her home from England.
"The heart is not so easily ruled," Van replied, and her own voice sounded a little muffled. "It does not always respond as one would wish." She looked over at her brother, wanting him to understand a little. "If you knew Edward, Niall, you would understand."
"Never!" His head went up. "Never will I understand how you could have wished to marry a Sassenach!"
Niall could be such a pighead. "Well," she said acidly, "Father did."
There was silence. Niall had never been able to win an argument with her. He tried another tack. "What about Alan, whom you have been caring for so tenderly?"
She answered steadily. "I care for Alan in the same way you do—as a dear friend."
"You will break his heart."
"I don't think so."
"Yes," he said fiercely. "You will."
"There would be little chance of that if you had had the decency to tell him about Edward!" Van returned hotly. "But you never said a word, did you? If he gets hurt, it will be just as much your fault as it is mine, Niall MacIan."
They stared at each other in mutual anger. Then Niall pushed his bonnet back on his head. His temper was always like the summer lightning—bright and furious and quickly over. "I don't want to quarrel with you, Van," he said in a milder voice.
She raised an elegant black eyebrow. "You have a strange way of showing it." But her voice was now softer as well. They began to move their horses forward once again. They rode in silence for several minutes before Van brought up the subject she had really wanted to discuss with him. "I'm glad you're moving home," she said soberly. "I think it will help Mother."
He looked startled. "Help Mother? What do you mean, Van?"
"Mother is in trouble," she said. "Haven't you noticed how thin she has become?"
He had been too full of his own concerns to pay much attention to his mother. He felt guilty and asked gruffly, "What is the matter with her?"
Van was staring between her horse's ears, a frown on her face. "I think there is something wrong between her and Father. In fact, I know there is something wrong. Father is angry with her."
"Father? Angry with Mother?" He was dumbfounded.
"Yes. I don't know why, but I can tell by the tone of his voice. You know how it used to change when he talked to Mother?" He nodded. "Well, it doesn't anymore."
Niall thought. "She did not want him to raise the clan."
Van sighed. "Whatever it is, she is making herself ill over it. And it isn't good for her to be confined to that house all day, either."
"I'll get her out, Van," Niall said repentantly. "You should have told me sooner. I'll get hold of a carriage and take her driving."
"You haven't been around much to discuss anything with," Van said dryly.
"I know. I know. I'm sorry. I will rectify the matter immediately. You may expect me and my baggage tomorrow morning."
Van smiled at him. Having Niall around would be good for her, too. "Race you to the edge of the park," she said.
"Done!"
And, with a drumming of hooves, they both were off.
The following day Niall escorted his mother and his sister to church. Since he had not been inside the Episcopalian church on the High Street since he was eighteen years old, his arrival caused something of a stir among the faithful who knew him. His face was grave and composed as he took his seat on the aisle beside Van. He did not betray by the flicker of an eyelash that he knew Jean Cameron was seated right across the aisle from him.
Jean was painfully conscious of his much-too-handsome person in such close proximity to her. She murmured responses automatically, her mind not on the service at all. Then, when Lady Lochiel stopped to speak to Lady Morar after church, Niall came up to her with his sister on his arm.
Jean looked shyly up into Vanessa's beautiful, fearless face and answered her questions in a low, sweet voice.
"Look, Van," Niall said suddenly. "It's Master Armstrong."
John Armstrong was a finicky, precise man of about thirty-five whom Frances had employed some ten years previously to try to teach her children. They had not taken to each other and after a month in Morar, Master Armstrong had returned to Edinburgh. Van looked now at the man's profile and said something under her breath to Niall. They both laughed.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Camero
n," Van said contritely. Then, giving her brother a sideways glance, she added, "Perhaps Lady Lochiel would allow you to join us for dinner this afternoon?"
As Jean blushed a little and said she would certainly ask, Niall gave Van a grateful look.
Jean came to dinner and when they returned to the parlor afterward, Alan came downstairs to join the company. Alasdair was not here; he was dining with the prince.
Van and Frances and Alan watched Niall being charming to their shyly lovely guest. Jean's pale brown hair was unpowdered, and she was quietly dressed in a slate-blue frock. The only jewelry she wore was a small gold locket on a chain about her throat. Her large brown eyes regarded Niall with unabashed adoration.
How could he resist her? Van thought with a trace of amusement. She looked at him as if he were God.
After Niall had left to escort Jean home, the three people remaining in the room looked at each other in amazement. "I do believe he is really serious," said Van.
"Aye." Alan shook his head. "She's a pretty thing," he offered. "Reminds me of a little woodland deer."
Van leaned back in her chair. "But whoever would have pictured Niall with a little woodland deer?"
Frances was more perceptive. "Perhaps she is what he needs. His voice is more gentle when he speaks to her. Kinder." It was a note Frances herself recognized very well. Tears stung behind her eyes and she stared at the teapot. Stop it, she told herself firmly. You are worse than a baby.
"Your hour of freedom is over, Alan MacDonald," she heard Van saying. She spoke to Alan exactly as if he had been Niall. "Upstairs with you now. After a rest you can come down again."
"I'm fine," Alan protested. "Do not banish me so soon, Van. I'm that sick of my bedroom."
"Well..." Van turned to Frances. "What do you think, Mother?"
"I see no reason why Alan can't remain down here for a while longer," Frances said composedly.
Alan grinned. "There you are, Van. Now, what about a game of chess?"
