The Rebellious Ward

by Joan Wolf

  THE REBELLIOUS WARD

  Joan Wolf

  PROLOGUE

  1827

  The mightiest space in fortune nature brings

  To join like likes, and kiss like native things.

  All’s Well That Ends Well

  Catriona looked up in surprise as her cousin came into the room. She put down her book in pleased welcome and smiled. “George,” she said. “How nice to see you.” She held out her hand.

  George Talbot came across the room to take it. “You’re looking very well, Kate. How is the new addition?”

  “Very well, thank you. It’s nice to have a daughter at last.” She gestured him to a chair. “Will you have some tea?”

  “No, no, thank you.” He sounded unusually abrupt, and she looked at him inquiringly. He caught her gaze and smiled a little ruefully. “Do you know that when you were seventeen I thought it was not possible for anyone to be more beautiful?” He looked from her to the portrait that hung on the far wall and then back to her again. “I was wrong,” he said.

  “Pooh,” she retorted briskly. “Elizabeth is far more beautiful than I. How is she, by the way? And your son?”

  “Fine,” he answered absently and answered her subsequent questions with only half his attention. It was true, he thought, his wife’s oval face and classic lineaments were more beautiful than his cousin’s more irregular features. But Catriona had more than beauty. She had an intense kind of magnetism he had never encountered in another woman. He fixed an attentive expression on his face and looked at her, at the magnificent high cheekbones, the brilliant slanting eyes, the generous mouth. Everything about her seemed to say that here was a woman who would go to the whole lengths of heaven or of hell, a woman capable of such abandon, such profound depths of passion ...

  His thoughts broke off in some confusion as she finished speaking and looked at him expectantly. He had no idea of what she had just said.

  He cleared his throat. “I was going through some of the books at the Hall the other day, Kate,” he began, and his voice sounded loud in his own ears.

  Her eyes opened widely—a sudden burst of green—and she laughed. “Has the weather reduced you to the bookcase, George? I didn’t realize things were quite that desperate.”

  He smiled a little reluctantly. As she well knew, he had never been the literary type. “I came across a paper that someone had put into a copy of Cook’s Voyages.” He was refusing to rise to her bait. His face sobered, and he said heavily, “I think you had better look at it.”

  Catriona reached out to take the paper he was offering her. She smoothed it on her lap and then looked up in bewilderment. “But this is a marriage record,” she said.

  “Yes. Look at the names.”

  She did and went suddenly very pale. “Richard Talbot and Flora MacIan.” She raised her head and stared at George. “What does this mean?” she almost whispered.

  “It means, apparently, that your father and mother were married after all. Look at the date.”

  “1798,” she read.

  “And you were born in 1799.”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “It seems, Kate, that you are legitimate.”

  She stared at the paper. “I can’t believe it,” she said at last very slowly. “It was in a book?”

  “Yes.” He laughed harshly. “Cook’s Voyages. I’ve never looked at my own copy. I read the copy at the Castle when I was in school.” He moved his feet restlessly on the carpet. “I wonder what Edmund will say.”

  “Edmund?” She looked at him a little sharply. “What should Edmund have to say about it?”

  After all these years her voice still changed when she said his name. George, wondered if she realized it. He wondered if her husband did. “I think he might have a great deal to say,” George managed to get out.

  Catriona rose and walked over to the window, which looked out on the south lawn of the house. Her figure, he noticed, was as lithe and slim as ever despite the three-month-old baby upstairs in the nursery. She stood with her back to him, silent, looking out over the wide expanse of green.

  Coming across the grass toward the house was a man accompanied by two little boys. One of the children was riding on his shoulders while the other trotted beside him. They all looked very muddy. They were laughing. Then, as if he sensed he was being watched, the man looked up and saw her at the window. With the laughter still vivid on his face he pointed her out to the children, both of whom waved vigorously.

  Catriona waved back to her husband and her sons, then slowly turned back to face her cousin. She glanced down at the paper in her hand. It couldn’t make any difference now, she thought. But once ... God, how important it would have been to her ten years ago.

  “It can’t matter now,” Catriona said to George. “To Edmund or to—anyone else.”

  “I think perhaps it might,” George replied grimly.

  “Don’t look so upset,” she said softly. “How on earth do you think it came to be in Captain Cook’s Voyages?”

  “Someone put it there,” said George.

  Catriona looked puzzled. “Put it there?” she repeated absently, her mind clearly elsewhere.

  He changed the subject. “Who was that on the lawn just now?”

  “The boys and their father. They all looked extremely disreputable.” Catriona sighed. “Do you know, George, I still can’t believe that Diccon has gone away to school! I miss him terribly.”

  “You can’t keep your sons children forever,” said George.

  “I suppose not.” She smiled at him. “I have at least one child securely in my nest, though. And it’s her teatime. Would you mind if I deserted you for a few minutes?”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” he replied. “Babies come first.”

  She patted his cheek as she went by his chair, and smiled into his brown eyes. “Don’t worry,” she said steadily. “It can’t make any difference at all—now.”

  Her daughter was awake and hungry, and as she sat in the peace of her bedroom, with the silky brown head of her nursing baby at her breast, Catriona looked back. Back to the time when that record would have made a difference. Back to the time, nineteen years ago, when she had come to Evesham Castle, the bastard cousin of the duke.

  PART ONE

  1809—1817

  His sole child, my lord; and bequeathed my overlooking.

  All’s Well That Ends Well

  Chapter One

  Catriona MacIan’s grandfather died when she was nine years old. He had been ill for several months, wasting away to a pale shadow of his normal vigorous self. The week before he died he told her she must go after his death to her father’s people in England. She had protested tearfully, vigorously, but he had made her promise.

  “You will go to this Duke of Burford, Catriona. He is your father’s cousin. I have written to him, and he has answered that you are to come. He even sent money for your journey. He will be responsible for you.”

  “To England! To a Sassenach! I cannot!” she cried passionately.

  “You must,” he answered sadly. “There is nothing here for you, my child. We are a broken people, a broken race. I am the last MacIan chief. Ardnamurchan is ours no longer. Go to your father’s people, my child, so that I can rest easy about you in my grave.”

  And she had promised.

  Catriona would never forget the day she left Ardnamurchan. She and Angus MacIan, her grandfather’s loyal retainer, had ridden south along the road that led from the Point over the moorlands to Mingary Castle and Kilchoan. No matter what happens, she thought, this beauty will always be mine. I shall carry it always in my heart.

  Across the ever-changing sea rose the mountainous islands of the Inner Hebrides, their blue and purple peak
s soaring majestically out of the foam. To the north lay Moidart and the lovely bay of Loch Shiel, where Prince Charles Edward Stuart had landed over fifty years ago to bring ruin on Scotland.

  And on the MacIans as well. Her grandfather, a boy of fifteen, had gone out for the Prince, as had his father and all the MacIan clan. As she rode toward England, Catriona passed Mingary Castle, symbol of what once had been the power of her clan. The ancient stronghold of the MacIans stood on the edge of the shore, looking over to the Isle of Mull. It had been built in the thirteenth century. Grim and gray, it now stood guard for England over the conquered territory of Ardnamurchan, that wild, remote and beautiful peninsula of western Scotland.

  The journey south to Oxfordshire was very long, but they traveled by mailcoach and stayed in the best of inns. Catriona knew people looked askance at them: at Angus MacIan, who spoke no English and slept at night on guard outside her door; at herself, a wild-looking child, gypsy dark and dressed in shabby clothes and an old plaid. But they had money, thanks to this Sassenach duke, and they were treated with respect. Catriona held her head with the pride of a Celtic chieftain and conversed only with Angus in Gaelic.

  It was a cool day in early April when the mailcoach thundered into Burford, its long brass horn blowing a warning to pedestrians. Catriona and Angus alighted at the Bull and asked if there was a conveyance available to take her to Evesham Castle. The landlord looked skeptically at her shabby clothes and said he didn’t think there was anything free.

  Catriona raised her chin. “I am Catriona MacIan,” she announced in the clear, soft English she had been taught by her grandfather. “My cousin, the Duke of Burford, is expecting me.”

  The duke’s name proved to be a magic password; shortly a wagon and driver were found for them, and Catriona started on the final leg of her journey.

  Her first sight of Evesham Castle staggered her. She had been expecting a replica of Mingary. “Why, this isn’t a castle at all,” she said to Angus in awed accents. “It’s a palace!” And indeed, the beautiful old house made of lovely Cotswold stone bore no resemblance at all to the grim gray fortresses that Highlanders knew as castles.

  They were admitted to the glorious hall by a startled looking butler, who told Catriona that the duke was not at home but the duchess was expecting her. She was shown into a magnificent room and told to wait. She was afraid to sit on any of the chairs, so she stood in the middle of the room, her eyes on the door. Angus stood by the window, looking uncomfortable and muttering darkly to himself in Gaelic.

  Catriona knew scarcely anything of her father’s family. The duke, she had been told, was her father’s first cousin. She did not know if he had children of his own.

  Then the door opened, and a lady who must be the duchess came in. She was very old but slim and upright. She held out her hands. “Catriona,” she said. “My dear child. Welcome to Evesham Castle.”

  “Thank you,” said Catriona a trifle breathlessly, and after a brief pause she went to put her hands in those of the duchess.

  “Let me look at you,” the duchess said and, keeping the child’s hands in hers, walked her to the window. Catriona was uncomfortably aware that her dark hair was tangled and dirty from the long trip. She was afraid her face might not be very clean either. But all the duchess said was, “You have your father’s eyes.” She smiled at Catriona. “Diccon was my very dear grandson, and you, Catriona, are my great granddaughter. And I am so pleased to see you here, my dear.”

  Of all the welcomes Catriona had imagined, this was one she had not anticipated. She looked gravely at the beautiful old lady and said, “You are very kind to have me, ma’am.”

  “You must call me Grandmama. And I am not kind at all. I am very selfish. You are all that is left to us of Diccon.”

  Catriona’s eyes fell. "I never knew my father,” she said in an expressionless voice.

  “I know. By the time he arrived home from Scotland he was already very ill. It was pneumonia. He asked for your mother in his delirium, you know, over and over. We did not know who he meant. It was not until many months later that we received the inquiry from the Edinburgh lawyer. We knew, then, who ‘Flora’ was. But Diccon was dead.”

  “So was my mother.” Catriona was looking with intense concentration at the rug. “She died having me.”

  “I know.” The duchess’s voice was very soft. “We were so sorry, Catriona. And we wanted you to come to us then, but your grandfather refused.”

  Catriona removed her gaze from the rug and looked candidly at her great-grandmother out of the striking green eyes that were her heritage from her father. “I did not expect you to be happy to see me,” she said simply.

  “Well, we are. Very happy. Edmund in particular was so pleased to know you would be coming to us. He and Diccon were very close.”

  “Who is Edmund?” asked Catriona.

  "Why, Edmund is your cousin, my dear,” said her great-grandmother kindly. “He is the Duke of Burford.”

  * * * *

  The days and weeks that followed were very confusing to Catriona. The splendor of Evesham Castle overwhelmed her. The only family member in residence beside herself was the duchess, and to serve them were fifty indoor servants and at least forty gardeners. The family lived mainly in one wing of the house, for which Catriona was profoundly grateful. She found the immense, elegant, formal rooms of the main house overpowering.

  Catriona herself was assigned a pretty chintz-covered bedroom in the family wing next to the schoolroom, and within two weeks the duchess had engaged a governess for her. The governess turned out to be a distant cousin of the Evesham family who had made an unfortunate marriage in her youth. Cousin Henrietta had been left with little money and was very glad to come to Evesham to look after Catriona. She was quiet and gentle, and Catriona liked her. She liked her great-grandmother as well. And the three cousins who lived nearby at Ripon Hall.

  Ripon Hall was the estate that had belonged to her father. When he died, it passed to his younger brother, Frederick Talbot, Catriona’s uncle. Frederick had three children: George, who was twelve, Henry, ten, and Margaret, nine. They were her first cousins, and Catriona liked them very much. At least she liked Henry and Margaret. George was at Eton, and she had not met him yet.

  There was another member of her family whom she had not yet met. The duke was at Cambridge and not expected home until June. Catriona had had a very kind letter from him welcoming her, but she felt herself distinctly nervous of meeting him in the flesh. From all the information she had garnered about him she was quite certain that he would not like her. And she had a very lowering feeling that she would not like him.

  He was twenty-one years old and he was brilliant. She heard this from her great-grandmother, from Cousin Henrietta, and from her Talbot cousins. He had won every prize at Cambridge there was to win. He was to graduate as Senior Wrangler and Smith’s Prizeman. He was a mathematician.

  Catriona had learned to read and write. She could add but not multiply. She did not find the lessons Cousin Henrietta set her to be terribly interesting. The duke, she was certain, would be horrified by her ignorance. She had visions of him standing her up and quizzing her and she knew she would die of embarrassment. He probably wore a glass in his eye and looked very solemn all the time. He probably never laughed. Catriona loved to laugh and under the loving care of her great-grandmother was beginning to learn how to be happy again. She did not want to have to adjust to another change in her life. She was not looking forward to the return of her guardian and protector.

  Chapter Two

  It was a lovely June day when the Duke of Burford returned to Evesham Castle, heaped with all the honors his university could bestow on him. Cousin Henrietta laid out a crisp new dress for Catriona and gave instructions to Jane, one of the maids, to assist her with buttons and with her hair. Henrietta was occupied downstairs with the duchess. Catriona took advantage of her governess’s preoccupation and slipped out of the house.

  She had a splen
did two hours. Catriona had been brought up in the mountains and glens of Ardnamurchan, and her slim, small body was quite astonishingly strong and agile. Oxfordshire had not the wild beauty of Ardnamurchan, but she loved the great beech woods with trees one hundred feet tall, the flat, open downs so ideal for sheep pasture, the fields of barley, wheat, and hay. It was a rich, prosperous landscape, and the families who were the duke’s tenants were well-fed, hard-working people who always had time for a word with Catriona. They spoke of the duke with a reverence that made his young cousin distinctly apprehensive.

  She was late coming home and as she slipped in at a side door she was caught by the butler. “Here you are. Miss Catriona,” he said in stately tones. He surveyed her disapprovingly. “His Grace has been asking for you. He is in the drawing room.”

  Catriona bit her lip and then tried an ingratiating smile. “Don’t you think I ought to change first, Hutchins?”

  The butler regarded her disheveled state. The single neat plait that fell down her back when she had left the house had come undone, and her thick hair, which had shone like polished mahogany since the nursery maids had begun relentlessly to wash and brush it, hung in a tangle over her shoulders. Her skirt was muddy and torn, her hands regrettably dirty. Hutchins’s mouth twitched, but he said sternly, “Come along, Miss Catriona. You have already kept His Grace waiting for too long.”

  Catriona sighed and muttered gloomily, “I suppose so,” as she preceded the butler down the hall. Behind her back Hutchins’s eyes were twinkling. He opened the door to the drawing room, and Catriona walked in.

  Her great-grandmother was there and her uncle Frederick with her cousin Henry and another boy who must be George. There were also a number of people whom she did not know. The center of this gathering was a young man who was standing by the window listening gravely to an elderly stranger.