Bitter Magic

by Nancy Kilgore

  “What perfidy!” Alexander cried out. “Against you, a lady of Christ!”

  Katharine had suffered so much death and loss, but always, the Lord had showed her the value of her own life and encouraged her to go on in her mission. Now, she had been struck down by someone from the family the Lord had called to be here, and also by her husband, the man with whom she had made her sacred covenant. Scorned and viewed as worthless. Perhaps she was worthless, at least in this place. She hung her head again, and almost whispered, “Perhaps this is the Lord’s chastisement, his way to call me away from this place.”

  “Do you mean to leave Auldearn? Or John Ross, your husband?”

  “I am thinking to go south again. Alone. But I am perplexed, Alexander, and solicitous to know my duty.”

  “Ah, such suffering is more than we should bear. Perhaps you know the talk about your husband?”

  So, he knew about the whoring. Others, too, must know of this. Katharine inclined her head in assent and felt her arms tingle with the humiliation. Perhaps the shame alone would send her back to Edinburgh. “I know that leaving one’s husband is not what the Lord requires, and I have been in prayer about it. I have not heard His answer.”

  “Your lot with a wicked husband is a hard one,” he said. “And one I would not wish on anyone, much less a woman with such high principles and such a pure heart. One could say this is no marriage. It may be the better to part from him, but I am loath to advise you.”

  “Perhaps you might confer with Mister Thomas Hogg when you travel to Kiltearn?” she asked. Thomas Hogg, minister at Kiltearn, was Katharine’s most trusted correspondent and advisor.

  “Mister Thomas is widely admired by all the Covenanters for his wisdom and discernment. I will consult with him, and I will pray for light from Heaven.”

  The next day, as Katharine donned her cloak and set out in Brodie’s carriage to return home, she felt assured that both Alexander and Thomas would confer with compassion about her decision. In truth, she already knew what her decision would be, but it was wise to garner support from these influential men, who often consulted her in kind for advice. Both Alexander and Thomas were men of morality and above reproach. Thomas, especially, stood above most other men in passion, eloquence, and erudition. Why couldn’t she have married someone like that?

  MARGARET

  Chapter 33

  “The red velvet!” Margaret jumped and clapped when the seamstress, Lilias Dunlop, held up the bolt of deep red cloth. Henrietta’s plan had worked. Margaret was staying now with the Rose family at Castle Kilrock, and she and Henrietta were preparing for the ball. Henrietta’s chamber was strewn with silks and satins, and on the bed lay the fabrics from which they would choose for their gowns.

  Margaret smiled with delight when she looked at the red velvet. It would set off her dark hair to perfection.

  “And I love the blue satin,” Henrietta said.

  Lilias picked out the two fabrics from the pile and lay them side by side on the bed. “You will shine like pretty birds just beginning to fly,” she said. Lilias herself always wore an array of colors like a rainbow. She used remnants from her work to sew her own clothes. Today, she wore a red gown, yellow apron, and blue kerchief, all trimmed with lace—lively colors that complemented her cheerful demeanor. “And I have a picture of the newest style from the Lady of Cawdor.”

  “Oh, yes, what they are wearing in London!” Margaret exclaimed. “That is what I wish. Like a splendid lady in the queen’s court.”

  Lilias showed the two young women a drawing of the dress. The bodice was similar to what they were wearing now, but this new style had a longer V at the waist and a higher neckline rimmed in lace.

  “So much more modest than the low necks that show half your bosom,” Lady Anne said.

  They hadn’t been permitted to wear that style, anyway, Margaret thought. It was only the peasants and servants whose necklines plunged so low. “But look at the sleeves,” she gushed. “Billowing silk below the shoulder . . . so much nicer than the puffy shoulders we have been wearing.”

  Henrietta brought her hands to her heart. “Your young lieutenant will be awestruck.”

  Margaret blushed and looked quickly at Lady Anne. “He is not my young lieutenant, Henrietta. I barely know him.”

  “And would this be one of the English?” Lady Anne asked.

  “Yes, Mother, he is the young man who rescued me from the MacDonalds. He and his troops. And he has been courting Margaret.”

  “Oh, no!” Margaret exclaimed. “Not courting. Please, Lady Anne, do not talk to my father about this. He is opposed to the English.”

  “Have no fear,” Lady Anne replied with a smile. “Your secret is secure.”

  “The soldiers are so handsome and genteel,” Henrietta protested. “I could not even think of them when I came home in their charge—I was that undone. But lately, I have noticed them in the village.” She held up the blue satin cloth beneath her chin and peered into the looking glass. Above it, her skin glowed, soft and creamy, framed by delicate ginger hair in wavy tendrils. She began to dance. “But none so handsome as George,” she sang, swaying back and forth.

  “The young laird of Cawdor,” Lady Anne added with a smile.

  Henrietta stopped at the looking glass again. “My father doesn’t approve of balls, either,” she said. “I don’t know why he has allowed this one.”

  “Your father wants to please you,” replied Lady Anne. “But he does wish you to act with propriety. We are Covenanters, though perhaps not so strict as Margaret’s family.”

  “Who are, perhaps, too strict,” Margaret huffed. Lilias looked sharply at her, just for an instant, then continued tidying and packing the fabrics into a sack.

  As the day of the ball drew near, Margaret found herself fearful of discovery. What if one of the servants traveled to Auldearn and told the servants there? What if her father came for a visit when she was trying on her gown for the sixth or seventh time—or, worse, when she and Henrietta were setting out for the ball in their carriage? Margaret wrote letters daily to her mother, who, if she suspected the secret, did not mention it.

  The days passed without incident, and she enjoyed spending time with her friend. At times, Henrietta lapsed into silence, and sometimes, she cried quietly. Margaret knew that Henrietta was remembering her captivity. Quickly, she would recover her spirits and smile as if nothing was wrong.

  The pair strolled down to the River Nairn at the bottom of the garden to watch the water flow. They raced their horses on the strand. They took nets and managed to catch salmon at the estuary, watched the seabirds gather and vie for territory, and took off their shoes to wade in water that was still ice cold, though now it was June, and the air was warmer.

  They studied with Henrietta’s father, Mister Hugh, who was Minister at Nairn. Margaret felt grateful that with him, she could read some poetry, not just the Bible and the Westminster Confession. Mister Hugh loved poetry, and he was pleased to find that Margaret, unlike Henrietta, also loved it . . . especially Shakespeare. She was thrilled when he introduced her to the sonnets.

  One mild, temperate day, Margaret and Henrietta were sitting on a bench in the garden overlooking the river. Above them, a plum tree was beginning to form its fruit, and a woodlark trilled from its branches. Margaret read aloud. “‘How oft when thou, my music, music play’st, upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds, with thy sweet fingers.” Oh, such wonderful things Shakespeare writes about music and nature and love.”

  “‘And all of nature rejoices.’” Henrietta quoted a verse from the Bible. “At the ball, you shall dance with Andrew, and I with George.”

  “The handsome George.”

  “Oh, yes. You know, we are engaged. Well, almost engaged. George is a fine young man, tall and curly-haired, though his complexion is ruddy. We have been promised to
each other since birth, almost.”

  “Has he come courting?”

  “Yes. He came once with his men, and we had a lovely feast.” Henrietta became still and cast her eyes skyward. “Of course, he hasn’t formally asked for my hand yet.” Suddenly, her expression clouded over, and she bowed her head. She sat very still, as if frozen.

  Margaret reached out, touched her friend’s shoulder, and waited. Still no movement.

  Suddenly, Henrietta’s face brightened again, and she jumped up. “But speaking of love . . . ’tis time to learn the sarabande!” She began to dance around the grassy garden. “Step, step, plié,” she sang, lifting her arms up and down in a swinging motion.

  She proffered her hand, and Margaret rose and took it. They stepped and pliéd and waved their arms up and down.

  “Not so fast,” Henrietta said, slowly lifting her arms again. “Tis like the arms are floating.” Margaret slowed down and copied her, and they raised their arms in graceful motions as they danced around the garden to the song of the woodlark.

  In the great hall of Darnaway Castle, the ball was in progress. Built in the 1300s by King Robert the Bruce to hold one thousand warriors, the hall was the largest and most magnificent in Morayshire. Margaret looked up at the hammer-beam roof, so high that the ceiling seemed to reach up to heaven. Those massive dark trusses and arches, she thought, were like heavy claws reaching down over the assembled people, and they would surely impede one’s flight to the angels.

  Lieutenant Andrew Massie bowed low. Margaret giggled, then stomped her foot to rebuke herself. How could she giggle at a time like this? Andrew looked resplendent in his dress uniform: the red coat with its brass buttons shined, and the white pantaloons, white stockings, and black shoes with silver buckles. His hair, though, was straight and floppy as usual, in contrast with the other officers, who sported flowing curls.

  “My lady,” he said, rising from a bow and extending his hand. “May I have this dance?” Did Margaret detect a hint of amusement in his eyes, as if he recognized the silliness of this formal ballroom with its shine and glitter? As if he’d prefer to be out riding his horse? She realized that she, too, would rather have been outside.

  But Andrew seemed at ease in this setting, as if he’d been doing this all his life. Margaret took a breath and followed him onto the dance floor, where they formed one side of a square with three other couples. Luckily, this was the sarabande, the dance she had practiced most with Henrietta, and as the music began, Margaret remembered the steps and moved through the dance as relaxed as she could be in this intimidating room.

  Andrew kept his eyes on her. Her red velvet gown fit perfectly. Both Henrietta and Lady Anne had cooed and exclaimed at how lovely Margaret looked, with the garnet color against her pale skin and dark hair. Her curls were pulled back into a black-beaded net, and everything was punctuated by enormous teardrop pearl earrings that had belonged to her grandmother. They served as a heartening reminder of seeing her on the road. She will guide me, Margaret thought, and immediately felt more confident and clearheaded.

  Margaret basked in Andrew’s smiles as they danced, aware of the other couples stepping, floating their arms, and moving in and out of the square, and the people on the sides of the room watching. Light flickered from candles in the silver and crystal wall sconces, lending a glow and mystery to everything. Resplendent in their finest satins, silks, and lace, ladies fanned themselves in the unusually warm evening. Everyone chatted and inspected one another, though the room was so vast that many were too far away to recognize.

  Suddenly, Margaret stumbled. There was Aunt Grissel. In a gold satin gown, Grissel stood near an arched doorway with a group of ladies and men. Margaret glanced again, and this time, Grissel was looking directly at her. What to do? She would know that Margaret was not supposed to be here, and Margaret would have to entreat her to keep this secret.

  When the dance ended, Margaret hastened away from Andrew without a word, leaving him with his mouth open. She went to the doorway where she’d seen Grissel, but she was no longer there. Margaret walked around the great hall and peeked into the adjoining rooms but found not a trace of Grissel. She had to find her before Grissel spoke to her mother or father. She made her way back to the arched doorway, approaching a small, stout lady who had been standing beside Grissel. “Beg pardon, madame,” she said. “Have you seen the Lady Grissel of Brodie?”

  “Ah, Grissel left in some haste,” the woman replied. “She had illness at home.”

  Andrew appeared behind her. “Lady Margaret, is there something I can do to assist you?”

  She looked up at him. In his characteristic stance, erect but relaxed and almost careless, his eyes remained steady on her, and he looked ready to jump into battle if necessary. “Perhaps there is,” she answered.

  She glanced around the room again. Henrietta was standing to the side, looking forlorn and not dancing at all. She was watching a tall, ruddy-faced gentleman dance with a young, giddy-looking blonde woman. That must be George Campbell, Margaret thought. Why was he not dancing with Henrietta? Henrietta stared at George, then despondently cast her gaze toward the distant ceiling. Lady Anne, who was nearby talking with some other ladies, watched her daughter with a worried look.

  Margaret sighed and glanced back at Andrew. Could she confide in this man? She took her fan out of her bodice and fanned herself while she thought. Fans are useful for other things besides cooling, she reflected. “Lieutenant,” she began.

  “Please call me Andrew.”

  Margaret blushed, and fanned more furiously. “Andrew, then. There is something you can do. I must reach my Aunt Grissel, the Lady of Brodie, on an urgent matter, and it appears she has departed.”

  Oh, what joy! What thrills! Riding through the night behind a gallant lad, under the stars and over the fields, the wind blowing cold and her cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Holding Andrew. Feeling his strong back warm against her as he raced the horse in the smoothest gallop she’d ever felt. She could have ridden like this forever.

  Brodie Castle was nearby, and they could get there and back in close to an hour. Lady Anne would not miss her.

  Across the fields of Darnaway they flew, then through the Darnaway Wood, the earl’s hunting ground. It was a dark forest even in daytime, but now, the massive beech and oak groves created an inky black space where Margaret could not see a thing. Andrew slowed down as the horse leapt across the Muckle Burn, then burst out again at speed on the road to Brodie. Now they were within sight of Brodie Castle, which loomed stark and black under a sliver of moon and millions of stars.

  The sound of hooves ahead, and a carriage came into sight. Gilt-painted scrolls and flourishes shimmered in the starlight. “The Brodie carriage!” she shouted.

  Andrew pulled the horse alongside and grabbed the reins of the two horses pulling the carriage.

  “What ho!” the coachman cried.

  “Tis Margaret!” she called. “Do not be alarmed.”

  They stopped beside the carriage carrying Aunt Grissel.

  “Margaret?” Grissel leaned out with a puzzled expression, glancing wide-eyed from Margaret to Andrew. “What—?”

  “Can I sit with you a moment, Aunt?”

  “Of course.”

  Margaret dismounted and climbed into the carriage beside Grissel while Andrew waited. The scents of lavender, musk, and wool filled the carriage—the smells of her aunt. Their gowns rubbed together, Margaret’s red velvet against Grissel’s rustling gold satin.

  Grissel raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips as Margaret smoothed out her gown. “What matters your gown, now that you’ve mussed it on the horse?”

  “Aunt Grissel, I must entreat you not to tell Mother that you saw me at the ball. You know that dancing is forbidden.”

  Grissel started to laugh, then checked herself as she saw Margaret’s distres
s. “Don’t you know that half of Moray saw you at the ball? What makes you think it will be a secret now?”

  “But the Covenanters were not there. And I saw only the Earl of Moray and one of the Campbells. They haven’t seen me since I was a lass, so I don’t think they knew me, and the hall was dark, with so many people.”

  “Mmm. Perhaps. You do look like a splendid lady in that red gown! And who is the young man there?”

  Margaret leaned out toward Andrew. “Andrew, this is my aunt, Lady Grissel of Brodie.”

  Andrew bowed. Grissel raised an eyebrow at Margaret.

  “But you mustn’t tell about him, either . . . please, Grissel! You know what Father thinks of the English.”

  Grissel’s face squeezed into a skeptical expression, but she nodded reluctantly. “Now I must get back to my William, who is ailing.”

  “And we must go back to the ball!”

  Grissel pointed a finger at Margaret. “Young lady, I advise you not to go back. There are many who will scheme to weaken your father if they see you.”

  Margaret tossed her head. “If so, they have already seen me.” She would not be daunted. Margaret climbed out of the carriage, and Andrew, who had dismounted, helped her up into the saddle, where she again sat sidesaddle and spread her skirts in a decorous manner. He leapt up in front, and with another bow to Grissel, gently clucked to the horse. Away they flew, back to Darnaway.

  Chapter 34

  Hoofbeats charging into the courtyard. A familiar gallop. Margaret ran to the window and peered out.

  There was a flash of red, a wide-brimmed hat, and now a vigorous knocking on the door.