by Amanda Scott
“But there was no arrangement,” Bab said desperately. She could not bring herself to declare, as she had to Fin and Molly, that she did not want to marry Sir Alex. One simply could not say such a thing to his gently spoken mother.
“You must ask Chisholm,” Lady Chisholm said. “Oh, and I do believe that Alex had a letter from Sir Patrick, did he not?” She looked hopefully at Kintail. “Did you not bring him such a letter when you came to fetch Barbara, sir?”
“Aye,” Kintail said, “but I doubt that Patrick wrote of any marriage contract, my lady. I’d know if he had knowledge of any arrangement or present intent.”
A brief silence fell before Lady Chisholm turned to Bab and said with a rueful smile, “You know, my dear, your mother is very tired from her journey, and as none of us wants to distress her…”
“We don’t, of course,” Bab said reluctantly when the pause lengthened until it became clear that her ladyship expected a response. “But neither do I want her to become so accustomed to the notion that she will not let go of it, my lady. This whole business is very awkward, as you must agree.”
“I can see that you think so, my dear,” Lady Chisholm said kindly. “However, if you will heed my advice, I think we should let her rest comfortably tonight and see how matters stand in the morning.”
“Where is Sir Alex?” Bab asked, wondering how he would react to the notion that he was to marry her, and fairly certain she would not want to hear it.
“He has been away several times since you left,” Lady Chisholm said. “His father asked him to visit some of our people, you see. After that business at the Beltane fire, everyone is taking particular care to avoid the sheriff’s men, but Chisholm thought it as well to send Alex out to be sure everyone is safe. You know how Chisholm tries to impress upon him his duty to look after our folk.”
“I should think Alex is well aware of his duty,” Fin said.
“Aye, sir, but just as different sheriffs act differently, so do men in general, and the plain fact is that as much as Alexander tries to please his father, their methods will never be the same. Rob or Michael, now… but there, I begin to sound like Chisholm, and that I do not wish to do. Indeed, I do not know how he can demand that Alexander ‘do something’ and then grow angry when another man takes the law into his hands. But I always loved my sons equally, and although death encourages us to make saints of our loved ones, neither Rob nor Michael would qualify for sainthood either before or after his demise. The best any of my sons can hope for is to have been good men and true, and that all three have been.”
“When will he return?” Bab asked.
“He just left again yesterday, but I expect he’ll return soon.”
With that Bab had to be content, but she quickly learned that she had underestimated the strength of Lady MacRae’s belief in her arranged marriage.
Early Friday morning, after breaking her fast with Molly and Fin and walking out with them into the bailey to bid them farewell, Bab returned to the great hall after twenty minutes’ absence to find both Lady Chisholm and Lady MacRae at the table with their heads together while servants scurried to bring them food.
Startled, since she had supposed they were both still sound asleep, she paused at the threshold.
Lady MacRae was talking but broke off upon seeing her to exclaim, “Oh, my dearling, we thought you were still abed. Do come and sit with us, for we are discussing your wedding dress.”
Blinking at this cheerful, articulate stream of words from a woman who had scarcely spoken above a murmur for months, Bab shot a look at Lady Chisholm before she said warily, “Wedding dress?”
“Aye, for you must have a new gown for the occasion, you know, and whilst I am sure that Ada and Giorsal can create one for you quickly, you should look to see if there is anything that you cannot like in this pattern we have devised.”
“Pattern?”
Lady MacRae looked more narrowly at her. “Are you quite awake, dearling? You sound as if you were talking in your sleep.”
“I am wholly awake, madam. Indeed, I have been up this past hour and more, because Kintail and Molly left only a few minutes ago. Had they known you were on the point of descending to break your fast,” she said to Lady Chisholm, “I know they would have waited to express their thanks personally for your hospitality. As it is, I am charged with that duty.”
“They both thanked me profusely last night,” she said with a chuckle. “I told them then as I tell you now that you have little for which to be grateful. The boot is entirely on the other foot, as my sons were used to say. I am greatly indebted to you for your companionship and for bringing Arabella to visit me. It has been much too long since we have enjoyed any time together.”
“Look at this drawing,” Lady MacRae said again. “I own, I have not tried to sketch anything for some time, so the result is somewhat crude, but it will give you an idea of what we have been discussing.”
“The dress is entirely your mother’s creation,” Lady Chisholm said with a chuckle. “I cannot claim to have contributed a single detail to it, and thus I can say without blushing that I think it quite beautiful.”
Bab glanced perforce at the drawing her mother had made on a sheet of foolscap, and what she saw rendered her nearly speechless. Lady MacRae had enjoyed drawing before Sir Gilchrist’s death, but to Bab’s certain knowledge had not picked up a pen or brush since the day she had learned of that dreadful event. Still, Bab had seen many examples of her mother’s talent, for the great recipe book of the MacRaes boasted her drawings alongside recipes for puddings and liniments, as well as the housekeeping hints it contained. The book even contained amusing sketches of servants they had had over the years, and memorable events.
Now she saw a sketch of herself in a gown that would make a stunning bride gown. It took no imagination to see that it would become her well, and despite her mother’s self-criticism, there was nothing in the image for which to apologize. Her ladyship’s skill, if anything, had improved.
“It’s beautiful,” Bab said. Much as she wanted to say that she had no need of a bride dress, since she was not going to marry—now or ever—she could not say the words. If she had needed anything more to tell her how much good the notion of a wedding had done her mother, the light in her ladyship’s eyes provided it. She could no more extinguish that light than she could have drowned a kitten. Clearly, she would have to find another way to stifle the notion of a wedding.
But by Sunday, she was no closer to a solution than she had been on her arrival. Chisholm had appeared only for meals, and although he greeted his guests politely, seemed content to have them as guests, and read the Sunday prayers in the castle chapel. His conversation was disinterested to the point of being terse. Even Lady MacRae’s mention of wedding plans did not faze him. He said vaguely, albeit to Bab’s consternation, that he was sure the ladies had everything in train.
Hoping that Lady Chisholm had simply warned him to say nothing to distress Lady MacRae, Bab wondered if she could gain any advantage by speaking to him privately. After considering the matter, she decided to hold her peace. The problem she faced in talking with Chisholm was the same as it was with his lady. She could not imagine any way of protesting to either one that she had no wish to marry their son without offending them deeply. At best, they would think her inconsiderate; at worst, unconscionably rude, so by the time Sir Alex returned late Sunday afternoon, she was fairly champing at the bit to talk with him.
Chapter 11
Sir Alex strolled into his mother’s bower, having obviously taken sufficient time first to remove his travel gear and don clothing more suitable for company. The cerulean blue doublet matched his eyes exactly, and his darker blue trunk hose, slashed and puffed with pink satin, gave the outfit a particularly festive appearance.
Lady Chisholm and Lady MacRae were working at their tambour frames, and Bab, delighted to see her mother at last knotting her thread and making real progress, had been sorting threads for her on a white clot
h spread across her lap.
“Allow me to assist you with that task, mistress,” Sir Alex drawled amiably, drawing up a low stool beside her when he had greeted them, and sitting on it.
He seemed suddenly too near, but although his nearness created a certain tension, she did not feel that she should object to it.
Lady MacRae turned a critical eye toward him. “Some of the colors are very similar, sir. Mind that you take care, or Barbara will have to sort them over again.”
He smiled at her. “I am very pleased that you have chosen to visit us, my lady. At Stirling, I scarcely had a chance to do more than welcome you before you departed for home again.”
“I do not enjoy court life,” she replied, returning her attention to her embroidery.
He blinked, looking from Bab to his mother but making no comment.
Lady Chisholm smiled. “I hope you found everything in order with those of our people you visited, my dear.”
“More or less,” he said. “I encountered tension everywhere, so I cannot say that anyone is at peace, nor do I believe that enviable state will return whilst the Dalcrosses remain in power.”
“We should do something, Alex. Your father is quite right about that.”
“Aye, perhaps,” he said, selecting a skein of varicolored thread from those Bab had on her lap, adding as he began to unknot it, “I do not know what that ‘something’ might be, madam. Recall that my father also insists that any action must be lawful. Raising an army against Jamie’s appointed sheriff would be little less than treason even if we could organize the few barons who have not ridden south to support him. Certainly Jamie would call it treason, and I’ve no wish to end on a gallows, madam, nor to see my father do so.”
“No, my dear, and I suppose it would be difficult to organize the Highland gentry,” Lady Chisholm said. “Many would balk if for no other reason than they believe Dalcross enjoys the support of the Pope in his determination to bring our local religious traditions in line with Rome.”
Sir Alex’s eyes twinkled. “I doubt that the Pope has ever heard of Dalcross. Indeed, I should doubt that he has ever heard of Inverness. I’ve met him, you see.”
If he intended that rider to divert his audience, he succeeded.
Bab exclaimed, “Did you indeed, sir? What is he like?”
“I can scarcely answer that, mistress, for although I was honored to attend a papal audience and even kissed the papal toe, I’m afraid I found the entire experience to be something of an absurdity.”
“Alexander, you should not speak such sacrilege,” his mother scolded.
“Should I not? I wager you’d have been as hard pressed as I to keep from bursting into laughter had you seen that line of grown men approaching the pontiff. They do so one at a time on their knees, you see, in a sort of zigzagging lurch. At the end, one crawls on both hands and knees to the papal slipper, where some helpful soul has made a chalked cross on the exact spot one is to kiss.”
“No!” Bab and Lady Chisholm exclaimed as one, both laughing. Lady MacRae continued with her neat stitches as if she had not heard him.
“I promise you, I could never have made this up,” he said. “One hesitates a moment respectfully after kissing the slipper, whilst the pontiff pontificates, and then one retreats in the same awkward, lurching manner as one has come forward, only backwards, as if from the presence of royalty.”
“But why did you do it at all if you thought it so absurd?” Bab demanded when she had stopped laughing at the vision so easily imagined.
“Sakes, mistress, I wanted to see him, of course. Rather than miss that experience, I’d have kissed his—” He glanced at his mother. “I’d have kissed whatever piece of him he wanted me to kiss. One does what one must.”
“I suppose you would,” she murmured, returning her attention to her work.
The mood being broken, they worked in silence for several moments before Lady MacRae said abruptly, “I hope you found time to speak to your priest whilst you were out speaking to people, sir.”
“About what, my lady?” Sir Alex said gently, turning his attention to her.
“Why, the wedding, of course. We must set the date, and since your mother said that you had received a letter from our Patrick, I believe you must have a good notion by now of when that should be.”
With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Sir Alex looked at Bab as he said, “The only wedding Patrick mentioned in his letter was a possible one sometime in an unlikely future between your daughter and myself, but I had assumed that, as he jokes about that frequently, he was merely doing so again. Am I to understand that Mistress Barbara believes he might truly press for such a union?”
“Why, it was all arranged,” Lady MacRae said matter-of-factly. “Doubtless Patrick recalled it to your attention only because he has been away this past year, but he is in Scotland again, so the time has come to get on with it. Barbara knows her duty. She will obey her father’s wishes just as you will obey yours.”
Bab watched Sir Alex narrowly throughout this exchange, but she could read little in his expression. He did glance at Lady Chisholm, but Bab did not think the slight shake of her ladyship’s head would mean much to him.
At last, he smiled at Bab, saying, “I had not realized matters had progressed so far, mistress. You must hold me in higher esteem than I’d thought.”
“You should not tease her, Sir Alex,” Lady MacRae said austerely. “Why should she not hold you in high esteem?”
Uncertain whether he was baiting her or speaking sincerely, Bab held her temper and her tongue, albeit both with difficulty.
He had turned his head away again, making it difficult to read his expression, and he was pretending (she was sure) to concentrate on the separation of two red threads that were nearly but not quite identical in shade. Just then, he looked at her, and the mischief in his eyes was clear to see.
“I’d like a word with you, sir,” she said. “A private word, if you please.”
He leaned back in mock surprise. “Alone, mistress? Faith, do you count us as married already?”
Wishing she had a jug of water to empty over his head, Bab refused to reply in kind. Instead, carefully wrapping her threads in the white cloth on which she had been sorting them, she arose and set them on a side table. Then, she said evenly to him, “If you wish to make a game of me, sir, I cannot stop you, but it would please me if you would accord me a few moments of your time.”
He, too, set aside the threads he had been sorting and stood up, but he was smiling and shaking his head in such a way that she knew he meant to continue teasing her. Before he could speak, however, his mother said gently, “Alex.”
Turning to her, he smiled. “Yes, madam.”
“Go with her, my dear, and see if you cannot soothe her fears. You can certainly take a turn together around the bailey without causing a scandal.”
He made Bab a profound leg then and offered an arm. “There now, mistress,” he murmured. “Already your wish is to be my command.”
“Oh, do stop talking like a daffy,” she snapped. “You make me want to shake you until your teeth fly about your head.”
“Well, if you think you can…” he said provocatively.
Throwing up her hands, Bab turned and walked away, leaving him to follow.
As she crossed the room, she heard him murmur, “You see, madam, how she leads me a dance. I tremble to think what married life holds in store for me.”
Gritting her teeth, Bab tried to ignore him. Flinging open the door and striding from the room, she caught up her skirts as she crossed the great hall dais, only to have him grab her arm as she began to step down from it to the lower hall.
“One moment, mistress,” he said in his irritating drawl.
“Let go of me, sir. I do not want to have this conversation either here or in the bailey, but you will oblige me by holding your tongue. I just wish we could be private. Then, at least, if you persisted in tormenting me, I need not be answerable for my act
ions.”
“Dear me, what a shrewish temper the lass has,” he murmured. “I have no wish to stroll about the bailey in view of heaven knows how many gawkers, but we can easily stay here. I have shut the door behind us, and I trust the hall will remain empty at this hour. Therefore you may say what you will to me without delay.”
She waited pointedly until he released her arm, and then she looked around and saw that gillies had already begun laying the high table for supper. Two lads came through a doorway opposite the one from the stairs just then, carrying trestles to set up the lower hall tables.
She glanced uncertainly at Sir Alex, but he had seen them.
“Leave us,” he said quietly. “You may return in twenty minutes’ time and still finish your tasks before supper.”
“Aye, sir,” one of the lads said, touching his forelock.
When they were alone, Bab faced him. “I do not know what they must think, sir. Likely, they will tell everyone that you wanted to be private with me.”
“It does not matter what they think,” he said. “But let us step nearer to the high table. The screens will give us more privacy, and no one will overhear what you say to me even if someone should chance to come in. You should perhaps not raise your voice, but otherwise you may shred my character as much as you like.”
“I have no wish to shred your character,” she said, striving to control her voice and wondering what it was about him that made her want to shriek at him like an Edinburgh fishwife one moment and apologize for her temper the next.
A stack of wooden trenchers sat at the near corner ready to be set out, flanked by pewter mugs for ale and goblets for wine. The saltceller was in its usual place, and the claret had been decanted and left to rest in a jug near the trenchers.
“Now, mistress, what is it?”
“You must know what it is!”
“I would like you to tell me nonetheless.”
“This marriage notion of my mother’s is a nonsense.”
“How did it come to this pass?”
