Sophia's Secret

by Susanna Kearsley

  Kirsty took the sense of that, and nodded. ‘Let us hope that ye are right.’ Again her hand passed cool across Sophia’s forehead, and on inspiration she said, ‘I will ask my sister if she knows of any potions that might help ye through this time.’

  Sophia’s hand moved in protection to her still-flat stomach. ‘Potions?’ She remembered Anna’s agony. The evil, grinning woman with her bottles. ‘I cannot take any medicines. I would not harm this bairn.’ His bairn, she thought – born of his love for her. A part of him, inside her. She drew warmth at least from that.

  ‘The bairn will not be harmed,’ was Kirsty’s promise. With a smile, she said, ‘My sister’s been through this more times than most, and all her bairns came full of life and yelling to the world. She’ll know what ye should do. She’ll help ye.’

  It would not be soon enough, Sophia thought, as yet another wave of sickness caught her helpless in its roll, and made her turn her face, eyes closed, against the pillow.

  Kirsty stood. ‘I will send word to her, and see if she will come afore her ladyship returns.’

  Before night, Kirsty’s sister came, a calming presence with her understanding eyes and gentle ways. She brought Sophia dried herbs wrapped in cloth, to brew as tea. ‘’Twill ease the sickness greatly so that ye can feel yourself again and take a bit o’ nourishment.’

  It helped.

  So much so that, next morning, she felt well enough to rise, and dress, and take her place at table. She was still the only person in the house, besides the servants, so there was no one to see the way she smoothed her hand across her stomach with new pride, protectively, before she sat. Her appetite was small but still she ate, and after eating sought a warmly sunlit corner of the library, to pass the morning reading.

  She could draw some sense of shared communion, sitting here where Moray had so often sought escape from his forced inactivity at Slains, and feeling in her hands the smooth expensive leather bindings of the books he had so loved to read.

  And one book, out of all of them, could draw her to a stronger feeling of connection to him, as though Moray’s voice were speaking out the words. It was a newer volume, plainly bound, of Dryden’s King Arthur, or the British Worthy. The pages were so slightly used she doubted whether anyone but Moray and herself had read the lines, and she was only sure that he had read them because in the letter he had left her – in that simple letter, with its sentiments so strong and sure that every night, on reading them, they banished all her worries – he had quoted from this very work of Dryden’s, and the verse, writ in his own bold hand, stayed with her as though he himself had spoken it:

  ‘Where’e’er I go, my Soul shall stay with thee:

  ’Tis but my Shadow that I take away;’

  She read it over now, and touched the book’s page with her fingers as though somehow that could bring him close. A few weeks more, she told herself. A few weeks more – a month, perhaps, and then the king would surely come.

  The household spoke of nothing else. The visitors still came and went, in states of great excitement, and throughout the summer Slains had seemed as busy as a royal court itself, at times, the dinner table ringed with unknown faces, men who’d travelled miles to carry secret messages from nobles to the north, and from the Highlands.

  The nobles dared not come themselves. A gathering of Jacobites would only draw Queen Anne’s attention, and it was widely known the English Court had turned its ever-watchful eye toward the north, as might a hound that had caught some new scent upon the wind. This was no accident, according to the countess, who had made no false attempt to hide her own opinion of who was responsible. She’d counselled all who came to Slains that they should keep their words and actions guarded from the Duke of Hamilton. ‘If he does seek to be a wolf within the fold,’ she’d said, ‘we would do well to let him carry on believing we are sheep.’

  The earl had smiled at that, and told her, ‘Mother, you are many things, but no man who has met you could consider you a sheep.’

  Sophia privately agreed with him. The countess, who so many times had proved her strength of intellect, had this summer shown a strength of body that Sophia, for her youth, could not have matched. The older woman slept but little, rising early to her work of putting everything in order for the coming of the king – playing hostess to the many guests, and tending to her daunting correspondence. There was not a night, it seemed, but that the light within the chamber of the countess burnt long after all the others were extinguished.

  And the pace at which she drove herself – a pace which might have left a man exhausted – had apparently done nothing but increase her sense of restlessness.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ she’d exploded, only last week, when Sophia had been standing with her at the great bow window of the drawing room. ‘What can they all be thinking of? They must come now. They must, or else the moment will be lost.’

  And yet the sea beyond the window stayed dishearteningly empty. No new sails on the horizon, bringing word from Saint-Germain.

  Sophia had, from habit, stood that morning upon waking at the window of her chamber, with her gaze turned eastward, hopefully, but she’d seen only sunlight on the water, hard and glittering, and after some few minutes that had pained her eyes so that she’d had to look away.

  There would be no great news today, she thought, not with the countess and her son still on their visit with the Earl of Marischal at Dunottar. It was a day for rest, and solitary things. Sophia settled with the books, and read, and let the sunlight slanting through the window warm her downturned head, her shoulders, lulling her to drowsiness and then to the oblivion of sleep.

  She woke to Kirsty’s gentle shaking of her arm. ‘Sophia, ye must waken.’

  Sophia forced her heavy eyes to open. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Past noon. Ye have a visitor.’

  Sophia struggled upright in her chair, aware of Kirsty’s urgency. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘’Tis none other than His Grace the Duke of Hamilton, come all the way from Edinburgh by coach.’

  At a loss, her mind still turning slowly after sleep, Sophia said, ‘But he’ll have come to see the countess and the earl, not me.’

  ‘Aye, so he will, and Rory’s riding now to Dunottar to fetch them home. But till they arrive, you’re the only one in the house fit to receive him. Come, I’ll help ye dress.’

  She dressed in haste, and glanced with doubt into the looking-glass. Her face still showed the pallor of the sickness she’d just overcome, and even she could see, in her own eyes, that she was nervous.

  She had no wish to face the Duke of Hamilton alone. He knows too much, so John had told her, but he knows that he does not know all, and that, I fear, may drive him to new treachery.

  The countess, were she here, would be intelligent enough to see through any false advance that he might make. She would not let herself unwittingly be led into revealing any details that might harm the chances of the king, or injure those who served him. She would, in fact, if she were here, be more apt to manipulate the duke, than he would her.

  But she was not here, and Sophia knew her own wits must this afternoon be sharper than they’d ever been. There was too much at stake. And not only for the king and those who followed him.

  It was not of the king’s life and his future she was thinking as her hands moved lightly down the bodice of her gown, as if to satisfy themselves the tiny life that beat within her was yet safe.

  Kirsty, noticing the movement, said, ‘It does not show. Ye need not fear the Duke will see.’

  Sophia dropped her hands.

  ‘But he’ll see that,’ said Kirsty, nodding at the heavy silver ring Sophia wore now always round her neck, upon a slender silver chain that could be easily concealed beneath her clothes. The chain had slipped now from the neckline of the gown, and Kirsty pointed out, ‘It would be safer for ye not to wear it.’

  She was right, Sophia knew. From Moray’s tales about his childhood she knew well that his own fat
her, who had given him that ring, had shared an intimate acquaintance with the family of the duke, and it was likely that the duke had from a young age seen that ring on Moray’s father’s hand. Sophia could not take the chance that he would see it now and recognise it, for she knew it would not take him long to reason out how she had come to have it in her keeping.

  He must never learn that you are mine, warned Moray in her memory, and she slipped the chain off with reluctance. ‘Here,’ she said to Kirsty, handing her the ring.

  ‘I’ll guard it well.’

  Sophia knew that. But she would have given much to feel the comfort of that ring against her heart to give her courage as she carefully descended to the drawing room to greet the Duke of Hamilton.

  ‘Your Grace.’ Was that her voice, she wondered, sounding so composed? ‘You do us honour with your visit.’

  He looked much the same as she remembered – the elegant clothes, and the curled black wig styled in the full height of fashion to fall past his shoulders. But she fancied the still-handsome features had hardened to something less pleasant in places, a self-serving mask that he wore to a purpose. His eyes, although languid, were watchful and noticing. In but the space of a breath they had taken her measure. The duke gave a bow. Raised her hand to his lips.

  ‘Mistress Paterson. The honour is all mine, I can assure you.’ His smile, as charming as before, was meant to put her at her ease. ‘I must say, living here at Slains does appear to agree with you. You are more lovely even than I did remember.’

  ‘You are kind.’ Politely, she reclaimed her hand, and took a seat so he would do the same. She found it easier, to face him sitting down.

  ‘I’m told the countess and her son are not at home?’ His tone was casual, but underneath Sophia thought she sensed a probing pause that she was meant to fill. She filled it cautiously, her own voice light.

  ‘They are expected back at any moment.’ Then, to turn the tables, she said, ‘You will stay, I hope, until they do arrive? They would be, I know, most sorry to return and find they’d missed you, and would surely have not ventured from the house if we had known that you were coming.’

  There, she thought. Let him explain his visit, and the reason he’d come all this way without first sending word. If what the countess thought was true, he’d likely come to spy on them, and gain his own intelligence on what was being done at Slains in preparation for the king’s arrival. If that was so, Sophia thought, then he must now be thinking himself fortunate to find, in place of the more suspicious countess and the forceful young earl, a mere girl, on her own and – to his mind – a lamb to be easily led.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do regret I am come unannounced, but till today I did not know my business would compel me so far north. I thought only to pay my respects, I’ll not trouble the family by staying. No doubt they’ve had enough guests, lately.’

  She saw it for herself, that time – the briefest flash behind his smiling eyes, but still she saw it, and knew she had done right to treat him warily. ‘No guests as gracious as yourself,’ was how she stepped around the trap. And then she asked, as any young and guileless girl might ask, what news there was from Edinburgh, what gossip from the English court, and what the latest changes were in fashion.

  Their conversation was a sort of dance, she thought, with complicated steps, but as the time wore on she grew to know the way of it, and when to step, and when to twirl, and when to simply stand and wait.

  He led with skill, not asking questions outright but arranging his own statements so that she would follow on with some small bit of information, but she kept her own wits sharp and always countered with a seemingly ingenuous response that gave him nothing in the way of satisfaction.

  She felt sure he did not know she was doing it deliberately – the duke was not the sort of man to credit someone like herself with that kind of ability – but still, throughout the afternoon his speech took on a faint edge of frustration, as a man might feel who tries to do a simple task and finds himself confounded.

  Yet he did not leave, not even after four o’clock had come and they’d been brought the usual refreshments for that hour of wine and ale, and little cakes in place of bread today because there was a visitor. Sophia had thought, after that, the duke would surely take his leave and carry on his way to where he meant to spend the night, but he did not. He only settled deeper in his chair, and spoke at greater length, with greater charm, to make the dance steps still more intricate.

  Sophia matched the effort with her own, but found it tiring. By the time she heard the sound of steps and voices from the entry hall that told her that the countess and her son had finally come, Sophia’s mind was near exhaustion.

  She was grateful when the countess, with her vibrant presence, swept into the drawing room. ‘Your Grace, this is an unexpected pleasure.’ From her easy smile one would have thought she meant it. ‘I confess that I did scarce believe the servants when they told me you were here. Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘I have been well attended,’ he assured her. He had risen from his chair to greet her, and now gave a nod towards Sophia. ‘Mistress Paterson and I have passed the time in conversation.’

  The countess’s own glance at Sophia betrayed none of the concern she must have felt at that revelation. ‘Then I do not doubt that you have found her as delightful a companion as I do myself. Her presence in this house does daily bring me joy, especially since all my girls are married now, and gone from home.’ Returning her attention to the duke, she said, ‘You will stay the night?’

  ‘Well…’ He made a show of protestation.

  ‘Yes, of course you will. ’Tis nearly dusk, you cannot venture out upon the road so late.’

  The Earl of Erroll, coming through the doorway of the drawing room, agreed. ‘We would not hear of it.’ He gave the duke a hearty greeting, proving that his acting skills were equal to his mother’s. ‘It has been some time since you were last here. Come, let me show you the improvements we are making to the house.’

  When the men had departed the countess sagged visibly, showing the strain of her hard ride from Dunottar. Turning to Sophia, she began to frame a question, but Sophia said, ‘He came just after midday and has been with me for all this time. And as you did suspect, he seemed determined to confuse me into telling him the secrets of this house.’

  The countess softened. ‘Oh, my dear.’

  ‘I told him nothing.’ She was feeling more than tired, now. The sickness was returning, but she fought it as she used the chair’s support to rise and stand before the countess. ‘I was careful.’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ the countess said again, but with a thread of warm approval in her voice. ‘I am but sorry you were here alone to shoulder such a burden.’

  ‘It was no great trouble.’

  ‘Nonsense. It has wearied you.’ The countess moved to help her. ‘You are pale.’

  ‘’Tis but a headache.’

  ‘Go and rest, then. You have earned it.’ Once again Sophia felt that gentle touch upon her cheek, so like the memory of her mother’s loving hand. The countess smiled. ‘You have done well, Sophia. Very well. Now go and get some rest. The earl and I are equal to the duke’s designs. We have him well in hand, and I would not for all the world have you fall ill because of such a man.’ Her brief embrace was soothing. ‘Up you go, and seek your chamber. I’ll send Kirsty to attend you.’

  So Sophia gladly went, and after that remembered little of the evening, which she passed in waves of sickness and of sleep. But in the morning, whether from the drink of herbs that Kirsty’s sister had supplied or from some miracle, the sickness had departed, and the duke had gone as well, his dark coach setting off along the northern road before the sun was fully risen, and himself no wiser than he’d been before he’d come to Slains.

  ‘It isn’t broken.’ Dr Weir’s hands moved reassuringly across my swollen ankle. ‘If you’d broken it, you’d feel it here’ – he gently squeezed the place – ‘not here. It’s
just a sprain.’ He’d slipped easily into the role he’d retired from. He might have been wearing a white coat and stethoscope, questioning one of his surgical patients, not sitting here next to my fireplace and wearing a fisherman’s sweater that still held the damp from the rain.

  Reaching for a roll of wide elastic bandage, he glanced up from beneath his eyebrows. ‘Stuart said you took a tumble off the path.’

  Stuart evidently hadn’t trusted me to keep my word and show my injured ankle to the doctor on my own, so he’d arranged this morning’s house call. I suspected that his version of my accident, no doubt with ample mention of his own role in my rescue, would have gone a bit beyond the simple fact that I had fallen from the path, but, ‘Yes, that’s what I did.’

  This time the upwards glance was curious. ‘It’s not a narrow path.’

  I could think of no good reason not to tell him what I thought might be the truth. ‘Well, I was daydreaming a bit, not really paying much attention, and I think that I was walking where I thought the path would be.’ I met his eyes. ‘Where I remembered it had been.’

  ‘I see.’ He took this in. ‘How very interesting.’ In silent thought he wrapped the bandage firmly round my ankle and sat back with the expression of a scientist considering a curious hypothesis. ‘It’s possible, of course. The hillside would have changed a good deal since that time, from the erosion of the wind and tides. It’s possible the old path fell away.’

  ‘And I fell with it.’ With a rueful smile, I turned my ankle, testing it.

  ‘Aye, well, you’ll want to take care up at Slains, then, won’t you? You’ll do more than hurt your ankle if you lose your footing there.’

  I looked beyond his shoulder to the window with its view of those red walls that clung so fiercely to the rocky cliffs, in shadow now that dark clouds had begun to mass above the sea to block the sun. ‘I don’t imagine I’ll be up there in the next few days.’