Sophia's Secret

by Susanna Kearsley

  I could understand that. If this had been my house, I’d have found it hard to shift myself from here as well, with the sunshine and the view out to the tidy small back garden, where a wooden feeder hung from one bare tree branch for the birds. And there was warmth here from the kitchen, and the comfort of companionship, with Graham banging whistling round the cupboards while he put the kettle on and got the mugs and things for tea.

  It surprised even me how seductive I found the whole set up; how easily my mind adapted to the thought of living here, with Graham. I hadn’t lived with anyone since leaving home. I’d always liked my private space. But standing now and watching him, it struck me this was something I could stand and watch repeatedly. Forever.

  It was not a feeling that I’d had before, and so I didn’t know exactly what to do with it. This winter was becoming more and more a time of firsts for me.

  ‘Good cake,’ said Graham, testing it while waiting for the kettle. Holding the plastic container in one hand, he offered me the fork. ‘D’ye want some?’

  ‘No, thanks. I had two pieces at lunch.’

  ‘And how did that go, your lunch?’

  ‘Oh, I had a good time. I always do, with Jane. We talked about the book a lot.’

  He glanced towards my briefcase, which he’d set beside the sofa. ‘You did remember to bring your computer?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d let me come otherwise.’ When we’d talked on the phone he’d reminded me several times not to forget it.

  ‘Aye, well, you can laugh, but you’ll thank me when you’re struck by sudden inspiration in the middle of the night, and need to work.’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘You think that I’ll be struck by sudden inspiration, do you?’

  Leaning on the worktop with his piece of cake in hand he flashed a faintly wicked smile and said, ‘I mean to do my best.’

  The room was strange. I didn’t recognise the placement of the windows or the walls when I first woke, and there was little light to see by. For a moment I lay blinking in confusion, till I felt the solid warmth against my back and felt the rhythmic rise and fall of Graham’s breathing and I knew then where I was.

  I closed my eyes, contented, wanting nothing more than just to stay there, with his arm wrapped round me and his head so close behind mine on the pillow that his breath moved through my hair. I felt as I’d felt earlier, that moment in the kitchen when I’d watched him making tea – that I could live this scene repeatedly and never learn to tire of it.

  But even as that drowsy realisation slumbered through my mind, another scene began to stir and shape itself and nudge me into wakefulness. I fought it, but it fought me back, and in the end I sighed, resigned, and gently lifting Graham’s arm slipped shivering from the blankets, dressed, and went downstairs.

  There was no sunlight now in the conservatory kitchen, but the moon cast shadows of its own across the floor where I had left my briefcase. I was cold. Hanging with the jackets on the coat pegs by the back door to the garden was a heavy navy rugby shirt with stripes of red and gold, faded and looking as though it had been through the wars. But it looked warm as well, and I shrugged myself into it, pushing the long sleeves right up to my elbows.

  Angus, on the sofa, raised his head and gave his tail a thump of welcome as I crossed to sit beside him, then he rolled and held his four feet in the air so I could give his chest a scratch. I did, but absently, and Angus seemed to know what single-minded concentration looked like when he saw it, for he yawned and rolled again to curl himself against my side, his nose and one front paw tucked in the folds of Graham’s rugby jersey, and he fell asleep as I began to write.

  XVII

  Sophia moved with care upon the bed so she would not disturb the baby’s sleep. The feel of that small body nestled warm against her own was still an unexpected joy so sharply new it clutched her heart sometimes and stole her breath with wonder. It had been three weeks since the birth, and yet each time she looked upon her daughter’s face the beauty of it blinded her to all else in the room. And she was beautiful, the baby named for Moray’s sister and Sophia’s: Anna. When the time came they would have her christened properly, as Anna Mary Moray, but for now the baby seemed content to be plain Anna, with her tiny perfect hands and feet, her soft brown hair, and eyes that were already changing colour to the green-grey of the winter sea.

  Each time Sophia met those eyes she thought of Colonel Graeme standing next to her beside the great bow window of the drawing room at Slains, and saying one day she might come to see the promise of the sea in winter, and she thought perhaps he had been right, for in her daughter’s infant eyes she saw the hope of new life breaking from the depths of this hard season that had held the world so long in frost and cold despair, a life that brought the word of coming spring.

  For surely spring, Sophia thought, would reach them soonest here. They were far south of Slains, the countess having thought it best to send them where the baby could be born in safety, shielded from unwelcome eyes. She’d called upon the Malcolms, an obliging couple who had often served the Earls of Erroll and were loyal to the family. They lived modestly, close by the Firth of Edinburgh, that broad and busy tidal river leading from the open sea, and every day upon the road that passed the house Sophia heard the wheels of coaches passing by, and travellers on horseback heading to and from the royal town.

  Her own slow journey south had been a hard one, coming down by coach with Kirsty in the days just after Christmas. Several times the wheels had foundered in the deeply rutted mud and stuck so fast that it had taken both the coachman and the footman hours to free them, and in one place they had tried to go around the mud and nearly overturned. Sophia, worried for the safety of the baby, had been glad to feel the strong kicks in her belly that had seemed to come in protest of the roughness of such treatment. She’d been gladder still to reach the Malcolm’s house, and find both Mrs Malcolm and her husband kind and warm and welcoming.

  They had asked no questions. To their neighbours, they’d explained she was a cousin from the north whose husband, called away by sudden business, had desired that she come there so she might be with family for the birthing of the child. Sophia did not know if this was how the countess had explained the situation to them, or if they had made the story up themselves. It did not matter. She was safe, and so was Anna, and when Moray came he’d find them here and waiting for him.

  At her side the baby yawned and stirred and, sleeping still, pressed close in search of comfort, one hand flinging out and upward till the tiny fingers met the silver ring upon its chain around Sophia’s neck, and clasped it with a fierce possessive grip. She liked to sleep like that, with one hand round the ring and one hand tightly clasped around Sophia’s hair, as though she would hold both her parents close.

  Sophia softly stroked her daughter’s curls and watched her while she slept. She had not ceased to marvel at the fact that, while her love for Moray filled her heart as it had done before, her heart had somehow grown and changed its shape to hold this new love, too – this love that she had never felt, for someone who was more completely hers than anybody else had ever been.

  She did not know how long she lay like that, in stillness, hearing nothing but the rapid and contented sound of Anna’s breathing. But of a sudden she became aware a horse had stopped outside. She heard the restless dance of hooves, and then a knock against the outside door, and voices – Mr Malcolm’s speaking with excitement, and another that she recognised.

  Sophia gently lifted little Anna to her cradle, dressed in haste and crossed the room to waken Kirsty. ‘Rory’s come.’

  The look in Kirsty’s waking eyes was wonderful to see.

  Sophia knew, when she came out and first saw Rory’s face, that he had brought them happy news. Mr Malcolm was already fastening his cloak, his hat in hand, and making ready to be gone, no doubt to carry out whatever orders he had just been handed from the countess and the earl. And Mrs Malcolm
, beaming, clasped her hands and turned towards Sophia. ‘Oh, that I should live to see this day!’

  Sophia looked at Rory. ‘Has it then begun?’

  ‘Aye. Mr Fleming has just come ashore to Slains, as Colonel Graeme said he would, with news the king does sail from Dunkirk, and will shortly be in Scotland.’

  ‘He may be even now upon the seas,’ said Mr Malcolm, as he pushed his hat down firmly on his wigged head. ‘I must go and find him pilots who can meet his ships and guide them up the Firth.’

  The Firth. Sophia’s heart leapt with excitement at the thought the ships would pass so close by them.

  It made good sense, of course, for young King James to find his way as quickly as was possible to Edinburgh and claim his throne, for few would there oppose him. From the talk she had been listening to these past months, Sophia knew the few troops that remained within the town were ill-equipped and likely to come over to the king by their own choice. And in the town’s great castle lay an added prize: the ‘Equivalent’ money – the price of the nation, some called it – sent up by the English last summer as part of the terms of the Union. It would be such sweet irony if James could drive the English out of Scotland by using their own money to supply his Scottish forces.

  More supplies, Sophia knew, would come from Angus, where a fleet of Dutch ships lately wrecked upon the coast sat full of cannon, powder, arms and more great sums of money. And the English army, most of which was still engaged in fighting on the continent, would be too weak, too unprepared, to offer opposition. By the time they’d reinforced themselves and started marching north, it would be over – James the VIII would be upon his throne in Edinburgh, and Scotland would once more be free.

  Mr Malcolm took his hurried leave of them, and said to Rory, ‘If ye carry any other letters for the people of these parts, my wife kens all our neighbours well, and can direct ye.’

  Rory thanked him. ‘But I have no other letters to deliver, only yours. And one for Mrs Milton, here.’ He nodded at Sophia as he used the false name meant to guard her honour and identity while she was with the Malcolms.

  Mr Malcolm, having no great interest at the moment in his guest’s affairs, departed, and Sophia, holding back her hope, asked Rory, ‘May I see the letter?’

  ‘Aye. ’Tis from the countess.’

  She had known it would not be from Moray, for he’d told her it would not be safe for him to write, but still she felt a twist of disappointment as she took the letter in her hand. She salved it with the knowledge that it would not be much longer now till Moray, as he’d promised, would be home. There would be no more separations.

  She suddenly became aware of Kirsty, standing at her side in silent misery while Rory, his deliveries made, prepared to go. Sophia saw him glance at Kirsty once, and in that single look she glimpsed the force of his frustration and regret. For now, his duties lay at Slains and hers were here. They were divided, thought Sophia, as completely as herself and Moray.

  Calling Rory as he turned to leave, Sophia said, ‘When I have read this letter, I will wish to send the countess a reply. I pray you wait and carry it.’

  He turned, a little slow in his acceptance of this unexpected gift.

  She tried to look the part of the commanding lady. ‘If, as you did say, you have done all that you were sent to do, it should not be too great an inconvenience to delay your journey home by such a small thing as an hour?’ She felt a stir of hope from Kirsty, close beside her, and she saw a trace of gratitude chase briefly over Rory’s stoic features.

  ‘No,’ he told her, ‘it would not.’

  ‘You must be hungry. Kirsty, will you show him to the kitchen?’

  Kirsty’s smile was broad. ‘Aye, Mrs Milton.’

  With them gone, and Mrs Malcolm having gone off to attend to preparations of her own, Sophia sat to read her letter.

  It was written in the countess’s clear hand, with care in case it should be intercepted by unfriendly hands. ‘My dearest Mrs Milton,’ it began, ‘We are so pleased to hear that you have been delivered safely of a daughter. I am sure she brings you joy, and that you soon will come to wonder how you ever filled your days before she came. When you are able you must bring her north to visit us at Slains, for we would dearly love to see you both, although we would advise that you not venture it until our climate here has grown more favourable. I did this week receive a note from Mr Perkins,’ she went on, and ‘Mr Perkins’ was, Sophia knew, the name the countess used in code when speaking of the Duke of Perth, her brother, who was chancellor at the court of Saint-Germain. The Duke of Perth wrote regularly to his sister, smuggling the letters over sea by varied messengers to keep them from the prying eyes of agents of Queen Anne. His news was mostly of the court itself, but this time it appeared to be more personal. The countess’s own letter said, ‘He writes that he did chance to meet our friend the colonel and did play a pleasant game of chess with him and found him very well indeed, and in good spirits. And in that same house he met your husband, Mr Milton, who was also well, and who did say that he intends at any day to travel to the coast and seek his passage home in company with Mr Johnstone.’

  Here Sophia stopped, and read that passage for a second time to make quite sure she’d read it right – for ‘Mr Johnstone’, she knew, meant the king.

  So it was real, then. Moray would be coming, and he would be coming soon. Sophia sat to write her letter in reply, but she could not at first compose it for her hands had started trembling from no other cause than happiness – a happiness so pure and strong she sought not to contain it but to share it, so that when the trembling ceased she still wrote slowly, knowing Kirsty and her Rory would make good use of the extra moments she could give them. It was well beyond an hour before she gave the letter into Rory’s hand, and saw him ride again towards the north, and Slains.

  In the days that followed afterwards, Sophia kept a closer watch upon the waters of the Firth, and woke each day in expectation, with her ears tuned to the sounds of running wheels and hoofbeats passing by the house along the road to Edinburgh.

  The very wind felt different in those days, as though the smoke from some strange fire rode upon its currents, often scented yet unseen.

  The baby fretted in her cradle and refused all comfort, while Sophia paced the chamber back and forth and back and forth until her slippers showed the wear. And still there was no word.

  Then came the night when she heard cannon-fire.

  Five shots, and silence. Nothing more.

  When morning came she had not slept.

  ‘What is it?’ Kirsty asked her, waking.

  But Sophia did not know. She only knew she felt a strangeness in the air this morning. ‘Did you hear the cannon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Last night, upon the stroke of midnight.’

  ‘You were dreaming,’ Kirsty told her.

  ‘No.’ Sophia stopped her restless pacing by the window, gazing out across the grey mist that was melting with the sunrise, touched with bands of gold and red that shimmered like the blood of kings. ‘It was no dream, I think.’

  And she was right. For on the evening of the next day Mr Malcolm, who had been away from home for some few nights, returned in agitation.

  ‘Fetch me bread and clothes!’ he called. ‘I must away.’

  His wife, surprised, asked, ‘Why? What is it? What has—?’

  ‘Christ, woman, cease your talk and make ye haste, else ye may see me hang with all the rest of them.’ And with that outburst Mr Malcolm sank despondent to the nearest chair and gripped his head with both his hands. He had not bothered taking off his heavy cloak, to which the salty dampness of the sea winds clung and channelled down in rivulets to drip upon the floorboards.

  In worried silence Mrs Malcolm brought him wine, and haltingly his story came, in pieces, while Sophia stood and listened, though each word was like a stone cast up to shatter her own hopes.

  It had begun so well, he said. Two days ago the first French ship, the Proteus
, had sailed into the Firth, and he had met it two leagues in and gone on board with several pilots. There had been a storm at sea, the captain told him, and the Proteus had separated from the others, so they had expected they would find the other ships of the king’s squadron there before them in the Firth. Their appearance had excited those on shore, and those who had put out in fishing boats to welcome them, but though they waited all that afternoon and evening no more ships arrived.

  So at the break of day the Proteus had turned again and ridden on the ebbing tide towards the great mouth of the Firth, to see if she could find the other French ships and convey the pilots to them.

  What the Proteus had found still bothered Mr Malcolm so much that it took him some moments to collect himself before he could continue.

  The French, he said, had gathered at the entrance to the Firth the night before and dropped their anchors, and so lost their chance to enter in the river on a flowing tide. By dawn the tide had turned, and they could do no more than wait. ‘And then the English came,’ he said. ‘Near thirty sail of them, and half of those had fifty guns or more.’ He shook his head.

  The Proteus had not been well-equipped for fighting. She’d been fitted for a transport ship, the best part of her guns removed to make room for supplies and troops. She could do little more than watch the battle.

  Mr Malcolm showed a grudging admiration for the tactics of the French commander, who though trapped had turned his ships against the English as if he intended to attack. From his position on the Proteus, Mr Malcolm had seen the French throwing whatever they could over the sides in an effort to lighten the ships, and as the English had responded to the challenge by shouldering into their battle array, the French had swiftly turned and steered a course towards the north.

  A few French ships were left behind, and one had been engaged so heavily by English men-of-war that it had battled all that day and passed the night pressed by its enemies. But King James’s ship, at least, had escaped.