She would have liked to see Katherine Graham again but she supposed that Katherine would have refused to come. It wouldn’t matter to her that ‘the pious little cunt’ was dying. That probably was still her opinion of Magdalen. Her experiences could not have sweetened her nature. Was she dead herself, as all her family hoped? Or was she living somewhere in France, in poverty and misery? Lilias, now back at Luss, had never forgiven her. Sir John was expected to join his wife soon, with a pardon in his pocket.
The person she most wanted to see was her son James. Her father seemed to be confident that he would be released unharmed but it might take weeks or even months: it might have to wait until his father was dead. Moss would have grown on her tombstone by then. He would kneel by it and weep.
Mrs Witherspoon, by the bedside, was amazed to see tears in her friend’s eyes.
Francis Gowrie? Yes, she would have liked to see Francis again. But he was dead. What kind of sin would Mr Henderson call it, a dead man coming to visit another man’s wife on her own death-bed? He would have a name for it. Once, in the pulpit in Kinnaird kirk, he had yelled that the list of man’s sins, he had meant women’s too, stretched from earth to heaven, like a rainbow. It had puzzled her that he did not seem to realise that a rainbow was beautiful.
The dominie Mr Blair and his wife, Cissie? Yes, they would have been welcome, he so concerned and she so cheerful. Their house would ring with the laughter of children. It would be fragrant with the smell of new-baked bread. No home in the country would be happier.
Sometimes it was hard for her to tell which of her visitors were real and which imaginary.
Her sisters, Margaret and Agnes, were very real. As soon as they came in, they ordered Mrs Witherspoon to leave. Then they sat by the bedside and spoke sternly. This silence of Magdalen’s was her last act of wilful perversity. She could speak if she wanted to, she was trying to put them all to shame as she had done most of her life. Let her remember that she would soon be answerable to God. He would have no patience with her childish huff.
But, in the end, they had to admit that she was not playing a game. They wept then, held her cold hands, and asked her to forgive them. If they had been stern, it was for her sake. Their father was the one to blame, he should never have married her to that abominable man, James Graham, who, thank God, would soon be hanged. They promised they would do all they could for her sons.
There were many things that she would have liked to know but was unable to ask. She had to depend on pieces of news let drop by visitors. It was thus that she learned that the younger of George Graham’s nephews had been killed at Philiphaugh.
Her father came every day, even if only for a few minutes. Once he took Mrs Witherspoon aside. Their heads were close to Christ’s in the tapestry. He had something to say to her. He spoke in a normal voice, she in an agitated whisper.
‘I think, my lord, Lady Magdalen understands what we say, but is not able to show it.’
He looked at the corpse-like face in the bed. ‘Why do you think so? Has she said anything?’
‘No, my lord. It’s just a feeling I have. I’ve seen tears in her eyes.’
‘Merely a physical manifestation, I should think. Mrs Witherspoon, you will, no doubt, have been considering your future?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘What would you say to an advantageous marriage?’
‘I would give it very serious consideration, my lord.’
Magdalen smiled inwardly. She knew that ironic tone of Margaret’s so well.
‘You are still a fairly young woman.’
‘I’m thirty-two, my lord.’
Therefore a year older than Lady Magdalen. He paused to reflect on that.
‘That is scarcely old. Let me be frank. Sir Thomas Hairmyres has expressed a strong interest in you.’
‘Sir Thomas Hairmyres?’
‘As you may know, he recently lost his wife. He is not the kind of man who can endure loneliness.’
Margaret had told Magdalen about Sir Thomas. It wasn’t loneliness he couldn’t endure, it was not having a woman in his bed. He was 53 and had seven children, the oldest only eleven. He was fat. He had a carbuncle on his chin. He seldom bathed, so that he stank. Everyone stank but he worse than most. As against all that he was well-off, with a large estate not far from Crail, her birthplace. She rather fancied, she’d confessed to Magdalen, the idea of driving through her native streets in her own carriage, with all the shopkeepers at their doorways touching their forelocks.
The Earl dropped his voice but Magdalen still heard. ‘He will be one of those invited to the funeral. May I inform him that you would not be inclined to reject his overtures?’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
Magdalen again smiled inwardly. No woman would be able to deal with those overtures more adroitly than Margaret.
When the Earl was gone, Margaret sat by the bedside. ‘Well, did you hear that? What do you think I should do? Consult an astrologer? Or just get Annie to read my palm? I quite like the idea of being Lady Hairmyres, but just imagine waking up every morning and seeing that carbuncle!’
That very night, Mrs Witherspoon, who slept in the same room, suddenly awoke in alarm. The room had turned very cold. She got up and hurried over to her friend’s bed. This time, there was no doubt. Lady Magdalen heard and understood nothing.
32
CROUCHED IN A corner, George Graham of Braco tried not to be noticed, for he had come without an invitation, and got ready to smile meekly at anyone who deigned to glance in his direction. Within, he was raging with anger and disgust. This was supposed to be a funeral but it was more like a celebration.
These were some of the most powerful men in Scotland, dignitaries of the Kirk, representatives of the Estates, and soldiers of high rank. On their self-important faces there appeared frequently expressions of satisfaction, seldom of sorrow. It did not concern them that, an hour or so ago in Kinnear kirkyard, they had attended the burial of a beautiful young woman. They were too intent on congratulating one another on the downfall and imminent execution of her husband, the traitor-rebel, as they called him, James Graham, Marquis of Montrose.
Present also were the lady’s sisters in splendid black dresses. They had not wept much. Their eyes were not red. No doubt they had loved Magdalen in their own way but, as Montrose’s wife, she had been a danger to her family. They could not help feeling relieved.
All over the big room there were gloating smiles and exclamations of delight as accounts were given of the rout of Montrose’s forces at Philiphaugh recently; how the great general, the invincible hero, the self-styled King’s Lieutenant, had fled like a coward from the field, leaving hundreds of his troops dead or dying. These, to be sure, had been mostly Irish, the savage brutes he had enlisted to kill his fellow countrymen. With their Erse gibbers and hairy legs, they were hardly human. Mercy and pity would have been wasted on them or on their wives and children, slaughtered in cold blood or drowned in the Tweed.
Braco remembered the song of the woman mourning her man in the camp at Blair Atholl.
Suddenly he got ready to cringe. Southesk, the host, was coming towards him, venerable with white hair and beard, and wearing a plain black robe. His hands, clasped on his breast, were white too and as soft as a lady’s. They had never done any manly work with axe or spade, or even sickle or sword. What they had done was sign death warrants, and they would do it again, one of them his son-in-law’s.
‘Well, George,’ he said, smiling, ‘it was good of you to come.’
‘I have to apologise, my lord. I am here without invitation.’
And therefore had difficulty getting pas the soldiers surrounding the castle. It was thought or, rather, hoped, that the dead woman’s husband might try to see her before she was buried.
‘It’s I who should apologise, George. You and Jean will always be welcome at Kinnaird. Do you know, I often point to you as the kind of landowner we need in Scotland. If our country is ever to become prosp
erous, it will have you and those like you to thank.’
It was true and yet, said by this man, sounded false.
‘I wanted to come, my lord, for Lady Magdalen’s sake.’
Southesk sighed. ‘She had a fondness for you, George.’
‘And I for her. She was a very kind lady.’
‘She thought you frank and honest.’
Braco found tears coming into his eyes. He had something to say, which would not please her father but, if he did not say he would not deserve her praise.
His voice trembled. ‘I thought, my lord, young James would be present.’
James was still a prisoner in Edinburgh Castle.
Southesk frowned. ‘He is not well enough.’
No wonder, shut up in that grim place for months.
‘I am very sorry to hear that, my lord. He was very close to his mother.’
‘He is now his father’s heir. I do not have to tell you, George, these are dangerous times. It is, of course, all James Graham’s fault, as I am sure you agree.’
Southesk laid his hand on Braco’s arm. ‘You will have heard the sad news of your nephews, Tom and Gavin Ogilvy.’ That was said with a kind of relish.
A few days ago, a friend of Braco’s, fleeing from Philiphaugh, had called at his house with vague but terrible news. Tom, he thought, had been killed. Gavin had escaped, wounded.
Their mother was at Braco, weeping and wailing and putting ashes over her hair, as in the Bible.
Braco had come to Kinnaird, to honour the dead lady but also to find out the truth about his nephews. Southesk would know, he had spies everywhere and knew everything, but he might not be willing to tell.
Meg did not blame Montrose, or General Leslie, commander of the Covenanters’ army, or the Estates: she blamed her brother. She held him responsible for her sons taking part in the war.
‘We have heard rumours, my lord.’
Again Southesk laid his hand on Braco’s arm. ‘I would not lie to you, George. There is, it seems, an account taken after a battle. The victors feel obliged. It is, you might say, a Christian courtesy. A list is drawn up.’
With bloodstains on it.
‘Have you seen the list, my lord?’
He didn’t have to ask. This old fox made a point of seeing every document.
‘Yes, George, I have seen it. Thank God it is not very long. The battle, mercifully, was over soon. Most of the slain were Irish, who, of course, were not counted.’
‘My nephews’ names were on the list, my lord?’
‘Yes, George. It broke my heart, I assure you, to see them there. As boys, you know, they often visited Kinnaird and were very welcome.’
‘Tom was killed then?’
‘I’m afraid so. If it is any comfort to their mother, they had a Christian burial. Well, as Christian as could be, considering the circumstances.’
It was no comfort to Braco but it might be to poor Meg.
‘His brother’s name was among those who escaped with Montrose. He was wounded, though.’
‘Seriously?’
‘That is not known. My advice is that he should get out of the country as soon as he can. If he is taken, he will be hanged.’
‘He is not yet twenty-one.’
‘Old enough to take part in a bloody rebellion. Old enough therefore to be hanged.’
Braco could have said that Montrose had never hanged any young men; indeed, he had hanged no man.
What he did say was, hoarsely, ‘Do you think, my lord, that the Marquis knows?’
‘The Marquis?’
‘The lady’s husband, my lord.’
Southesk frowned. ‘Knows what?’
‘That she is dead.’
‘How can I tell that? I have sent no messenger. As you see, he has not come himself to find out. But then, he never showed much concern for her while she was alive. He will be hanged, himself, you can be sure of that.’
‘She would have wanted him to know.’
‘I hope, George, you are not so foolish as to be thinking of sending an emissary or, worse still, of going yourself. You went once before, I believe, and were rebuffed. Indeed, your reward was to have your nephews snatched from you.’
‘They were not snatched, my lord. They went willingly.’
Too late Braco realised that he had condemned Gavin. If there was a trial, the lad would not be able to plead that he had been coerced into joining the rebels. But there would not be a trial.
Southesk was pretending not to have noticed.
‘Well, George,’ he said, ‘I must attend to my other guests. Go home, my friend. Comfort your sister, look after your bonny black cattle.’
Then off he went, at a stately pace and was soon conversing earnestly with a group of senior elders of the Kirk.
As he crossed the stone-floored hall towards the door, Braco was accosted by a woman dressed in black, who came hurrying out of the shadows. He was about to greet her curtly and then pass on, for she was Mrs Witherspoon, whom he had never liked or trusted, but something about her now caused him to pause. He had always thought her eyes too bold and coquettish for a minister’s widow but today they were red and swollen with weeping. No doubt part of the reason for her obvious grief was that her ambitions would be thwarted now that her protectress was dead, but only part, the rest was sincere. Apart from himself, she was the only person in the castle mourning Lady Magdalen.
He remembered how Tom and Gavin had admired and made jokes about her rather brazen beauty.
‘This is a sad time, Mistress Witherspoon,’ he said.
‘Very sad, sir.’
‘What will you do now?’
James, Magdalen’s brother, would get rid of her as quickly as he could. He thought her an upstart.
‘My lord, the Marquis, wants me to marry Lard Hairmyres.’
‘Lord Hairmyres!’
Braco had noticed that nobleman among the throng in the big room, one of the most self-important: a small, fat, unbraw man with a large estate; a widower with six children and at least three bastards; nonetheless a staunch Presbyterian, with influence among the leaders of the Kirk; a useful ally, therefore, for Southesk.
Braco saw her difficulty. She would like very much to become a lady with servants of her own but she might think the price too gruesome.
He was sorry but he could not help her. ‘I wish you well, madam,’ he muttered as he hurried away.
‘But what am I to do?’ she cried.
It wasn’t Braco she was appealing to, it was her dead friend.
The despairing words echoed in the vast hall.
They echoed in Braco’s mind as he left the house and made for the stables. What was he to do? Should he risk his life trying to reach Montrose to tell him that his wife was dead and also to find out for certain what had happened to Tom and Gavin, or should he take Southesk’s advice and stay at home, craven but safe?
Jean very much wanted him to stay at home but she did not say so. She did not have to, she kept silent and, therefore, said more than words could. That had always been her way. He had learned to respect and interpret her silences. He had long ago realised that she was wiser than he, with sounder judgment.
Meg, his sister, was very different. She had always said too much, in a shrill complaining voice. But then, she had had plenty to complain about, her husband dead before he was 30, leaving her with two small boys to bring up and with little money. Now her sons had been cruelly taken from her and her brother was to blame.
When Braco said that he was thinking of venturing into the north, she fell on her knees and clasped his legs, yelling that she would go with him.
When he managed to get away from her, and from silent Jean too, he went off, as he often did, to seek comfort from his bonny cattle, as Southesk had sarcastically called them. Their patient acceptance of their fate was more than a comfort, it was an example. They would gaze at him meekly, as if they knew by instinct that, though he treated them with kindness and even with affection, h
e must one day have them and their calves slaughtered. That was the way things had been for many centuries between man and beast.
In their room, with Meg shut out, he told Jean he had made up his mind. He wouldn’t send a messenger to Montrose, he would go himself. It was too important a mission to entrust to anyone else.
In what he called her spaewife’s voice, Jean said simply, ‘You ken you’ll never come back.’
‘What’s to stop me coining back?’ he asked crossly.
‘Isn’t the haill country hoatching with disbanded sojers, men with guns and swords that haven’t been paid for months, that’ll cut a throat for a couple of maiks? You’re too auld for such a journey. At least take somebody with you, Dugald or one of the lads.’
Dugald, his grieve, was older than himself, and the lads were too young. Besides, he had no right to ask them to risk their lives.
‘You would do this for James Graham’s sake? He doesn’t deserve it.’
‘For Lady Magdalen’s sake.’
He would say it to no one, not even to Jean, but he was looking forward, with a little unworthy gloating of his own, to seeing how the proud King’s Lieutenant, the great commander, received the news of his wife’s death. Even if Montrose had truly loved her, he must have seen her as a hindrance. Many had encouraged him and consoled him with lies, she would have told him the truth always, for that had been her nature. Braco had never forgotten the dominie’s word for her: genuine. How true. In these confused times, there were so many false people, her own father being one, and he, Braco, God forgive him, another,
Though she did not want him to go, Jean helped him to pack. She thought he ought not to take the two pistols that had belonged to his father, beautiful deadly things made in Italy. Would-be robbers seeing them would think he was carrying valuables. The pistols themselves would attract thievish glances. But she gave way and offered no objections to his taking his sword; it was part of a gentleman’s dress and her husband, though he was laughed at by other gentlemen because he was so devoted to his beasts, was in her eyes the foremost gentleman in the land. In any case, he would hardly be able to use it, for his right arm was stiff and painful with rheumatism.
Lady Magdalen Page 27
