Clandara (21 page)

“Can you help me?” she said. “I'm looking for James Macdonald of Dundrenan. Where will I find him?”

“At the house of a Mrs. Douglas in King Street. He's been sorely wounded. But the Chief himself is at Holyrood Palace with the Prince if ye need him.”

“I thank ye,” Annie answered. “I'll go to King Street.”

She hurried past him and caught up with Angus.

“This is the devil of a place,” the old man grumbled. He was very tired … “Where's the shop for her ladyship's silks? My feet are sore from these cobbles and I'm awful dry and weary!”

“At the end here,” Annie snapped. “I told ye there was no need for ye to leave the lodgings; I could have found my way without ye!”

“Ye'll not go abroad in this place alone,” the old man said. “God knows what harm might come to ye … Ach, mind your way there, damn ye!” He turned to shout at a carter whose horse was so close against them that it made him stumble. Angus had never stopped complaining throughout the journey. It was only his second trip outside his glen in all his seventy years, and he considered the sprawling city a place of danger and perdition. The traffic and the noise upset him, and every stranger, including those who lodged in the respectable little house at the west end of the Mile, appeared as a robber or rogue with designs on Annie's virtue. When they reached the silk merchant's he sat down on a stool with a groan and closed his eyes.

Annie announced herself as the maid of the Lady Katharine Fraser of Clandara, and the merchant himself came forward to serve her. Two apprentices brought out the bolts of silk, and opened them on the counter.

“Her ladyship needs some white-and-silver cloth for a gown, and some blue taffeta; pale blue, not that dark colour. And some red velvets.”

“This is a very fine specimen, beautifully embroidered and just come in from Lyons,” the merchant said. He had supplied the lady of Clandara before and she was a good customer. “But of course if you think she'd be taken with it, I've a special weave which hasn't been shown to anyone yet. Magnificent, you see, but not cheap … Shall I have it brought out?”

“If it's the best, bring it,” Annie said. “And don't think I don't know the price of good material. If ye're overcharging I shall know it, man, and her ladyship won't buy.”

The cloth which was brought out from the inner storeroom and unwound for her was so beautiful that even Annie's critical sense was satisfied.

“Pale yellow silk, and every thread of that embroidery is pure gold,” the merchant said. “If ye don't take it now there won't be a yard left by the week's end. Every lady in Edinburgh is ordering a new dress for the Prince's Ball at the end of the month. Is your lady coming?”

“Her ladyship is not a Jacobite,” Annie snapped. She fingered the material. Mrs. Douglas at King Street … She glanced up into the man's expectant face and shrugged.

“You're sure none of this has been sold to anyone else?”

“You can see for yourself, the bolt is uncut,” he answered.

“Mr. Dugal,” Annie said after a moment. “Before ye tell me the price of this and I tell ye it's too much, can you satisfy my curiosity?”

The merchant smiled. “I can try. I know most of what goes on in Edinburgh. What do you want to know?”

“Do you know anything of a Mrs. Douglas who lives in King Street?”

Dugal hesitated, but he had a shrewd instinct which had done as much towards furthering his business as the excellence of his wares. That instinct told him that the sale of the fabulously expensive material depended on what he told the sharp-faced little maid.

“Mrs. Douglas is a good customer here,” he said. “She's lived in Perth for the last year or so, but she's reopened her house in King Street now. She's a widow and a very rich one.”

“I hear she's turned her house into a hospital for the wounded from Prestonpans,” Annie remarked.

Dugal grinned. He leant over the counter towards her. “A hospital for one,” he murmured. “There's the son of one of the Prince's chieftains staying there now – has been since the battle. I heard she followed him from Perth. He was near death when they brought him back. Her maid was here a few days ago, ordering for the Ball I told ye about, and she said his life was despaired of for a week or more. He's comfortably set up there, I can tell you. Mrs. Douglas has spared nothing on him. 'Tis said she nursed him night and day herself.”

“Thanks.” Annie returned to the cloth once more. He was not dead, and the mysterious Mrs. Douglas was his mistress. Her lips tightened angrily; so much for his love for the Lady Katharine. Had he appeared before her at that moment, Annie would have cheerfully spat in his face.

“Annie!” Angus had woken up and he called over to her. “Are ye no' finished yet?”

“No,” Annie snapped. “How much is this? And no robbery, mind you!”

“A guinea a yard,” Dugal said. “And there's twenty yards there; enough for a fine ball-gown.”

“I'll take it. And fifteen yards of that white silk, and the same of the pale blue taffeta. The velvets can wait for another time. I've overspent with that yellow stuff, and I dare say my mistress will think I've been cheated. Deliver it to my lodgings this evening, and give me the bill for her ladyship.”

She gave the merchant their address in the city and then she and Angus went once more into the street. To the old man's annoyance she insisted on taking a circuitous route back to their lodgings, and the way took them down King Street where a passer-by pointed out a large, stone-built house as the residence of Mrs. Douglas. Dugal was right when he said she was rich, Annie thought bitterly; it must be one of the finest houses in Edinburgh, with its large windows and carved oak door.

“What are ye staring at?” her grandfather grumbled. “Have ye never seen a house before? Come on, girl, for God's sake …”

He was too tired to wonder why Annie did not answer back, or why she was unusually silent for the rest of the walk. But the next time she saw a Macdonald walking past them in the street, she turned aside and spat into the road.

“I must say, you've taken very good care of him, Janet.” Hugh Macdonald raised his glass to her and finished his wine. They were sitting in Janet's withdrawing-room in the big house past which Annie had walked only a few minutes before. It was a pleasant room, with a high, plastered ceiling and handsome furniture. Janet was as elegantly dressed as usual, but to Hugh's critical eye, red did not suit her, and it accentuated the lines of tiredness and the lack of colour in her face. She had nursed James without sleep or respite for a week, while his life hung by a hair and the fever from the infected wound rose to a crisis. By that week's end she looked an old woman, and though he was safe now and allowed out of bed, she had not quite recovered.

“I thought he was doing to die,” she said. “There was a time when the fever was highest when I was sure of it. And he wouldn't fight.” She turned round and faced Hugh. “He lay there and gave in. I nearly went out of my mind watching him. He was delirious too, and he kept talking and muttering.” She went over to the table and poured some wine for herself. Hugh saw that her hand was shaking.

“Do you know what changed it? Not my nursing; oh no, my dear sir, never think that! He called her name when he was wandering, over and over like a lost man crying out, and do you know what I did?”

“No,” Hugh said very quietly. “What did you do?”

“I took hold of his hand and said, ‘I am here, James,' and immediately he sighed and held on to it, and from then he fought his fever and grew better.” She swallowed the wine and leant back in her chair, her eyes closed, her face so drawn that she looked almost ugly.

“I didn't know you knew about it,” Hugh said at last. “How did it feel to pretend to be her? I wonder you were able to … but women have such unexpected depths.”

“Women in love will do anything,” she said bitterly. “And God knows how much I love him! Tell me something – did you know her? What was she like?”

“In all the years from our boyhood upwards,” Hugh answered, “I thought I knew my brother, every corner of his soul and every recess of his mind, and both were black, I can tell you, blacker than they are now, and I know what an ungrateful cur he is to you and what a quarrelsome swine he is with his own family. But I thought I knew him until he met that woman … But you asked me what she was like. Very beautiful. Red hair, blue eyes … beauty, yes, beyond a man's imaginings, but as I tried to tell him once, all cats are grey in the dark and all women the same in the end … I remember he nearly knocked me down for saying it. I can see I've upset you by saying she was beautiful … but you must have known that!”

“He told me,” she said. “That's all I know. At least I know the colour of her hair and eyes. Go on, Hugh, you can't hurt me. Nothing hurts as much as ignorance now.”

“She needed a damned good thrashing,” he said at last, and his pale eyes were very narrow. “I thought that from the moment I first saw her. Too much of a mind and a will of her own. Spoilt and determined and false-hearted like all her breed.” He leant forward towards her. “How much else do you know, Janet?”

“Nothing, except that they were going to be married.”

“And so they were,” he nodded. “Against our wishes and the wishes of her family. They defied everyone, both of them, and in the end both sides gave in like the fools they were. To make it short, Janet, her brother refused his help to the Prince and on a point of honour we had to kill him. At least I killed him, because James wouldn't. And the Frasers strangled James' messenger, when he tried to explain, and sent an impeachment to the courts charging us with murder. And she cast off James without even knowing what happened. Just because of her brother!” He laughed suddenly, and it was the most unpleasant sound that Janet Douglas had ever heard. “If I ever get my hands on her,” he said softly, “I'll kill her. I owe that to my brother for all he's suffered.”

“At least now I know what I have to fight,” she said. “And, believe me, I am going to fight her.”

“I know you are.” Hugh laughed again. “You're a determined female, aren't you? But you're what James needs, if he's not to end up dead or out of his mind. I had an uncle once who went mad. He was very like James. Mad with fighting and whisky and he had to be shut up with two strong men to keep him quiet. Perhaps it's in the blood. Who knows? Who cares?” He yawned and stretched out to refill his glass.

“You care,” she challenged him. “I don't pretend to understand you but I know you care for James.”

He watched her for a moment over the rim of the glass and as their eyes met, hers did not turn away. She stared him out until he began to smile his twisted, mocking smile.

“I do believe you're not afraid of me,” he said.

“Then you're wrong,” Janet answered. “Because I am. But that doesn't mean I won't look you in the eye. Besides, we're allies, you and I. We both love James.”

“Love is a word I've never understood,” Hugh said. “But I suppose that what affection I am capable of feeling is taken up by that fool of a brother of mine. I admired him so much when we were boys; he was always so damned brave and so bold and he cared not a damn for God or man … and now he lies back ready to die of some stinking bullet wound and only the name of that cursed woman brings him back to life. As I said, if I ever get the chance I'll kill her. And now' – he rose and, going to Janet, took her hand – “my dear hostess, I must pay my respects to my brother upstairs and then be gone. I have an appointment for this evening. A charming, innocent, immensely wealthy child who is infatuated with me. If her dowry is big enough I will probably marry her.”

“She has my sympathy,” Janet said dryly.

“My dear Janet” – he paused in the door – “don't you think she has mine? Farewell. Take good care of my brother.” And he laughed again and shut the door behind him.

Later that evening a tray with two places on it was brought upstairs to the big bedroom where James had lain for over three weeks. He had come very close to death, so close that he could remember very little since his wound began to haemorrhage in the tent at Prestonpans; the journey back to Edinburgh in rough carts filled with wounded was a confusion of pain and fever and lapses into unconsciousness. He could remember the luxury of Janet's bed and the coolness of the sheets, and hushed voices in the room, but the recollection was so blurred and the impressions of people and time dissolved so quickly into one another that he had given up trying to discover where he was and abandoned himself to a sickness which was as much in his soul as in the festering, infected wound. He had been aware of death and for the first time in his life he felt the sweet temptation that beckons the dying to surrender and have done with pain and struggle. And in the haze of fever and pain he had forgotten himself and cried out for the only solace his empty heart desired in those last moments. “Katharine! Katharine!” And he thought he saw her coming to him, and a hand took his and a voice said, “I am here …” and then suddenly at peace and happy, convinced in his delirium that she was with him, he found the will to live. And when he woke the fever was low, and it was Janet he saw bending over him, her tired face wet with tears. That was the only time that he had ever seen her cry, and now she was herself again; calm and efficient and tactful. When he didn't want her, and he said so brutally, she left him without reproach, returning later with something he needed, always smiling and indulgent, as if his angry moods and sullen ingratitude were the whims of a sick child. And in spite of himself he was grateful because he knew that she had saved his life, and more grateful still because she never spoke of it or asked for thanks. And he had begun to sense that the hand which had transmitted hope to him and the voice which called him back to life were hers. But it was never mentioned, and for that, too, he thanked her secretly.