Island of the Swans (17 page)

By this time, McKay’s conversation had attracted the attention of several nearby listeners.

“I have it on good authority that the mother, Bathia Largue, was employed as a nurse, and the father”—Malcolm paused for dramatic effect—“the father is none other than Alexander, the Fourth Duke!”

The noisy chatter around the picnic blanket suddenly halted and Malcolm McKay’s words blared across the rolling links.

“Well,” said Marietta, licking jellied aspic off her fingers, “His Grace may be mad, but apparently he’s not
impotent.
” Her remark was greeted with shocked silence from the women and snickers from the men. Basking in the stir she’d created. Marietta looked around at her audience importantly. “For my part, I have reliable intelligence that the mother of the babe has mysteriously
died
!”

As the guests murmured to each other, Jane noticed the hard line settling on Jamie Ferguson’s lips. As the host, he presumably felt he could not chastise Marietta, although Jane guessed he was certainly anxious to do so.

“I, for one, have only briefly met the duke,” Jane intervened loudly over the mutterings and whispers of the group, “but I should think when a family is enduring private tribulations—especially a family far grander than yours or mine, my dear Marietta—it deserves our affection and loyalty, until such time as the truth is winnowed from the vicious gossip.”

“Hear! Hear!” said a hearty voice from across the woolen picnic rug. “As the duke’s business agent in Edinburgh—and his cousin—I beg each of you not to indulge in such idle speculation and inflammatory innuendo. I can assure you, the poor lass died of birthin’ fever and the duke—who is sane as a judge—has behaved as a gentleman!”

Jane’s attention was drawn to the conservatively tailored young gent wearing a bark brown woolen broadcloth coat with matching breeches.

Addressing Jane, he said, “You say you’re not well acquainted with His Grace, yet you defend him.”

“I defend his right to fair treatment among supposed friends,” she replied, aware that a hush had fallen over the party. “And I know that Sir Algernon Dick thinks very highly of him. That’s sufficient praise for me.”

“Your praise is well founded, Mistress Maxwell,” replied the gentleman in the brown suit who seemed remarkably privy to the drama unfolding in the House of Gordon. “His Grace has closeted himself in Gordon Castle since the death of Bathia Largue. He’s sorely grieved still, ’tis plain to see,” he added with a glance in Marietta’s direction. “He has told me he intends to bring up the wee bairn at Gordon Castle with all honor and advantages, though, naturally, the lad cannot inherit.”

“A love child, to be sure,” murmured Jane.

“The dowager duchess does not mourn the mother’s death, I’ll wager,” Marietta snickered. “Duchess Katherine has high ambitions for her first born, I’m told.”

“’
Tis
a difficult situation for any
future
duchess, I should think,” ventured Jamie Ferguson hesitantly. “A natural son, brought up side by side with any future heirs…”

“Especially if the bairn is touched with the Gordon Madness, as some say the father may be,” Marietta added viciously, ignoring the previous defense of the duke’s sanity.

“God’s wounds!” Jane snapped. “Sir Algernon told me all that twaddle about his supposed madness was merely a wicked ague. You’ve had it yourselves… all of you! Those wicked fevers can make one insensible! At least the duke shows some feeling for the poor lass who died,” she said, addressing Marietta with fire in her eye.

“Well, I certainly wouldna like to be greeted by a bastard in the nursery after
my
honeymoon, I can tell you that!” Marietta announced.

“I would wager you’re not in the slightest danger of that,” Jane retorted acidly. “The duke’s bride, whoever she will be, will have no cause to begrudge what transpired before they struck their contract,” Jane added, “because, my dear Marietta, ’tis what most marriages are about, alas. It speaks well of the duke if he doesn’t abandon his innocent offspring.”

“A sensible approach to such matters, Mistress Maxwell,” said the stranger, smiling in her direction.

Oddly, Jane felt a kinship with the young Duke of Gordon. She reflected briefly on the vehement opposition her mother had voiced when Jane revealed that Thomas had proposed marriage before he left. Lady Maxwell had made it abundantly clear that, if a better offer came her daughter’s way in the next two years, she intended Jane to accept it.

“What I’ve said may be sensible regarding His Grace, the Duke of Gordon, sir,” Jane replied to the stranger dressed in brown, “but I don’t wish you to think I blindly support marriage bonds forged by bald ambition or merely in the name of family necessity.” A tremendous flood of anger swept through her when she considered the way both Lady Maxwell and Simon Fraser had shrewdly manipulated Thomas and her in recent years to achieve their own ends. Thomas was a good man, from a distinguished ancient family—one far more illustrious than the Maxwells, if the truth be known. He loved her, and she, with all her soul, loved him!

Once Thomas returns from America
, she thought grimly,
nothing short of banishment or prison shall prevent us from eloping to Gretna Green!

“Enough of this idle chitchat,” she said at length, anxious to turn the general conversation in a more pleasant direction. “What of our golf?”

“Surely you don’t intend to play with the
men
!” interjected Marietta sarcastically, stung by the public dressing down delivered by her rival.

“This is merely a friendly outing, is it not, Jamie?” Jane asked innocently of their host, turning her back on the pouting Marietta. “We’re here to have an enjoyable afternoon and to take the air. If several of us wish to swing a club or two, no one would think ill of it, surely?”

“I, for one, would be honored to accompany you on the green, Mistress Maxwell,” said the mysterious visitor linked to the duke.

“As would I!” chimed in Jamie, who had jumped to his feet.

At that, the group, including Jane, stood and stretched. Jamie formally introduced her to their other golfing partner.

“Meet Charles Gordon, a kinsman of the duke and his man of business here in Edinburgh,” said Jamie with a slight bow. “Charles, you must have gathered, has His Grace’s full confidence,” he added.

“And his loyalty, 1 shouldn’t doubt,” said Jane, linking arms with both men. “Wonderful! I shall have at least two worthy opponents in Jamie and you.” Jane glanced over at Marietta, still sitting within reach of the potted hare and sweetmeats. “Marietta,
dear
…” she called, “you won’t make it a foursome? No? Well, not to worry. But
do
save us some of those berry tarts, if you’re able, lass. I’m sure we’ll be famished by the time we’ve finished this round!”

Marietta’s mouth was stuffed to its absolute limit, precluding any reply to this latest barb. Chewing sullenly, she watched in silent fury as Jane and her two sporting companions took turns stepping up to the little wooden ball, and, one by one, driving it down the field of play.

Soon, a cheer resounded from a knot of guests who strolled along the course and had watched Jane Maxwell tee off for the second time.

“Gadzooks!” exclaimed Malcolm McKay admiringly to anyone within earshot. “’Tis incredible! The lass just hit a hole-in-one!”

Lady Maxwell looked up from her accounts book, startled by the sound of a soft knock at her chamber door. The clock had not struck three, but the December dusk would envelop her bedchamber in less than an hour.

“Beggin’ your pardon, mum,” apologized Fiona, thrusting a small silver tray with two crumpled and watermarked letters into her mistress’s hand, “but I knew you’d want these brought to you straightaway.”

Lady Maxwell’s pulse beat a shade faster as she saw they had both been posted from Baltimore, Maryland.

“Thank you, Fiona,” she replied evenly. “Please light the tapers, will you… and not a word about these missives—even to your cousin Meg in the kitchen.”

“Ooh, n-no, mum,” Fiona stuttered. “Nary a whisper.”

“And I’d like my tea served here today,” Lady Maxwell added sternly. “Please send it up immediately.”

“Yes, your ladyship… right away.”

As soon as the door closed behind Fiona, Lady Maxwell smoothed one of the letters on the desk and filed it between the pages of a leather-bound book, saving it for her sister-in-law to whom she could deliver it privately. She stared thoughtfully at the second folded piece of parchment for a few moments, noting the clear, bold strokes forming the letters of Jane’s name. It was the third communication Thomas Fraser had sent to Jane since his departure months before—or at least, the third to reach its destination, since heaven knew
what
untoward conditions faced the young soldier as his company headed off for Fort Pitt in western Pennsylvania.

Lady Maxwell was reluctant to admit to herself how much she had enjoyed reading the young man’s earlier description of his harrowing ocean crossing and the tumultuous greeting the
Providence
had received as the ship put in at Annapolis. It was, he’d written, the very day, May 22, 1766, that word had reached Maryland of the repeal of the notorious Stamp Act. According to Thomas, the general relief that war between Britain and the Colonies had been avoided was so extreme that the young lieutenant and Captain Maxwell had been wined and dined in an orgy of celebration, including a dinner at the manor of Charles Carroll of Carrollton, a prominent member of one of Maryland’s most distinguished families. His second letter had told of Governor Sharpe’s request that a small company of Black Watch serve as bodyguards to an expedition led by two gentlemen from England named Mason and Dixon. These surveyor-astronomers and their party were hacking a path westward in an attempt to settle officially the boundary dispute between Pennsylvania and Maryland. Thomas noted that he and his men should reach Fort Pitt sometime in October.

Ripping open this third missive in the chilly December twilight. Lady Maxwell actually looked forward to hearing more about the uncharted wilderness Thomas had traversed, though she had absolutely no intention of letting Jane know the lad meant to keep his promise as her betrothed.

September 15, 1766

Dearest,

A sudden cloudburst has foiled our efforts to set another stone marking the continuation of the Mason-Dixon line, and Jeremiah Dixon—not to mention his fellow surveyor, Charles Mason—are drowning their disappointment with some undrinkable whiskey acquired at the last outpost we passed several weeks ago.

The dark, forbidding gloom of this mid-September storm has descended on our camp, and upon my heart as well. Sweet Jenny… how dear you are to me and how I long to hold you in my arms again. It seems so long since we bid adieu. I wish now I had not played the Gentleman so well… if by some miracle, should you somehow appear before me, I should not be so trusty a friend to your innocence…

Well
, thought Lady Maxwell, with a look of satisfaction,
at least the lass is still a virgin!
Clearly, that wouldn’t have remained the case if she and Simon had not taken firm steps to separate the two. She held Thomas’s letter toward the fading afternoon light filtering through the window, and continued scanning the parchment. Several pages vividly painted the beautiful but hostile Pennsylvania landscape. Suddenly, she paused and reread the top of the fourth page.

I pray this part of my letter, buried amongst the inconsequential descriptions of what I’ve seen, and where I’ve been, will escape certain scrutinies. I dream of you, lass, and the images are not always that of a gentlemen’s innocent musings. Sometimes, as today, I wonder if you’ll ever be truly mine or if I shall fall pray to a slip down the side of a mountain or grow sickened from tainted water or putrid food.

Ah, well… enough of these dark thoughts. We soon leave Mason and Dixon to fend for themselves and proceed North, deeper into Pennsylvania land… to Unionville and Fort Redstone, where we hope to find a galley bateau to take us up river to Fort Duquesne—or, Fort Pitt, as ’tis called, now that it’s been rebuilt in honor of the Prime Minister.

Although we have, thus far, met only friendly savages, anxious but for a handout of food (and especially spirits), we hear of occasional violence against white settlers. Our guide, Captain Shelby, says the Redmen believed that once Britain triumphed over France in this wilderness, the white man would withdraw and leave the braves to their hunting grounds. More and more settlers push West each month in search of better land. New forts, such as Pitt, have given the Indians reason to believe the Colonists do not keep their promises.

As odd as it may seem, I see likenesses between the Redman and the Highlander, though I must not dwell on these comparisons if I’m to keep my standing among my English Brothers. Shelby tells me in the same vein that Highland patrols from Fort Pitt have taken to wearing Indian garb and painting their faces many colors so as to increase the odds of treading unmolested through the forests. The Brits are scornful of this and insist on presenting stationary crimson targets for their enemies.