Island of the Swans (91 page)

“You have agreed to be in attendance, then? I can count on that?” she re-affirmed.

Alex took a long breath and then exhaled.

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Splendid,” Jane replied, as if they’d merely agreed on the price of a bag of wool. Dipping her quill in the inkpot on her desk, she returned to her paperwork.

As he gazed at the top of her head, he was forced to admit that, at forty-seven, she had truly become a woman of substance, a woman to be reckoned with, a woman of unusual power and influence, operating in a world of powerful men. During the decade the rather dull Jean Christie had been part of his life, his estranged wife had grown to be the person he had privately always known she was capable of becoming: autonomous… able to stand on her own… unafraid of hazarding an opinion or taking actions she felt were necessary. She was the only woman he knew who was willing to risk disapproval from the men in her life. From him, from William Pitt—even from the King and the Prince of Wales.

He realized with some consternation that she had not only played a significant role in the concerns of his hearth and home, but in the management of the vast Gordon estates; in the schools for the Highlanders she had instituted; in the woolen and weaving and logging industries she had helped to found to keep the tenants from emigrating during the period in which sheep raising had begun to gobble up the land; in her patronage of Robert Burns’s poetry; and, perhaps most surprisingly of all, within the larger male-dominated arena of Parliament and the Court.

Before his very eyes, and without his having noticed the complete change in her, Jane, Duchess of Gordon, had evolved into an outspoken woman of the world, despite its being a world of men. He was forced to acknowledge that without his restrictive influence on her these past years, she had begun to act and make choices about herself and the children that shaped a future, separate from his.

Most notable of all, she had even broken society’s most stringent rule for a titled noblewomen: she had borne a child by a man other than her husband, the duke. Yet she had escaped out-and-out censure. Louisa was about to wed the son of one of the most respected peers in the realm—and Lord Cornwallis obviously couldn’t be happier. What’s more, Jane had somehow convinced Alex himself to stand up publicly, as if he were truly the lass’s father.

To be sure, the Duchess of Gordon was a person to be reckoned with.

Boldly, Alex studied the face and figure of the woman who was legally still his wife. Now that Jane was of an age where there would be no more bairns, Alex realized his spouse had been liberated further from the constraints of her own sexuality. As his eyes took in her mature loveliness, he wondered with more than academic interest who might be meeting those strong physical yearnings of hers?

Watching her sort through the papers on her desk, he realized with a start that he had spent most of their marriage spurning her uniqueness and had done much to drive her from his life.

Why? Why had he done this?
he pondered, as a crushing sense of loss gnawed at his vitals.

It was almost as if some force he couldn’t control drove him to challenge her, to punish her for possessing that independence of character that he secretly admired; to doubt her loyalty when she was, or had been, in fact, loyal to him many times in spite of her own heart’s desire.

He glanced down at her missing forefinger, unadorned by gloves or handkerchief or any other artful disguises. He marveled at her dexterity as she made notations with a quill pen. Once upon a time she had accused him of being unable ever to trust any woman. He sighed. Perhaps she was correct. Perhaps
he
was more seriously maimed in his way than she was in hers, with her stub of a finger.

Looking at her now, this woman of achievement and wit and grace, he tried to fathom how he had arrived at this chilly audience with his wife in a leased mansion in Picadilly on the eve of her daughter’s marriage to the future Marquess of Cornwallis? How had the cobbled High Street in Edinburgh, famous in the days of their youth for pig races among the children, led them, after thirty years, to this day, a day in which they sat as strangers in a room that was silent, except for the scratching of Jane’s pen?

Alex shifted in his chair, knowing he should depart, but feeling strangely reluctant to make his farewells.

“Where shall you go after the wedding?” he asked softly.

“Why, to Kinrara, of course, till after the autumn shoot,” she answered absently, organizing the many lists of things she had to complete before the nuptials. “’Tis almost summer and I’m needed there, now that Angus isn’t well. Alexander will be with you at Gordon Castle and Georgina’s been invited to visit friends in Bath.”

“You’ll be alone then… you’ll have a good rest,” Alex said, watching her carefully.

Jane looked up, puzzled by his friendly tone.

“Aye… I always feel Kinrara is a place of peace… a place to allow the well to fill up again.”

“Sometime… I’d like to see what improvements you’ve made there,” he ventured cautiously. I understand you’ve worked wonders with the place.

Jane stared at him oddly. Her face mirrored the rush of pity he suspected she was feeling toward him.

The great Duke of Gordon seemed a forlorn figure to her
, he supposed,
as if, despite his vast estates, he had nowhere to go.

“Oh, you’ll see it one day…” She smiled vaguely. “If we can stop squabbling over this wedding, and behave like ladies and gentlemen,” she teased almost affectionately, “perhaps I’ll invite you to shoot grouse some August.”

“Our children love Kinrara best, don’t they?” he said, a note of wistfulness surprising them both. “’Tis much preferred by them to Gordon Castle.”

“’Tis a place where we can all just be ourselves,” she said, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. He could read her thoughts: it was eleven… so much left to do before next week.

“Well, adieu, good wife,” Alex said abruptly, unable to restrain his customary tinge of sarcasm. By now it was plain to both of them: she wished him to be gone.

“Farewell, Alex,” she said as he strode toward the door. Then she added in a tone laced with kindness that took him completely off guard, “I think ’twill be better for all of us when Louisa is safely wed.”

“Perhaps,” he mused, his hand on the half-opened library door, and departed without further comment.

It was the wedding of the season, almost everyone agreed. Those in attendance opined it was the affair was even more grand than the Princess Royal’s. The hum of guests milling downstairs in the large drawing room prompted Jane to hasten down the hallway to Louisa’s chamber.

“The Bishop of Coventry’s arrived, darling,” she said, entering the room, “and the footman just told me he saw the Bishop of Lichfield’s coach coming around the corner. Are you nearly dressed?”

Jane halted her progress abruptly and stared at the bride-to-be.

Louisa’s arms were outstretched to facilitate Nancy Christie’s challenging task of fastening scores of tiny pearl buttons decorating the tight sleeves of her pale silver batiste wedding gown. A swatch of the filmy material muted Louisa’s glorious burgundy-colored locks, which were held in place by a rope of pearls intertwined with a crown of miniature white lilies.

Jane turned her head and blinked back tears.

“Oh, Mama,” Louisa breathed, smiling through misty eyes as well. “Do you think he’ll be pleased?”

“What a lucky lad awaits you downstairs,” Jane said softly, wiping her eyes on the back of her gloved hand.

She gently embraced her daughter so as not to crumple her gown.

“She’s a Highland beauty, wouldn’t you say, Nan?” Jane asked of her housekeeper and friend.

“Aye… Duchess, and a credit to her parents, to be sure,” Nancy Christie added, her eyes full of meaning. “I’ll just be going now, m’lady. There’s a million things I must attend to.”

The door shut quietly behind Nancy as Jane took Louisa’s chilly hands between her own.

“Nervous?” Jane asked gently.

“A little,” Louisa replied, nodding her head.

“Happy?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered promptly, her eyes shining. “Charles is so… so…”

“Loving?” Jane asked hopefully.

“Yes! That’s it exactly,’ Louisa exclaimed. “He seems so happy just to be with me… it makes me feel—”

“Treasured? Cherished?”

“Aye, Mama,” she whispered. “How did you know?”

“At one time in my life, I felt exactly like that,” she replied lightly. “I’m so happy for you, pet,” she added, her eyes welling with joyful tears once again.

Louisa looked at her, puzzled, but she didn’t pursue the topic.

“Charles is a bit intimidated by his father, of course,” Louisa said, flicking a speck of imaginary dust from her sleeve, “and he seems so shy around crowds of people. But I think that
together
, we shall give each other courage. Do you think that’s possible?”

“Absolutely that I do,” Jane smiled. “Sometimes the whole can be stronger than each of its parts.” Jane bent forward and kissed her daughter lightly on both cheeks. “You have been a child of my heart, my darling, and, of all the lasses, I think you have chosen a man who will appreciate that loving spirit you possess.”

“Thank you. Mama,” Louisa whispered. “I love you so much.”

Mother and daughter locked glances for a few moments, hardly conscious of the sounds of the string quartet which drifted up the staircase.

“Now, come, dearheart,’’ Jane said briskly, forcing herself to attend to the pageant unfolding in the drawing room. “We cannot keep
two
bishops waiting for long.”

Jane left Louisa poised on the landing, out of view of the guests chattering excitedly in the drawing room, and descended the staircase.

“Why, Duchess, how magnificent you look,” boomed a familiar voice. Lord Cornwallis advanced to her side, resplendent in a glittering uniform unearthed, Jane wagered, from his seasoned campaign trunk.

“The lovely bride has no second thoughts, I take it?” he queried jovially.

“None whatsoever, m’lord,” Jane said, smiling at the father of the groom. “In fact, I think we have quite a love match on our hands, as unfashionable as that may be these days.”

“I can’t tell you how delighted that makes me,” the distinguished soldier said with sudden seriousness. Jane had come to realize that the gruff old campaigner was inordinately fond of his gentle son and had done everything within his power to provide the lad with a happy future.

“Their marriage makes me very happy as well, m’lord,” Jane said sincerely. “I pray their joy in each other continues throughout their lives. And thank you so much for… being so understanding of our family… situation,” she declared hesitantly.

“And on that very subject,” Cornwallis said, a mischievous twinkle glittering in his eyes. “I hope you, too, will be understanding of a rather impetuous action I have taken.”

“And pray, m’lord, what is that?” Jane asked.

“Part of its impetuousness is keeping it a surprise,” he said, mysteriously. “Ah, the Bishops are giving us a sign.”

And, with that, he retreated into the library to tell the groom the ceremony was about to begin.

The Bishops of Lichfield and Coventry, whose gold embroidered robes and mitered caps rivaled the elaborate gowns of the women in the room, stood before the fireplace, which was filled with spring flowers. Scattered around the large reception hall were numerous tall vases bursting with iris and daffodils and hollyhocks illuminated by the brilliant April sunshine pouring through the tall windows, which flanked the street. As the appointed moment approached, Cornwallis escorted his son to stand in front of the pair of bishops who had agreed, by special license, to perform the ceremony in a private home. Viscount Brome fidgeted nervously with the lace cuffs of his coat, and then smiled rapturously at his bride who was just entering the room.

Alex escorted a radiant Louisa through the murmuring crowd and quickly deposited her next to the groom. Then he took his place beside Jane who had been brought to the front of the throng by her smiling son, Lord Huntly.

“Your servant, madam,” her husband whispered in Jane’s ear.

Alex was attired in rich, midnight blue velvet with an ivory satin waistcoat that matched the cream color of his silk hose, gartered at the knee with satin ribbons. Jane felt his eyes wander over her high-waisted gown of peach silk with its puffed sleeves that tapered, like long gloves, down to her wrist.

“Your feathers quite become you,” he said softly, glancing at her hair, which was artfully arranged in curls piled in soft layers on her head. “Are you no longer the queen’s partisan?”

“’Tis my daughter’s wedding,” Jane responded tartly. “If I wish to wear peach plumes, I shall wear peach plumes.”

“Well, I like them exceedingly,” he said, chuckling. “Are we ready to commence this little pageant?” he added, extending his arm to Jane.

Jane nodded to the chief violinist leading the string quartet. Immediately the musicians began a short passage from Mozart’s
Marriage of Figaro
, which had debuted a decade earlier in the Austrian opera and was a favorite of all Europe. Jane inclined her head toward faces she recognized from her vantage point on the right side of the room. She smiled warmly at Eglantine, who looked vivacious as ever in a pale cerise creation. She caught the eye of their elder sister Catherine, slightly round-shouldered these days, who stood beside her stout husband, John Fordyce, and their numerous children.