Gosford's Daughter (26 page)

“
So your gentle brother tells me.” A
flickering smile touched the Queen’s mouth. “Ah,
ma chère
,
are there many in Scotland like your father?”

Sorcha could not keep the puzzlement from her green
eyes. She saw the lady-in-waiting cast an urgent glance in her
direction. “My father … you refer to his concern for your
welfare, Your Grace?”

The faded lashes drooped against the waxy cheeks.
“Ah, yes, our welfare. From this distance in time and place, we
cannot be sure how many care about us.”

“
He cares very much,” Sorcha replied
stoutly. “He always has.” She saw a trace of color creep into the
other woman’s face, and continued with more vigor. “I’m sure there
are many who lament your fate. And who keep you constantly in their
prayers.”

It was probably true enough, Sorcha told herself,
though her primary concern was to give this pitiful, tragic woman a
word of cheer. Surely she must hear few of them, shut off from the
rest of the world for so long. Fleetingly, she thought of Jamie
Stewart and cursed him for treating his mother so shabbily.

“
We wonder,” Mary Stuart said in a
low, musing voice. “We have so little else to do … except
wonder. And pray.” As if to prove the point, she slowly placed the
tips of her crippled fingers together on her breast and closed her
eyes.

Sorcha glanced at the lady-in-waiting, who made a
small gesture with her hand signaling that the Queen was not yet
finished. Patiently, Sorcha sat very still, though Mary Stuart’s
eyes remained shut and her breathing seemed labored.

“
Better times are coming.” The Queen
spoke without appearing to move her lips. The eyes slowly opened
again. “Your arrival is most propitious.” She smiled at Sorcha,
this time with greater warmth, and the years receded from her face.
“Our fortunes have changed since Rob came. He brought hope and
springtime. Now that you are with us, mayhap we’ll look forward to
the harvest.” Mary groped for Sorcha’s hand and gave it an awkward
pat. “So often your sire brought me good luck. Now you and Rob,
eh bien
?”

“
I hope so, Your Grace,” Sorcha
replied with a smile, though inwardly she questioned the Queen’s
optimism. The company of any sympathetic newcomers must buoy Mary
Stuart’s spirits, especially, Sorcha decided, when her gaolers were
so odiously oppressive.

A sudden spasm of pain twisted the Queen’s face. The
lady-in-waiting rushed to the bedside, motioning for Sorcha to move
away.

“
It’s nothing,” gasped the Queen,
stiff fingers waving the woman aside. She smiled with majestic
apology. “Still, it grows late, and you’ve had a tiring journey.”
Without further resistance, she allowed the waiting woman to make
her comfortable among the pillows. The terrier remained where he
was, snoring softly. Sorcha bade the former Queen of Scotland a
restful night and curtsied her way from the room.

Much to her consternation, she did not see the Queen,
Rob, or Gavin Napier during the next few days. Gillis Mowbray was
summoned to attend Mary Stuart, but Sorcha was informed by the
gaunt matron that there would be no crush of ladies in attendance
on the royal prisoner. “You will bide until it is your turn,” the
matron had informed Sorcha with unconcealed malice. “Sir Amyas’s
understanding was that only one waiting woman would be sent to
replace Mistress Curle.”

Sorcha hadn’t given the woman the satisfaction of a
response. But once she and Ailis were unpacked and settled in their
cramped quarters, time hung heavy on their hands. There were no
playing cards available, though an aged chess set was unearthed by
a surprisingly cooperative servant. Despite the fine weather, they
were not allowed outside the manor house precincts. What few books
they could find were mostly turgid Puritan tracts. By comparison,
Sorcha’s stay with Uncle Donald was beginning to seem like a
bacchanal.

Finally, at the end of the first week, Rob came to
see Sorcha. She was so glad to have him join her that at first she
didn’t notice the overbrightness of his eyes or the unaccustomed
excitement in his manner. For Sorcha, there could be only one
welcome explanation.

“
God’s teeth,” she exclaimed as her
brother accidentally upset a vase of lilies Ailis had picked
outside the manor house, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were
in love!”

Rob flushed as he stooped to help Sorcha retrieve the
long-stemmed flowers and restore them to the vase. “Nay, nay.
Nothing of the sort.” He looked up into his sister’s probing eyes.
“Why? Do I behave strangely?”

“
A bit. You’re standing in a puddle
of water in your house slippers. Isn’t that a trifle
odd?”

Startled, Rob stared down at his feet. “The soles are
quite thick.” He gave his sister a sheepish smile. “Perhaps I seem
strange because I’ve been mewed up so long,” he went on without
much conviction. “That’s why I’ve come. Incredible as it may sound,
tomorrow Sir Amyas is permitting the Queen to go riding. He and his
minions wish everyone out of the manor house so that they may give
it a thorough cleaning.”

“
Everyone?” Sorcha tilted her head
at Rob. She wasn’t satisfied with the explanation about his
behavior but realized it would do no good to pry.

Rob nodded, as he searched the cupboards for a rag
with which to wipe up the spilled water. “You and I, Ailis, Father
Napier—everyone. It should be a fine day.”

Sorcha agreed. She wondered, however, if Mary Stuart
were capable of several hours in the saddle. But when she put the
question to Rob, he laughed. “The mere idea of fresh air and
exercise transforms Her Grace. She is already in a state of
excitement, choosing which costume to wear and how the others
should dress.”

For the Queen’s sake, Sorcha was pleased. Reflecting
on the famous Stuart charm, Sorcha finished tidying up after Rob
had departed. No wonder most of the Queen’s gaolers had been
accused of falling in love with her. Except for Sir Amyas
Paulet.

It was Paulet who stood in the courtyard, his shadow
long in the setting sun, his head inclined as he engaged in earnest
conversation with two other men. Servants, thought Sorcha, leaving
the window as someone rapped at the door. Ailis, perhaps, returned
with the laundry she’d collected from the washer women down by the
moat.

It wasn’t Ailis, it was Gavin Napier. Surprised,
Sorcha all but fell back a step or two when he strode into the
room. “Are you alone?” he asked, glowering at the room in general
and Sorcha in particular.

“
Aye.” Sorcha closed the door firmly
behind her. “Rob just left.”

Napier gave a brief nod, appeared to consider sitting
down, but remained standing in front of Sorcha with a grim look on
his face. “Did Rob tell you about the hunt?”

“
Hunt?” Sorcha was annoyed to hear
her voice sound unduly high-pitched. “A riding party tomorrow, he
told me. Yes.”

“
All right, then.” Napier put his
hands on Sorcha’s shoulders, forcing her to meet his dark eyes.
“Now hear me out—you must convince Rob to run away while he has the
chance. I don’t know how, but you must do it.” Napier took a deep
breath as his grip tightened. “His life depends upon
it.”

Sorcha was staring at him openmouthed, as
disconcerted by his touch as by his demand. “Why? What’s
happening?”

Napier shook his head. “I’m not sure. But I do know
Rob is in mortal danger.”

Sorcha thought back to Rob’s giddy behavior. He had
denied being in love, but it was clear he kept some sort of secret.
A dangerous secret, it seemed, and Sorcha felt the perspiration
break out on her palms and her back.

The dark-eyed hunter’s gaze still held hers. So did
the strong hands at her shoulders. Sorcha forced herself to
concentrate on Rob, yet despite the urgency of Napier’s tone, it
was the physical contact that sent her mind into turmoil. “I can’t
think,” she protested. “I don’t know how I can convince him when I
don’t know what I’m talking about. Why don’t you speak to him?”

Gavin Napier let go of her and stepped back a pace.
“I have. He will not listen. But he might, to you.”

For several moments, she stood in silence, gazing
without sight at the bouquet of lilies Rob had toppled earlier in
the evening. “I’ll go see him,” she finally said. “Where would he
be this time of night?”

“
With Her Grace.” Napier moved about
the room, going to the window, where the last rose-hued streaks of
sunset rode low in the western sky. “It’s unlikely you could get
word to him this late. You know Sir Amyas’s curfew is very
strict.”

The green eyes were curious. “How is it that you’re
abroad. Father Napier?”

For a moment, Napier didn’t respond. Then he pointed
to his boots which were covered with dust. “I’ve been further
abroad than you might guess. Don’t ask more questions, mistress.
Tomorrow, just do what you must to get Rob away from here. Go with
him, if need be.”

And leave you
! The question clamored unbidden
at Sorcha’s inner ear. For the first time, she realized that he
might be in danger, too. Without thinking she put out her hands to
shake Napier by his black-clad arms. “What about you? Will you come
with us?”

Napier’s heels locked into the floor. He stood like a
graven image, though his stern expression had softened slightly.
“Nay. There is no need. Believe me, Sorcha.” The last three words
were a low rumble. Resolutely, he pulled free, and was gone.

Sir Amyas Paulet could not have chosen a better day
for the buck hunt. It was high summer, those green and golden days
when England sparkles under the friendly sun and winter is no more
than nature’s empty threat. The party rode toward the moors, where
purple heather bloomed like a royal carpet, awaiting the Queen’s
pleasure.

Rob had been right—Mary Stuart was indeed
transformed, her thickened figure jaunty and erect in a handsome,
if outmoded, black riding habit set off with bold touches of white
and red. She rode at the head of the group, in the company of
Secretary Nau and Sir Amyas. Sorcha purposely lagged behind with
Gillis Mowbray and Rob, wondering how and when she’d have an
opportunity to speak privately with her brother.

“
How welcome is the breeze, the sun,
the wide horizons!” exclaimed the Queen as they trotted up a
hillock toward Tixall. “Sir Amyas, how do you fare? You’ve been
indisposed of late, I’m told.”

Sorcha, straining to catch Mary Stuart’s words,
marveled at the Queen’s gracious manner. “I should have hoped the
old goat would perish from his lack of charity,” Sorcha murmured to
Rob.

But Rob gave a little shake of his head. “Scarcely a
charitable wish on your own part,” he chided gently.

“
Paugh,” retorted Sorcha, eyeing the
broad back of Gavin Napier just ahead. She wished they were riding
through less open country, or at least could drop further behind.
Nor was Gillis’s presence any asset. Sorcha had already suggested
that she might prefer the company of Jane Kennedy, but Gillis had
timidly demurred, asserting that she would rather keep to those she
knew better.

As for Rob, he seemed blissfully unaware of his
sister’s concern. His mood was lighthearted, though Sorcha noticed
that he lapsed into moments of deep thought. Or was it prayer? She
was about to ask, when a company of horsemen appeared in the
distance, galloping rapidly in their direction.

“
Who might they be?” Sorcha inquired
of Rob as their own party reined up.

Before Rob could reply, Father Napier turned in the
saddle. “It’s time,” he announced, his dark, now fierce gaze on
Sorcha.

Gillis’s rabbitlike face paled at the ferocity of
Napier’s words. He motioned for Sorcha to move closer to him; she
obeyed, as if by instinct.

Rob was clearly puzzled as he gazed from Napier to
Sorcha and back again. The horsemen were now just a few feet away.
Mary Stuart sat tall and majestic on her black gelding, the white
egret plumes of her hunting hat drifting with the wind. Except for
Secretary Nau, who seemed to be asking a great many questions of no
one in particular, the little group had fallen ominously quiet.

With one eye still on the approaching horsemen,
Sorcha leaned toward Rob. “We must flee,” she whispered in as
urgent a tone as she could muster. “Don’t talk, don’t argue, just
ride!”

But the intransigent gaze that met hers dashed
Sorcha’s hopes for a clean, swift victory. “Don’t fash yourself,
Sorcha,” Rob whispered back. “These men may be friends, not
foes.”

Rob’s optimism was unfounded. The leader of the
horsemen, an imposing figure wearing the badge of Elizabeth Tudor,
dismounted and walked quickly toward Mary Stuart. Sir Amyas Paulet
introduced him formally as Sir Thomas Gorges, Queen Elizabeth’s
emissary. Sorcha’s hands froze on the reins, and Thisbe seemed to
shudder beneath her as Gorges made his ringing, damning
announcement.

“
Madame, the Queen, my mistress,
finds it very strange that you, contrary to the pact and engagement
made between you, should have conspired against her and her state,
a thing which she could not have believed had she not seen proofs
of it with her own eyes and known it for certain.”

For once Mary Stuart’s royal aplomb deserted her.
Turning to Nau and gesturing freely, she protested Gorges’s words.
“My royal cousin must be mistaken! Surely I am the victim of
malicious gossip!” Mary stared at the implacable Paulet and the
stalwart Gorges. “There must be a wicked plot afoot, dressed in
lies and riddled with innuendo!”

“
There is no mistake,” Gorges
declared in brusque, even tones. “You will come with us, and your
servants will be taken away, since they are as involved as yourself
in this vile scheme against our sovereign lady.”