Island of the Swans (18 page)

Sweet Friend, I will close this epistle so that the expedition runner can take it (and one written by your uncle to his wife) in his pouch to Baltimore tomorrow. Let us hope you’ll read it before you turn seventeen this Hogmanay. Just know I will think of you that night, and each and every day as your very own

Tho. Fraser
Lt., 42 Reg. Foot

Lady Maxwell cocked an ear toward the door. She heard footsteps on the stairs outside her chamber. Hurriedly, she read a postscript to the letter before tossing it on the low-burning embers of the fire glowing in the corner.

Jenny, lass—please forgive my melancholic humors. I shall not think them evil if they but express how easily a few drops of rain can make me long for my Flower of Galloway. T.

Following a soft knock, the door opened just as Lady Maxwell turned her back to the fire.

“From my window, I noticed the caddie hand something to Fiona from his pouch,” her sister-in-law, Elizabeth Maxwell, said pleasantly. “By chance have we heard from James or Thomas Fraser?” she inquired, her eyes resting on a small square of parchment curling to cinders on the hearth.

She was eight months pregnant with a child who might not see his father until he was two years old. Elizabeth was anxious for news.

Lady Maxwell flushed slightly, forcing a bright smile to her lips.

“Didn’t Fiona tell you, Beth?” she asked quickly, “or I expect she thought I’d see you soon at tea. Here,” she said, retrieving the other letter from the leaves of the book resting on her desk, “I’m sure you’ll want to read this in privacy. Shall I have Fiona serve you in your chamber?”

“’Twould be most kind of you, Magdalene,” Elizabeth replied carefully, her gaze lingering on the small pile of ashes heaped on the burning coals. “I’ll share my news from James at supper tonight, if that would suit. Thank you.”

The two women locked glances briefly before Elizabeth moved slowly toward the door of Magdalene’s chamber. Lady Maxwell suspected her sister-in-law had detected her effort to prevent contact between Jane and Thomas, but Magdalene didn’t really care what Elizabeth Maxwell thought. Jamie Ferguson had been most attentive to Jane these last weeks, and the gossip in the town was that even the Duke of Gordon would once again be attending Sir Algernon’s Hogmanay Ball the night of Jane’s birthday. Jane’s prospects were infinitely improving!

Soon after Elizabeth’s withdrawal, Fiona entered the room and placed a tarnished silver tea tray on the small side table in front of the fire. Lady Maxwell stared thoughtfully into the dying embers smoldering on the hearth. Fiona had far too many tasks as their only servant to be polishing their silver service, but who could predict what glorious change of fortune 1767 might bring to Hyndford Close?

The Duke of Gordon and his man of business strolled toward a knot of people surrounding the punch bowl in the festive ballroom at Prestonfield House.

“Greetings, everyone!” Charles Gordon cried jovially. “And the best for the New Year to my two golfing partners!” he added, catching sight of Jane Maxwell and Jamie Ferguson.

The guests at Sir Algernon’s annual Hogmanay fete were from the usual circle of acquaintances. Even Simon Fraser and Lady Maxwell ate supper together for the second year running. Charles Gordon noted with some surprise that her beautiful daughter Jane was apparently being escorted this evening by Jamie Ferguson, the homely and sincere Master of Pitfour House—though hadn’t someone said her sweetheart, Thomas Fraser, was in the army? At any rate, it appeared a goodly company and Charles urgently hoped he could interest his patron in forgetting his cares with a little Scottish country dancing.

“I have the honor to present His Grace, Alexander, the Duke of Gordon,” Charles said formally, nodding to the duke. Glancing around the circle of people, he made introductions. “Jamie, you know His Grace, of course… Mistress Maxwell?”

“Yes, we last met just a year ago,” Jane murmured, averting her eyes.

“Birthday felicitations are in order, I believe,” Charles added with a courtly bow.

“Why, thank you,” Jane smiled, darting a curious glance in the direction of the duke, who had remained silent.

“And if certain rumors flying around Edinburgh are true, Your Grace,” Charles added, gesturing to Jane’s sister and her escort, “may I introduce you to the soon-to-be-Master and Mistress Fordyce of Berwickshire…”

Catherine blushed and John Fordyce looked pleased as the Duke of Gordon inclined his head to each one of the group in turn. Despite the gaiety surrounding the assembly, Jane sensed a strange, guarded kind of sadness visible in the young duke’s bearing. A muscle in his jaw twitched slightly, as if his teeth were clenched. His hazel eyes were listless. She wondered if he might be feeling ill. Charles Gordon seemed intent on keeping the atmosphere around them buoyant.

“You know, I dined out for weeks on my tales of Mistress Jane’s phenomenal luck on the links this fall,” Charles continued with a chuckle.

“My good
luck
?” Jane replied, falling in good-naturedly with his banter. “I maintain that my pleasing score at Musselburgh Links had more to do with my
swing
than any stroke of good fortune, sir!”

“Aye, I expect that’s so… though it pains me to admit it,” Charles Gordon responded with a broad grin, “but I never saw a lass hit the ball so hard, or for such a distance in my life. When I told His Grace that I suspected you of witchcraft, he roared with laughter, didn’t you, Your Grace?”

The duke, who presently looked incapable of any mirth whatsoever, merely nodded.

“He especially appreciated the way you sank that last putt,” Charles went on gamely, “and beat me by a single point. Tell me the truth, now, lass… was it witchcraft?”

“
Witchcraft?
” Jane replied, laughing. “What a curious defense a man can summon when a woman gets the best of him. However, I
do
possess a secret as to why I played so well that day… but you’d burn me at the stake before I’d ever reveal it!”

Charles Gordon responded with a curious look, while Catherine, who remembered how her younger sister had won the match, free of corsets, fluttered her gaily-colored fan nervously and quickly attempted to change the subject.

“We’re all
delighted
, of course, to welcome the Duke of Gordon, Your Grace,” Catherine interjected quickly.

Once again, the handsome aristocrat nodded slightly, his subdued manner and continuing silence creating a sobering atmosphere, despite the gay music pouring forth from the stringed orchestra on the far side of the ballroom.

“You’re very kind,” he finally replied, “but Charles… I’m afraid I must soon beg to take my leave. I have piles of correspondence to attend to—”

“
On Hogmanay?
” Jane interrupted incredulously.

She wondered why the attractive young duke, so carefully attired in royal blue velvet, had bothered to attend the ball in the first place. She scrutinized his unhappy face and then felt ashamed. Obviously, he didn’t feel like celebrating the holiday when the woman he loved lay so recently in her grave.

“Unfortunately, His Grace has been extremely busy with plans to open a meal market in Huntly next month,” Charles Gordon said hastily. “I’m sure you heard he’s supporting the project from his own granaries to alleviate some of the suffering.”

“’Tis true, then, Your Grace,” asked Jane, watching the duke closely, “that there’ve been crop failures again among the tenants up north?”

He nodded as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders.

“Some… yes,” the duke replied with apparent effort.

“Well, perhaps when the lads who serve His Majesty abroad return to the Highlands this new year, there’ll be more hands to plant and harvest,” she said hopefully.

“If the rumors are true that the westerly forts in the Colonies will be abandoned by the Crown in spring or early summer…” The duke’s voice drifted off, as if he were too weary to contemplate even this good news.

“’Tis no longer rumor, m’lord,” Jane said, her spirits rising despite the dampening effect the unhappy nobleman’s presence was having on the rest of the group. “My Aunt Elizabeth received a letter from her husband in the Black Watch regiment last week. She tells me my uncle, Captain Maxwell, says that now that the program to pacify the Indians has apparently taken effect, the Forty-second has been ordered to pull down Fort Pitt before they leave for home in June, in case the Colonists get any ideas of staging a rebellion.”

“Aye,” agreed Charles Gordon, grateful that Jane Maxwell had relieved him of some of the burden of keeping a conversation going in view of his patron’s dour spirits. “There are voices on both sides of the Atlantic predicting war.”

“I can’t quite believe Englishmen would fight Englishmen,” Jamie Ferguson commented, shaking his head.

“My guess,” Jane speculated thoughtfully, “is that His Majesty is wise to take precautions not to leave ready-made defenses on the frontier for use by his ‘ungrateful children,’ as he calls them… especially, should it eventually come to armed rebellion with the Colonists.”

She was enjoying the lively discussion, despite nagging fears concerning Thomas’s safety in that savage land. It had been the letter from Uncle James to Elizabeth, actually, that had confirmed this welcome, and—until just recently—censored news that the Black Watch would be sailing from Philadelphia in six months’ time. Their tour of duty had been cut ludicrously short.

Thomas would be coming home this new year!

This news was all she could think of, all she could dream about, although she wished she’d heard from Thomas, himself, on
any
subject. But, no matter. The post from America was always unpredictable and her mother perfectly capable of refusing to give her any letters Thomas may have written. She’d actually accused her of that crime, but only received an implacable, stony stare and no comment.

Jane glanced at the subdued and morose visage of the Duke of Gordon. She only prayed that he, too, would find some measure of happiness in a year’s time.

“Since you seem so pressed with your estate duties, we wish a good evening to you, m’lord,” Jane said quietly, offering the disconsolate nobleman a graceful means of escape. “And may this New Year bring you some measure of peace.”

The duke bestowed on her a look of profound gratitude.

“Thank you… you’re very kind,” Alexander replied bleakly.

He bowed slightly and began to take his leave.

“Good night to you all.”

And without another word the Fourth Duke of Gordon abruptly departed.

“Good heavens!” Catherine exclaimed. “How extraordinary! The poor man couldn’t wait to leave!”

Charles Gordon lowered his voice confidentially, and, as the fiddlers struck up a jig, he leaned his head forward into their small group.

“I know I can trust you not to bandy this about, but, except for his work supplying cheap meal to the crofters, the duke sees no one. He seems not to have shaken the sadness of the year’s past events, and only came to Edinburgh because of pressing business and to pay his respects tonight to Sir Algernon and Lady Mary.”

“’Tis sad to see someone suffer so,” said Jane with a sigh. “He must have truly loved the lass.”

At the far end of the Tapestry Room, the fiddlers began to finger a few strains of the next dance on the program.

“’Tis ‘Montgomery’s Rant,’ Jane,” Jamie Ferguson declared in an attempt to lighten the somber mood that had descended on the group. “May I have the pleasure?” the toothy young man said quickly, bowing courteously to Jane just as Charles Gordon appeared about to ask her to dance.

“Delighted,” Jane replied with a look of mild apology to Charles, who merely shrugged good-naturedly.

Lady Maxwell, standing imperiously next to the fireplace at the far end of the ballroom, suspended her tête-à-tête with the paunchy Simon Fraser long enough to nod approvingly at Jane as her daughter and Jamie Ferguson approached the dance floor arm in arm.