Island of the Swans (61 page)

“Arabella?” he said, allowing her to wrap the cloth around his shoulders. He stood before her draped like an Indian squaw.

“What?” she replied, reaching up to comb her fingers through his wet, tousled hair. The moisture had dimmed its hue to the color of cinnabar.

“You seem forever destined to be my guardian angel, lass.”

Arabella smiled contentedly. Then, she stood on tiptoe, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him on the lips.

“Let’s just get you well, Captain,” she said softly, leading him to a chair positioned next to a wooden table where a bowl of barley broth awaited him.

As he began to spoon the soup slowly into his mouth, he paused.

“Remember Corporal Thornton?” he said suddenly.

“Oh, yes, and so do half the serving women on the plantation,” she smiled.

“He died the day our redoubt was taken.”

Arabella looked at Thomas sharply, noting how he gazed out the window with a faraway look in his eye.

“I’m sorry. He was a lively lad. I liked him.”

“Aye,” Thomas replied, his glance fixed on the road outside. “All those journeys he made with me to Antrim Hall and the other rendezvous spots… he was never afraid. Yet, that last day, he seemed to know he was going to die.”

“So did Harrison Boyd,” she said somberly. “He’d written his brother a letter about it just before he was killed. I found it in his trunk.”

Arabella stooped and retrieved the bar of soap that lay on the floor, next to the tin wash tub. She kept her back to him for some moments.

“You’re a bit sad for the loss of him, aren’t ye?” Thomas said with some amazement, watching her intently.

“He was a hard man, and he merely married me to get an heir, which, of course, he didn’t succeed in doing,” she said, turning to face him. “But he put his money into the plantation, and without those funds, plus what I got from you for my part in this little drama, I would have lost the place long ago.” She leaned over Thomas’s chair and kissed him lightly on his drying hair. “Now, eat your soup, please,” she said in a bantering tone. “We must build your stamina for the journey home. I seem to bury a lot of men at Antrim Hall,” she added, her voice low and husky, “and I certainly do not intend for you to become one of them.”

Jane tucked Hamilton’s latest letter, written from the New World outpost of Yorktown, Virginia, in her reticule and strode into the cheerful nursery. The wing had been fashioned out of two former bedchambers at the top of the townhouse on St. James’s Square. She bent over Georgina’s cradle and pressed her lips gently against the baby’s soft, fragrant cheek. Even at seven months, the little lass had clearly begun to take after the Maxwell side of the family, with her dark hair and eyes and lusty lungs.

“I shall return in time for tea,” she instructed Nancy Christie, whom she had brought down to London from Gordon Castle to supervise the nursery, now that there was a baby in residence once again. “Please tell the other children we shall continue with
Don Quixote
at four and I will have several questions to ask them on the subject of honor.”

Nancy nodded and bobbed a curtsy, watching her mistress sweep out of the room in her stunning suit of burgundy wool, piped around the collar and cuffs with black silk braid. It was the full-skirted ensemble she often wore when paying her most important calls on people of note in London.

As the coach pulled up to a small, three-storied house half a block from Number 10 Downing Street, Jane stared at the letter she held in her gloved hand. It contained news she was duty-bound to deliver to the ailing Simon Fraser, but oh, how she longed to forget much of its contents.

Heaving a sigh, she allowed her footman to assist her out of her carriage and up the icy walkway leading to Simon’s newly leased London residence. The chilly February wind pulled at the dark red skirt whipping her ankles. She lifted the heavy doorknocker and held her breath. The butler led her into a small, sparsely furnished drawing room.

“I’ll just go summon Mrs. Fraser, Your Grace,” he said solicitously.

“
Mrs.
Fraser?” Jane repeated incredulously. How had she failed to hear such astounding news?

“Oh, yes, mum,” the butler said politely. “The General and Miss Bristo were married recently, just before the master became seriously ill.”

Simon Fraser, married!
Jane thought, stunned.
He
must
be ill… either that, or Miss Bristo was!

Within a few minutes, an extraordinarily tall woman of middle age appeared at the door, her hands clenched together nervously.

“You don’t know me, Mrs. Fraser,” Jane said, eyeing the rather ungainly woman’s approach, “but I am Jane, Duchess of Gordon, and I have news for your husband that I think might raise his spirits in his time of trial.”

She had heard Thomas’s godfather was suffering from a weakening of the heart and had not long to live. He had never seemed to
have
a heart, she thought with some bitterness. Perhaps it was only justice that such an organ should cause him pain and suffering as he approached old age.

The new Mrs. Fraser looked at Jane uncertainly.

“F-forgive my appearance. Your Grace,” she stammered. “I have been waiting two days for my husband’s solicitor to complete certain matters regarding his will. Simon’s half-brother, Archibald, is due here from Scotland with certain papers for him to sign so all will be in readiness when—”

The bony-faced woman’s eyes began to mist and she fell silent. Jane looked at her uncomprehendingly. That Simon Fraser could rouse such feeling in a woman was incomprehensible to her.

“Well,” Jane said hastily, preparing to depart as quickly as possible. “Perhaps you could just tell your husband that my brother Hamilton writes that the General’s godson, Thomas Fraser of Struy, has survived the late lamented defeat at Yorktown last year.” She pulled Ham’s letter out of her reticule as evidence of the truth of her words. “He has been taken prisoner, of course, but Hamilton says Thomas is… in… ah… completely safe hands. If you can provide pen and paper, I’ll write where letters can be sent ’til the Peace is signed and the 71st is released to sail home.”

“Oh, Simon will be so relieved!” the woman exclaimed, tears spilling down her lined cheeks. “Pray, Duchess, would you be so good as to tell him the news yourself? I know ’twould mean so much for him to see the letter himself.”

Jane sighed and searched the kind face of Simon’s new bride. Perhaps the old goat had softened, she mused. And after all, he was desperately ill.

“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “If you’re certain that…”

“Oh, yes, please!” Mrs. Fraser said excitedly. “’Twould be best if you only stayed a short time, but I think ’twould truly make these last hours so much easier if he knew the lad lives!”

As Jane followed Simon’s wife up a narrow staircase, she felt the same, familiar jumble of emotions well up inside that she had felt when she’d opened Hamilton’s letter the previous day. First, sheer, unfettered joy at learning Thomas had survived. Then, a wave of anger and despair to be told by Hamilton that Thomas was a “happy captive at Antrim Hall, enjoying being kept prisoner on this spacious plantation by a pulchritudinous widow-jailor by the name of Arabella O’Brien Delaney Boyd”—the very woman, Jane remembered instantly, who had wreaked havoc in their lives with her deceit.

How could such a coincidence occur, unless Thomas and she had come to some unusual accommodation? The man who had fathered Louisa had never written or sent one message to Scotland since he had set sail for America in 1776, knowing full well Jane might be carrying his child. Yet he would live under the same roof as that strumpet, Arabella Boyd! Worse, he had apparently followed his own advice without a qualm.

Give it up…

Thomas’s last words to her would remain with her all her life. Even so, Jane knew that, regardless of how hard she tried to forget him completely or how deeply she cared for Alex and the welfare of her family, there would always be Louisa to remind her of the man she had loved so passionately… and there would always be some essential piece of her past missing from her heart.

Simon Fraser’s wife slowly opened a door at the top of the stairs and admitted them both into a chamber made gloomy by heavy curtains pulled tight against the glowering February skies outside. A shrunken figure layed deathly pale against the smooth linen pillow propped under his head. Simon Fraser, Master of Lovat, son of a Baron, General of the heroic 71st Fraser Highlanders, survivor of Culloden Moor and the dungeon below Edinburgh Castle, legendary commander in the wars against the French in Canada, family despot, noted barrister and M.P. for Inverness—this shriveled remnant of a man stared at Jane with hollow eyes, his massive jowls drooping below his chin, his neck scrawny and wrinkled.

“Why is
she
here?” he rasped, his eyes darting with some of his old fire in the direction of his nurse-wife.

“She has wonderful news, Simon!” his spouse replied with forced cheerfulness. “But I’ll let the duchess tell you herself.”

Jane approached the bed warily. She looked down at Simon quietly for a moment, noting his shallow breathing and the parchment quality of the hand that lay trembling on the bed linen.

“Your godson, Thomas Fraser, survived the Battle of Yorktown,” Jane said simply. “He is alive and well, living as a prisoner of war on a plantation in Maryland.” She held up Hamilton’s letter. “I’ve just received this from my brother, Captain Maxwell. Thomas is
alive
.”

Simon closed his eyes. His breathing became more labored. When he resumed staring at Jane, she saw with amazement that tears had begun to slide down his cheeks.

“Thank you so much, Duchess,” Mrs. Fraser said in a choked whisper. “At least he knows a part of his line will continue, thanks to his half-brother, Archie, and now, this news. He took the surrender at Yorktown very hard.”

Jane looked at the man who had schemed with her mother so long ago to keep Thomas and her apart, and felt only sadness. He was dying—and childless. His driving ambition to restore his lands and titles had consumed his life to such a degree that he’d had no time in his youth for women such as the former Miss Bristo. His machinations, in the end, had even kept Thomas from producing a male heir. Simon Fraser had many acres to pass on, and no son to pass them on
to.
At least Archie and Thomas were still alive to serve as some sort of substitutes, though the dynastic dominance of the Frasers known in the days of Simon the Fox might never again be felt in the Highlands. The way of life General Simon Fraser had fought so ferociously to preserve was dying with him.

“Duchess…” he whispered hoarsely.

Jane bent her ear close to the old man’s lips. She laid her right hand lightly on his shoulder.

“What is it, General?” she asked softly.

“Thank you for bringing me such blessed news.”

“Y-you’re welcome… ’tis blessed news for us all…” she said, tears stinging her own eyes.

It had taken Simon a great deal of effort to produce his last words and he appeared to be having difficulty catching his breath. Suddenly, he seemed to choke. His wife ran to the other side of the bed, clutching at his hand.

“Oh, no! Simon!” she cried, glancing across at Jane distractedly.

The general gave a strangled cry and then appeared to sigh. A strange rattling sound gurgled in the back of his throat. Suddenly, he shuddered, and then his body became completely still. Simon’s face settled into a mask that looked like a marble bust of a Roman senator. His mouth lay slightly open, as if he were about to address the multitudes.

His wife began to sob quietly as Jane reached down and closed each of his eyes with her gloved, ivory forefinger.

The great Highland warrior had died in his own bed.

Part 3

1783–1789

Her Grace, whose flambeaux
flash against the morning sky
And guild our chamber ceilings
as they pass by…

—Robert Burns

Twenty-Three