Island of the Swans (79 page)

“And I will not turn out this newborn babe—my own flesh and blood—and her mother to a thatched cottage in the woods, as I did with Bathia!” he retorted defensively.

“Then, we are at an impasse.”

Alex and she locked glances for many minutes, staring at each other across the wide expanse of their four-postered bed. Finally, Alex broke the stillness, rising from his chair and striding toward the door.

“I’ve loved you mightily, Jane Maxwell,” he said, his features devoid of emotion. “But, I’ve discovered to my sorrow—you’re too damn much
trouble.
”

At a loss to reply to such a final pronouncement, she watched him in stunned silence while he carefully unlocked the door to their bedchamber and retreated down the hall.

All that was left to them later in the day was to discuss the terms of their formal separation.

Alex poured a whiskey for each of them in the paneled library. Outside the door, Jane could hear the sounds of servants carrying boxes and trunks down the staircase and out to the enormous coach she had hired in London.

“I will pay four thousand pounds a year to maintain you and the lasses at the apartments in Pall Mall.”

“May I take Alexander with me?” she asked in a tight voice. “You can, of course, be with him whenever you wish.”

“Do you wish to keep to what you said earlier? Continue in your public role as Duchess of Gordon?”

“Yes,” she said abruptly.

“Then Alexander may travel with you,” he said, “and I will come to London as my duties at the House of Lords require. Is that still a satisfactory arrangement or should I stay at my club?”

“That will be fine,” she answered in a clipped tone, aching for their division of the spoils to be over and done with.

“Which?” he pressed.

“Whatever you wish,” she said, glancing away.

Alex leaned toward her, the guarded look in his eyes softening slightly.

“Perhaps, in time, you’ll return to Gordon Castle—”

“Only,” Jane said icily, “if
she
and the babe are no longer under this roof.”

“My children will always call Gordon Castle their home,” he replied quietly.

“Then I’ll be an ugly, old woman when I next see these walls again,” she retorted, rising from the leather wing-backed chair in which she’d been sitting.

She stared at her husband, and the lump in her throat threatened to cut off her breath. She swallowed and fingered the corner of his mahogany desk with the stub of her forefinger.

“I’d like to build a small country house at Kinrara. I’d like to live there in the summer, and grant it as separate property to my daughters,” she said quietly.

Alex looked as if he was about to refuse her, and then bit his lip. After a moment he replied.

“Very well. I’ll draw the deeds. Twenty thousand pounds will be put in a separate account for you in London.”

“I’ll need twenty-five. I wish to raise my own sheep.”

Alex sighed and half-smiled sardonically.

“Can we
never
agree? Twenty-five thousand pounds, then.”

“And some decent acreage.”

“Done.”

“Thank you,”

Alex took a sip of whiskey, averting his eyes.

“One thing more,” she said, her voice nearly breaking.

“Yes?” he answered with a hint of annoyance.

“I’d like to be buried there.”

“Kinrara?” he asked in a puzzled voice. “Not at Elgin Cathedral?”

“Kinrara,” she confirmed.

“And may I ask why? Members of the House of Gordon have lain in St. Mary’s Aisle since the mists of time—”

“You might have a
second
duchess,” she retorted bleakly.

“Jane!”

“You might. And I must know
now
that my bones will rest where they’ll be at peace.
Promise me I’ll lie at Kinrara!
”

“You’re being ridiculously morbid! Your temper will put
me
in my grave long before
you
succumb, I assure you.…”

“
Promise me
, Alex… or this entire arrangement is void!” she cried, her voice rising dangerously.

“All right… all right!” he agreed quickly, forestalling the outburst he sensed was gathering. They both were holding themselves behind a thin line of pent-up emotion.

“Well, then,” she said finally. “I’ll bid you farewell… till London…” she added, the reality of what they had just accomplished permeating her final words to him.

“Till London… And Madelina’s wedding.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes mirroring the pain of their mutual loss.

“Take care of yourself, Alex. I’ll wait in the coach while you bid adieu to the children.”

She stiffened her back and walked out of his study.

The duke’s five daughters stood in the foyer with downcast eyes while two-year-old Alexander sucked his thumb and pulled on Nancy Christie’s skirts.

“I wish you all a safe journey,” Alex declared formally.

The girls merely nodded their heads and continued to stare at their shoe tops.

“I shall look forward to meeting Sir Robert Sinclair, Maddy,” he said to Madelina, who ducked her head to hide the tears coursing down her cheeks. “We’ll have a fine wedding soon, won’t we?”

Madelina merely nodded as if it were the most miserable idea in the world. Alex sighed. Suddenly, from a door beneath the stairway, Jean Christie appeared. She was adorned in another of Jane’s gowns, this one, a soft sheer lawn with little flowers embroidered everywhere.

“Nancy!” she said imperiously to her sister, though her rough country accent was at odds with her high-flown manner. “I would like hot water to be brought up for my bath. And hurry, will ye? The baby’s due to awake in a tick.”

Alex’s daughters stared at the comely young wench, their mouths gaping in shock. The duke frowned slightly, and then spoke in a tone that brooked no further discussion.

“Nancy, would you please take Alexander to his mother?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Nancy said, looking greatly relieved. In a trice, she whisked the little boy out the castle’s front door.

“Please attend to your daughter,” he addressed Jean Christie.

Charlotte and her sisters gazed in stunned silence as their father’s paramour slowly mounted the stairs and shot them a triumphant glance from the landing before she disappeared.

“Please… all of you, look at me,” Alex said quietly. “Your mother and I have had a serious misunderstanding… but my hope is that one day, we’ll sort it through—”

“You consider having a baby with that slut a mere
misunderstanding
?” Charlotte said incredulously.

Alex’s shoulders slumped.

“Yes… there’s a new baby,” he said in a low voice. “Like your half-brother, George.”

“But George was born
before
you married Mama,” Madelina said, sniffling. “That’s quite a different matter, it seems to—”

“How
dare
you presume to judge your elders!” Alex exploded, glaring at all of them. His glance rested on Louisa, who stared up at him with tears glistening in her eyes. “You know only pieces of this sad puzzle—“

“But, Papa…” the flame-haired girl cried out miserably, “how could you hurt Mama so?”

Louisa put her face in her hands to hide her quiet sobs.

“Come, lassies,” Charlotte cut in imperiously. “Let us leave our father to his
serving wench
! I far prefer the company of Mama, don’t you?”

And with that, Alex’s five daughters, their backs straight as ramrods, marched out of his house. The crunch of the carriage wheels rolling along the gravel drive faded in the distance, and soon, another sound drifting down the staircase attracted his attention. It was the ragged, high-pitched cry of the newest inhabitant of the Gordon Castle nursery. Alex cocked his head and listened intently for a moment, his face engraved with the misery of his last twenty-four hours. Then, he walked slowly into his library and shut the door.

Twenty-Nine

A
PRIL
1788

T
HE COACH BEGAN ITS MELANCHOLY JOURNEY SOUTHWARD FROM
Fochabers, passing through the Spey Valley enroute to Edinburgh. From the moment she and Alex parted, Jane found it impossible to hide her sorrow, so she simply succumbed to her despair. She ordered Nancy Christie to continue on to the George Square townhouse with the children, while she remained alone for a month nursing her wounds in the tiny cottage at Kinrara by the banks of the Spey.

Clearly, Angus and Flora Grant had been shocked by the events described to them by Nancy, but they tended to Jane’s needs like a pair of kindly, indulgent grandparents, refraining from asking any probing questions, and seeing to her every whim.

By the end of April, the daffodils and crocuses were pushing through the damp soil in the fields. On an afternoon outing with her estate factor, Jane disclosed her plans to build a country house on a small rise overlooking a bend in the river.

“’Tis it to be a grand place?” Angus asked, his brow furrowing pensively.

“Oh, heavens no!” Jane assured him. “Just six or seven bedchambers… just enough for the lasses and m’self.”

“I see,” Angus said. “And what’s this about a sheep farm?”

“The new house is to have eleven thousand acres attached to it,” she replied, “I’d like to run enough sheep to help support it.”

“Sounds like you’re planning to retire permanently from London, m’lady,” Angus noted. “That’s a fair piece of land to be lookin’ after all on your own.”

“Well…” she said uncertainly. “Won’t you be helping us see to the place?”

“M’lady,” Angus said as gently as he could, “I’m an old man and have more than I can manage already. His Grace keeps me busy counting
his
sheep and seeing to the industries you yourself have founded here in Badenoch. Eleven thousand acres with sheep on ’em and a real house is a handful.”

“What about training a lad from the district to be estate factor?” Jane inquired hopefully.

“Let me think on it,” Angus said, scratching his woolen cap thoughtfully. He paused. “You need a man with experience, Your Grace.” His face suddenly brightened. “You know, I’ve met someone recently who might be perfect for the job! His family had a large estate in Struy before the Forty-five. ’Tis tied up in the courts just now. He’s been struggling on a few pitiful acres, barely subsisting. Doesn’t have enough capital to see him through the lean winters up there. But he knows sheep, I can tell you that! I’ll wager he’s just the sort of person to take on such a job.”

“R-really?” Jane said shakily, stunned by the unbelievable coincidence that, of all the people in the Highlands, Thomas Fraser might be Angus’s choice for the job of Kinrara’s estate factor. “Pray tell me,” she asked, “how’d you make this lad’s acquaintance?”

“Oh, he sold me some wool on market day in Inverness last year. But he’s no mere youth, Your Grace… he’s a man of about forty. Looked like a wild man, when first we met. He had this huge thatch of flamin’ hair, you see. Came to visit Flora and me, he did, arid thank the goodness he’d trimmed himself up quite a bit, or he would have frightened Flora for sure. I’d been bragging that day in Inverness about our little piece of heaven here and invited him to come see it for himself—and he did… oh, nearly a year ago.”