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'I
believed that you would be asleep,' he said. 'I have been long. Your
father had much to talk over. I am sorry. I have come home, it seems
to a realm seething with unrest like a porridge-pot on a hob!'

"Yes,"
she said.

'If
you are wearied, Magdalen, would be alone, I will sleep tonight in
the boys' chamber?' ‘No,' she said.

"Very
well.' He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at her. It has
been a long time, my dear,' he said slowly. ‘Yes.'

.•Your
letters - I thank you for them. You arc good with letters.'

"Better,
better than with
...
other things.'

‘
Do
not say it. You never thought sufficiently highly of yourself. I
think more kindly.'

'Yet
...
you stayed away. For long.'

‘
Yes.
There was so much to be done. To be seen. To be learned. And I am
scarce likely ever to go back. A different world, Magdalen. A wider,
richer world. Of great experiences, of treasures, of thought and
learning. Of a quality of living far beyond anything we know here in
Scotland. It behoves any who will have rule in this realm to learn of
it all
they
may.'

She
did not answer.

'This
custom, to make the Grand Tour, is wise, lass. It broadens a man.
Those who are born to lead require such broadening. Without it, those
they lead can only suffer
..
.'

'My
brother Jamie. He went likewise. On his Tour. And came home in but
one year. From Padua.'

‘
Did
he not come home when Davie died? As new heir. But - what of it? I am
not Jamie Carnegie. Moreover, I had a task, a quest, which he had
not.'

'You
never
found her? Katherine? No trace?'

'No
trace,' he agreed, sombrely.

'I
am sorry for that.' For the first time, she turned her eyes on him.
‘You were close, I know. Closer to her than to any. It must
hurt you sorely.'

'Yes.
I did all that a man could. Searched the length and breadth of
Europe. Had enquirers in every land. I wonder if, indeed, she still
lives.'

'Poor
Kate...'

"No
— not poor Kate! Whatever else she is, or was, not poor! She
lived ever richly, rashly, but to the full. Expended herself, never
counting the cost. Foolish, often. Headstrong, yes. Unkind at times.
But in herself, her life, rich. Not poor Kate.'

The
woman turned her head away. 'Perhaps. And you -you are of the same
stamp. As
...
as sure of yourself. And I am
...
otherwise. It is poor Magdalen, I think!' Her voice choked a little.
‘You would not . . . have spent three years searching for me!'

Shaking
his head unhappily, he eyed her.
'You
would
never have required such search. Run away with your own sister's
husband. And then abandoned him, likewise. Gone off, heedless of all,
God knows where! You would not, could not. But, had Magdalen Carnegie
indeed done that, I would have gone seeking for her, likewise.'

‘
Would
you? I wonder! No - Magdalen Carnegie stays at home. A good wife.
Dutiful. Waiting. Always waiting. Her husband's pleasure. A dutiful
wife, mother of his bairns. Dutiful mother. Waiting — since the
day we were wed. Bairns ourselves!'

'Waiting,
lass? Waiting - for what? Not, I think, just for this return of
mine?'

'Dear
God - I do not know!' She twisted round to face him again, and a hand
came out from beneath the bedclothes to grasp his lace-edged wrist,
the nails digging into his flesh. 'Oh, James, James - I do not know!
Sweet Christ have mercy upon me - I do not know!' she sobbed.

Frowning,
the man bent to kiss that flushed brow, to stroke that thick,
lustrous hair soothingly. He was not the only one whom the years had
changed, it seemed. It was all true. They had been wed as little more
than children. At seventeen, with his Mastership of Arts from St
Andrews secured, his curators, Archie Napier, Graham of Morphie and
David Carnegie, had decided that the Earl of Montrose ought to be
married. What better choice than the sixteen-year-old youngest
daughter of Carnegie, childhood playmate, neighbour, family friend -
a sound match for both. Neither were really consulted - but, at that
age, neither would have dreamed of objecting. Next to their sisters
and brothers, they knew each other better than they knew anyone else,
and had always been good enough friends. So all had been suitably
arranged, the marriage setdement drawn up and signed, lands and dowry
apportioned. Graham of Morphie had commissioned the famous George
Jamesone to paint a portrait of the bridegroom. Exactly a year later,
an heir was bom, Johnnie - the object of the exercise.
It
had all been quite notably suitable, satisfactory, successful.

Magdalen,
and therefore her young husband, had continued to live at
Kinnaird — although he often had to be away visiting his other
great estates in the south. The house of Old Montrose, three miles to
the east, was old indeed -though that was not what the name meant. It
should have been Aid Montrose, from the Gaelic
alt
moine ross
,
the
burn of the mossy point. But, more than old, it was large, rambling
and neglected, indeed part derelict, for the Grahams had other and
more favoured castles in south and west, and the town-house in the
burgh of Montrose itself, where James Graham had been born, served
them adequately as occasional base in these parts. Old Lord
Carnegie would not hear of his young daughter departing for far
parts, moving into the decayed barracks down the road, or setting up
house amongst the burghers of Montrose town. There was plenty of room
at Kinnaird where the young couple could live conveniently under
the authoritative eye of father and curator. And it was so. Possibly
that was a large part of the trouble.

Montrose
did not withdraw his arm. With the other hand he continued to stroke
her hair. 'You are overwrought, my dear,' he said. 'Tired. Upset. It
has been too long a day. But you will feel better. Tomorrow. You will
see. We shall talk then. I have much to tell you. Today has been too
much for you.'

Her
smothered sobs were all his answer
.
‘Sl
eep
now, Magdalen lass. That is your need. I will go

bed
down in the boys' chamber above. I shall do very well there
...'

'No!
No - you will not!' Fiercely she cried it

'It
would serve best, I think. For tonight
..

'I
say no.' Suddenly she threw back the bedclothes strongly, and
revealed herself as lying naked, a well-made young woman,
heavy-breasted but fair, her abundant white flesh warm in the mellow
lamp-light. 'See - I am a dutiful wife. I told you so. Told you that
I waited for you!' Her voice broke again.

He
moistened his lips, and took some time to reply, 'Is this
...
what you waited for, then?' he got out. 'I think not, my dear.'

'Yes.
Yes, I say.' She spread herself on the bed, in a sort of defiant
invitation, but with her flushed face and tear-dewed eyes turned away
from him. She spread her body in deliberate invitation - yet her
abhorrence was in every inch of her flaunting yet shrinking person.

The
man, who was no monk, was deeply moved. And as deeply perplexed, his
body at odds with his mind and heart.

But
whatever of repugnance he sensed in her, he could by no means reject
that offer and demand. To do so was unthinkable. He rose, and
commenced to remove his clothing. She had covered herself again by
the time that he was naked and had extinguished the lamp and turned
back to her.

As
he moved in beside her on the warm bed, she remained still, almost
breathless, but with her head turned away from him. He sought gently
to caress her, to soothe the tension from her. But before long he
desisted, achieving nothing and but taxing himself. He took her then,
but even so seeking to waken her passion, to rouse response, until
his own need overwhelmed him. She did not answer a word, a whisper,
or murmur of his, throughout.

Afterwards,
for long, they both lay gazing up at the shadowy canopy, wordless,
listening while the curlews called wearily, endlessly, from die
Montrose marshes to the east. More than once the man almost spoke,
and then drew back from fruitless words.

It
was she who at length broke the silence. 'You must bear with me,
James,' she said slowly, carefully. 'I am no wife for such as you, I
know well. But I try — God knows how I try! You are right, no
doubt. Tomorrow will be better, I promise you.'

'Aye
- all the tomorrows, lassie. They will be better. Now that I am home
again, we shall start afresh, you and I. Who knows, the years may
prove well spent, for us. Who knows, in them I may have learned more
than just statecraft, the arts of rule and war, and the ways of a
wider world. Give me a chance to prove it, my dear.'

'But
what have
I
learned?
Only that you have grown the further from me, James.'

'Then
- help me to grow back, Magdalen,' he urged. Your help I need. Need,
girl.'

He
felt her shake her head on the pillow. But also, presently, he felt
her relaxing a little, then more noticeably. In time, he slept, with
an arm around her soft, still body.

It
was hours later before Magdalen Carnegie closed her eyes.

4

Things
were indeed better in the morning, and all the
mornings
- since these two were determined that they should be. They learned
to live with each other again, to accept, to compromise, to withhold
judgment, to help, strengthen, even comfort. The two boys were their
greatest aid in this, as well as their prime inducement. With them as
link they drew almost close. Marriage, even successful marriage, has
been built on less than this.