Island of the Swans (69 page)

“Ah… Alex… and Jane!” he exclaimed. “How delightful, my dear, to have you amongst our company once again.”

“Charles Gordon!” Jane exclaimed to Alex’s lawyer and man of business in Edinburgh. “How could we forego a party given in our honor by the very man whose good offices properly introduced me to His Grace? I trust no unruly students of the medical or legal professions have been invited tonight?” she teased, recalling that tumultuous evening, nearly twenty years earlier, when Charles had given a ridotto in Alex’s honor that had ended in a riot of bun-slinging at the Canongate Playhouse.

“No, my guest list is confined to old reprobates, like myself—too full of lumbago these days to cause a riot. But,” he laughed mischievously, “you two are quite the pair! How is the newest Master Gordon?” he inquired.

“The spitting image of his namesake, and just as demanding,” Jane replied, looking pointedly at Alex. “That’s why I insisted on calling him Alexander.”

“Good evening, Charles,” Alex said quietly. His tone contrasted markedly with the cheerful timbre of Jane’s voice. “’Tis good to see you again. I spy the Earl of Glencairn over there… if you’ll both excuse me a moment…”

Jane stared thoughtfully at Alex’s retreating back until a host of friends crowded around her, celebrating her appearance after so long an absence. She chatted briefly with Ian Dalrymple, an Ayrshire man who hailed from a village not far from her birthplace of Monreith. Their lively discussion about Freemasonry and the clever rhymes of a local poet he knew there named Robert Burns was soon augmented by the presence of William Creech, the eminent publisher who had, in his youth, been tutor to the Earl of Glencairn. Soon, Glencairn’s relative, the Earl of Buchan, joined their circle, followed by his brother, Harry Erskine, a relative of the man who had so ably defended Lord George after the Gordon Riots. It was a lively, stimulating crowd, and Jane found herself quickly pushing to the back of her mind Alex’s sudden attack of ill-humor.

The low-ceilinged room was suitably cozy for the cellar that it was, illuminated only by tallow candles on the walls, which cast their glow on huge dishes piled high with plump, raw oysters. The mountainous plates of seafood and jugs of porter sat on coarse round tables.

“Don’t you miss the gay life in London, Your Grace?” Charles inquired, a trickle of broth running down his chin.

“Only when I don’t have such marvelous evenings as this to look forward to,” Jane answered sincerely, sliding a succulent oyster into her mouth. “’Tis a lovely gathering, Charles. Thank you so much for arranging it.”

“My pleasure, m’lady… my pleasure,” he chuckled, visibly pleased by her compliment. He quickly returned one of his own. “From what I hear, you’re certainly missed in London after Pitt’s great triumph in the elections. The M.P. from Penicuik told me your admirer, Mr. Pitt, asks after you whenever he sees the man. He wants to know if you’ll ever grace a salon there again. Says he’s been forced to press his sister into service as his hostess in your stead, but now she’s engaged to marry and will leave him soon. He wants you to hurry back.”

“How kind…” Jane murmured, aware that Alex, who’d taken his seat on Charles’s left, was within earshot of them. “But perhaps Mr. Pitt will marry soon?” she suggested pointedly.

“Not if he can’t find the likes of you to wed,” Charles replied gallantly. Jane knew full well he meant only to compliment her once again, but, as a result of Charles’s words, Alex’s features had composed themselves into a kind of impassive sculpture.

A jolly-looking, rotund fiddler, his violin in one hand and a bow in the other, entered the room with a theatrical flourish. Immediately, the guests—who’d had more than their fill of oysters—jumped up to help the staff remove the tables and chairs to the sidelines to prepare for dancing.

“I’ve secured Neil Gow for this evening’s entertainment,” Charles Gordon said, a note of pride creeping into his voice.

Gow was fast gaining a reputation as one of the premier fiddlers and composers of Scotland. In fact, he rarely entertained in oyster cellars any more, preferring the more lucrative engagements at private parties in the newly built homes across town when he visited Edinburgh from his little village of Inver.

“How absolutely wonderful!” Jane exclaimed. “Alex! You’ve so admired Neil Gow’s work. How lovely we’re to dance to him tonight. Charles… this is really too kind of you!”

“Nonsense!” their old friend said, embarrassed, but more pleased than ever. “’Tis so good to see you both again, and in such good spirits!”

Spirits indeed!
Jane glanced over at the unfathomable mask enveloping Alex’s features.
He’s only happy when I am a prisoner of hearth and home
, she thought irritably.
Any man who seems a friend of mine is suddenly a rival in his mind. ’Tis ridiculous!

Jane was forced to acknowledge that in recent weeks, Alex’s mood had grown more anxious and wary as she had recovered her strength and returned to a normal life. The more he tried to fence her in with remarks about having more babies, the more she longed for evenings such as this—with good friends, good food, and good conversation.

Why does it all worry him so?
she asked herself for the hundredth time.

She didn’t devote any more thoughts to such unanswerable questions. By this time, Neil Gow had struck up “Captain Macintosh” on his fiddle, and the entire company set to dancing. Soon, patrons from the tavern on the street level filtered downstairs to observe the fun, attracted by the sprightly music and the opportunity to see some of Edinburgh’s leading socialites cavorting gaily around the chamber. Jane felt exhilarated dancing to the jigs and reels that followed one after the other. Everyone but her husband was vying to be her partner.

Alex lounged against the far wall, speaking to no one. He only danced if a friend of long-standing, such as the nimble Dowager Countess of Glencairn, dragged him onto the floor. Jane noticed that he would thank his partner politely when the music ended, but then did not seek out another. Rather, he would return to the darkest corner he could find and survey the scene with hooded, brooding eyes.

At length, there was a pause for Neil Gow to rest and refresh himself with a tankard of porter. The fiddler went out the low-linteled door, which led up the stairs to Cowgate, for a breath of air.

“I think we should be going, Jane,” Alex said in a low voice as he appeared suddenly by her side. “The bairn will wish to be fed and—”

“I saw to that before we left,” Jane whispered back, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “I expelled some milk into a brass-nippled cup. Nancy will already have fed the lad. Please, Alex… let us stay. Be my partner for “The Nymph. ’Tis been so long since we’ve danced together.”

“I can see you’ve plenty of partners,” he replied curtly. “I find the smoke in this place insufferable. As you wish… I shall ask Charles Gordon to see you home.”

Before Jane could protest, he strode away from her and stopped to confer briefly with his man of business. Charles shot a startled look in Jane’s direction and nodded. Then, without a backward glance, the Duke of Gordon lifted his cloak off the peg next to Jane’s crimson one, and paused to fasten it at the neck.

Her husband had taken a few steps, when he froze, staring straight ahead as the cellar door swung open. For a moment, it seemed as if the mighty winds off the Firth of Forth had turned the Fourth Duke of Gordon into a glacier.

An enormous, broad-shouldered figure stooped low to cross the door-frame, his head and body covered by a mantle of snow. With a sweeping, fluid gesture, the stranger divested himself of his cloak, and shook his head like a border collie emerging from a stream.

Jane gasped aloud. The new arrival’s white hair turned the color of port wine as the snow quickly evaporated in the warm air permeating the stuffy room. The man headed immediately to hang his own outer clothing on the peg near the spot where Alex stood rooted to the floor.

The two men stared silently at each other for what seemed to Jane to be an eternity. She swiftly approached the pair, terrified at what might happen next. Fortunately, the lively chatter and general hubbub in the cellar muffled their exchange.

“Why Captain Fraser,” Alex said at last, “I made a wager with myself ’twould only be a matter of time before you tipped up. I’d heard rumors you and your Edinburgh counselors still wrangle in the courts over Simon Fraser’s will.”

“Your Grace,” Thomas greeted him stiffly, his eyes sweeping the room.

“Aye, she’s here,” Alex growled, “right behind you.”

Thomas whirled around. As Jane and Thomas saw each other, amazement, joy, and dismay flashed across their features in rapid succession.

“Believe me,” Thomas said in a low voice, turning back to address Alex, “I had no idea either of you’d be here.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Alex said caustically, glancing beyond Thomas’s broad shoulders to stare at his wife’s stricken countenance. “Jane, are you coming home now, or would you prefer to spend some time catching up with your old acquaintance? No doubt, you have some rather important news to impart to the Captain, here.”

Jane could only stare at the two men in shock. Alex hesitated a moment, waiting for her to speak, and then abruptly turned toward the door Thomas Fraser had just entered. He stalked up the stairs and into the street, his figure soon disappearing into the opaque veil of snow whirling around his waiting carriage.

The frolicking strains of “The Nymph” quickly set the Middlemass crowd to dancing once again. The publisher, William Creech, suddenly appeared by Jane’s side.

“Your Grace,” he said, staring curiously at the tall stranger standing next to the Duchess of Gordon. “I do believe we’re promised for this one.”

In a daze, Jane allowed the portly gentleman to lead her onto the floor. She executed the dance’s complicated steps like a wooden marionette. As soon as the dance concluded, Thomas came across the smoke-filled chamber.

This is a dream
, she thought wildly, watching him walk toward her.
This is not actually happening!

But it
was
happening. Few people present in the room would remember a garnet-haired lad from the Highlands who was given up as dead some twenty years before.

Charles Gordon remembered, though. A look of surprise and concern etched the features of the Gordon family solicitor as he observed Thomas Fraser striding across the room. He saw the veteran of the ill-fated American War nod rather grimly at William Creech before taking the hand of the Duchess of Gordon as if it were his, alone, to possess.

“Your Grace,” Charles heard Fraser say formally to the guest of honor. “’Tis so good to see you after this long while.”

Thomas’s woolen breeches looked worn, and the cuffs of his dark green coat had been turned and restitched in an attempt to disguise how threadbare they’d become. Nevertheless, the man’s enormous height and proud bearing gave him the appearance of the aristocrat he should have been, and made him quite the equal of the beautiful woman whom he addressed.

“May I have the honor of the next dance?” he continued in a strong, clear voice. “’Tis ’The Nightcap Reel,’ if memory serves. I will be the luckiest of men, if I have the pleasure of the evening’s last tune.”

Charles saw that Jane did not exchange a word with her new dancing partner, but allowed Thomas to lead her to the bottom of the set, where the low-burning candles cast murky shadows on the wooden floor planks.

As the crowd serpentined around the room, Charles soon lost sight of the singularly handsome couple. At the conclusion of the dance, many of the guests seemed reluctant to call a halt to such an enjoyable evening. They continued to chat with friends who lingered near the smoking hearth, sipping the dregs of the rum punch, long after Neil Gow had packed his fiddle in its case and departed up the steep stairway to the street. With a feeling of foreboding, the host of the eminently successful oyster party noticed that the scarlet hooded cloak was missing from its peg, and the woman he had promised to escort home was no longer in the room.

“Where are you taking me!” Jane shouted into the snow swirling around Thomas’s shoulders. He pulled her by her gloved hand along Cowgate and darted up a narrow alley she guessed to be Middle Close. “I must go home!”

Thomas spun around and caught her in his arms, his flowing black cape enveloping her own red one.

“No!” he shouted at her, snowflakes clinging to his eyebrows, his breath visible in the frigid night air. He stared down at her face which was framed within its scarlet hood, and, like a man with a desperate thirst, crushed his lips to hers.

His skin was cool and dusted with flecks of snow, but his passionate kiss infused her with an incandescent warmth that left her breathless. Finally, Jane and Thomas pulled their lips apart.

“Oh, God, Jenny,” he whispered hoarsely. “’Tis like a
dream
, my seein’ you so…”

Without waiting for her reply, he kissed her again, slowly and without his previous anxiety that she might disappear into the snowy night.

“Come,” he murmured into her hair, clutching her hand in his.