Susan Johnson (23 page)

“But your brother manfully stepped into the breech,” Roxburgh roguishly went on. “In case you care.”

“Thank God.” The crease in Johnnie’s brow disappeared.

“No desperate concern?” Roxburgh knew better; he’d been friends with Johnnie for years.

“Did I miss anything of a
political
nature?” Johnnie pointedly returned, not about to discuss the extent of his attachment to his lovers.

“The messengers to and from London put a tidy sum into the pockets of the proprietors of the post-stations,” Fletcher sardonically noted, looking up from his breakfast. “Tweedale’s been pressing Godolphin to agree to the Act of Security gossip reports.”

“Have you heard how London intends to respond?” The world of Scottish politics was small.

“Rumor has it Godolphin will capitulate.”

No immediate surge of triumph invaded Johnnie’s soul; he knew England too well. His voice was guarded. “Do you think it’s true?”

Fletcher shrugged, breaking a crusty piece of bread in two to dip into his chocolate. “We’ll know soon enough.”

But it took two more days of debate and behind-the-scenes bargaining, the government still desperately trying to salvage its program, loath to admit defeat.

Until Tweedale finally realized the session of 1704, like that of the previous year, would withhold the vote on supply, would refuse to agree on the Succession. His orders from Lord Treasurer Godolphin, Queen Anne’s chief minister, had been clear. With the current military uncertainties in Europe causing the English markets and bankers to tremble, any further provocation of Scotland
at this time
, he had written, was unrealistic. If all else failed, if negotiations broke down, Tweedale, as High Commissioner of Scotland, had Godolphin’s consent to “touch the scepter” to the Act of Security, making it law.

This he did on August 5.

The House exploded into uproarious, clamorous revelry. The Scottish Parliament, standing firm for over two years on its policy of transferring power to itself from the monarch of England, had won a
notable
victory.

But the Scottish Parliament’s constitutional ideas and its frank intention to increase its power at the expense of
the monarchy were regarded in England as something that might be dangerously contagious.

On August 28, before debate could begin on arming Scotland, on orders from London Tweedale quickly adjourned the session. Until October 7, the members were told.

But London had no intention of recalling the Scottish Parliament until Queen Anne’s Court had regained its position of power. Marlborough had won a momentous victory against France at Blenheim on August 13—the news reaching London on the twenty-first. Now Scotland’s defiance could be dealt with at leisure.

And while the noteworthy business of Scotland’s bid for independence consumed Johnnie’s time, Elizabeth, too, had been occupied with momentous events—albeit of a decidedly personal nature.

For the first time in her life, her monthly courses had been late.

Initially, she’d dared not consider the possibility she was with child; she’d been disheartened too many times in the past when her hopes had been dashed. It would be a precarious tempting of fate to think about so glorious a dream as having Johnnie Carre’s child. And she attempted to dismiss the romantic conceit, an impossible exercise, she discovered. Despite her staunchest efforts, her mind recklessly contemplated nothing else. She found herself totally absorbed with an overwhelming excitement that possessed her heart and mind and soul. She counted the days a hundred times on her fingers and in writing, too, as if the passage of time was more authentic in black ink.

Five days passed, and then a week.…

Was it
possible
when she’d waited so long, wished so earnestly?

Ten more days were gone in August, and then two weeks.…

She was dizzy with dreams, light-headed with hope.

She lost track of her building project, which had been her entire life until then. Although she appeared at the site each day, overseeing and authorizing, giving suggestions, answering questions, she was oddly detached, heedless to all but the astonishing drama unfolding within her body.

Could it be she
wasn’t
barren?

Would she
at last
have a child of her own to love?

Had all her tearful prayers been answered by a curious twist of fate in Robbie Carre’s capture?

She didn’t entertain fantasies of Johnnie Carre in her enchanting vignettes of plump pink babies. He’d expressed his opinion on babies succinctly enough the night before he left. And she hadn’t heard from him in the month since, although he’d sent the silks as promised—an extravagant wagonful—or more probably Munro had sent them; she hadn’t been sure the enclosed note was in Johnnie’s hand. The brief phrases had nothing in them even remotely personal; he’d only wished her pleasant use of the silks and good wishes on her building. And he’d signed himself simply “Ravensby,” as if he’d been writing to his lawyer.

She’d expected no more with the manner of his leave-taking. She wasn’t surprised or prostrate with grief. Her life had been too long one of compromise and half-measures to expect sudden undiluted happiness. But she allowed herself a small crowing jubilation on the first day of September. Her courses were now more than two weeks late.

George Baldwin remarked on her special cheer that afternoon when he rode over to bring her a new book he’d received from London and view the progress on her new home.

Over tea he said, “You positively glow, Elizabeth. Have you been out in the sun too long?” he teasingly added, careful not to make too personal a remark.

Elizabeth smiled, thinking how different he was from Johnnie Carre, who dared anything. Who took what he wanted. “Perhaps it
was
the sun, George, or the warm tea,” she answered with a smile. “But I admit, my spirits are high. The building is going well,” she finished, dissembling
with ease, her jubilant mood beyond the scruples of absolute honesty.

“I marvel at your unique abilities, Elizabeth. Most women content themselves with household duties.”

Most women didn’t have Harold Godfrey for a father, she wished to say, nor were they married to Hotchane Graham. One quickly learned to cultivate competence, a recognizable trait of defense against ruthless men. “This is merely a different aspect of running a household,” she pleasantly contradicted. “And as a widow, I must learn to do things for myself,” she added with a conventional politesse George would understand.

“There’s no need for you to remain a widow, Elizabeth. You need only say yes to me, and I’d gladly take over all your burdens.” He’d set his cup aside, and his expression, familiar after numerous proposals, offered her genuine affection.

“Thank you, George. You know how I appreciate your friendship, but you know, too, how I value my freedom. Hotchane was a difficult man.” She shamelessly engaged in a dash of theatrics, lowering her eyes briefly in what she hoped was a portrayal of tragic memory.

“He was an appalling man,” George heatedly countered. “You deserve better from life. But all men aren’t Hotchane,” he added, understanding any reluctance she might have for marriage after her first experience. “And while I’d never presume on your good nature, if at any time my affection will bring you comfort, I’d be honored to offer you my heart.”

George Baldwin was an enigma to her, a man too benevolent to be believed, too moral for authenticity in a world that honored neither trait. She never quite knew how to respond to him, for he invoked in her no feelings at all other than perplexity and a mild friendship. “You’re very kind, George, but, please, let’s talk of other things. I’m not interested in marriage. Really. Hotchane was generous to me at least in his will; I’m quite self-sufficient.”

“You may get lonely, Elizabeth.”

She was already, she thought—for a wild, rash young man who would probably not remember her. But
years of prudent caution answered in place of her heart. “I don’t have time for loneliness. You see how busy I am.”

“I intend to be persistent,” George said with a smile.

“Then we’ll be persistent together,” Elizabeth lightly answered. “But I do enjoy your visits, George. And thank you again for the book.”

“I can at least fill your library. But I thought Mr. Falsey much too prudent in his castigation of the Western Rising. Personally, I would have seen the rebels all thrown in the Tower.”

“But then that depends on your political persuasion. Others would have seen them go free or take the throne.”

“A dramatic womanly solution.”

“A realistic one if you were for Monmouth.”

A week later two of Hotchane’s sons called on her. Their sudden appearance wasn’t for social reasons, nor was their visit sociable, and she was ultimately sorry she’d been pleasant enough to let them through Redmond’s gimlet-eyed gauntlet.

Matthew and Lawson Graham were obliged to leave their weapons at the door, but a chill of fear struck her as she stood across from them in her drawing room. Large, hulking men, they were younger versions of her husband, although older than she in age; Matthew, Hotchane’s eldest, was fifty now, his brother forty-six. And they stared at her with their father’s cool detachment.

“I’d offer you refreshments,” she said, keeping her voice deliberately distant, “but I assume you’ve come on pressing business.” Their armed retainers filled her drive.

“We’ve decided you should remarry,” Matthew unceremoniously said from the sun-filled threshold. “Your year of mourning will soon be over.” He could have been giving her the weather report, so prosaic was his delivery.

“Thank you for your concern,” Elizabeth sarcastically replied, her voice icy, furious at their arrogance. “But I don’t
wish
to remarry,” she emphatically declared, forcefully clenching her fists to contain the trembling rage exploding inside her. She’d been out in the garden when they appeared, and her summer dress was streaked with dirt, her young-girl image incongruous with the chill authority in her voice. “And your father left me sufficient money,” she briskly added, “to allow me that option.”

“Father left you that money because you bewitched him,” Matthew countered, staring at her with a disquieting derision.

“Your father was too passionless to bewitch,” she challenged, brazenly outfacing Hotchane’s sons with a grit and mettle bred into her by long experience with treachery.

“I told you she wouldn’t listen,” Lawson murmured, restlessly shifting his stance like a fighter in anticipation.

His older brother’s hand came out to constrain him. “It doesn’t matter,” he quietly said to his sibling. His gaze hadn’t left Elizabeth. “We thought you could marry Luke. His wife died last year.” Emotionless, his voice reminded her of his father’s.

And that familiar tone of voice pricked her temper, not that her flaring resentment needed augmenting. Hotchane’s youngest son had already buried two wives; she had no intention of becoming the third. “Let me make this clear to you, Matthew.” Indignation snapped in her voice. “I dislike you and all your brothers. Redmond dislikes you even more intensely. So I suggest you leave while all your body parts are still intact.” She drew in a deep, steadying breath. “And you can take a message to your family,” she added with deadly quiet. “The money your father left me is mine. You
cannot
have it.”

“You’re a bold piece, Elizabeth,” Hotchane’s eldest casually said. “No doubt that’s what appealed to Da. But we didn’t come alone, as you may have noticed. Our escort’s outside and well armed.” He hadn’t moved, assurance in his posture and tone.

“Be my guest then, Matthew. You can fight your way clear. Because Redmond’s ready for you, and I won’t take your orders.”

“We can have the courts declare you a witch.” He seemed not to have heard her words.

Elizabeth remembered Hotchane Graham reacting with that identical detachment, and felt unsettled. But then she braced her nerves; she’d learned long ago that tyrants only preyed on easy victims. “I’m not your timid wife or daughters, Matthew. Your threats don’t frighten me.” She stiffened her back against his cold gaze. “You can
try
to take your case to court, but you’ll never find my money if you do. I lived eight years with your father, and next to him Lucifer would tremble; you boys are rank amateurs.” She stopped to take a breath because she found herself beginning to shake with indignation … and she refused to show any weakness. “I suggest you consider this a wasted trip,” she went on, having calmed her voice. “And be grateful your father didn’t leave
all
his money to me. If I’d truly bewitched him, I wouldn’t have settled for a mere sixty thousand.”

“You challenge like a man, Elizabeth,” Matthew Graham quietly declared, “but you’re only a woman, after all—alone and unmarried.” He was the leader of the Grahams, not only because he was the eldest, but because he was the most imaginative. “Some courts would consider you
unable
to manage your affairs.” His voice was very soft, his stance motionless. “Some judges might think you
need
a husband.”

“And some might think your brother Luke needs a
keeper
, not a wife, Matthew, so kindly leave me and my money out of your family plans. Go rob someone else. You must leave now,” she said in as soft a voice as his, “or I’ll let Redmond at you.”

“We’ll be back, Elizabeth. With the lawyers.”

“Don’t waste your time.”

“For sixty thousand I can afford to waste some time,” he replied with a smile so cold, it seemed as if the temperature had dropped in the room. “Come, Lawson,” he said to his brother, as one would call a favorite pet.

And Hotchane’s two burly sons walked out, leaving the menace of their presence behind.

As the door closed, Elizabeth abruptly sat down on the nearest chair before her legs crumpled beneath her, sheer willpower having kept her upright. And she shivered uncontrollably while the sun shone brightly outside the windows. It wasn’t as though the appearance of Hotchane’s sons had been unexpected. She’d always known they’d attempt to appropriate her money on one pretext or another; she had bodyguards against that eventuality. But she hadn’t realized how alone she’d feel. How utterly terrified.