Island of the Swans (22 page)

“A fine catch for a baronet’s brat, wouldna you say?”

“Aye—if he’s not
mad.
”

“Or if the lass’s not enceinte by that lad—what be his name?”

“Simon Fraser’s ward? Oh, he died. In America, I heard. Mistress Jane certainly didn’t let any grass grow under her slippers, did she, now?”

Jane quickly turned away. Alexander reached for her gloved hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. They continued to make their way past the sea of curious faces, but she was touched by his display of concern for her vulnerability. Perhaps he realized the same cutting remarks that would once have made her laugh, now stung.

Staring across the expanse of the audience hall, Jane was surprised to see that the orchestra pit had been covered with a portable floor abutting the stage. The alteration had created an enormous space where she assumed the public dancing would take place. Above them, the galleries were filled with legions of shop clerks and wigmakers, merchants and caddies—all manner of folk who enjoyed a night at the old playhouse as much as any of the ton. Jane guessed that the more expensive boxes had been patronized by a collection of lawyers and doctors, because the evening had been organized in the duke’s honor by Charles Gordon, his kinsman and personal solicitor, and Sir Algernon Dick, his physician, to benefit the city’s charity workhouse.

“My dear Gordon!” a voice boomed from behind them.

Alexander and Jane turned around to see Jamie Ferguson striding down the aisle.

“Ah… Jamie, man… ’tis good to see—”

Alexander stopped midsentence. Ferguson was staring—not at his family friend, the Duke of Gordon, but at Alexander’s companion.

“Jane?” the young lawyer asked, dumbfounded.

Ferguson’s eyes appraised Jane’s figure from the skirt of her white satin gown to the tips of the delicate swan feathers edging the open fan shielding her face. His one-word query revealed his incredulity at seeing her in public. The fact was, he had spent more than two months begging her to respond to his letters and personal entreaties, only to be answered with silence. Now, here she was, standing before him on the arm of a duke, a gent who happened to be one of his oldest friends.

“Hello, Jamie. ’Tis… ’tis n-nice to see you again,” Jane faltered.

“I gather you two haven’t seen each other recently,” Alexander said, one eyebrow arching almost imperceptibly.

“Aye… ’tis been a long time…” she replied, her glance begging Jamie’s forgiveness for the hurt she’d caused him.

“Where are you sitting?” Alexander asked politely, putting a hand on his old friend’s shoulder.

“I’m supping with several lads who’ve taken a box yonder,” he replied stiffly. He pointed to one of scores of alcoves that had been transformed into intimate dining areas. “It seems that upstart peacock, Mr. Stanley, thinks he should be playing Romeo tonight in the Shakespeare instead of Mr. Younger,” he added with forced cheerfulness. “Stanley’s lined up the young barbers over there in his behalf,” he complained, indicating a row of boxes filled with boisterous young medical students already plied to the gills with wine punch. “But we advocates are sworn to uphold the honor of Mr.
Younger
, and the management agreed to present
him
as Romeo tonight. G-great sport, eh what?” the young lawyer stuttered, his own cheeks suffused by a quantity of punch already consumed. The theater’s side-boxes had been transformed into bars selling wine, ices, cold pheasant, and various other delectables.

“I’ve heard these theatrical rivalries sometimes become fairly raucous, old man,” the duke said mildly.

“Aye, Your Grace… that they do… and that’s the fun o’ it!”

Ferguson was at least making a stab at appearing unruffled about his discovery that Jane was accepting the attentions of the Duke of Gordon. Alexander gestured at the illuminated heads of famous poets fastened over each box.

“What’s all this?”

“We wanted to render homage to Your Grace’s writings in a v-visible manner,” Jamie said, slurring his words slightly as he made reference to Alex’s versifying, for which the duke was duly admired.

“Well, this is all quite splendid, Jamie. My thanks for whatever part you’ve played in creating such a masterpiece,” the duke said with an affectionate pat to his friend’s rounded shoulder.

As Jamie retreated unsteadily up the aisle, Jane glanced at Alexander and said quietly, “I suspect you gathered I have not been of a mind to pretend an interest when there is none?”

“I see that,” the duke replied dryly.

“I say what I think,” Jane added a shade defensively.

“That’s quite evident,” he said, casually guiding her toward their seats for the performance. Then, suddenly he stopped Jane’s progress down the aisle and looked into her eyes. “’Tis not a bad thing, you know, Mistress Maxwell,” he said, “letting people know what you truly think.”

The duke had in mind all the simpering, dissembling, manipulating women of his acquaintance—an assortment that included his own mother. He took Jane’s gloved hand, closed his long fingers around it, and led her toward a group of boxes near the edge of the stage where Sir Algernon Dick and his wife, Lady Mary, greeted them both warmly. Once they were settled in their seats, the physician inquired how the Gordon estates were faring.

“’Tis been a devilish rough winter in the Highlands,” Alexander acknowledged, “but instituting our own meal market from the Gordon stores has alleviated some of the suffering from the crop failures of recent years. Let us pray for better weather this season.”

Turning in her seat to face the duke, Jane asked, “Do you plan to clear your land of tenants and crops to make room for sheep?”

The question caught the two gentlemen off guard.

“I have been forced to run sheep on some of my lands near Kinrara,” Alex replied. “’Tis the only thing that seems profitable these days, what with taxes and the disruption of the economy since the Forty-five.”

Jane looked at him with a penetrating stare.

“But how do you propose to raise crops of wheat or barley or turnips when the weather
does
improve, if you give all your land over to sheep and remove the poor tenants?”

“I do not intend to commit all my land to sheep, but ’tis a vexing question, to be sure, Mistress Maxwell,” he replied evenly. “And ’tis one I enjoy discussing with people of experience in these matters.”

Jane bristled at his inference that she was unsuited, by virtue of being a woman, to such a discussion.

“It doesn’t take
vast experience
, as you put it, to determine the want of the people who have no land upon which to grow their crops,” she retorted. “If the lands are cleared of crofters—as it’s rumored they will be in future years—what will become of them? Your coffers may be full, but what of the havoc wreaked on the hundreds who depend on your good will… not only for their land, but for their bread?”

“If we land owners are forced by unhappy circumstances out of our control to reclaim land that is ours by right and tradition,” he began, “many will find opportunity to seek their own land in the Colonies—”

“The
Colonies
!” she spat. “You ask them to leave their land, their very homes and hearth to risk death at sea and God knows
what
barbarity from the savages in that land!”

The flush spreading up Jane’s cheeks contrasted sharply with the paleness of the skin revealed by her low-cut gown. Alexander could see that she was trembling.

“Jane, lass,” Sir Algernon interjected sharply, “all of America is not as uncivilized as the wilderness in the farthest of the Colonies. The jackals in England would like nothing better than to see all Scotland’s Highland nobility as homeless as are some of the tenants. Lairds like Alexander Gordon must do everything they can to survive and pay taxes and hold on to the land! Otherwise, Scotland’ll have no future at all, dear girl… no future at all!”

Jane regarded Sir Algernon with amazement. She could see that her old friend was disturbed that she should judge Alexander Gordon ruthless toward his clansmen and tenants.

“I’ve not been to the Highlands, Your Grace,” she conceded matter-of-factly, “and perhaps ’twas unseemly of me to pass judgment on matters concerning the Gordon estates, when I know so little of them. I was referring to what I’ve observed of farming in Galloway, where my father resides.”

“Well, I hope one day you will have the opportunity to see that country near Kinrara,” Alexander replied pleasantly, steering the conversation into calmer waters. “I think you would find it one of the loveliest parts of Scotland. I pray I may be the man to reveal its beauty to you.”

Jane flushed once again, this time in embarrassment.

“You were right, Sir Algernon,” said Alex, turning in his seat. “Just as you predicted, so far, ’tis been a fascinating, if not enlightening experience, listening to the opinions of Mistress Maxwell.”

Just then, Charles Gordon and Jane’s sister and brother-in-law settled into the box with friendly waves and a fluttering of fans. The crowd had grown louder still, clapping and stomping to indicate their impatience. Much to her amazement, Jane recognized some of the same medical students and lawyers she’d danced with sedately at previous Hogmanay Balls, now hurling wings of fowl and boiled turnips across the seats at one another in wild abandon.

“We want Stanley… we want
Stanley
!” chanted the medical students, clapping their hands for their favorite actor and howling with high-spirited laughter. Jane saw Sir Algernon frown and lean over to speak to Charles.

“Bring on Younger! Let’s have
Younger
!” echoed Jamie Ferguson’s crowd, who were stamping their feet to drown out the competition on the other side of the hall.

“How long has this Romeo rivalry existed?” Alexander shouted to Charles.

“All winter long, I’m afraid,” Charles shouted back. “Ever since Stanley joined the players and organized his claque. It gets better or worse, depending upon how much wine punch is consumed by the theatergoers.”

Charles’s last words were lost as the medical students once again roared for the celebrated Mr. Stanley to appear on stage. Alexander leaned closer to Charles and Jane so he could be heard.

“Compared to this, I can see I lead a very sedentary life in the Highlands… scribbling verse and separating crofters from their lands!”

He cast a sly glance toward Jane, who pursed her lips to hold back a smile and turned to watch the theater manager, David Beatt, step forward center stage with both hands raised in an effort to restore quiet.

“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen…” he shouted. The restless audience settled back a bit, while a few young men continued trading quips and insults. “’Tis my pleasure to bid you welcome here tonight…”

The students and their supporters shouted back unsolicited greetings to Beatt, who nodded and again raised his hands beseechingly.

“On behalf of the management of the Canongate Playhouse, I am especially pleased to welcome our guest of honor, His Grace Alexander, the Fourth Duke of Gordon—a man of letters and extraordinary refinement who—”

Drunken cheers rang out from the audience on both sides, led by a flush-faced Jamie Ferguson. Beatt bit his lip apprehensively and glanced down at the duke’s stage box.

“In honor of His Grace, and at the
special
request of the most
respected
gentlemen sponsoring this most sublime ridotto for the benefit of the Charity Workhouse, we have arranged for your pleasure, a period of dancing to be enjoyed
before
our magnificent program this evening.”

“No… no!” shouted those few in the forward seats who had heard Beatt’s words. “Bring on Stanley… we want Romeo!” bellowed the medical students, who were seemingly bent on besting their rivals.

Beatt looked increasingly grim-faced.

“In accordance with the wishes of the
sponsors
of this ridotto, the public dancing will commence!”

Without uttering another word, David Beatt turned on his heel and fled backstage.

“Maybe they’ll dance themselves sober,” grunted Sir Algernon sourly. “The students are a rowdy disgrace. The University provost shall hear about this, you may be sure!”

“I’m dreadfully sorry about this, Your Grace—” apologized Charles Gordon, who, along with the doctor, was the principal organizer of the charity event.

“Actually, ’tis quite amusing, Charles,” Alexander replied. “I’m enjoying myself enormously,” he added, smiling in Jane’s direction.

The delicate strains of the traditional opening number could hardly be heard above the din that now grew louder and louder. Dandies draped themselves over the edges of the boxes that girded the audience. Several of them began pouring bumpers of wine on the elaborate coiffures of the patrons below. Despite the deafening tumult, several brave souls attempted to execute the first figures of the minuet.

“Stanley… Stanley…
Stanley
!” chanted the medical students, oblivious to the couples dancing sedately onstage.

“Younger… Younger…
Younger
!” shouted the young men reading for the Bar.

Soon the orchestra was entirely drowned out by the sound of wooden chairs crashing against the walls. Splintered pieces rained down on the unsuspecting crowd positioned below the side-boxes. Jane gasped as she saw Jamie Ferguson take a glancing blow to the head from a metal sconce that had been ripped off the wall.

“Your Grace,” shouted Charles, “I’ve seen these crowds turn nasty. I wonder if we—”

“The
candles
!” Jane called to Alexander and Charles. “They’re throwing lighted candles… there’ll be
a fire
!”

Everyone in his box and on the floor of the theater stared in horror at the chaos raining down from the hordes in the balconies above. Jane suddenly felt sorry for poor Charles Gordon, who sat riveted to his chair. The evening that he’d planned so carefully to reintroduce the Duke of Gordon into Edinburgh society was turning into a fiasco. And how humiliating for the twenty-four-year-old duke to have a ridotto transformed into such bedlam, when she’d heard it had all been specifically designed to put to lie the persistent rumors that Alexander suffered from the notorious Gordon Madness, or even more scurrilous, that he had somehow been responsible for the death of his lover, Bathia Largue.