Island of the Swans (31 page)

A huge tent stood on the lawn to provide shade or shelter as needed for the guests, and adjacent to it were several great cauldrons filled with a hundred boiled fowls and mutton hams. Estate women with pitchforks stirred in leeks, prunes, and Jamaican pepper, creating a rich, flavorful version of cock-a-leekie soup, a dish beloved by all Scots.

As shadows began to lengthen across the green expanse of lawn, still more wine, whiskey punch, and ale were set out at each table. While the guests helped themselves, Jane collapsed into a chair at her place of honor, to watch several of the men, including the groom, lay crossed sabers on the grass. As the pipe music droned faster and faster, the men flung themselves into the “Sword Dance,” whirling like dervishes between the sharp blades, until the dancer who succeeded in avoiding the steel with his feet emerged victorious. Alexander, placing second, smiled triumphantly at Jane for having made such a good showing in the most difficult of all Highland dances.

“When do you suppose ’twill be a decent hour to withdraw?” Alex whispered into Jane’s ear, giving her a furtive kiss on her sensitive ear lobe. “I fear I shall be unfit to perform my duties as a bridegroom if this frolic continues much longer.”

Jane giggled and leaned forward to whisper back.

“No excuses, now, m’lord. I shall claim my bridal rights, even if you turn up your toes at the end of this fine day!”

Reflecting on the sheer gaiety of the occasion, Alexander took a long, satisfying draught from the wineglass that the liveried stewards had kept filled to the brim all afternoon. He paused to look at his bride, who had opened the swan-feathered fan that he’d given her the night they had first attended the theater together. With her head tilted against the back of her chair, Jane fanned her flushed face. Alexander’s gaze drifted down her slender neck to the pale yellow silk wedding gown with its ivory stripes, small brocaded flowers woven in pink, blue, and green, and the finest of lace gathered at her elbows. He knew the dress had been damnably expensive, with its twenty-two yards of silk, but then again, Jane would wear it on at least one more occasion when they traveled to London in a month to appear before George III and seek his official blessing on their marriage.

The duke was not looking forward to the backstairs intrigue at St. James’s Palace, or the filth and bustle of London. His preference was to remove Jane to the Highlands where the two of them could enjoy the simple pleasures of country life.

But for today, at least, Alexander could tolerate the crush and heartily anticipated the moment he would unhook the tiny fastenings of Jane’s matching petticoat and stomacher, which filled the front of her wedding gown. He suppressed a chuckle, recalling how they had managed to arrange several illicit rendezvous at his Edinburgh townhouse before she and her brother Hamilton departed together for their sister’s home in Berwickshire to prepare for the day’s nuptials. Jane had proved a willing pupil in the art of making love, and Alexander longed to be alone with her once more. He had introduced her to the physical side of their relationship with all the skill and care at his command and he had reaped exquisite rewards for his pains. He reckoned that by now, the ghost of Thomas Fraser had finally been put to rest.

“Come, Jane… come, Alexander,” cried Catherine gaily, entering the bridal tent. “’Tis the dance of the ‘Babbity Bowster’ and you two must lead off!”

Hundreds of couples clapped their hands in anticipation of the “Kissing Reel,” traditionally the last dance of the bridal festivities.

“Let’s dance beside the dowager duchess and Mr. Morris,” Jane said mischievously as they approached the throng hand in hand. “Your mother and stepfather have hardly acknowledged my existence. Are they really that displeased with your choice?” she teased. “I should think they’d be grateful you’d finally married someone!”

“Well, at least ’tis finally put an end to the public speculation about my sanity,” he replied ruefully. Alexander was thankful when Jane revealed she knew all about the so-called Gordon Madness and that she’d dismissed such rumors out of hand.

Joining the circle of dancers, John Fordyce jovially handed Alexander a bolster cushion—an insider’s reference to the name of the dance “Babbity Bowster.” As the fiddler struck up the tune “The White Cockade,” Alexander circled the group and placed the cushion on the turf in front of his bride, inviting her to kneel with him on it. The crowd cheered, nearly drowning out the music, as Alexander, to the delight of all the spectators, kissed Jane many seconds longer than was seemly. Then, the pair rose, carrying the cushion, and walked around arm in arm, smiling at the many friends and relations who had journeyed from Edinburgh and as far away as the Isle of Barra to attend their wedding.

Jane and Alex continued to circle the hand-holding crowd, nodding with broad smiles as they passed Sir Algernon Dick, now retired from medical practice and looking rather frail and tired. Standing next to him was Elizabeth Maxwell, who appeared unaccountably distressed. Jane also smiled warmly at her favorite aunt, guessing she was melancholy at the absence of her husband from such a family event. At least, thought Jane cheerfully, Uncle James was due home soon from what was rumored to be a long-term post in Ireland.

Even pudgy Marietta Buchanan and her bean pole companion, Jamie Ferguson, were among the guests, though there was no sign of Simon Fraser. Jane had adamantly refused her mother’s pleas to include his name on the guest list.

She and Alex continued on around the circle, greeting countless other Maxwells of Monreith, Wigtown, and Gatehouse of Fleet, as well as scores of Gordons of Gight, Strathbogie, Huntly, and Aberdeen. At length, Jane threw the bolster down in front of Alex’s stepfather, Staats Morris. Momentarily startled, the Dowager’s consort scooped up the pillow and chased after Jane, but he was too late to steal a kiss. She had already linked arms with her groom and was running with him gaily toward the front steps of Ayton House. Staats shrugged and began circling the enormous assembly, impulsively tossing the cushion, not before the feet of his wife—a woman ten years his senior—but at the delicately shod satin slippers of a pretty wench from Berwickshire parish. By the time they both had kneeled on the pillow and Staats had kissed the lass firmly on her lips, Jane and Alexander had reached the top of the stone stairs leading to the front door of Ayton House and were engaging in a final passionate embrace before the applauding throng.

Fiona McFarland opened the heavy oaken door to the Maxwell apartments at Hyndford Close, peered outside, and suddenly let out a scream that echoed in both directions down the narrow alley that led off the High Street.

“It canna
be…
St. Ninian, have mercy on us all… Thomas Fraser, you be
dead
!” the maid babbled incoherently.

“Nearly, Fiona… nearly… but not quite,” the lieutenant smiled reassuringly. “St. Ninian preserved me and I’ve returned to Scotland very much alive. Is Mistress Maxwell at home? Don’t announce me… I wish to surprise her.”

And surprised she certainly would be to learn his ship landed in Ireland a fortnight ago and that her uncle, Captain Maxwell, had kindly granted Thomas immediate leave to come to Edinburgh. The Forty-second was to be posted over there indefinitely, but it was nice to be on this side of the water again. Thomas wondered at the peculiar look on Fiona’s face. The woman kept shaking her head, as if denying his presence at her door this blustery November day.

“Fiona,” he said gently, “from your reaction, I take it Mistress Jane didn’t receive the letter I posted from Philadelphia in early August? I thought it would precede me, as my ship to Cork didn’t sail until the tenth.”

“W—we’ve been in Berwickshire, sir,” she stuttered, staring at him as if he were a ghost. “Nobody’s been here but me cousin, Meg. Any letters or packets home, they be forwarded to the Fordyces’ house in Ayton, as her ladyship directed before she left for the wedding.”

“How splendid! John and Catherine have married!” he said, trying to disguise his disappointment that Jane was apparently in Berwickshire for her sister’s nuptials. “When are her ladyship and Mistress Maxwell expected to return?”

“I couldn’t be answering that, as I dinna rightly know, sir,” Fiona replied, avoiding his gaze.

“Have you
no
idea, Fiona?” he pressed, puzzled that the maid persisted in staring at her shoe tops.

“All I can say, sir, is they might be north by Christmas, or mayhap Hogmanay.”

“Hogmanay!” Thomas repeated, dismayed. “That’s nearly six weeks away. Why should they stay in Berwickshire so long?”

“Och! They won’t be in Berwickshire, sir,” Fiona exclaimed. “They’ve gone to London to visit the king! Then they’ll make a grand tour of all the family holdings!”

“What? Why…?” Thomas began.

“I’m sorry, sir, but that’s all I can say,” Fiona retorted, reaching to close the door. “Pray, excuse me, sir, but I’ve me duties to attend to. I’m sorry, sir… and welcome home.”

Before Thomas could protest, the heavy door slammed shut, and no amount of pounding persuaded Fiona McFarland to open it.

With a growing sense of unease, Thomas pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. Rain began to pelt down on the High Street as he headed for Fortune’s Tavern, the best source of information available in Edinburgh.

Sure enough, the drinking house was jammed with locals trading gossip and good cheer. No sooner had Thomas entered than a small crowd of friends and half-familiar faces gathered around him, stunned to see the man who had come back from the dead. He soon tired of recounting the amazing tale of how he’d been left for dead by the Mingos following the massacre and of his escape into the dense Pennsylvania underbrush. Pressed by his audience for details, he told them what he’d learned from his rescuer, Captain Shelby—that he had missed his own funeral at Fort Pitt because everyone thought he was one of the poor bastards in his patrol who had been hacked to pieces by the savages.

“Since everybody was dressed as Redskins, and few were left with their scalps,” he finished, shrugging, “I suppose there was a lot of confusion.”

His short narrative was interrupted by the sound of the ornate tavern doors banging against the walls as a piercingly cold wind swept through the low-ceilinged chamber.

A tall, angular figure burst into the public room, shaking off rivulets of water from his encounter with the storm outside. It was Jamie Ferguson, looking cold and in need of a drink. He looked around and caught sight of Thomas sitting at a small table in front of the fire. Jamie froze. His mouth dropped open and his prominent front teeth protruded beyond the boundary of his receding chin.

“Fraser?” he asked incredulously. “’Tis that you?”

“Aye, ’tis me, all right, Jamie, lad. A ghost returned, it seems,” he added, wearied by the predictable reaction of his old acquaintance.

“My God, man… ’tis such a shock! There was a long account in the
Edinburgh Courant
of the ambush in… where was it now, Maryland?”

“Pennsylvania,” Thomas replied with a short laugh.

Ferguson handed his cloak to a servant and indicated the chair next to Thomas.

“May I join you?” he said, the expression of bewilderment still imprinted on his pale features.

“Of course,” Thomas replied, nodding to his previous drinking companions, who quickly bid him adieu and melted into the crowd clustered at the bar.

“’Tis good to be back, despite the weather,” Thomas said, signaling the barmaid to take Jamie’s order. “I’m soon off to the Highlands to assist with recruitment. Those savages you read about in the
Courant
have thinned our ranks, and we intend to augment the Black Watch by some two hundred men, if we can find them. But, enough of my tales. I’ve news to catch up on in Edinburgh. Tell me, Jamie… why are the Maxwells so long in returning from the Fordyce nuptials?”

“You’ve just arrived?” Ferguson asked, not answering Thomas’s query.

“Aye, not more than an hour ago, and I must say, the Maxwells’ maid was very mysterious as to Jane’s whereabouts. Is it true, she and her mother have been summoned to Court?”

Ferguson glanced up at the buxom barmaid who’d come to take his order.

“Two brandies, and be quick about it!”

Jamie sighed and folded his hands on the table. Thomas settled in his chair and felt a familiar stab of pain that from time to time, invaded his upper arm where the bullet had pierced his flesh so deeply.

“I think it best if I tell you the news directly,” Ferguson said quietly.

“News?” Thomas repeated apprehensively.

“Jane became the Fourth Duchess of Gordon… oh, it’s been a few weeks now.”

“The Duchess of…” Thomas’s words trailed off.

“She thought you were
dead
, lad,” Ferguson said gently. “She grieved for you as if you’d been her husband. Wouldn’t talk to a soul and refused to go out for months. In actual fact, those of us closest to her feared for her sanity.”

“Jane… the
Duchess of Gordon
!” Thomas echoed his companion’s words once more, the shock of their meaning etched painfully on his gaunt features. “But she couldn’t have heard about the ambush but ten months ago…”