Dawn on a Distant Shore

  The girl smiled. “Apricot. I’ve never heard anybody call it that, but you are right, they are exactly the color of a ripe apricot. Would you like to see the rest of the garden?”

  She took Elizabeth’s surprise for hesitancy. “It’s really all right. They like to show it off,” she said in a low and conspiratorial tone.

  “Is the countess an avid gardener, then?” Elizabeth asked, and saw the young girl’s face contort first in surprise and then amusement. “Or perhaps it is the Earl of Breadalbane …”

  The girl said, “Breadalbane doesn’t care anything for flowers. I do, but I can’t claim any part of this—” She inclined her head toward the garden. And then, perhaps because Elizabeth was looking confused, she added: “I am the Countess of Loudoun.”

  “Oh,” said Elizabeth, quite taken aback. “Pardon me, I did not realize.”

  The girl flushed. “You are surprised. You must have heard those silly stories about my lungs,” she said with some irritation. “Everybody thinks I’m an invalid. Well, I am not.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Elizabeth said. And then, “It must be very vexing to have people think you unwell when you are in good health.”

  The countess narrowed her eyes. “Yes. It is indeed very vexing, that is just the right word. You are very good with words.”

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth said, amused in spite of the seriousness of this situation. “Who is it that takes credit for the garden, if it is not you, Countess?”

  “It is Lady Isabel’s doing,” said the girl. “The wife of my curator. She spends all her time here terrorizing the gardeners, even though—” She stopped, and bit her lower lip thoughtfully. “Would you care to see the pond?”

  Elizabeth wondered at herself, that she should hesitate when this opportunity came so naturally. She clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling, and she followed the girl down the flagstone path.

  Even in her anxiety Elizabeth could not overlook the beauty of the gardens. Around every corner was a surprise, a bench surrounded by rose campion and clouds of white phlox, a corner where tiny bluebells cascaded over a deep green mat, an arbor thick with scarlet clematis as big as her hand. There were no gardeners at work now, on a Sunday afternoon—just the subtle hum of bees and, somewhere near, the soft splash of water on rocks. Her guide was content to let her look, and Elizabeth was very glad of it, for she had no idea what she might say if she should come upon Lady Isabel unexpectedly.

  They came out onto a grassy slope that ran down to a pond, fed by a thin stream that erupted from an outcropping of rock. Three slender white birch stood at one end, sending their shadows dancing over the water. A dragonfly hovered above a clutch of cream and pink water lilies.

  “How lovely.” Elizabeth only breathed it, but in the shadows on the far side of the pond there was a rustle of skirts. A woman sat up from a chair. She was wrapped in a shawl, and veiling hung from the brim of her hat.

  “Flora?”

  “There’s a lady here to see the garden,” called the young countess. “An English lady. She stopped to look at your roses.”

  Elizabeth’s breath came short and fast, but she managed to control her voice. “Pardon me, please. I did not intend to intrude—”

  “You are not intruding,” said the girl, with some irritation. “I brought you. Lady Isabel likes to take people around her garden, don’t you, Isabel?”

  “I do.” She pushed herself out of her chair with some effort—Elizabeth thought she must have been very deeply asleep—and started toward them around the pond. She moved like a woman of seventy rather than one of thirty, and for a moment Elizabeth wondered if she had come to the wrong place, stumbled upon some other Isabel. So complete was her confusion that when the woman stopped before her, she did not hesitate or think, but gave her own name to the anonymous face behind the veil.

  “How do you do,” she said. “I am Mrs. Elizabeth Bonner, of New-York State.”

  There was a small silence, which a jay interrupted with a harsh cry.

  “Flora,” said Lady Isabel softly. “Please tell Cook I will take tea here wi’ my guest. And tell Mrs. Fitzwilliam that I dinna want tae be disturbed.”

  Elizabeth wished very much to see Lady Isabel’s face, but she must be content with her voice, which gave no hint of surprise or displeasure.

  “But—”

  “It is verra rude tae stare, Flora,” she said gently.

  The girl nodded.

  “Ye may come back tae sit wi’ us after ye’ve talked tae Cook.”

  This seemed to reassure the girl, and she ran off.

  Lady Isabel said, “I prefer tae sit in the shade, if that will suit?”

  Elizabeth found her voice again. “Yes, thank you. That will suit very well.” She touched her handkerchief to her brow, perspiring suddenly in the cool of the garden.

  Flora was back very quickly, out of breath and flushed. She sat on the ground next to Lady Isabel’s lawn chair and tucked her legs beneath herself.

  “Ye came alone,” said Lady Isabel. “Are ye verra brave, or just headstrong?”

  “Perhaps I am both,” Elizabeth said.

  They sat for a moment listening to birds calling back and forth in the trees, and then Flora—it was hard to think of her as the Countess of Loudoun—surprised Elizabeth and Isabel both.

  “Did Carryck send you, or was it Jean Hope?”

  The girl knew the whole story, then—certainly she knew more than Elizabeth did of Lady Isabel’s flight from Carryckcastle.

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “Nobody sent me. Nobody knows that I am here.” Except Nathaniel, she might have added, but stopped herself.

  “O’ course they didna send ye,” said Lady Isabel evenly. “Ma faither wadna take sic a risk. Ye do realize the danger?”

  Elizabeth thought the time for polite conversation was past. She said, “My husband was shot twice. Yes, I realize the danger very well. But the fact is, Lady Isabel, that we did not want to be here, and were brought against our will—”

  “Moncrieff,” she interrupted.

  “Yes.” Elizabeth nodded. “And that is why I took the chance of coming to see you.”

  “Ye want my help tae get awa’. But what o’ yer guidman’s faither and his friends?”

  Elizabeth paused to think. Lady Isabel was much better informed than she might have guessed.

  “We do not know where they are, but we can wait no longer. We must start for home.”

  “I can help ye, but no’ in the way ye’d expect,” said Lady Isabel. “They were here yesterday tae consult wi’ my husband and wi’ Breadalbane.”

  Elizabeth thought at first she must have misunderstood, but she saw by the girl’s face that she had not. “My father-in-law was here?”

  “And Robert MacLachlan and yer cousin Viscount Durbeyfield, as weel.”

  Elizabeth let out a sound of surprise. “My cousin Will, here?”

  “Aye. Did ye no’ ken they were travelin’ tegither?”

  “I did not,” Elizabeth said, pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose to stem the sudden ache there. “The last I saw of my cousin was in Canada. I assumed he was still there.”

  “He was here yesterday,” said Flora quite firmly. “I shook his hand.”

  Elizabeth struggled with this unexpected news. What if it were a lie, nothing more than a subterfuge meant to put her off her guard?

  Lady Isabel read her thoughts without any effort at all. She said, “You doubt my report, and wi’ guid cause. Flora, describe the gentlemen wha came tae see the earl yesterday.”

  This was a task that suited the girl, and she sat up straight, and thoughtfully described all three men exactly, down to Robbie’s florid complexion and the scar on Hawkeye’s left cheekbone. They had been here; yes, she could accept that. But under what circumstances?

  “And where are they now?” Elizabeth asked.

  Lady Isabel said, “They left early this morning for Carryckcastle. Ye must ha’ crossed paths wi’
them.”

  Elizabeth stood abruptly, and then sat again. “But—”

  “Mrs. Bonner,” said Lady Isabel very gently. “Calm yersel’. Nae harm has come tae them. The viscount made sure o’ that.”

  “She’s confused,” said Flora, watching Elizabeth closely.

  “Yes, I am,” Elizabeth said. “Why would the Campbells—why would you make an alliance with my father-in-law and let him go on his way without interference, when my husband was attacked and almost killed?”

  Lady Isabel spread out her hands on her lap. “Because they came here tae ask for safe passage, just as you have.”

  “Mr. Bonner swore an oath,” supplied Flora, not meeting Elizabeth’s gaze. “Never to come back to Scotland.”

  “I see.” Elizabeth’s thoughts were moving very quickly. She wanted to get back to Nathaniel and give him this good news—his father and Robbie were alive and well, and they were all ready to go home, right away. But it was almost too sudden to comprehend, and too many matters remained unsettled. Will, in Scotland—when Aunt Merriweather had gone to such trouble to remove him from danger of transportation for sedition. And all of them on the way to Carryckcastle. What kind of reception would they get there, when they announced their intentions?

  And what of Carryck? She looked up at Lady Isabel, trying to see something of her face, but failing. She had been expecting the intense young lady of the stories she had been told, impetuous and angry; instead she had found a frail woman much older than her thirty years, perfectly in control of her emotions. But then her inheritance was safe now; she would have her revenge on her father and Jean Hope. Elizabeth saw now how foolish she had been to have thought that the rift between Lady Isabel and her father might be so easily addressed, and still she could not go away without trying.

  She said, “I am very thankful for this good news, of course. We will start back to Carryckcastle much relieved. Is there any message you would like me to take to your father?”

  Lady Isabel’s gloved hands moved fitfully over the lawn of her gown. “Aye,” she said finally and she lifted her arms—it seemed a considerable effort—to raise her veil and drape it back over the crown of her hat.

  Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. Isabel looked a great deal like the portrait of her mother that hung in Elphinstone Tower, but at first glance it seemed she had painted her face for a masquerade. Her skin was mottled stark white and bronze and something close to black in large patches over her face and neck. As shocking as the condition of her complexion was, the resigned expression in her eyes was far worse.

  “Ye can tell my faither that I’ve been punished for my sins. First I bore Walter two deid bairns, and then this—” She raised a gloved hand toward her face. “This will be the death o’ me. Carryck will be aye satisfied tae hear it.”

  “Oh, no,” Elizabeth said, more shocked at this idea than she was at Lady Isabel’s poor ruined face. “Surely not. Not to see a child of his suffer so.”

  “Ye dinna ken ma faither, Mrs. Bonner.” She said this with a bitterness that Elizabeth could not counter.

  “Is there nothing to be done for you?” Elizabeth asked. “Perhaps Hakim Ibrahim—”

  “The best doctors and surgeons have all been to see her,” said Flora almost huffily, as if Elizabeth had accused her of not taking sufficient measures. “None of them can say what is wrong with any certainty, and none of them offer her any cure.”

  “Everythin’ possible has been done,” agreed Lady Isabel. “But the surgeons do agree on one thing—the attacks are comin’ closer tegither, and I willna survive much longer.”

  “I am so sorry,” Elizabeth said, and then her voice faltered; what was there to say that would not sound insincere or even dishonest? “Is there nothing else I can do for you?”

  “There is one thing,” said Lady Isabel, pulling down her veil again. “Wad ye be sae kind as tae take a letter tae Faither Dupuis?”

  Elizabeth had not been expecting this—a letter to the priest?—and she waited too long to answer.

  Lady Isabel went very still, and her voice came cooler. “I see it wad be an imposition—”

  “No,” said Elizabeth. “No imposition at all. But I fear I may not be able to deliver it. Yesterday evening it seemed that Monsieur Dupuis would not live out the night. Perhaps he did not.”

  • • •

  The crisis came on very quickly—first Lady Isabel was sitting and then she had fallen back in her chair, her whole body shaking. Flora leaped up from the ground to bend over her, and Elizabeth did the same.

  Isabel had begun to perspire so heavily that the neck of her gown was already wet through. She moaned and rolled to her side, retching.

  “A doctor,” Elizabeth said. She was shaking, too. “We must summon her husband.”

  “Walter’s left for Edinburgh, and she doesn’t want a doctor,” said Flora, her face ashen but her voice steady. “They can’t do anything for her. Help me lift her, please, so I can hold her head in my lap.” And then, raising her gaze to look Elizabeth directly in the eye: “This will pass in ten or fifteen minutes. She would want you to stay.”

  The convulsive trembling seemed to subside a little when they had settled her more comfortably, but her breathing was very fast and shallow. They had removed her hat and Elizabeth saw that her face with its unnatural coloration was swelling visibly. She shook her head and moaned again.

  “Is she in great pain?”

  “Just in her back,” said the girl, in such a composed way that Elizabeth knew she must have seen these attacks many times before. “I believe the nausea is much more of a trial to her. But she has nothing on her stomach to bring up, you see.”

  Something of the girl’s calm communicated itself to Elizabeth, and she watched silently for a moment as the shaking subsided and Lady Isabel’s breathing began to return to normal. Flora stroked her brow gently, with the loving touch of a sister. Or a daughter, thought Elizabeth. She must have been quite young when Isabel came to take up residence with them. It was not surprising that they had formed a close bond, one of them an orphan by fate and the other by choice.

  “What do you think brought this on?” she asked.

  “She is very fond of Monsieur Dupuis,” Flora said. “If she speaks of Carryckcastle at all, it is of him.”

  Elizabeth turned her face away, torn between distress—had her news of Dupuis’s condition brought on this crisis?—and confusion. Did Flora know that Dupuis was a Catholic priest, and that Isabel had been raised in the Roman faith? Would she have shared such sensitive information with a child, even one as dear to her as this girl must be?

  “It is passed,” said Flora. “Isabel, come, you must change out of this damp gown.”

  Slowly Lady Isabel righted herself. She looked about with some confusion and then her gaze settled on Elizabeth.

  “Mrs. Bonner,” she said, her voice so weak that it was hard to make her out. “I must see Monsieur Dupuis afore he dies. Do ye think there’s any chance o’ that?”

  “I suppose—” Elizabeth faltered. “I suppose there might be. But in your condition …”

  “I must see him,” said Lady Isabel. “Flora, call for the carriage straightawa’.”

  30

  In a half hour of intense activity all was made ready. From a chair in the hall—she was too weak to walk or even stand—Lady Isabel directed the preparations. She would brook no discussion of doctors; she would not allow Flora to accompany her.

  “Think,” she said to the despairing girl. “Think what Breadalbane wad make o’ it, should he hear ye’re at Carryckcastle. Do ye want a war foucht ower ye?”

  The housekeeper, weeping openly, brought a hastily packed bag to the footman.

  “Dinna greet, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” Isabel comforted her. “It will aa be weel in the end.” Then she turned to Elizabeth.

  “Shall we send word ahead so that your guidman can make ready?”

  “No,” said Elizabeth. “I think it would be better if I told hi
m of this … change of plan.”

  Lady Isabel simply assumed that they would travel with her, and Elizabeth did not even think of opposing her. She did not like to imagine what would happen if she were to have another crisis alone in the carriage. And the quicker they were to return to Carryckcastle—she thought of Hawkeye and Robbie and Will coming face-to-face with Moncrieff—the better.

  “We will come by the Black Bull in a quarter hour,” said Lady Isabel.

  Elizabeth was almost out the door before Flora caught up with her. The young girl wiped her face with the back of her hand and drew in a deep breath to steady herself.

  “She will have her way no matter what I say, but she need not suffer.” She pressed a bottle into Elizabeth’s hand. “Laudanum. It would be better if she slept during the journey.”

  “I will do what I can for her.” Elizabeth wanted to offer the girl some words of comfort, but it would be no use at all: she knew what was ahead, and she could not be consoled.

  “Send her back as soon as she has seen Monsieur Dupuis,” said Flora. “Will you promise me that?”

  “I promise you to try,” said Elizabeth, turning again to go.

  Flora came running after her again, just as she was about to turn the corner.

  “Mrs. Bonner!”

  There was an expression on the girl’s face that Elizabeth recognized as uncertainty and willfulness all at once.

  “What is it, Countess?”

  “The earl sent Walter to Edinburgh to arrange for your passage to New-York.” The words came tumbling out. “You are to sail as quickly as can be arranged.”

  Elizabeth tried to speak, but Flora cut her off and came very close.

  “Pretend that you are in agreement,” she whispered, taking Elizabeth’s free hand to press a bulging purse into it. “Let everyone believe that you have boarded whatever ship Walter has arranged for you. But find other passage in secret. Do you take my meaning?”

  Stunned, Elizabeth nodded.

  “A hundred pounds,” said Flora. “It is all I have to hand, but it should be enough.” Her eyes were bright with tears.