The Winter Sea (Slains, #1)(141)

‘Why, Mistress Paterson, are you not well?’

She raised a hand to shield her eyes. ‘I have a dreadful headache. Do forgive me,’ she excused herself, and grateful for the chance to leave the table made her way upstairs.

She was not made to go to kirk that afternoon. She heard the others leaving while she lay upon her bed, dry-eyed, and mourned the only way she could, in private. But that too was interrupted by a knocking at her door.

Sophia answered, dull, ‘Come in.’

The maid who entered was, though young, as unlike Kirsty in her manner as could be—head down and timid and not wanting to be spoken to. There was no question here of making friends among the servants, they kept closely to themselves. Sophia often longed for Kirsty’s laughter, and their walks and talks and confidences. Kirsty would have cheered her now, and drawn the curtains wide to let the light in, but the maid here only stood inside the door and said, ‘Beg pardon, Mistress, but there’s someone come to see you.’

Sophia did not look around. ‘Do give them my apologies. I am not well.’ It would most likely only be some prying neighbor who had seen that she was not in kirk, and wished to know the reason why. She’d had her share of visitors these past months, all curious to view this new young stranger in their midst who’d lived so openly with Jacobites. Like the young widow McClelland, Sophia had been offered much advice as to how to conduct herself, and she had listened and smiled and endured. But today she was not in the mood for it.

Still the maid hovered. ‘I told him so, Mistress, but he seemed quite sure you’d be wanting to see him. He said he was kin.’

Sophia rolled over at that, for she could not think who…? ‘Did he give you his name?’

‘He did not.’

With a frown, she rose slowly and smoothed out her gown. As she went down the stairs she could hear someone moving around in the front room, the leisurely steps of a man wearing boots. Either he—or more likely the maid— had been careful to leave the door standing fully open to the entry hall, mindful of the fact that there was no one in the house to serve as chaperone, but because he had crossed to stand before the mantelpiece she did not see him until she had stepped into the room.

He had his back to her, head angled slightly while he took a close look at the paintings done in miniature that hung upon the wall, his stance and manner so like Moray’s that the memory tugged again a little painfully before Sophia caught herself and realized who it was. She gave a happy cry of recognition, and as Colonel Graeme turned she gave no thought to what was proper, only rushed across the room into his hard embrace.

There was no need to say the words, to speak aloud of sorrow or of sympathy. It passed between them anyway, in silence, as she pressed her face against his shoulder. ‘I did fear you had been killed,’ she whispered.

‘Lass.’ The single word held roughness, as though he were deeply touched by her concern. ‘Did I not tell ye I would keep my head well down?’ He held her tightly for a moment, and then pushed her back so he could have a look at her. ‘The maid said ye were ill.’

Sophia looked back at the doorway, and the quiet maid still standing there, and knowing that whatever happened in this room would be told to the Kerrs, Sophia gathered her emotions into something like composure. ‘It is all right, you may go,’ she told the maid. ‘This is my uncle, come from Perthshire.’

With a nod, the maid retreated, and Sophia turned again to look at Colonel Graeme’s face, and found him smiling.

‘Neatly done,’ he said, ‘although ye might have thought to have her bring a dram for me afore she went. I’ve had no whisky yet the day, and it has been a long hard road from Perthshire.’

‘Did you really come from there?’

He shook his head. ‘I took passage over from Brest, lass, and sailed into Kirkcudbright harbor on Saturday last.’

‘You have been here a week?’ She could scarcely believe it.

‘I’d have come to see ye sooner, but I had a bout of sickness on board ship, and it was lingering, and I’d no wish to pass it on to you. And anyway, it’s been the devil’s task to get ye on your own. I thought it an uncommon bit of luck to see the others trooping off to kirk without ye, so I told myself ’twas time I paid a call.’

She could not fully take it in, that he was truly here. She sat, and motioned him to do the same, and said, ‘I had a letter from the countess not three days ago, and she did make no mention of your coming.’

‘Aye, well,’ he said, and took a chair close by, ‘she likely was not told. Few people ken I am in Scotland.’

‘But how then did you know I was not at Slains, but in Kirkcudbright?’

He spoke low, as she had spoken, in a voice not meant to leave the room. ‘’Twas not the countess, lass, who telt me where to find ye. ’Twas the queen herself, at Saint-Germain.’

‘The queen?’ She shook her head, confused. ‘But—’

‘It would seem a wee bird once did sing to her that you were John’s own lass, and since he’d always had her favor she did take a special interest in your welfare. She brought you to Kirkcudbright.’

‘No.’ It sounded too incredible. ‘The Duchess of Gordon did find me this place.’

‘Aye. And who has the ear of the Duchess of Gordon?’ He eyed her with patience. ‘When you set your mind to leaving Slains, the countess wrote her brother and her brother telt the queen, and it was she who asked the duchess if she’d find a home to suit ye here.’ He watched while she absorbed this, then went on, ‘So when the word got round the king had plans to send me here as well, the queen was quick to tell me where ye were.’