Dawn on a Distant Shore (64 page)

"Other gowns?"
Even as Elizabeth turned she knew what she would find.

In the confusion of
transporting their belongings here from the King's Arms, someone had included Giselle
Somerville's trunks. The maids had unpacked them all, and now Giselle's many morning
gowns and evening dresses, shawls and capes and redingotes, had been carefully
hung to shimmer white and silver, gold and green.

Her perfume, musk and
lilac and something else, something sharper, clung to a brocade shawl that had
been draped across a velvet settee. Silver-backed brushes had been carefully arranged
on the dressing table, and a heavy-bottomed crystal flask caught the light to
spin it into rainbows. Elizabeth picked up a small hand mirror with an
elaborately engraved motto in the ivory and pearl handle:
Sans Peur
.

A woman without fear.
For a moment Elizabeth found herself thinking of Giselle with envy.

The shelves were
filled, too, with her hats and bonnets and gloves, scarves and petticoats, corsets
and pelisses--exactly the kind of elegant dress that Elizabeth had always shunned.
She had favored the simple Quaker gray that her mother had worn, and told
herself that she did so out of admiration and rationality. But the truth was
that she had left the finery to her younger and prettier cousins out of pride
and--she could admit it now--pure willfulness. Her uncle Merriweather had
called her a drab behind her back but within her hearing, and she had taken a perverse
pleasure in his disapprobation.

Elizabeth sat down on
an elegant little chair upholstered in blue and yellow brocade and considered.
She should have all of it sent away, given to someone who knew nothing of
Giselle and would be glad of such pretty things. It was what she wanted to do.
But to indulge one kind of pride would mean sacrificing another, and at the
moment she was more concerned about the earl than she was about Giselle Somerville,
wherever she might be.

Mally took her
hesitation for indecision, and clearing her throat gently she ventured to make
a suggestion. "Shall I send for hot water, mem? Wad ye care tae bathe
first?"

Elizabeth let out a
soft sigh. "Yes," she said, reaching out to run Mantua silk between
her fingers. "Please do."

The simplest of
Giselle's gowns was a clear lawn with a sash, bodice scarf, and shawl embroidered
in silver and green. The matching kid slippers were slightly too small, but Elizabeth
was glad of the distraction as she made her way down the grand stair. She felt
like an imposter, awkward and out of place, and furious with herself for her
timidity.

A scullery maid
hurried by, pausing to curtsy without meeting Elizabeth's gaze and then
continuing on her way, a bucket of ashes thumping against her leg. Elizabeth
followed at a safe distance, knowing that there would be some access to the gardens
from the hall that led to the kitchen. It took a full five minutes to find it,
but then she stepped into the warm summer afternoon.

The gardens were
situated on the west side of the castle, protected from the winds that came up
the mountain valley. Scotland was not known for its excessively fine weather,
but the situation was one that would make the most of the sun. A large kitchen garden,
flower beds in full bloom, apple trees and raspberry canes, and roses interplanted
with lavender. An unusual and completely lovely effect, so different from the gardens
of her childhood at Oakmere, where nature was subservient to geometry.

Someone had put a
great deal of planning into the grounds; someone both sensible and with a keen
eye for natural beauty. Appalina perhaps, or Marietta, she of the mysterious
portraits.

For the first time in
months Elizabeth was physically comfortable, freshly bathed and well dressed,
her stomach full and the sunlight gentle on her back and shoulders. But she
felt a little dizzy suddenly, and fought with the urge to turn back into the
deep shadows of the hall and retreat, back to Nathaniel and Curiosity and the
children. And how silly that was: once she had traveled alone through the
endless forests, and here she stood trembling in the rose gardens at Carryckcastle.

She could not let
herself be drawn into such a simple trap as a pleasing garden; she would not forget
how she had come to be here. With new concentration, she started toward the
conservatory that stood on the far side of a little stand of pear trees, its
glass walls and roof reflecting bright in the sun. The gardens were not empty--men
were at work weeding the beds and spreading manure, and far off she saw the
Hakim, pushing a man in a wheeled chair. She paused to watch him, curious about
this patient of his, an old man hunched forward. A maid came up and curtsied
before him; he raised his hand to trace something in the air over her head.

"Might I be o'
any help, mem?" A gardener popped up before her so suddenly that she stepped
back in alarm and pressed a hand to her heart.

"I didna mean tae
startle ye, mem, please pardon me. I'm the head gardener, and I thoucht perhaps
ye had questions--" The rims of his eyelids and the tips of his ears and
nose were tinged pink and this gardener reminded her of a plump little rabbit.

"Not at
all." Hannah had once brought them information about the head gardener at
Carryck, and Elizabeth searched her memory for the name. Whatever connections
she could make to the staff might help later on, when the time came to leave.

"The earl is in
the conservatory, Mr. Brown?"

His eyes widened in
surprise. "Aye, mem. So he is. I expect he'll be there aa day." And
apologetically: "He doesna like tae be disturbed when he's workin',
mem."

Elizabeth studied the
rose before her. "I believe your brother serves on the
Isis
, does
he not? Have you had a happy reunion with him?"

The little man's look
of surprise deepened. "I've no' yet seen him, mem, but I hope he'll be
doon the village when I get hame. Do ye ken oor Michael, then?"

"A bit. My
stepdaughter spent some time with him, and the bird he raised--"

"Sally,"
supplied the gardener, grinning now.

"Yes,
Sally."

With a little flourish
he held out a single rose between a thumb and forefinger stained green.
"Gin it isna tae forward, mem ..."

"Thank you,"
said Elizabeth, accepting the blossom. "How pretty."

"She's aye bonnie
tae look at, mem, but her smell is still sweeter."

"Very sweet,
indeed. Your roses thrive very well given the climate here, do they not?"

He nodded solemnly.
"Aye, mem, so they do. But that's the laird's doin', ye ken."

"Is it?"
Elizabeth could not help smiling. "Does His Lordship command the weather
to his roses' liking, then?"

The smooth brow
crinkled under the straw brim. "There nivver was sic a mannie for growin' things,"
he said very seriously, looking toward the greenhouse. "Perhaps His
Lordship will show ye his orchids, some day."

"What a splendid
idea, Mr. Brown. I'll go now and ask him. Oh, and can you tell me--who was that
elderly man in the wheeled chair? He's gone now, but he was there just a minute
ago, with Hakim Ibrahim."

A pained expression
flitted across Mr. Brown's face, gone as soon as it came. "That must ha'
been Mr. Duppy, mem. A guest o' the earl's. He's verra tender, ye see. In puir
health."

"I am sorry to
hear that," Elizabeth said. And then, still vaguely uneasy, she took her leave
of Mr. Brown.

The conservatory was
an enormous building made almost entirely of glass. It was cleverly designed,
so that the panels that served as walls could be adjusted individually, pivoted
and propped up to regulate temperature and air flow. Each was covered on the
inside by a fine mesh, surely a convenience when the midges were biting.

And such a profusion
of greenery: full-grown trees, flowering shrubbery, a long table of orchids--Elizabeth
knew them only from books in her uncle's library--under bell jars. A small red
butterfly such as she had never seen before flitted by, and then another. There
was no sign of the earl, but when she opened the door she heard voices.

"It looks like a
wee monkey," said a young girl's voice. "For aa it's got a purple neb."

"Aye, and it's
near as much trouble as a monkey wad be," said the earl. His tone was very
different from the one Elizabeth had heard from him late in the night; he
sounded perfectly at ease conversing with little girls.

Along the wall was a
row of the potted ti-nain trees that the Hakim had tended so carefully on the
deck of the
Isis
, come now to the end of their long journey. Elizabeth
walked along, following the sound of the voices until she arrived at the work
area in the very middle of the conservatory.

The earl sat at a high
table, with Hannah and Jennet standing to either side. Their heads were bent forward
in concentration, and none of them took any note of her.

"Good
afternoon."

"Elizabeth!"
Hannah turned to her, and held out a muddy hand. "Come see the earl's new orchid.
The Duke of Dorchester sent it to him, imagine."

Carryck stood, and
Elizabeth saw that she need not have worried about her gown--he was wearing a pair
of old breeks and a loose linen shirt with a leather apron over all. His
sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he looked like any other man in the
middle of a day's labor.

He nodded to her.
"Guid day, madam."

Elizabeth inclined her
head and shoulders. "My lord Earl. And this must be Jennet?"

The child seemed to
glow, all sun colored among the greenery. "Aye, mem," she said.
"But ye canna be the stepmother?" And she peered more closely, as if
she hoped to see horns peeking out of Elizabeth's hair.

"I am that,"
Elizabeth admitted. "We are not all wicked."

"How is my
father?" Hannah asked, with a guilty expression that said she had not
thought of him for a little while.

Elizabeth put a hand
on her shoulder. "You needn't worry. He has eaten, and he is sleeping. The
Hakim will look in on him this afternoon."

"Guid
tidings," said the earl.

Hannah was not an
awkward child, but now she seemed truly at a loss, caught in this strange
situation.
I am ill at ease, too,
Elizabeth wanted to say to her, but it
would not do, not in front of Carryck.

Jennet seemed unaware
of all of this. She looked between Hannah and Elizabeth with undisguised
curiosity. "Have ye come tae see the tulips?"

"Oh, the
tulips," said Hannah, relieved at this change in subject. "See, Elizabeth,
how they look like the Hakim's turban."

Rare tulips were
exquisitely expensive, but here were at least a dozen, each in a pot of its own
and in differing stages of bloom--and that out of season. It seemed that
Carryck did have a gift for growing things.

"It is your
diversion to cultivate tulips, my lord?"

He wiped his hands on
a piece of sacking as he studied her. "My mither brought the roots wi' her
as a gift tae my faither when they married. They've been grown at Carryckcastle
ever since."

"They have
names," said Hannah. "Don Quevedo and Admiral Liefken and Henry Everdene
and this one is Mistress Margret. Is that not odd? That a flower has a name but
that a man might not." She paused, throwing a wary look at the earl.

He peered at her with
his brows drawn into a tight vee. "Aa God's creatures have names, lass. My
name is Carryck."

Hannah met his gaze
evenly. "But, sir, most people have first names. My grandfather is called Hawkeye
or Dan'l Bonner and my father Wolf-Running-Fast or Nathaniel Bonner, but
you--"

She glanced at
Elizabeth, and then went on resolutely. "You are called "my
lord" or "sir," or "Carryck." And Carryck is the name
of this place. It is as if my grandfather were called Hidden Wolf for the
mountain where he lives."

Jennet was very still,
all her attention on the earl and what he might say. And since the earl seemed to
have taken no offense at Hannah's bold questioning, Elizabeth was quite
interested, too, and content to stay out of the conversation for the time
being.

"The difference
is this," said the earl. "Your grandfaither chose his place and made
it his own while I was born tae Carryck. I belong tae the place as much as it
belongs tae me." He held up a finger to keep Jennet from interrupting, but
the look he gave her was kindly.

"Now a man wha
has a twisted leg may be called Cruikshank in our tongue, or one wha works the
smithy may be called Gow, which is guid Scots as weel, and means
"smith." Or a man called Donald may have a son, and that son might be
called Donaldson or MacDonald or FitzDonald, all meanin' "the son o'
Donald." My surname is Scott. The earliest o' my ancestors that I ken was
Uchtred FitzScott--Uchtred the son o' Scott--and his son Richard took the
surname Scott, as did most o' the men wha descended from him."

"But some men
take their mither's faither's names." Jennet pushed this out in a great
rush.