Parris Afton Bonds (2 page)

Her father’s room was normally kept dark; bright light hurt his eyes. Today, the heavy dusky pink velvet drapes had been drawn open. August’s warming sunlight revealed the room’s book-paneled walls. French doors that opened onto a flagstone terrace were flung wide. Far beyond, carriages could be seen approaching down the winding, oak-shaded drive.

Fresh air and fl
oral fragrances from the well-tended gardens of rhododendron, chrysanthemum, and snapdragons whisked away the prevailing sour smell of rot. The tinkling sound of the terrace fountain reached the room. It was a place of perpetual banishment and slow, agonizing death. A place of no hope.

Enya bent over her father
’s chair and kissed his forehead, made even more high by the lack of hair on his brow and crown. "You slept well, Father?”

"Humph! I
’ll never die in me sleep. I sleep too well.”

She had to smile at hi
s attempt at humor in the face of his malady. Rotting stumps moved in agony where once the valiant soldier had scaled fortress walls and wielded a heavy claymore. Leprosy was eating away at the Black Lion.

Malcolm had contacted the ravaging disease while s
erving in France with the Black Watch troops of King George. Upon Malcolm’s return, her parents’ joy at being reunited gradually was blighted.

At first, there had only been the thickened facial skin to indicate something was amiss. Next came the eruption o
f a few sores between fingers and toes, then the hobbling about the old castle on feet that had no toes. And, at last, the disease had progressed so far that her father could do little more than sit and await his fate, a most difficult task for a man accustomed to action.

Her mother had assumed the mantle of authority, ruling the Afton clan and its estates with the justice and wisdom of her ancestral Pictish princesses. Her court was rapidly becoming the hub for men of Enlightment; it was the Athens of Scot
land.

Kathryn had summoned numerous learned doctors from Edinburgh Medical School, the best in Europe, to attend her husband, to no avail. Most shook their head and took their leave. Some suggested remedies that worked no magic. Old Elspeth
’s vile-tasting concoctions at least seemed to soothe Malcolm’s tormented soul.

At first, Enya felt shamed by the revulsion she felt; gradually, the enforced company of her father disclosed a man she had never known. Beneath the formidable manner was a man with sentiment.
Behind the hideous mask was a man of dry humor. He loved her mother above all else and wanted to set her free with his death.

This, her mother would not allow.

Kathryn, dressed in a court gown of green watered silk, entered the room by way of the terrace. Behind her followed a tall man in a peasant’s jacket of Yorkshire serge and a red handkerchief around his neck. Today, Brother Archibald was disguised as an itinerant scribe with his knapsack of inkhorn, ledger, quill, and paper. His own unruly red locks, grizzled with gray, declared him as much a renegade as Enya in his own way. A gentle renegade, albeit an inveterate one.

When most of Scotland was of Protestant persuasion, he appeared like a will-o
’-the-wisp first in a medieval burgh, next a seaport, then a mountain village. Was he an itinerant preacher, a mendicant friar? Enya had never been sure. His mission appeared to be to restore the free-and-easy climate of the old Scottish Catholic Church—when the more rabid Protestant Coventers weren’t hot on his heels.

The Catholic Church had been replaced by the strict teachings of Calvinist Protestantism. The result was as if a red-hot iron had been plunged into a staved barrel of icy water. For the Calvinists, there was no straightforward confession of sins: I
f a person repented on his deathbed, it was too late. You either lived a good life or you roasted in hell for all eternity.

This teaching did not cure the Scots of sin, but left them with an abiding sense that punishment automatically goes hand in hand wit
h most kinds of enjoyment.

Enya distinctly recalled as a child the rickety boned kirk minister chastising her after he had caught her swimming down at Loch Doon. His wrinkle-puckered mouth had compressed into a stringent line. "Ye
’ve had the pleasure long enough to suffer.”

The following Sunday, the eve of Samhain, the Celtic lord of death, a neep-o-lantern was found on the kirk
’s pulpit. Some said it was the displeasure of the Auld Folk at the banishment of music from the church services. A smug Enya knew better.

Perhaps that was why she enjoyed Brother Archibald. In his mid-forties, the lean, lazy priest possessed the ability to make people laugh regardless of the dire situation. "Ye ready for your blessing, lass?”
he asked her. "Marriage is a tricky affair. Soon you’ll swear to love, then later you’ll love to swear.”

She grinned. "Just bless me, Brother Archibald, before I set the good Reverend Macives on you.”

"Ach, lassie, but ye have a tongue of nettle.”

Kathryn knelt at Malcolm
’s side and took hold of his hand, which was missing three fingers. With a grim countenance, she examined it. "Ye have a new weeping sore. I’ll tend to it after the blessing, dear one.”

Malcolm tugged his hand from his wife
’s grasp. "Let’s get on with this foolery. I tire.”

Enya lowered her head, as much to avoid her father
’s mortified expression as to receive Brother Archibald’s blessing. She understood the reason for her father’s brusqueness and could do nothing to alleviate his emotional pain. Going down on her knees, she said, "Bless me, for I have sinned.”

"Not nearly enough, I think." The priest placed his spindly fingers atop her powdered coiffure with its net of pearls. His lantern jaw lost its wry smile, and his nimble lips took on a serious cast. "T
he greatest sin is to abstain from the passions of life. Passions teach us lessons about compassion, joy, love, and finally self-surrender. I charge you to seek these as the knight seeks the Holy Grail."

His hand on her shoulder signaled her to rise. “
Go with God, Enya.”

She dipped a curtsy and, with her mother, left the room. They sought out the immense salon with its cream-colored walls, reminiscent of London
’s Assembly Rooms. Their heels clicked hollowly on the inlaid mahogany floor. Each woman was silent with her own thoughts.

Kathryn was a private person; no one ever knew her feelings. Enya
’s thoughts centered, quite naturally, on the imminent wedding. Her intended was detained at Westminster and would join her at his Highland headquarters, Fort William. As a direct result of the Rebellion of '45 and the battle at Culloden, a nervous London government had ordered its recent reconstruction, still in progress. She could only imagine the disorder of sawdust and hammering she would preside over as wife of the Lord Lieutenant.

For the wedding ceremony, Simon Murdock was to be represented by proxy. Enya could not pick out his proxy from the multitude of guests assembled in the salon, which with its coffered ceiling was the full height of the two-story mansion.
Sunlight poured though the big orangery windows. The double row of marbled pilasters, reflected tenfold in the gilt-framed mirrors.

Alistair had outdone himself in decorating for the occasion.
  Crystal candlesticks, satin table coverings, silver tureens, porcelain vases. Kathryn stopped to confer with the thin, stiff-mannered old man. “Are the peeled prawns fresh?”

"Aye, with a dash of cream and dry vermouth sauce,”
he said with his soft brogue and rolling r’s.

"You transferred the monies in the Edinburgh a
ccount to Glasgow for Enya?”

"Aye, m'lady.”
He allowed himself a rare smile. “More than a fortnight ago."

She touched his sleeve, the most affectionate gesture Enya had ever witnessed between her mother and others, with the exception of Malcolm. It was as
if her mother didn't allow herself to feel emotion, only devotion and duty.

"What would I do without you, Alistair?"

His big nose sniffed. “You would, as always, suffer in silence, madam.”

The guests represented the elite of Scottish society. Writers, lawy
ers, philosophers, doctors, scholars, scientists, and painters paid tribute today. Kathryn had encouraged these Scottish men of learning and letters to come to her court. She believed this was the only way to rescue for posterity the culture of what was once an independent nation.

Having grown up surrounded by the best minds in Scotland, Enya had assimilated her mother
’s creed. After struggling against the English for almost a thousand years, Scotland, Enya felt, needed to seek its identity through peaceful means.

For that reason, and that reason alone, she consented to be led to the marriage altar. The man giving her away was her mother
’s friend, the famed dramatist Allan Ramsay, who had opened the first circulating library in Scotland. Before an ornate marble-and-plaster fireplace, Reverend Macives awaited the bride and the groom’s proxy. In the absence of wedding music, silence reigned.

Enya
’s gaze searched the faces of the guests. There he was, toward the back of the crowded room: Duncan Fraser. He was clothed in a shabby frock coat and trews. She smiled tremulously. Below the disheveled fringe of yellow hair, his brown eyes reassured her. All was well, then.

Next, she searched among the unrecognizable faces closest to the parish minister. The stocky littl
e man wearing a fringed waistcoat—was he Simon Murdock’s proxy? He exuded an aura of self-import.

Old Allan Ramsay kissed her on the cheek and nudged her forward. At the same time, the man in the fringed waistcoat stepped forth. Lurched was a better word,
she thought. Obviously, he had imbibed too well.

He introduced himself in an officious and quite British tone. Each word was elaborately pronounced. "I am Sir Oliver Wakefield, Secretary to the Ministry of War and proxy for Simon Murdock, Lord Lieutenant o
f the Western Highlands, at your service, my lady.”

Enya blanked out all thought. From hereforth, she would be leaving the Lowlands and her childhood to become a wife in whatever foreign land her husband
’s position would take him.

And the hinterland of the
Highlands was as much a foreign country as would be the Russian steppes.

Was any cause, even one as noble as the preservation of all that was distinctly Scottish, worth this terrible sacrifice? God, but what she wouldn
’t give for an opportunity to sneak away and smoke her pipe for a leisurely half hour.

The marriage ceremony was over barely before it had begun. She wouldn
’t wear the ring of the Lord Lieutenant until she exchanged vows with him in a more private ceremony, so she still didn’t feel wedded.

The afternoon festivities were spent in toasting with brilliant clarets, dancing, and, later, a sampling of sumptuous dishes: salmon with prawn sauce, succulent lamb with mint jelly, and a sublime pigeon consommé.

She did not see Duncan again.

Too soon, En
ya’s luggage and that of her maidservants was being loaded atop the Lord Lieutenant’s private traveling coach. The proxy, Wakefield, had drunk too much and so chose to remain behind. Or, at least, that was the gentle yet very effective suggestion of her mother.

Enya had changed into a copper-red jaconet traveling dress with a bonnet of matching copper-red ribbons. Balmy weather blessed her bridal journey. It was to take her to Glasgow, where she would board ship. From there, the ship would transport her up
the Clyde River and through the inner islands to the entrance of the Great Glen. The last stage of travel to Fort William would be accomplished over a series of Roman and English roads paralleling the Highland lochs.

Standing beneath the airy wrought-iron
porte cochere, she blinked back tears and kissed her mother good-bye. "You will come to visit me?”

Her mother
’s eyes glistened with her own unshed tears. Kathryn and Enya had been more than mother and daughter: tutor and student, closest of friends, confidants. "The Butcher himself couldn’t keep me from you."

They both managed a weak smile at the jest. The Butcher was William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, the third son of George II. General Cumberland had become infamous for the atrocities committed by his
men after the Battle of Culloden.

Mary Laurie dropped a curtsy to her cousin, a stern-looking farm wife who doubtlessly was glad to be relieved of another mouth to feed. Alistair gave his twin an old man
’s quick, embarrassed hug. Kathryn's embrace for the departing servants was as reserved but as heartfelt.

Enya swallowed her pain of separation and, turning from her mother, boarded the coach. She did not know how long it would be before she saw her mother again. But both knew her mother would remain with Ma
lcolm, who needed her more, and would remain with him until his last wheezing breath.

Elspeth, Mary Laurie, and two green-coated liveried footmen accompanied her. A contingent of redcoats, serving as Enya
’s guard, rode ahead of and behind her coach. With a jerk, it and its team of six grays set out at a fast clip down the double row of oaks. Haste was needed if the bride was to reach Glasgow by nightfall. The ship was to sail with the tide.