Susanna Kearsley - The Winter Sea

In the end, Sophia found she had no trouble eating everything that Kirsty served. The four days’ ride from Edinburgh had left her feeling ravenous, and Mrs Grant’s good cooking rivaled anything she’d eaten at the Duke of Hamilton’s own table.

If the Countess of Erroll had wondered at Sophia’s late arrival to the dining room, she made no comment on it, only asked her in a friendly way if she had found the chamber to her liking.

‘Thank you, yes. I rested well.’

‘It is a plain room,’ said the countess, ‘and the fire must work to warm it, but the view is quite unequalled. On those days when the weather is fine, you must look to the sunrise, and tell me if it’s not the prettiest one you have seen.’

Mr Hall, reaching for bread, gave Sophia a confiding wink. ‘That would be only one day of each month, my dear. The Lord has favored Slains in many ways, not least by providing this castle with such an amiable mistress, but He prefers, for reasons of His own, to leave those favors wrapped in fog and foul winds. If you should see the sunrise twice before the summer comes, then you may count yourself most fortunate.’

The countess laughed. ‘Good Mr Hall, you’ll make the poor lass melancholy. I grant that you yourself have never seen Slains in fair weather, but the sun shines even here, from time to time.’

She looked a younger woman when she laughed. She would have been approaching sixty, so Sophia judged, and yet her face was firm and well-complexioned, and her eyes were clear and knowing, lively with intelligence. They noticed when Sophia’s own gaze traveled to the portraits hung to each side of the window.

‘They are both handsome men,’ the countess told her, ‘are they not? That is my husband, the late earl. The artist gave him a stern countenance, but he was a most kindly man, in life. The other is my son, Charles, who is now the Earl of Erroll and, by birthright of that title, Lord High Constable of Scotland. Or what may be left of Scotland,’ she said, drily, ‘now that parliament has ratified the Union.’

Mr Hall said, ‘Yes, it is a troubling thing.’

‘An injury,’ the countess said, ‘which I do hope will not go long unanswered.’

Mr Hall glanced at Sophia in the way her uncle had when a discussion touched on something he had not thought fit for her to hear. He asked, ‘How does your son? I do regret I have not seen him much of late, in Edinburgh. Is he well?’

‘Quite well, I thank you, Mr Hall.’

‘His Grace the Duke of Hamilton remarked to me the other day he feared the Earl of Erroll did think ill of him, because the earl no longer keeps his company.’

The countess sat back to let Kirsty clear the empty plate away, and smiled a careful smile that had an edge of warning to it. ‘I do not know my son’s opinions, nor yet his affairs.’

‘Of course not, no. I did not think that you should do so. I was only saying that the duke—’

‘Is surely man enough to ask directly of my son that which he wishes to be told, and not rely upon my word in such a matter.’

It was a soft rebuke, but Mr Hall accepted it. ‘My lady, I apologize. I did not mean to give offence.’

‘And none is taken, Mr Hall.’ She deftly brought the conversation back to firmer ground. ‘You are not pressed to carry on your travels just at present, are you?’

‘No, my lady.’

‘I am pleased to hear it. We could do with a man’s company at Slains. There has been little entertainment here this winter, and our neighbors have kept closely to their own estates. I do confess that I have found the days here very dull, of late.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Hall, ‘these next few weeks will bring a change.’

The countess smiled. ‘I do depend upon it.’ Turning to include Sophia, she said, ‘And I shall have no great fear of boredom now, with such a lively young companion. It is you, my dear, whom I suspect will find this house so dull that you will wish yourself away from it.’

Sophia said, ‘I can assure you I will not.’ She said that with more certainty than she had first intended, and she added in a lighter voice, ‘I am not used to towns or cities. I do much prefer a quiet life.’

‘That I can give you,’ said the countess. ‘For a time, at least. Until the families round us learn that I have now a pretty, unwed kinswoman who bides with me, for then I fear that we may be lain siege to by the curious.’ Her eyes danced warmly, welcoming the sport.

Sophia took it in good part, and made no comment. She had no expectations of local young men clamoring for her attentions, for she knew that she was no rare beauty—just an ordinary girl of common parentage, without an income or a dowry that could make a man of good birth think she was desirable.

Mr Hall remarked, ‘Then it is just as well that I should stay, to help you fight them off.’ He pushed his chair back on the floor. ‘But now, with your indulgence, I must go and write a letter to His Grace, so to acquaint him with my plans. You have the means, my lady, do you not, to see that such a message reaches Edinburgh?’

The countess answered that she did, and with a formal bow he left them, wishing them good morning. The little maid, Kirsty, moved to clear his plate as well, and the countess said, ‘Kirsty, I do owe you thanks for showing Mistress Paterson the way to us this morning. It was fortunate that she did find you.’

Kirsty glanced up in surprise, and seemed to pause a moment as if seeking how to twist the truth, before she said, ‘My lady, ye’ve no need to thank me. All I did was meet her in the passageway. She would have found ye here without my help.’

The countess smiled. ‘That may be so, but I confess I did forget my duties as a hostess, and how simple it can be to lose one’s way, at Slains. If you have finished now, Sophia, come and let me show you round the castle, so you will not need to fear becoming lost.’

The tour was long, and thorough.

At its end the countess showed her to a small room on the ground floor at the corner of the castle. ‘Do you sew?’ she asked.

‘I do, my lady. Is there something you wish mended?’

The answer seemed to strike the countess strangely, for she paused, and turned her gaze upon Sophia for a moment, and then told her, ‘No, I only meant to tell you that this room is good for sewing, as it has the southern light. I am, I fear, an indifferent seamstress myself. My mind does not compose itself to detailed work, but is inclined to drift most shamefully to other thoughts.’ She smiled, but her eyes held to Sophia’s face.

The little room felt warmer than the others, being smaller and more cozy, and with greater light which flooded through the windows and did not permit the gathering of shadows.

The countess asked, ‘How long, Sophia, were you in the household of John Drummond?’

‘Eight years, my lady.’

‘Eight years.’ There was a measured pause. ‘I did not know my kinsman well. We played some time as children long ago, in Perth. He was a most unpleasant child, as I recall. And very fond,’ she said, ‘of breaking things.’ She raised a hand, and with a mother’s touch, smoothed one bright curl back from Sophia’s face. ‘I rather would repair them.’

That was all she said, and all she was to say, about John Drummond.

As the days went on, Sophia came to realize that the countess rarely ventured to speak ill of anyone, for all she was a woman of opinions. And she treated all the servants of her household, from the lowest maid who labored in the scullery to the solemn-faced chaplain himself, with an equal grace and courtesy. But an impression grew upon Sophia, based on nothing greater than a certain guarded tone of voice, a flash of something deeper in the eyes when the countess and Mr Hall were speaking, that the countess did not share his admiration of the Duke of Hamilton.