The Winter Sea

Angus, on the sofa, raised his head and gave his tail a thump of welcome as I crossed to sit beside him, then he rolled and held his four feet in the air so I could give his chest a scratch. I did, but absently, and Angus seemed to know what single-minded concentration looked like when he saw it, for he yawned and rolled again to curl himself against my side, his nose and one front paw tucked in the folds of Graham’s rugby jersey, and he fell asleep as I began to write.

XVII

SOPHIA MOVED WITH CARE upon the bed so she would not disturb the baby’s sleep. The feel of that small body nestled warm against her own was still an unexpected joy so sharply new it clutched her heart sometimes and stole her breath with wonder. It had been three weeks since the birth, and yet each time she looked upon her daughter’s face the beauty of it blinded her to all else in the room. And she was beautiful, the baby named for Moray’s sister and Sophia’s: Anna. When the time came they would have her christened properly, as Anna Mary Moray, but for now the baby seemed content to be plain Anna, with her tiny perfect hands and feet, her soft brown hair, and eyes that were already changing color to the green-grey of the winter sea.

Each time Sophia met those eyes she thought of Colonel Graeme standing next to her beside the great bow window of the drawing room at Slains, and saying one day she might come to see the promise of the sea in winter, and she thought perhaps he had been right, for in her daughter’s infant eyes she saw the hope of new life breaking from the depths of this hard season that had held the world so long in frost and cold despair, a life that brought the word of coming spring.

For surely spring, Sophia thought, would reach them soonest here. They were far south of Slains, the countess having thought it best to send them where the baby could be born in safety, shielded from unwelcome eyes. She’d called upon the Malcolms, an obliging couple who had often served the Earls of Erroll and were loyal to the family. They lived modestly, close by the Firth of Edinburgh, that broad and busy tidal river leading from the open sea, and every day upon the road that passed the house Sophia heard the wheels of coaches passing by, and travelers on horseback heading to and from the royal town.

Her own slow journey south had been a hard one, coming down by coach with Kirsty in the days just after Christmas. Several times the wheels had foundered in the deeply rutted mud and stuck so fast that it had taken both the coachman and the footman hours to free them, and in one place they had tried to go around the mud and nearly overturned. Sophia, worried for the safety of the baby, had been glad to feel the strong kicks in her belly that had seemed to come in protest of the roughness of such treatment. She’d been gladder still to reach the Malcolms’ house, and find both Mrs Malcolm and her husband kind and warm and welcoming.

They had asked no questions. To their neighbors, they’d explained she was a cousin from the north whose husband, called away by sudden business, had desired that she come there so she might be with family for the birthing of the child. Sophia did not know if this was how the countess had explained the situation to them, or if they had made the story up themselves. It did not matter. She was safe, and so was Anna, and when Moray came he’d find them here and waiting for him.

At her side the baby yawned and stirred and, sleeping still, pressed close in search of comfort, one hand flinging out and upward till the tiny fingers met the silver ring upon its chain around Sophia’s neck, and clasped it with a fierce possessive grip. She liked to sleep like that, with one hand round the ring and one hand tightly clasped around Sophia’s hair, as though she would hold both her parents close.

Sophia softly stroked her daughter’s curls and watched her while she slept. She had not ceased to marvel at the fact that, while her love for Moray filled her heart as it had done before, her heart had somehow grown and changed its shape to hold this new love, too—this love that she had never felt, for someone who was more completely hers than anybody else had ever been.

She did not know how long she lay like that, in stillness, hearing nothing but the rapid and contented sound of Anna’s breathing. But of a sudden she became aware a horse had stopped outside. She heard the restless dance of hooves, and then a knock against the outside door, and voices— Mr Malcolm’s speaking with excitement, and another that she recognized.

Sophia gently lifted little Anna to her cradle, dressed in haste and crossed the room to waken Kirsty. ‘Rory’s come.’

The look in Kirsty’s waking eyes was wonderful to see.

Sophia knew, when she came out and first saw Rory’s face, that he had brought them happy news. Mr Malcolm was already fastening his cloak, his hat in hand, and making ready to be gone, no doubt to carry out whatever orders he had just been handed from the countess and the earl. And Mrs Malcolm, beaming, clasped her hands and turned towards Sophia. ‘Oh, that I should live to see this day!’

Sophia looked at Rory. ‘Has it then begun?’

‘Aye. Mr Fleming has just come ashore to Slains, as Colonel Graeme said he would, with news the king does sail from Dunkirk, and will shortly be in Scotland.’

‘He may be even now upon the seas,’ said Mr Malcolm, as he pushed his hat down firmly on his wigged head. ‘I must go and find him pilots who can meet his ships and guide them up the Firth.’

The Firth. Sophia’s heart leaped with excitement at the thought the ships would pass so close by them.

It made good sense, of course, for young King James to find his way as quickly as was possible to Edinburgh and claim his throne, for few would there oppose him. From the talk she had been listening to these past months, Sophia knew the few troops that remained within the town were ill-equipped and likely to come over to the king by their own choice. And in the town’s great castle lay an added prize: the ‘Equivalent’ money—the price of the nation, some called it—sent up by the English last summer as part of the terms of the Union. It would be such sweet irony if James could drive the English out of Scotland by using their own money to supply his Scottish forces.