Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [66]
“My God!” said a voice behind her. “There’s old man Culter decided to make a pincushion of himself after all: now we should see some fun. All the same”—generously—“rather him than me.”
* * *
Fighting his way uphill to the top of St. John Street, past the corner of St. Michael’s, the almshouse, and then the uneven row of buildings of which Bogle House was one, Tom Erskine found no difficulty at all in stifling his better feelings, which told him he had bequeathed to Sir Andrew a thoroughly unnerving afternoon.
The death of Lord Fleming had naturally made a good deal of difference to his household. Having buried her husband at Biggar, Lady Jenny had rejoined the court with her children, and the half-life she had always had, as the little Queen’s governess, was now her whole career. Of the older children, Margaret had moved like an uncertain ghost between her late husband’s home at Mugdock, her married sisters’, and Lady Culter’s friendly, undemanding hearth; and the duties Lady Fleming had discarded at Boghall had fallen on her blind goddaughter’s shoulders. And Christian, though now staying with the Dowager at Bogle House, would very shortly be leaving for Boghall to take them up. Which argued a need for haste.
Tom Erskine therefore hopped in and out of the crowds down St. John Street, got himself admitted to Bogle House and bolted up the stairs fired with missionary zeal, to find himself nose to nose with his loved one on the middle landing.
“Who is it? What’s happened? Have you news?” said Christian.
He was startled. “What about? It’s me. Not particularly.”
Relief showed on her face. “Oh, Tom. That’s all right. Come along in, then.” And she added in sufficient explanation as they walked toward the parlour door, “Richard’s gone to the Papingo Shoot, you see.”
Erskine was not, at bottom, a selfish man. He said, “Oh, damn,” and paused irresolutely. “I didn’t know. I’d better get back. Left Dandy with the ladies—he didn’t say; must have thought we knew—and there’ll be the devil to pay if …”
Christian took his arm. “Believe me, if anything’s going to happen, nothing you can do will stop it. Anyway, I want you here.”
“You do?” He was delighted.
“Yes. How long will the shoot last? An hour? Two hours?”
“A hundred men—two shots each: Oh, over two hours, if they all shoot, but of course it will end if someone hits the papingo.”
Christian said, “Then will you take Lady Culter and myself around the Fair, Tom? Until the shoot is over?”
This was hardly the programme he would have chosen, but it was understandable enough. He said, “She’s worried, is she?”
“Well, she’s not exactly tolling the passing bell yet, but she oughtn’t to go out alone, and you won’t get her to go out with you and leave me. I know it’s early and there won’t be much happening yet, but at least we can try and forget that God-bereft bird.”
Tom looked at her in some astonishment. “I believe you’re as much on edge as Sybilla.”
This time she snapped. “If you would tear your mind sometimes from backgammon and horses, you’d see something in the Crawfords that’d make your rattlepated friends look pretty thin. If I remembered my own mother, I don’t suppose I’d value her half as much as I do the Dowager. And Mariotta may not be what you fancy, but there’s breeding and spirit there too, if you’re minded to look for it—” She broke off, her brow cleared; and with one of those competent mood changes that was one of her chief characteristics, gave him a friendly push. “Go on. Tell Sybilla we’re all off for a jolly day a-fairing. And don’t let her sidetrack you either.”
* * *
“I don’t suppose—” said Sybilla.
“No!” rejoined Tom Erskine and Christian Stewart in unison.
“No. I see not. Our hands are rather full, I’m afraid. But Agnes adores gingerbread—I wonder,” said the Dowager doubtfully, “if