Gemini - Dorothy Dunnett [48]
Sinclair said, ‘Take him to her.’
The place Betha took him to was warm and bright, a little apartment of several rooms, the first of which had thick paned glass in the windows and a table and prie-dieu, and a leather chair and a stool set before a real fireplace. The fire was laden with peat, the dark sods outlined with vermilion from the cave of heat that shimmered below, and blue flames playing around it. When Betha opened the door the ash blew about, fine as dust from a kiln. Betha said, ‘Here he is,’ and ushered him in without entering herself. The door shut, and he could not speak for the stone in his throat.
Euphemia Dunbar, daughter of a great family, sat by the window, her embroidery at her side. Instead of the coif she had worn for so long, a white cap covered her hair, and the cold daylight on her pure brow and strong cheekbones and solid nose made her skin seem as pale as the linen. Below, she wore a dull-coloured gown with a fringed shawl set on her shoulders; her hair, not having grown, hardly showed under the cap. The light made it grossly apparent that she was perhaps five months with child.
She said nothing, and he saw that it was because she, also, was unable to speak. Then she mastered it and said, ‘Poor Nicholas. Tom Yare should never have told you: this is the last place you must want to be. But thank you for coming.’
She had put his hesitation down to revulsion. He crossed the room at once and, kneeling, took her hand, and then kissed her, his cheek against hers. For a moment she rested against him. Then she set him back and said, ‘There’s wine over there. We both need it.’
He spoke while he was pouring. ‘Tom Yare is a very sensible person, and so is Betha. I wanted to come. Sir Oliver wasn’t so sure.’ He gave her a cup and sat down, regarding her soberly. ‘Are you well? You know that none of us knew about this?’
Phemie said, ‘Nicholas. It’s all right. I know you aren’t here as an agent of Nowie’s. And yes, of course I know how well the secret has been kept. I wanted that, as well as the family.’
He drank his wine and listened to what she was saying and how she was saying it. This wasn’t someone’s frail, frightened daughter surrounded by enemies. This was a cultured, intelligent woman who had had many weeks in which to decide what to do. He said, ‘They think they know, of course, the name of the father. But you haven’t confirmed it?’
She smiled, her eyes bright. ‘Now you have come, perhaps you will shake their convictions. No, I haven’t confirmed it. Everyone has been very kind. I lack nothing. But I do need advice.’
Of course she did. It was why he was here. ‘If you wish, I shall give it,’ he said. ‘But you know, surely, what he would want. Would he want you to ask me at all?’
‘He would want you to help me,’ she said, ‘if he knew this had happened. He doesn’t know. There is to be a child. I wish to rear it. But I am unmarried; I was in holy orders, if only of the minor kind. I cannot ask him to acknowledge this. I had hoped to keep it quite secret; to go perhaps to my sister’s in Moray before it became obvious, but one of the doctors found out. Nowie has been kind: he and Betha brought me here and only a few people know, but already the rumour is growing. I have thought that the best thing might be to have the child fostered, and to return to my family. Scandals come, and are forgotten. I had thought even of saying that I was molested; but it would not ring true. The trouble is—’
‘That as everyone knows, you have only ever been fond