A queasy feeling bloomed like a rancid flower in the pit of Magda’s belly. “Has James not told you anything?” she asked, dread and uncertainty making her light-headed.
“No, lass, but what better way to get to know you than over a nice cup of tea, I say. And, oh dear”—she leaned in close, shading her eyes from the sunlight shining through the window—“you seem quite pale. The tea will be here not a moment too soon.”
Magda couldn’t decide if Margaret’s concern was annoying or endearing.
“And what a rare sight you are. For all his comings and goings and female”—Margaret cleared her throat—“acquaintances, I’ve never seen my brother so thoroughly install a young woman under his roof. Now, tell! Tell! What of you, dear? How is it you’ve so captivated the elusive Marquis of Montrose? I’d hear it from you,” she added conspiratorially, “as men leave out all the interesting details, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I—”
A knock at the door saved her, announcing the startlingly fast arrival of the tray. The food was whisked in by a wiry older woman who greeted Margaret with an ingratiating enthusiasm that clearly pleased her.
“Ah, mum! What a pleasure it is to have you here, and what a sight you are,” she gushed, shaking her head as if in disbelief over the glory of James’s sister. “And doesn’t that dress just bring out the roses in your cheeks. I’d swear you were the younger of the Graham siblings.”
“Oho,” Margaret tittered. “Rona, you do flatter! Now, you must tell me all the scuttlebutt of the day.”
Magda watched in fascination as the maid deftly set about serving the tea, doling out biscuits and jam, chattering good-natured gossip, all the while maintaining the veneer of mistress and servant.
“Tut-tut,” Margaret responded to one bit of salacious news involving Una, whose name Magda recognized as that of the woman who had helped her dress the other morning. “I say,” she went on, “my brother needs to keep a firmer hand on the goings-on under his roof. And just where is the layabout this morning? I sincerely hope he’s not still abed.”
“Och, no, mum,” the woman explained, “he went off to the links with the dawn.”
“Golf, again!” Margaret exclaimed. “It’s a wonder he gets anything accomplished, he’s so smitten with that forsaken game. I imagine he went with that, thatthespian,” she spat. “That Tom Sydserf, he and his exploits, I cannot keep up.” She turned to Magda. “He says he’s a Renaissance man, but I say he’s an idler. First he’s for journalism, then poetry, now theater. It’s shameful.”
“Well, mum,” Rona interjected, “he’s applied himself well and good to your James’s Covenant.”
“Aye, there’s that,” Margaret agreed. “My brother enlisted his help with this Covenant manifesto they’ve devised. Dangerous work, I say,” she warned. “It’s meant to capture the king’s attention. ” Noting Magda’s puzzled look, she asked, “You’ve not heard of it?”
Magda shook her head, and Margaret elaborated, “Charles has decreed that every church in Scotland forsake their teachings in favor of services with a more, shall we say, Catholic flavor. His wife the queen is a papist, you know. My James has it in his head that, if he gets the support of enough men, the king will suddenly have a change of heart.” She squinted at Magda. “You’ve truly not heard tell of this?”
“Well, mum,” the maid interjected in a conspiratorial whisper, “Master James sent for Tom late last night, said he needed a word, and quite upset he was too. A messenger arrived well past supper, most peculiar it was. Come from the Black Friars with tidings that didn’t sit well with the master.”
“From the monastery?” she asked, incredulous. “What sort of tidings would they have for my brother?”
“I don’t ken, mum,” she added quickly. Magda gathered that spreading rumors about one’s employer to the employer’s sister was a potentially risky enterprise. “’Twasn’t my business.”
Margaret glared pointedly at the woman, inspiring her to remember the rest of the tale.
“Och, mum,” the maid suddenly recalled, “I did gather that it was something about a Brother.” Apparently keeping household gossipfromthe master’s sister was an even more treacherous path. “Seems the marquis had sent for one of the friars, but the man’s disappeared. Taken off for Aberdeen they say.”
There was a crash as a small blue-patterned teacup slipped from Magda’s fingers onto the silver tray. The maid stared aghast at the cup’s broken handle, sitting in a puddle of brown tea that was beginning to dribble onto the floor.
Magda had only been half listening to the story, her mind otherwise occupied with strategizing a means home, and fighting the growing despair that nagged at her. But the maid’s last bit of news had startled her right back into the conversation, bringing with it a wave of disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. Had she and James discovered the portrait’s author, only to find out he’d disappeared?
“Do you know this Brother?” Margaret asked kindly. She mused, “Perhaps herein lies some clue as to your mysterious origins, aye?” She shot a sly look at the maid, then continued, “For whatever reason, my brother hasn’t revealed the nature of your home or family, and”— she examined Magda, her eyebrow cocked— “you seem to be as tight-lipped as a willful child facing a dram of medicine.
"Och,” she sighed, "up with you. Rona”— she waved a hand at the older woman— “clean this mess up. I’ve had enough of my brother’s intrigues. We’re off to find James.”
The morning had dawned unusually clear, with a gentle breeze off the sea pushing thick white fluffs of cloud across a turquoise sky. James inhaled the brisk mingling of brine and grasses. He’d received bad tidings last night—Brother Lonan had apparently up and disappeared— but rare was the news that could bring him down when he’d a few holes of golf to look forward to on a fine day.
And nothing was more efficient at pushing all thoughts from a man’s head than the links at Montrose. Cradled in the bosom of the North Sea, the course was bolstered by a wall of sand dunes along one side and peppered with hazards like sand, gorse, and long, impenetrable tufts of wispy dune grass that devoured golf balls like an insatiable demon. And the turf, so green as to provoke an Irishman’s envy, was rippled by shallow hills like a sheet billowing gently to the ground. Wind could assail an unsuspecting golfer from all sides and gave the course its teeth, demanding complete vigilance of even the most talented players. It was an unusually large course, and James marked a banner day as one in which he had the opportunity to play every one of its twenty-five holes.
“How’s your traveler from the stars this morning?” Tom asked, with laughter in his voice.
“You’ll not fash me on such a bonny morning,” James replied easily, a smile on his face as he scanned the horizon, distractedly tapping the shaft of the wooden club in his hand.
“I’ll not fash you, unless your new lassie has replaced thoughts of Aberdeen.” Tom adjusted his hands along the suede grip of his club as he took a few tentative practice swings. “You said we’d be leaving within the fortnight, and that was nigh a fortnight ago.”
“Aye, and so we are off, and soon. I’ve not forgotten.” James took his swing and was away down the green to the next hole when he turned and blithely added, “I fear we must bring the lass, though.” He paused for a second, then said nonchalantly, “The wind is showing us mercy today, aye?”
