Chapter 15
Elspet Balfour
THE DINING HALL AT DUNROBIN is covered with rich gilded leather hangings and ablaze with orange light cast by a fire in the muckle hearth, candles on the wide table and torches in sconces around the walls.
Elspet wears a dress of green velvet from the Countess of Sutherland’s wardrobe.
They spent an hour selecting clothes befitting Lady Alvah Gordon, Jean inspecting her from every angle and making notes on what alterations are needed.
This is the gown that fits her best, the most suitable to wear for this evening’s meal, and she feels a strange excitement at the luxurious clothing.
It is lined with a fabric Jean calls taffeta, slippery against her skin.
She’s never given much thought to what she wears: clothing serves a practical purpose to keep her warm and protected from the elements, nothing more.
But she runs her hands over the velvet, enjoying its softness and the way it falls over her body.
Lady Alvah is making herself known through these clothes.
As she takes her seat between Beatrix and Margaret on a chair upholstered with crimson cushions, Beatrix gives her a reassuring smile and Margaret a curt nod of encouragement.
She’s never eaten in a room so grand. While, years ago, she’d spent plenty of time in the Earl’s palace in Kirkwaa, she was never welcomed as a guest who would join him at the dining table – but nor would she have wanted to.
Steaming bowls of stewed venison are brought in from the kitchen and she allows herself to forget the responsibilities that weigh on her shoulders – this is the first good meal she’s had for several days.
Lady Mary Ruthven, seated opposite, takes in Elspet’s place at the table.
She took me for a servant earlier and doesn’t know what to make of this change in status, Elspet thinks.
She’s careful to copy Margaret and Beatrix in order to master dining etiquette – her mouth waters but she forces herself to wait until everyone has been served and they take up their spoons to eat.
The Earl of Sutherland has not joined them – not that she expected him to after what Beatrix said. Atholl is the only man at the table, seated to the right of Jean, who is at the head of the table. Dorothea makes up the party, seated to Mary’s left.
Jean eats a mouthful of stew then looks up. ‘I’d like to introduce you all to my niece and ward, Lady Alvah Gordon.’
Mary’s eyebrows shoot up and her eyes bore into Elspet. ‘Oh really? You are a Gordon?’
Elspet pauses. Don’t be defensive, she thinks. Nothing will give me away like being too keen to impress. She smiles as she chews and swallows a mouthful of the delicious venison.
The countess responds on her behalf. ‘Ah, we Gordons get everywhere, Mary.’ She chuckles. ‘I’m delighted to take Lady Alvah under my wing.’
‘And where exactly are your side of the family from, Lady Alvah?’ Mary asks.
‘The north of the county,’ Jean replies quickly. ‘A bonnie area. But for all intents and purposes, Lady Alvah is to be treated as if she were my daughter. She will make the Queen a fine new lady-in-waiting, don’t you think?’
‘You’re coming to court?’ Mary’s consternation grows. ‘Well, really, you’ll have to prove a most impeccable family pedigree.’
Jean scoffs and waves her spoon in Mary’s direction. ‘Be careful, Mary. It doesn’t do to dwell heavily on the past when it comes to family reputations, as you Ruthvens know only too well.’
Dorothea coughs over her stew. ‘Oh, Jean.’
‘Well,’ the countess says with a shrug. ‘We’re all friends here. We can be honest. The families that are in and out of favour at court change so rapidly, I can hardly keep track. When you’re hanging on by a thread, it doesn’t do to be too critical of the bloodlines of others.’
Jean looks at Mary and Atholl, daring them to challenge her.
Atholl gives Elspet a smile that shows his teeth but doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘Any friend of the Countess of Sutherland is a friend of ours. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Alvah.’
Elspet nods as demurely as she can and takes another spoonful of venison.
‘How do you find Dunrobin so far, my dear?’ Dorothea asks gently.
‘It’s wonderful, thank you,’ Elspet says, trying to shorten the long Orkneyjar vowels in her voice and replicate the clipped tones of the aristocracy.
She senses Mary’s eyes on her but avoids her gaze.
‘We should move our hunt to the area around Culmaily tomorrow,’ Jean says, briskly moving the conversation along. ‘The wolves have been causing more trouble in the kirkyard there.’
Elspet stifles a sigh of relief as the attention moves away from her.
‘What sort of trouble?’ Beatrix asks. ‘Have they been disturbing the graves again?’
‘This is hardly pleasant conversation when we’re eating,’ Mary says sulkily.
‘It may not be pleasant, Mary, but much about running estates as vast as ours isn’t,’ Jean replies. ‘If we can’t get these wolf numbers under control, we’ll have to start burying our dead on islands as they do on the west coast.’
‘What does the Earl of Sutherland have to say on the matter?’ Atholl asks.
There’s an awkward silence as Jean regards Atholl. She gulps a mouthful of wine before replying. ‘As you know, the Earl trusts me in all matters relating to the running of Dunrobin and its estates. Do you question—’
‘I’m simply concerned,’ Atholl interrupts, seeming to realise his misstep. ‘As you say, the creatures are becoming quite a menace.’
Dorothea clears her throat. ‘I wonder. Perhaps I could take up a crossbow too for our last day hunting. It sounds like I’d kill many more of the beasts.’
Elspet thinks of the animal she saw in the woods, the strange calm that came over her, eyes locked in silent affinity with the creature – both the subject of suspicion, both hunted.
‘Oh, yes,’ Lady Jean says with a smile. ‘Marvellous idea – you’ll love it. I had three kills today – it’s an excellent weapon.’
They are interrupted by the door of the dining hall opening. Dilly enters. ‘Lady Jean. You have a visitor. The Earl of Bothwell is here.’
Elspet sits up a little straighter. The Earl of Bothwell is the King’s cousin who was found guilty of witchcraft at North Berwick – what is he doing here?
No sooner has Dilly announced his arrival than Bothwell swaggers into the dining hall. He is tall and muscular with a dark beard and wears a rich but worn black velvet doublet. There are heavy bags under his eyes.
‘Lady Jean,’ he says in a voice that isn’t loud but somehow fills the room. ‘How wonderful to see you again. I’m sorry I missed the hunt today.’
Elspet’s belly churns.
‘Bothwell,’ Jean says. ‘Do come in and join us.’
‘Why on earth do you have lookouts posted around the castle?’ Bothwell asks, studying the countess intently. ‘Not on my account, I hope.’
‘Lookouts?’ Atholl asks sharply. ‘What lookouts?’
‘Oh, one can’t be too careful these days,’ Jean says breezily.
Lady Mary looks at the countess with a questioning gaze; it seems she and her husband are unaware of the appearance of Colville and the Earl of Orkney’s soldiers at Dunrobin today.
Atholl, though, is transfixed by Bothwell. He rises from his chair. ‘Francis,’ he says, holding out his arms, and the men embrace.
‘Iain,’ Bothwell replies. ‘You did me proud at my trial. Should never have happened in the first place, of course. What a preposterous business. But I’m grateful you got me acquitted.’
‘Of course. Least I could do. Fetch Bothwell a chair and plate, Dilly.’
Dilly glances at Lady Jean, who frowns but gives her a quick nod.
Bothwell’s eyes move around the table and come to rest on Elspet. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met,’ he says slowly.
His eyes pierce her like needles and Elspet’s heart hammers at the suddenness of his scrutiny.
After the initial probing from Lady Mary, she was hoping to be overlooked at this meal; being the object of such intense attention sends a jolt of fear up her spine.
But there’s something in his eyes, a kind of recognition, which draws her in.
She clears her throat. ‘I am Lady Alvah Gordon. I’m delighted to meet you.’
His eyes don’t move from hers. In her peripheral vision, Margaret and Beatrix shift in their seats, eager to shield her from this interest.
‘Bothwell,’ Beatrix says loudly. ‘How are you, now you’ve been pardoned? You’ve become quite famous, you know.’
Bothwell tears his gaze from Elspet, looks at Beatrix and smiles. ‘Ah, the youngest Ruthven girl, you always were my favourite. Beatrix, isn’t it?’
Beatrix’s cheeks colour but it is Dorothea who replies. ‘You know very well this is Beatrix. And you’re in no position to have favourites among my children, Bothwell.’
Bothwell chuckles darkly; this is not a man who will be chastened. He takes a seat at the table and sips the wine Dilly has placed in front of him.
‘How long should we expect you to stay with us this time, Francis?’ Jean asks.
‘This is another flying visit, I’m afraid,’ Bothwell says. ‘I must leave tomorrow – many people to see. But, at least now I’m pardoned, I don’t need to be so clandestine about everything. It’s nice to travel out in the open.’
‘Indeed,’ Atholl says, clapping Bothwell on the back.
Annoyance flashes in Bothwell’s eyes. He only tolerates Atholl, Elspet thinks. There’s no affection on his part.
She looks down to take a spoonful of her stew and when she looks back up again, Bothwell’s eyes are once more fixed on her.
His interest should concern her, she knows this, but instead she’s fascinated – this man has survived an accusation, and an imprisonment, for the very charge she fears.
And yet here he sits at the countess’s table, full of confidence and swagger.
‘Is your husband still confined to his bed?’ Bothwell addresses Jean.
The countess looks at him darkly. ‘Sadly, yes, his health is no better.’
‘The rumours about him are persistent, my good countess,’ Bothwell continues, leaning back in his chair and taking a long draught of wine. ‘It would do his reputation no harm if he were to make an appearance to the people.’
A cold silence descends over the room and every face turns to Lady Jean.
Her expression is stone-cold. ‘I have welcomed you into my home, Bothwell,’ she says slowly, ‘but I can have you turned out again just as easily if you cast aspersions on my husband.’
Bothwell only smiles and takes a mouthful of venison.
Atholl clears his throat awkwardly. ‘Come now, I’m sure Francis is only offering friendly advice. The King himself is not above taking an interest in what happens here in Sutherland, you know.’
Elspet looks studiously at her stew – there are things here beyond her understanding.
Dunrobin was supposed to be a place of peace and safety, but this conversation is riven with hazards and these people teeming with power struggles she cannot comprehend.
Her shoulders grow heavy with fear – if one evening in their company is so fraught, how can she hope to complete the task ahead?