Read Online Gosford's Daughter by Mary Daheim - Free Book Online

door.
“My honor,” he repeated in an ominous voice, and was gone into the
brisk October night.
    Slowly, Father Napier released Sorcha. Her temper had
burned itself out, rendering her limp. “I’m sorry, Father,” she
began, “I must explain why I behaved so badly ….”
    Napier shook his dark head. “No. It was all quite
clear.” He started back to the banquet hall, but Sorcha called
after him.
    “ It’s a matter of shame,” she
persisted, “and injustice.”
    Napier looked at her over his shoulder, the hunter’s
eyes deep and shadowy. “I doubt that you know what shame really is.
Or injustice. And certainly not pain.”
    Sorcha paused, watching him stalk away. For one brief
moment, she had seen not the look of the hunter in Gavin Napier’s
eyes, but of the hunted.
     
    The cheerful voices and bursts of laughter inside the
banquet hall made Sorcha feel as if the past half hour had never
occurred. Iain Fraser was herding his guests to the long trestle
table as Dallas eyed her daughter questioningly.
    “ My Lord Huntly,” she called over
the throng, “pray sit by our Rosmairi and your humble hostess.”
With a flash of amethysts at one wrist, she motioned to Sorcha.
“Your place is with Magnus and Father Napier.” Dallas seemed to
gaze at her eldest daughter a bit longer than was necessary, then
smiled graciously in Napier’s direction. “It is our wish that you
give the blessing, Father.”
    Gavin Napier nodded once, then began intoning a
familiar prayer in Latin. As he raised his hands over the table,
Sorcha’s eyes strayed to the strong, long, brown fingers that
appeared too rough to belong to a cleric. Certainly they’d had the
strength to subdue her fury only a few minutes earlier. Many
priests and monks, however, were forced to earn their own living in
these perilous times. The meanest, most common labor was often the
only sure source of sustenance.
    During the first courses of leek soup and boiled
curlew and mussels in broth, Magnus monopolized Father Napier. That
was as well with Sorcha, who needed time to recover from Johnny
Grant’s monstrous behavior. Yet as she watched Rosmairi engage in
diffident conversation with George Gordon, her concern reverted to
her sister. It was obvious that poor, naive, trusting Ros was
smitten with the complacent young laird.
    Sorcha sighed softly. If George proved persistent in
his courtship, she would have to keep close watch over Rosmairi,
lest the moonstruck lass lose more than her wits. Moreover, Sorcha
was puzzled by George’s choice. Tradition and religion bound Fraser
and Gordon clans, yet despite his youth, George had already been
involved in several major court intrigues. Slow of wit in social
situations and seemingly phlegmatic, the Gordon chieftain was
amazingly shrewd when it came to politics. Why would he ally
himself with a house that was already part of his Highland power
base? Iain Fraser’s personal integrity and sizable wealth made him
a man of importance, yet he had deliberately absented himself from
the royal circle for almost twenty years.
    So, Sorcha asked herself again, why Rosmairi? She
seemed like a useless pawn in the scheme of George’s aspirations.
Noting her mother cast a disdainful glance in the young earl’s
direction, Sorcha recalled Lady Fraser’s damning words about
George’s lack of character and abundance of ambition. In spite of
the cramped quarters and the heat from the huge fireplace, Sorcha
shivered.
    Her musings were interrupted as the servants brought
on the venison stewed in ale. As she began to eat, her attention
was caught by Gavin Napier’s account of his background. As near as
she could make out, he had been raised at Inversnaid on the eastern
shore of Loch Lomond. Unlike many of the Napiers, his family had
not embraced the reformed religion. Their obstinate adherence to
the Catholic faith had cost them considerable property, and while
Gavin was still a lad, they had exiled themselves to France.
Apparently,