Free Gosford's Daughter by Mary Daheim Page B

made her way back to bed. To her
immense relief, she fell asleep almost immediately. The following
day, she didn’t even remember the stranger’s visit, nor was it
alluded to by anyone in the household.
    But that night, as she lay abed reading a volume of
newly published French sonnets, there was a tentative rap on her
door. Irritated, she flung back the covers and crossed the room on
bare feet. Rosmairi stood on the threshold, her pink cheeks
aglow.
    “ You must come,” she whispered
urgently. “George and I are to be married this very
night!”
    Sorcha gaped at her sister. It was impossible. Had
she fallen asleep and was dreaming? Shaking herself, Sorcha grabbed
Rosmairi by the arm and hauled her inside the room. “Are you daft,
Ros? How can you be married tonight? Have the banns been announced?
Do our parents know?”
    Still basking in romantic euphoria, Rosmairi shook
her head. “ ’Tis a secret. George fears interference from high
places should anyone find out our intentions.”
    Noting that her sister was dressed in a mauve riding
habit with her red-gold hair plaited under a high-crowned hat,
Sorcha gazed down at her own night shift and bare feet. “I must
dress,” she muttered and started for her wardrobe before abruptly
turning to face Rosmairi once more. “Nay, Ros, ’tis madness! Our
parents will skewer George and pack you off to a convent! Think on
it. Gordon chieftain or not, George owes you an honorable wedding
day with clan and kin in attendance.”
    Rosmairi lifted her chin and, with the crowned hat
adding height, looked considerably older than her fifteen years. “I
hadn’t thought you’d fail me in anything so important to my
happiness. Are you rankled because I’m to wed first?”
    However unwittingly, Rosmairi had struck dangerously
close to a truth Sorcha was loath to admit. Feeling her face grow
as warm as her feet were cold, Sorcha flipped her tangled tresses
over her shoulders. “Nonsense. I’m not mad to marry. I just think
you’re behaving recklessly.”
    Unwontedly cool and self-possessed, Rosmairi
shrugged. “Then give me your blessing, if not your company. I’m off
to Beauly Priory to take my vows.”
    Sorcha advanced on her sister to proffer the
requisite sisterly benediction. But as she leaned forward to kiss
Rosmairi’s smooth pink cheek, memories came flooding back. Baby Ros
with her fluff of golden hair, little Ros taking her first steps to
Sorcha in the rose garden, Ros with a skinned knee, Ros being
teased unmercifully by Magnus, Ros crying in Sorcha’s arms after
Rob had broken her favorite doll ….
    “ Fie,” whispered Sorcha, sounding
very like their mother, “of course I’ll come.”
    Not more than five minutes later, both girls were
tiptoeing out the side entrance of the manor house. Only a few
wisps of cloud marred the sky as they slipped through the darkness
toward the stable. In silence, they led their horses outside, and
as a dog howled at the crescent moon, they were on the road to
Beauly.
    Passing the low hedgerows and the drooping
cornstalks, they crossed the Ness single file over a narrow stone
bridge. Just ahead, near a gnarled, leafless tree, they could make
out the silhouettes of a dozen men and their mounts.
    “ George!” breathed Rosmairi, and
beamed with eager delight.
    Sorcha suppressed a disapproving sigh and urged
Thisbe around a deep pothole in the rough dirt road. She could see
George, taller and broader than the rest, waving a welcome. Maybe,
Sorcha thought with a sense of shock, the braw laddie really loves
her. Why, she wondered vexedly, had that idea never occurred to her
until now?
    The sudden spurt of movement directly in front of
them startled both Thisbe and Rosmairi’s horse. The animals shied,
while the two young women clung to their necks for dear life. It
took some time for Sorcha to soothe Thisbe and then to realize what
had happened: As she calmed the frightened animal with her hands
and leaned across the saddle, she saw