The Royal Mile Page 4

  Still, she thanked Angus and hurried away, aware that she was going to be late for her first pupils if she wasted more time getting to the bookseller’s.

  Now, as she approached the High Street, the sun had filtered between the clouds and tall buildings to make steamy patches on the drying cobbles. Many of the dwellings, even the more modest ones, kept small kitchen herb gardens and occasionally Dallas could detect a hint of sage or basil or thyme. But mostly she smelled the peat fires, which sent wreaths of heavy grey smoke swirling from the stone chimney pots. Dallas pulled the shopping bag up over her shoulder as two Protestant preachers, affecting the somber garb of John Knox, walked past her, engaged in solemn discussion.

  By Fisher’s Close, a young boy with a stout stick drove a gaggle of geese to the market place, a blotchy-faced woman with snow-white hair prodded two Shetland ponies through Liberton’s Wynd, and a splendid coach clattered up ahead on the cobbles. The hawkers were already busy parading their wares on the street corners and from somewhere nearby came the tantalizing aroma of fresh-baked bread.

  But what Dallas liked best was the city itself, the small, perfect glimpses captured at the end of a wynd or through a gate or between houses: the sun on old mellow brick; a weathervane’s cock lording it over the many-turreted chimneys; a sudden, unexpected view of the massive castle wall; a hearth-fire burning merrily behind a mullioned window; a snatch of the silver-blue waters of the Firth of Forth off in the distance; the newer houses with their wooden galleries built out over the High Street.

  By Gosford’s Close, in a direct line across from King’s Bridge, Dallas looked up at the highly decorated front of a house she had often admired. Of course, she thought with a start, this is Iain Fraser’s home. And she paused to admire anew the carvings of the Trinity and the Twelve Apostles. Just then the front door opened and two people came out through the close into the High Street. The man was Iain Fraser; the woman who clung to his arm was slender and blonde. Dallas averted her face, hoping Fraser and his companion would stroll right on by.

  But they did not. “Mistress Cameron,” came the indolent voice, “good morrow. Are you and your sisters faring well enough?”

  “All matters considered,” Dallas replied crisply. “Our sire taught us independence as well as history.”

  “But such history,” Fraser commented, glancing at the spine of the one visible volume in Dallas’s shopping bag. “Don’t tell me you’ve actually read Sallust?”

  “I’ve read his ‘History of the Jugurthine War’ and ‘Conspiracy of Catiline,’ ” Dallas responded with pride.

  Fraser’s black brows lifted in frank admiration. “There are only portions of his ‘History of the Roman Republic’ extant but certain sections are worth reading,” he informed Dallas. As he became aware of his companion’s hand pressing his upper arm, he turned. “Pray forgive me, ladies,” he grinned, “my manners have fled like Pompeii before Caesar. May I present Lady Catherine Gordon, Mistress Dallas Cameron.”

  Dallas stiffened at the Gordon surname but managed to nod politely at Catherine. “A pleasure,” she murmured, wondering if George had ever mentioned her to his blond kinswoman. Probably not; Dallas told herself she didn’t care.

  “La, Mistress Cameron,” exclaimed Catherine, “you look as if you’d been hard at work!”

  Dallas was suddenly aware of her black homespun gown, the wild, uncombed mass of brown hair, and the worn shawl. Catherine, by contrast, wore a silk dress of the latest fashion, pale green shot with silver, and her carefully coiffed hair was adorned with tiny seed pearls. She was taller than Dallas, not as full-figured, but graceful as a young larch. Dallas had a sudden fierce desire to take the shopping bag and dump it over Catherine’s fair head.

  Instead, she answered coolly, “Yes, I work for my keep. Do you?”

  Catherine’s color heightened as her grasp on Fraser’s arm closed fast. “My family provides for me,” she answered in a strained voice. “I am a niece to the Earl of Huntly.”

  George’s cousin then, Dallas thought, and decided that must be the reason for her instinctive dislike of Catherine Gordon. “This is as far as I go,” Dallas declared, motioning towards the Master Forbes’s stall which stood opposite the impressive bulk of St. Giles. “Good day to you both.”

  Fraser made an exaggerated bow. “It’s been a pleasure. Any time you wish to discuss Sallust, don’t hesitate to call on me.” The mockery was still there, Dallas noted, and wondered if he was being condescending.

  “Come, Iain,” Catherine urged, her voice now pettish. “We shall be late to Cousin George’s soiree.” Her hand tugged possessively at his arm.

  “Well enough, Cat, I’ve known George too long and too well to fear his wrath.” But Fraser put his big hand over Catherine’s smaller one, bade Dallas good-day and headed up the High Street.

  Dallas watched them go and wondered why she suddenly had such a sour taste in her mouth. Cousin George indeed, she thought. The overproud Gordon scion could wait until he withered as far as Dallas was concerned. And Iain Fraser was George Gordon’s close friend. Two of a kind, Dallas decided—but then all men were alike.

  She forced herself to greet Master Forbes with a smile, then realized he already had a customer, a young man wearing the red, blue and white plaid of the Hamiltons. Dallas frowned. She did not need any more reminders of George Gordon—and that included his Hamilton wife.

  “A moment, Mistress Dallas,” Master Forbes said with a smile. He knew all the Cameron girls well, having sold books to their father for years. He could remember Dallas, just barely toddling, accompanying Master Cameron to the stall some twenty years earlier, her wide-set eyes taking in every new wonder which passed before her. He had always liked Dallas best of the three daughters because she was the most interested in books.

  Dallas withdrew to the farthest corner of the shop and put her heavy shopping bag down on a three-legged stool. Browsing through some finely bound volumes of French poetry, she tried to rein in her patience. She didn’t have all day, and a Hamilton or not, he seemed to be taking forever over his discussion with Master Forbes.

  Unobtrusively, Dallas watched the young man from over the top of a sonnet collection. He was tall, broad shouldered, with brown hair, a full but well-trimmed moustache and a fine Roman nose. She knew that the Duke of Chatelherault had three sons: The eldest, James, was Earl of Arran and said to be mentally unbalanced; the youngest, Claud, was scarcely as old as Dallas. Since the Hamilton she surreptitiously observed above the book binding appeared quite sane and close to thirty, Dallas assumed he was the middle son, John.

  So intensely was she staring that she was startled into a little yelp when Master Forbes’s cat, Cicero, careened into the shop, a feisty mongrel in hot pursuit.

  “Cicero!” Master Forbes bustled from behind the counter as a scrawny youth in tattered clothes came racing after the dog.

  Cicero fairly flew through the air, clawing at Dallas’s shawl. The dog was at her skirts, barking fiercely. Master Forbes tried to wedge himself between the stool, the bookshelves and Dallas. The youth dove onto the floor, scooping the dog up in his arms just as Dallas managed to extricate Cicero from her shawl.

  “Yon filthy cat ate my bird!” the youth shouted as the dog made an abortive attempt to leap out of his master’s arms. “See, there are feathers on its face!”

  Dallas looked at Cicero; so did Master Forbes. John Hamilton came closer to examine the cat. Indeed, there were two feathers of blue-green hue clinging to Cicero’s whiskers.

  “What manner of bird?” asked Hamilton, flicking off one of the feathers and holding it up for closer perusal.

  “I dinna know,” answered the youth petulantly. “I found it lame near Pittenweem one day when I was gathering mussels. But it was glorious colored, like a fairy creature.” He glared malevolently at Cicero who had calmed down in Dallas’s arms and looked exceedingly smug. “I trained that bird to sit on my shoulder. But yon cruel cat scared him near the Salt Tron. Birdie hoppe
d down—he never did fly so well—and this ... this ....” The youth jabbed an accusing finger at Cicero. “This beastie gobbles him up before I could do aught!”

  Dallas held Cicero with one hand and reached out to pet the dog with the other. “Nature must have its way,” she said in a soothing tone. “Cats eat birds, dogs chase cats, humans beat dogs. The world can be a harsh place, you know.”

  Her philosophy was simply stated though the young man seemed to take some time to absorb it. “Aye,” he agreed truculently, “harsh be the word for the world. Especially if ye be poor.”

  Dallas felt a deep pang of compassion for the young man; as shabby as her apparel was, his was much worse. She wished she could give him a few coins, or at least some word of encouragement. “You are very young,” Dallas said at last, even though she was probably but four or five years older. “You may yet find a future that is not so harsh.”

  The youth looked dubious and Dallas wished she herself could believe the brave words. The awkward silence was broken by Hamilton. “Your bird must have been rare,” he said in his amiable voice. “I wonder where it came from.”

  Master Forbes was mopping his brow with a piece of chamois. “Some foreign ship, no doubt. Sailors keep odd pets.”

  “There be odd ships near Pittenweem some times,” the youth said. His dog had begun to growl again, straining to get at Cicero.

  “So I’ve heard,” Hamilton said with a smile. “Pirates, perhaps. But in any case, you should be reimbursed for the loss of your bird. Two marks, I should think?” Hamilton opened a small pouch and proffered two gold coins.

  “Oh!” The youth flushed deeply, but his thin hand closed over the money. “I’m grateful, I thank ye. But ....” He glanced at Master Forbes and at Cicero. “The cat is yours or ...?”

  “It’s no matter.” Hamilton winked at Master Forbes. “Accounts will be kept straight. Perhaps you may even find another bird some day.”

  The dog barked, Cicero let out one last meow and the youth backed out of the bookseller’s stall with an awkward bow and another thank-you for Hamilton.

  “I expect I should credit ye two marks,” Master Forbes said a bit ruefully.

  Hamilton laughed. “Nay, I’ll not drive that hard a bargain.” He glanced at Dallas who was still holding Cicero. “In truth, I was sorry for the lad. And I never could stand cats.”

  “You can’t?” Dallas’s remark came unbidden; she flushed at her boldness and tried to make amends. “I mean, I’m fond of cats, especially Cicero ....”

  “Why should you not be?” Hamilton asked with a smile. “Your affection only shows the depth of your kindliness and the lack of my own.” He was still smiling, and Dallas felt as if he were studying her closely behind that veil of pleasant, polite conversation. At last she put Cicero down on the floor. Master Forbes appeared anxious to finish his business with John Hamilton—but Hamilton had now directed his attention to the books in Dallas’s shopping bag. “You’re selling these to Master Forbes?” he inquired, selecting one of the volumes at random.

  “I was considering it,” Dallas answered. “My late father had such an extensive library.” She regarded him with a pride that matched his own: Damn, she thought, I’ll not admit I’m trying to keep us from starving!

  But Hamilton’s shrewd brown eyes had taken in the worn black gown and the frayed shawl. “Is that Sallust? He’s hard to come by, perhaps you’d permit me to make a first offer.”

  “Oh—well, if you’d wish.” Dallas drummed on the cover with her fingernails. “There’s an excellent bit of Chaucer here, too. Finely illustrated.” Dallas had never liked Chaucer much and she thought the illustrations mawkish.

  “Hmmm.” The finely molded mouth pursed slightly under the brown moustache. “Yes, they’d both make excellent additions to our family’s library. Not,” he added with regret, “that either of my brothers care much for reading.” Hamilton paused and turned to Master Forbes. “A mark for the two volumes? Is that fair, sir?”

  It was more than fair, it was outrageous, since Master Forbes knew how poorly the Chaucer was illustrated. It was also uncharacteristic of John Hamilton to make a bad bargain. But it wouldn’t be right to interfere, especially where Dallas was concerned, so Master Forbes merely inclined his head.

  “Well done then,” said Hamilton, handing the money to Dallas. She was so triumphant over her sale that she failed to notice how Hamilton’s hand lingered on her own. But she could not miss the wide smile he bestowed upon her and was somewhat taken aback by its warmth. “Mayhap we’ll do business again some day.”

  “I’m Dallas Cameron, Daniel Cameron’s middle daughter,” she replied. “And you are Lord John Hamilton, I’ll wager.”

  “And win.” The smile grew even wider. “Aye, I’ve heard of your father, and well regarded he was. I’m sorry about your loss, Mistress Cameron.” The smile faded at the more somber words but he bowed deeply before turning back to Master Forbes. It took only a minute or so to conclude their dealings and then Hamilton was gone, but not before he saluted Dallas on his way into the High Street.

  “You’ve bewitched that young man,” Master Forbes declared. “Lord Hamilton is no fool, especially where money is concerned.”

  “Twaddle!” Dallas couldn’t help but laugh. “He—he just felt sorry for me, that’s all. As he did with the poor youth. Though,” she added, all laughter gone, “he got two marks.”

  “You might get more than you bargained for with that one, Mistress Dallas.” Master Forbes eased his bulk from behind the counter. “ ‘Tis said he’s a man of great caution, but once his mind is made up—he’ll not change it for aught.”

  Dallas was anxious to be on her way and disliked the conversation’s turn. “Great Hamiltons don’t dally with poor Camerons. Now what think you?” She pointed at the books on the stool.

  “I can’t be as generous as John Hamilton, ye ken.” Master Forbes fingered the volumes carefully. “A shame that it’s his brother who is rumored to be a suitor for our Queen. Arran is daft.”

  “And Protestant,” retorted Dallas, wishing this weren’t one of Master Forbes’s days for gossip. “How much?”

  But Master Forbes suddenly metamorphosed from a common gossip into an astute man of commerce. “One mark, a shilling and six-pence.”

  Dallas met his gaze evenly. “Two marks.”

  Ordinarily, Master Forbes would have enjoyed haggling to the last penny. But his liking for Dallas and his respect for Daniel Cameron loosened his purse-strings. “So be it, mistress. Ye have done well this day.” He counted out the sum and handed it to Dallas. “But mind my words, yon Hamilton found you a comely lass.”

  “Fie,” snapped Dallas but couldn’t resist smiling at Master Forbes as she tucked the money away in her tiny suede coin purse. She must hurry or she would be tardy for her first lesson. Dallas cursed herself for permitting so many delays in the course of her errands.

  Glennie was just coming into the entry hall with her small sons when Dallas flew inside. “Heaven help me, Glennie, am I late? Where are David and his cousin Oliver?”

  Glennie pursed her thin lips and handed Dallas a note. “This will tell you.” She stood in silence, a hand on each of her boys’ shoulders, while Dallas swiftly read through the message.

  “Oh, damnation! They’re not coming—ever!” Dallas stared at Glennie for a moment in shock, then crumpled the note and pitched it onto the floor.

  “I feared it would be like that,” Glennie began, but Dallas interrupted her.

  “Nay, nay, these are but two, and certainly the dimmest of father’s pupils. Tomorrow Peter MacEachen comes and the next day, the two Maxwells.”

  “One Maxwell,” Glennie corrected her. “Don’t you recall? The elder completed his studies this past month and has gone to Italy.”

  “Oh, I’d forgotten.” Dallas put both hands to her temples and rubbed them vigorously. “Fie, I mustn’t get so upset. It will work out. There are bound to be a few setbacks.”

  Glennie
gave her sister a sympathetic glance. But all she could say in comfort was, “Perhaps, Dallas. Perhaps.” To Dallas’s immense relief, Peter MacEachen did show up the following day for his appointed lesson. He was a compactly built young lad of fourteen, the son of a printer who believed in a classical education. Dallas noted at once that Peter seemed uncomfortable but she attempted to put him at ease by going over some of the books she knew he’d read recently. But after a few halting answers, Peter wriggled in his chair and stared at the floor.

  “Mistress Cameron,” he began nervously, and his adolescent voice broke on her name. “I—I don’t think I should be here.”

  “Why not?” Dallas spoke more sharply than she had intended but Peter would not look up at her.

  “Hear the noise outside?” he mumbled.

  Dallas turned towards the window. She had been vaguely aware of voices in the wynd but had paid no attention until now. “What is it?”

  Peter let out a long sigh. “My friends. They followed me today, making fun of me because I was going to be taught by a lass.”

  “Ooooh!” Dallas jumped up and tried to keep from shouting angrily at the lad. She stomped about the room for a moment or two, then came to stand directly in front of Peter. “See here,” she said, so close that he had to look up at her, “what difference can it make? I’m as qualified as any man. After a while your silly friends will forget who’s teaching you.”

  But Peter looked sheepish and shook his head. “It’s no good, mistress. I don’t .... I just can’t.”

  Dallas considered reasoning with him further, even pleading. But she recognized that his mind was made up and probably his father would back his decision. Depressed and defeated, Dallas let Peter MacEachen go.

  The remainder of Daniel Cameron’s students reacted similarly, until after a fortnight, Dallas had no one left to teach. Glennie and Tarrill were too kind to remind their sister they had foreseen the hopelessness of the project but

  Dallas knew what they were thinking and rejected their pity.