Thirty-Three

It was a crisp, clear, mid-August night, and Jamie had stopped to camp on the banks of the Suir. Tomorrow he’d be back at Castle Carrick. Tomorrow he’d see Catherine again. She’d turned his world upside down from the first moment he saw her, and since then he’d made one inconvenient decision after another—rescuing her, following her home, giving up his pleasures and his women, sharing his adventures, and letting her in on secrets no one else knew. It had annoyed him terribly at first. He failed to see the reason for it and couldn’t understand, but once he’d stopped struggling and accepted the obvious, it all made sense. The sky is blue, when it rains you get wet, and I love Cat Drummond.

Tomorrow he’d tell her. She’d be difficult and sullen at first, upset at his abrupt departure and angry about Moll, but she was a reasonable girl, and she’d let him explain. He was done with intrigue and he’d tell her so. Charles, James, William, Mary, and sister Anne as well, every fucking Stuart on God’s green earth can go to hell! Tomorrow he’d cozen and cajole, explain and promise, and by the next moon’s rising, he’d be warm in bed with his woman, making sure she knew how much he loved her. He raised his wineskin to the stars. “To Catherine Sinclair, mysterious and lovely as the evening sky and seductive as a summer’s night. Her radiance puts the stars to shame and guides me through the dark. Tá grá agam duit. I love you, Catherine.”

Early the next day he arrived at Castle Carrick and knew at once that something was wrong. He tore through the castle room by room, calling her name, a sickening feeling building inside. “Where is she, Mrs. O’Sullivan?” he demanded, when she came running to see what was wrong.

“She’s left, Jamie. Her family came and took her. You’ve missed her by no more than a week.”

“They took her? You did nothing to stop them?” Hell and damnation! He should never have left her unprotected and alone.

“No, lad. She went willingly enough. She’s left you a letter.”

Gut twisting, he took the letter from Mrs. O’Sullivan, holding it carefully between his fingers as if it might contain some virulent poison. A part of him wasn’t surprised, had always expected that, sooner or later, he’d make one mistake too many and she’d leave him. Once again, he’d ignored hard lessons sternly taught, and once again, he’d been a fool.

“I’ll read this in my rooms. Kindly send along some whiskey and see to it I’m not disturbed.” He brushed past the eager children who’d come to greet him, sparing them not so much as a glance. He was chilled, though the day was warm, and when he sat at his desk, he felt weightless and hollow inside. A stiff shot of whiskey did nothing to warm him, so he followed it with another, and when he opened her letter there was only a slight tremor to his hands.

“So, Catherine, what exactly is there left to say?”

Dearest Jamie,

Our adventures in London and our idyll over the past few months will live with me forever, and warm me when I’m a woman grown old. You’ve been good for me and to me, but I’ve matters to attend to that are no concern of yours and can only cause you trouble.

You’ve given me my freedom, and in return I give you yours. I’ve written my solicitor agreeing to a divorce, and leaving him instructions to proceed. My previous contract with Cormac O’Connor and a healthy stipend to the powers that be should suffice to see the thing done. The solicitor should be able to find me when and if my signature is required, but I expect my written statement will be enough. I’ve sent a missive to my bankers instructing they release half my personal funds. I have, of course, retained all assets that properly belong to clan Drummond, but I’m sure the sum I’ve left you will more than suffice. As you’ve grown idealistic of late, I’ll make bold to insist you accept it, and to remind you that it’s safer to put your faith in the guinea than in kings.

I’ve no wish to be an inconvenience. It would ill become us both. Love shouldn’t be a burden and I regret if mine was one for you. You’ve given me many gifts—laughter, joy, pleasure, and my life not the least among them. I’ll be sad for a while, but in time, when I think of you, it will make me smile. Good luck, Jamie! I shall always think of you fondly. I thank you for your care of me, and wish you long life and happiness, and though you may not credit it, I wish you love. You deserve it, I wish you joy of it, and I hope someday it finds you. Farewell.

Your friend,

Catherine Drummond

“She wishes love to find me? She wishes me joy of it? She offers it, then takes it away! I asked her to wait. I trusted her. Bitch!” He crumpled the letter and threw it into the fireplace, and a moment later, he hurled his glass against the wall.

* * *

The Prince of Orange landed in November and Jamie, who wasn’t suited to farming and had lost interest in his horses and most everything else, was there to greet him. Within two weeks, most of the cities and bishoprics in England had declared for William, and a mass defection of officers had begun. John Churchill, King James’s commander in chief, was one of the first to abandon his Catholic king. The king’s second daughter, Anne, was not far behind.

Near the end of December, William allowed King James to flee to France, and took over the provisional government. In February, Parliament resolved that James’s flight amounted to abdication and jointly offered William and Mary the throne. It was hailed as a bloodless revolution, and claimed that not a shot had been fired. The whole affair could not have ended better—for England, at least.

William wasn’t a man to neglect those who’d served him well. Jamie was warmly received at court. His Irish estate was confirmed and his English lands and title returned, and more lands were given him besides. The bloodshed he’d feared had been prevented, and with the new king’s gifts and favor, he was a man of influence, someone to respect. As for his wife, nobody asked. Unlike his royal cousins, the new king seemed to take little interest in anyone’s wife, including his own. Jamie should have been happy, at least content, but he took no pleasure in his holdings, no notice of the women who pursued him, and no interest in the affairs of the court.

Catherine was the only thing on his mind. He’d read her letter through an incendiary fog of hurt and anger, but he’d had time to reflect since, and his fury at her abandonment had long since lost its edge. He thought about her by day, and dreamed of her at night, and every time he looked to the north, he felt sick with worry. James Stuart might have vacated the throne of England, but he was already making mischief in Ireland and the Highlands, with the help of the French. His supporters, the Jacobites, were a growing threat, and William was a fighting man. If they rebelled, William and his Orangemen would crush them, and Catherine and her family would be caught in their midst.

Although he’d thrown her letter in the fire, the contents were burned in his heart, and words he’d first regarded with dismissive contempt played increasingly on his mind. “I’ve matters to attend to that can only cause you trouble. Love shouldn’t be a burden and I regret if mine was one for you.”

It was always easier to see some things from a distance. She wanted to help her people as he’d tried to help his, and she sought to protect him. She’d not awaited his return because she didn’t want him involved, and she’d not abandoned him, he’d abandoned her. I was gone six weeks without a word, and the last she saw of me I had a strumpet in my lap. Well… she’d also wished that love would find him and it had. She had, but they were on opposite sides of the Isle of Britain, and might soon be on opposite sides of another bloody war.