Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

As Elizabeth lay in bed with her sleeping son in her arms, she felt empowered. She had finally found the courage to challenge her mother’s authority and, to her amazement, Bridget had acquiesced. John Campbell’s words floated to her from the past when she’d once asked him what it was like to fight in a war: When you go into battle your greatest foe is not the enemy—it is fear. But if you face your fear and challenge it, it invariably surrenders, and you emerge victorious. Elizabeth knew this was what she had done with her mother. She vowed to never let her gain the upper hand again. She reflected about her vision of Mary. The Scottish queen had prevented her from seeking eternal sleep, thank God. This wasn’t a time to sleep. It was a time to awaken . . . to wake up and live! Mary made me promise to guard my secret with my life, but that was a manifestation of my own fear. Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted to Hamilton. Her nightmare about his rejection of her child also had been brought on by her own deep-seated fear. She wondered what his real reaction had been when he learned he had a son and heir. Elizabeth didn’t have long to wait to find out.

“There he is, there’s my little prince!” Hamilton actually swaggered across the bedchamber. “I went to the nursery and found a gaggle of hissing geese accusing you of kidnapping my son!”

“They are the kidnappers! They snatched him away so quickly I didn’t know if I’d had a girl or a boy.”

Hamilton grinned fatuously down at her. “There was never any question that I’d have a son. I’m very pleased with you, Elizabeth. Let’s have a good look at him.” He pulled the blanket away and began to undo the tapes on the baby’s flannel gown.

“No!” Elizabeth snatched her child from him. You must not see him naked! “It’s winter—he’ll catch cold.”

Bridget, who had followed the duke into the chamber, said, “There’s a roaring fire. Of course he won’t catch cold.”

Elizabeth fixed her with a cool glance. “You are intruding. My husband and I would like a private visit with our baby son.”

“Your Grace,” Bridget murmured stiffly then retreated.

Hamilton chuckled. “You are fierce as a lynx with her kit. Let me have my son . . . I won’t hurt him.” He took the baby in the crook of his arm and rocked him gently. “He’s very dark.”

“I believe his hair will be auburn, like yours.” You think no such thing, her inner voice accused.

“Most likely. ’Tis plain he won’t have your golden curls.” He lifted up the long folds of the nightgown to view the child’s limbs and private parts. “He’s a lusty male, all right!” When the baby started to cry, he handed him back to his mother.

Elizabeth cradled her son against her heart and made soothing noises that quietened him almost instantly.

Hamilton gazed down at the lovely woman in the bed. The pristine white night rail and halo of golden hair gave her a gentle, Madonna-like quality that made him feel blessed by the gods. He sought to indulge her. “You deserve something special for the priceless gift you have given me. What do you desire, Elizabeth? Diamonds? Emeralds?”

She raised her eyes from her child. “I desire that his cradle be brought to my chamber. I desire to be at Cadzow Castle in Hamilton. Holyrood has a dark, foreboding atmosphere.”

“Aye, well, it has a dark history,” he admitted. “Holy Rood Abbey lies in ruins, so he can’t be baptized here. I’ve been up on the rock at Edinburgh Castle celebrating my son’s birth with the provost. We could have him baptized up there. I could send word to John Campbell that we want him to be godfather.”

“No!” She stared at Hamilton aghast. Does he suspect? Is he playing cat and mouse with me? “The Highlands are a hundred miles away, and Christmas is coming. He’ll want to be with his family.”

Hamilton nodded. “Why have a Campbell when we can have a Douglas for godfather? As soon as you’re strong enough, we’ll go back to Cadzow and have him baptized on New Year’s Day.”

Elizabeth felt overwhelmed with relief. Not only was he proudly possessive of the child; he was taking them back to the castle she loved. She kissed her baby’s brow and said in gratitude, “I think he should have your name . . . James George Douglas.” If he has your name, there can be no question that he is your son. Her inner voice taunted, You’re not being generous, Elizabeth—you’re being expedient. Shut up! she warned her inner voice.

“I still intend to gift my duchess with jewels.”

She looked into his pouched eyes and saw the whites were permanently yellowed from his excessive drinking bouts. She realized that though she had overcome her timidity and stood up to her mother, it would take a great deal more courage to overcome her fear of Hamilton. She also feared herself: One day her resentment and anger might flare and explode so violently she could be consumed by the conflagration. She reined in her emotions and vowed to take one small step at a time. “Then I would ask that you buy me some turquoise . . . I’ve always fancied the blue-green stones. They are an ancient symbol of protection and good luck.”

“If turquoise pleases you, so be it.”

She lowered her lashes. Today, because he was exultant over the birth of a son, he had conceded to all her wishes. She silently vowed that this would not be the last time.

The next day when the nursery was moved into Elizabeth’s suite of rooms, Bridget’s resentment at having her authority usurped knew no bounds. She refused to speak to her daughter but filled Emma’s ears with bitter recriminations about her sacrificing London’s festivities to spend Christmas in dreary Scotland for her daughter’s lying-in. Her thanklessness added insult to injury!

“You shouldn’t be out of bed. It’s only been three days since you gave birth. Even Lady Charlotte stayed abed ten days.”

Elizabeth smiled at Emma from the rocking chair as she fed baby James. “You are beginning to sound like Mother.”

“Heaven forbid! Your mother’s catalogue of grievances grows longer by the hour.”

“She’s homesick for London, and I know she misses Maria. The blame for a quiet Christmas is mine. The duke can take himself off to Edinburgh Castle to be feted and congratulated, but Mother is stuck here, with only herself for company. She’ll be no happier when we return to Cadzow, but I know I shall.”

On the twentieth of December, James Douglas kept his word and took Elizabeth and his son back to Hamilton, with a strict warning to the coach driver to exercise caution on the icy roads. At Cadzow the entire household celebrated the arrival of his son and heir, and the maids vied with one another to serve the new mother and child. Hamilton appointed two Douglas cousins to stand godfather to his heir, and the baby was baptized James George Douglas in the castle chapel on New Year’s Day, followed by a great celebration.

When the duke sobered up on the third day of January, his secretary opened his business mail and handed Hamilton his personal letters from London. One from George Coventry caught the duke’s attention. “Poor George hasn’t gotten his mare in foal yet. Wonder if I should do the job for him?”

His secretary, used to Hamilton’s coarse remarks, laughed on cue.

James suddenly stopped laughing as he read the second part of the letter.

Rumor has it that the old Duke of Devonshire will resign his appointment as Lord Steward of the Royal Household. On the journey back from his grandson’s christening at Chatsworth he came down with pneumonia and has never regained his health. Since this particular appointment is not heritable, I can only imagine the arse-kissing that will go on at the king’s next levee. Despite the fact that our friend Will Cavendish deserves to take over from his father, the appointment will be up for grabs.

“Will Cavendish doesn’t deserve any such thing! He has had far too many honors handed to him on a silver platter.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“Prepare a report on Holyrood Palace. Make sure it shows my administration as Hereditary Keeper in the best possible light.”

James took a piece of parchment stamped with his ducal crest and dipped a quill into the inkwell on his desk. He proceeded to write a letter to King George, announcing the birth of his son and informing him that he had named his heir after His Royal Highness. He sent a special greeting from his duchess, Elizabeth, hinting how much she missed Court. He also mentioned that he had left his head steward at the king’s official residence in the capital to make sure that the palace was run efficiently and economically, without waste. He made no mention of Devonshire’s Lord Stewardship in the letter but asked for an appointment with the king upon his return. “Send this posthaste, along with your report. Then start packing for London,” he ordered his secretary.

A short time later he spoke to Morton, his valet, and told him to pack his things for London. Then he had a word with the Douglas steward in charge of the inside staff. He promoted him to land steward and told him to employ a new household steward.

Before Morton began to pack, he sought out the duchess. “Your Grace, I thought you might like to know that the duke has ordered me to pack for London.”

Elizabeth’s heart flew into her mouth at the news. “Thank you, Morton. I appreciate your confidence.” The last thing in the world she wanted was to return to London. Apart from the fact that such a long journey in winter might be harmful to her baby, she loved Cadzow and the beautiful wild country that surrounded it. She found Emma upstairs, rocking her sleeping son’s cradle, and confided her fears.

“Surely he won’t expect you to accompany him? But just in case, why don’t you get into bed and I’ll tell him you are feeling overtired and that you need to rest more?”

Elizabeth felt both relieved and worried. “Emma, if he ever learns that we are conspirators, he will dismiss you on the spot.”

Emma winked. “I could always go back to the stage.”

“Do you miss it?” Elizabeth asked anxiously.

“Miss lining up every day of my life with a score of other starving actresses and getting passed over nine times out of ten?”

“I’m glad you don’t miss it. I confess that I’ve often yearned to be an actress rather than a duchess the past year.”

Emma helped her into a night rail and turned back the bed-covers. “Look at it this way—you get to be both.”

“What in the name of Christ do you think you are doing?” Hamilton stopped dead as he stared at his duchess propped up against the pillows in the carved bed, holding his son in her arms.

Elizabeth went icy cold and drew her baby closer, shrinking down into the covers as if they would provide protection.

“When your mother informed me you were breast-feeding him, I thought the woman was deranged, but now I see with my own eyes that you are behaving like a peasant girl. I arranged for a wet nurse. Where is she?” he demanded.

“In Edinburgh. I don’t need her services,” Elizabeth said low. I should have known Mother would take her revenge. I’ve been feeding him for weeks; it’s a wonder she didn’t tell him sooner.

“This is preposterous! You are the Duchess of Hamilton, not some little drab in a slum! By Christ, I said you were like a lynx with her kit, and it’s true—you are behaving like an animal.”

“I want to feed my own baby,” she said quietly, trying to control the rage that was building inside her.

“You may not, for the simple reason that it will ruin the shape and size of your perfect breasts. The London Season starts in the spring, and when it does I want you beside me with your famous beauty unimpaired.”

Elizabeth, don’t lash out at him now. You are at a disadvantage, and he is leaving soon. Deal with this swine from a position of strength, not weakness. Wait . . . wait . . . all things come at their appointed time.

“I’ve given Bridget orders to employ a wet nurse today. This is the last time you will feed him. Is that understood?”

“I understand, Your Grace.” I understand that you need to be in control and that Mother has the same sick affliction.

“That’s better. I must return to London. I have an appointment with the king. ’Tis no wonder you are not well enough to return home with me—the child has sapped all your strength. Get your health back, Elizabeth. I want you in London by spring. Baby James needs a brother.”

She repressed a shudder. I never want you in my bed again!

Within half an hour of Hamilton’s departure, Elizabeth jumped out of bed and got dressed. Five minutes later she was singing and tickling baby Jamie who lay on the big bed, kicking with delight. She danced across to the windows and dragged back the curtains to let in the pale winter sunshine. “Emma, I’m so hungry I could eat a horse . . . saddle an’ all.”

“I don’t know about horse, but perhaps we could arrange to have donkey put on the menu,” Emma teased.

“Oh, the dear little donkeys! I haven’t seen them for weeks. When Jamie has his nap, I’m off to the stables for a visit.” She picked up her baby and kissed his nose. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

As she descended the stairs she saw her mother. Bridget was talking to a plump young woman with dark hair and rosy cheeks.

“Elizabeth, this is Nan Douglas, the wet nurse His Grace asked me to arrange for.” She set her shoulders, ready for a fight.

“Thank you, Mother. How will I ever manage without you?” Elizabeth asked sweetly. The implication that she would be without her soon was not lost on Bridget.

“Nan, are you a cousin of the duke’s?”

Nan shook her head. “Nothing so fancy. There’s hundreds of Douglases hereabouts, Yer Grace.”

“No, please don’t curtsy to me. Would you like to come to the kitchen with us and have something to eat, Nan?”

Inside the vast kitchen, Elizabeth sat down at a scrubbed table and motioned for Emma and Nan to sit. “Nell, I’m ravenous,” she told the head cook. “The delicious smell is making my mouth water.”

“That’s mutton an’ barley broth.” The cook beamed, ladling out a bowlful for each female then cutting up a fresh-baked loaf.

“Do you have a baby, Nan?” Elizabeth asked between spoonfuls.

“Aye, my mam is mindin’ her. I’m tryin’ tae wean her, so I should have lots of milk fer the wee lordling.”

“No need for that, Nan. I have my own milk. I don’t need a wet nurse, but I am looking for a good nursemaid. You can keep your baby with you if you like. I have Jamie’s cradle in my own chamber right now, because I can’t bear to part with him, but I’m going to turn the adjoining room into a nursery.”

Cook poured two beakers of milk for the new mothers. “I’ve got the kettle on fer yer tea, Miss Emma.”

“Do ye really mean I can keep my bairn wi’ me, Yer Grace?”

“Of course. It’s cruel to keep a mother from her child. When you’ve finished eating, go and get her and bring her upstairs. It’s nap time.” She gazed down lovingly. “He’s already asleep.”

A short time later, Elizabeth put on fur-lined walking boots, a warm hood and cape, and walked to the stables, humming happily.

She knew she had three glorious hours to herself before Jamie would need feeding again and planned to enjoy the invigorating outdoors. “Queenie!” she cried with joy as a black-and-white streak rushed across the courtyard. “I’ve missed you so. We’ll go for a long walk after I’ve said hello to the donkeys.”

Inside, her eyes widened with delight. “You have a baby too!”

She scratched the donkeys’ ears and peered down at the woolly little bundle suckling its mother. “When did the baby arrive?” she asked a stableman.

“Christmas, ma’am. A right surprise fer all of us. Winter’s an odd time fer foalin’, but donkeys is strange beasties at best.”

She rubbed the baby’s head. “You’re a sweet beastie. Your fluffy coat is soft as thistledown . . . I’ll call you Thistle.”

She spoke to the mother donkey. “I will bring my baby to see your baby one day soon.” She pictured a little boy with black curls sitting on the back of a donkey. “They will be great friends.”

After Elizabeth talked with the ponies, she and Queenie went for a walk. There was a light covering of snow on the ground, and along the riverbank she saw the distinctive prints left behind by deer, lynx, and otter. They followed the deer tracks back into the woods where rabbits and game birds scattered as Queenie flushed them from their snowy evergreen cover.

When she returned to the castle her companion trotted beside her like a faithful friend and she decided to let the dog come inside. Queenie walked warily, ears pricked, sniffing the unfamiliar objects that lay in her path, yet trusting enough not to cower. Elizabeth was not surprised when she heard her mother’s shout of outrage.

“Who the devil let that dirty dog in here? Get it out, quick!”

Elizabeth stepped through the archway into the chamber where Bridget and Queenie stood transfixed. Both had raised hackles.

“This bitch stays, so long as she minds her manners.”

“Are you calling me a bitch?” Bridget challenged.

“I am indeed.” Elizabeth pushed off her hood and shook out her hair. “You have intimidated me all my life, Mother, but at last I have lost my fear of you. Like Queenie here, I will be wary, but I will never cower again. I would caution you too to mind your manners, for in the Duke of Hamilton’s absence, I am the authority here at Cadzow.”

Bridget immediately backed down and capitulated. “I’m glad you found your backbone.”

Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed. At Bridget. At herself. At the irony of how simple it had been.

The next day, the Douglas steward who had been promoted introduced her to the new inside steward. Mr. Burke proved to be a quiet, competent head servant who ran the household smooth as clockwork. Elizabeth was wary of him because he often appeared silently out of nowhere, and she wondered if he had been hired to spy on her. When she mentioned it to Emma, her maid said, “Oh, I don’t think so, Elizabeth. It wasn’t the duke who employed him—it was the Douglas steward. The housemaids are all mad for him, and he’s even charmed your mother.”

“What about you, Emma? Do you like him?”

“Well, I must admit the attractive devil of a man plays hell with my imagination!”

As one day folded into another, Elizabeth had never felt happier in her life, and she began to glow with health. January was bitter cold, though only light snow covered the hard frozen ground. The entire household predicted that the weather would deteriorate in February but told her that the worst month in Scotland was usually March.

The snowstorms and blizzards held off, allowing Elizabeth to walk each day, and sometimes, if there was no wind, she carried Jamie across to the stables to show him the animals. “This is Thistle, your very own pet donkey.” She knew her baby was too young to understand, but she wanted him to learn the smells and sounds of animals so he would get used to them.

Some days she ventured out on her favorite pony, with Queenie at their heels, and sometimes she flew a hawk from the mews. Often she visited the hunting lodge and stood gazing in awe at its pristine, isolated setting where the only human footprints were her own.

Almost every day of February brought a fall of snow, but still no massive storm. During the last week of the month, Elizabeth began to think about spring. She wished the winter could last forever, wrapping her and Cadzow in its safe cocoon, but she was realistic enough to know that wishes would not make it so. Too soon her idyll would be over, and she would have to go back to London. She knew she would have no choice and that one day Hamilton would return to get her. She prayed for heavy snow to keep him away, but finally, reluctantly, at the end of February she decided it was time to start weaning Jamie.