Mary knew what he meant. She felt it herself here, the strange juxtaposition of ruins and life, of things all at once moving and stuck in their place, like this oar of a bridge and the ship of an island beside them that held but the shape of those things and would never go anywhere, held fast forever in bedrock and mud.
“’Tis an emblem as well for the court of our king, at the moment.” The earl spoke more gravely, and when she glanced over he showed her a half smile. “I always have and always will do what I can to serve King James, but you will find it is an open secret here that I do not approve of his reliance on Lord Dunbar, and I will not stay where such counsels prevail as cannot frankly be told to an honest man; where none but mean servile souls are welcome, and those who have spirit are forced to be silent.”
She focused on one part of that speech alone. “You are leaving?”
“We are. I have written by this last post to my friend the Duke of Ormonde, to help us get away with the least noise, so as not to do hurt to the cause nor the king. As soon as it is possible, I hope before this month is out, MacPherson and I will return to Spain.”
Her heart became a heavy weight that dropped a fraction lower in her chest and pressed against her ribs until it caused her pain to breathe. She raised a hand to shade her eyes, although the sun by this time was behind them, sinking ever lower, and deliberately she looked ahead and asked, “What is that bridge?”
It was not properly a bridge, for it did not go all the way across the river, having fallen at its middle and collapsed so that it only touched the farther bank.
“That,” he said, “they tell me is the oldest stone bridge left in Rome. It has a proper name but you will hear it called most often here the Ponte Rotto, meaning ‘Broken Bridge.’”
A view that, at the moment, seemed appropriate, so Mary thought. A bridge that none could cross, that nevermore would lead a traveler home. She moved her hand to shield her gaze more closely, blinking back the stinging of her eyes. “Why is it broken?”
“Because it stands just where the current is strongest. No matter how often they try to rebuild it the river keeps beating away at it, taking it piece by piece.”
“And yet it stands.” She said that in a small voice that was nothing like her own, and she was not sure why she said it.
It was only that just then, she felt a kinship with that ancient bridge that was forever being carried off in tiny pieces by the unrelenting current, and yet did not have the sense to yield, to let go of the shore and simply fall. It stood, as she had done her whole life, trying to stay hopeful in the face of what she’d lost; and as their king had done through all the changes in his fortunes that had brought him to this distant place. As Hugh had done, so stubbornly repairing things and setting them to rights when all he loved had been reduced to ash and memories.
The Earl Marischal had turned towards her, unable to hear her for the rushing of the river underneath them. “What was that, my dear?”
She told him in a stronger voice, “I said the bridge still stands.” She let her hand fall to her side and looked at him. “And surely every broken thing can be rebuilt.”
The earl stood regarding her much as her uncle regarded a wine that surprised him with quality.
“Yes, Mistress Dundas, I’d like to believe so.”
She noticed his gaze had gone past her, and turning she saw the tall man now approaching the bridge from behind her.
“I’d very much like to believe so,” the earl said again, as he lifted his hand and called out to MacPherson, who’d noticed them both by this time and was coming towards them with slow, even strides.
Chapter 42
No more shall I find their steps in the heath, or hear their voice…
—Macpherson, “Fingal,” Book Three
Rome
May 15, 1732
Mary tried to compose herself, grateful the light was now softening so if she turned from the lowering sun Hugh might not have a definite view of her features, for although her traitorous moment at hearing the news he would soon be departing had passed, and she was in control of her face and emotions, she could not be certain he’d not see some lingering trace of it and she had no wish to show him such weakness.
He wore not his fine Highland clothes but a more common suit of a deep earthen red that looked well with the old Roman bricks of the bridge as he set foot upon it. His own face gave nothing away of his thoughts.
The Earl Marischal greeted him first with, “Did you find the man you were after?”
“Aye.” Hugh looked at Mary, and he gave the short nod of greeting she’d come to miss while he’d been gone. Then he turned his impassive gaze back to the earl as a pupil might look to his tutor to lay bare the meaning of something inscrutable.
The earl offered nothing but, “And did he finish the work that you paid him to do?”
Hugh nodded curtly.
“Good. All is well, then.” The earl, with an elegant ease that told Mary he was long accustomed to facing Hugh’s silences, added, “I feared I might have missed the time I’d told you I would be here, for at the Castel Sant’Angelo I chanced to meet Captain Hay and as usual we fell to talking. A fortunate delay, as it turned out, for it gained me the company of this enchanting young lady.” Smiling briefly at Mary, he told Hugh confidingly, “I see now why you were so disapproving of the men put forward to escort Mistress Dundas back to Saint-Germain, and why you did advise Lord Inverness he should choose none of them, for had I been her guide so long, as you were, I would also wish to choose with care the man who was to take my place.”