He might as well have spoken to a statue but he did not seem bothered. He cast an unhurried glance skyward and lifted his eyebrows. “But it appears my delay, although fortunate, makes it impossible for us to do as I’d planned, for I have not the time for it now, else I’ll risk disappointing the little duke.” He turned to Mary. “Have you had the pleasure yet to be presented to our two young princes? No? The younger, Henry, Duke of York, is serious for one so small. I never saw any child comparable to him.” His tone held indulgence. “The Prince of Wales, his brother Charles, is already unruly, but the little duke is so determined to be on his good behavior that he’s ordered a journal be kept of his actions, that I may see and tell the world how well he does behave. He made me promise to buy him a special book just for this purpose and bring it to him before bedtime tonight, so I must buy one now else he’ll count me a man of no honor at all.” Looking at Hugh again he asked, “There was not a stationer’s shop, by chance, near to your silversmith?”
In watching Hugh, Mary had noticed a faint line that showed in his hard cheek when he was amused or, much more commonly, exasperated, and she saw it now. He told the earl, “No.”
“Ah.”
Mary said, “There is a stationer quite near the Corso, where I bought a journal for myself just yesterday.” Bound with bright colorful boards and tooled leather it was much more decorative than the one Colette had given her, and yet she doubted she ever would hold it so dear.
She thought of Hugh standing at Fontainebleau holding her journal within his hands, and wondered what he would think, with his practical Highland ways, of the impractical manner in which she had ended that book today, writing:
In truth there is but one man in the whole of Rome whose honor I am certain of, whose friendship I have come now to rely upon, and if it were my choice to make I would lay all my heart before him and refuse to leave his side.
A most foolish sentiment, surely, she told herself, and one he’d hardly have welcomed, but as she had gone on herself to acknowledge, her father’s dour philosophy of life had been a true one: for though my aunt once reassured me I would always have a choice, if there is one before me now I do confess I cannot see it, so instead I must—
And here, having run out of space in the first journal, Mary had opened her new one and inked her pen carefully and marked the date again and carried on:
—content myself with having briefly touched that wider sky that Mistress Jamieson did speak of, for being brought to earth again I’d rather have the memory of flight and bear the pain of losing it, than to have never flown at all.
Brave words, she thought, and tried to match her actions to them now as she gave the Earl Marischal directions to the stationer’s.
He thanked her and bowed gallantly and kissed her hand and said, “I have enjoyed our walk. I trust MacPherson will at least approve himself to be your escort back to your hotel, since he seems loath to recommend another.”
With a final nod to Hugh he wished them both a pleasant evening and walked off in the direction of the Corso and the palace, leaving Hugh and Mary standing on the bridge.
She watched the earl’s departing back and thought she understood why Hugh would serve a man like that—a man of decency and honor and intelligence. And given that the earl belonged, as he himself had owned, to a more noble branch of Hugh’s own clan, by serving him Hugh could quite rightly claim to be no broken man, but one who was yet bound by faith and duty to his family.
She had gained a deeper understanding of MacPherson this past hour, as these past weeks had given her a deeper knowledge of her feelings for him, yet she could share none of it but held it all within her as she faced him in the fading light. Behind him the whole western sky had now softened to pink streaked with turquoise, and Mary knew they would not have long to talk, so she wasted no time.
“If you truly are given a say in whom Lord Inverness will select as my guide, I would ask you a favor.”
He neither denied nor confirmed his involvement, but waited with evident patience for her to continue.
Mary said, “I would not give you trouble…” Then she caught herself, remembering the times she’d been a bother to him on their journey down, and added, “Though I do suppose that it is rather late for that.”
Again the line showed for a moment in his cheek. He told her, “Name the favor.”
“Mr. Thomson claims he will be set at liberty quite soon, and I would rather not be sent to travel in his company.”
Hugh did not ask her to explain, so she was spared the complicated task of giving voice to her unsettled view of Thomson and his character; her indecision whether he was a good but misguided man or a dissembling traitor.
Hugh said only, “Then ye’ll not be. I will see to it.”
She thanked him, and although she’d learned in childhood that no good would come of prodding at a wound, she could not keep herself from saying, “It is too bad the Earl Marischal is not inclined to travel north to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, instead of south to Spain.”
Mary thought she saw a small change to the angle of his head as though he counted it of interest that the earl would so divulge their plans. He took a step towards her, thoughtfully. “The earl,” he said, “prefers a warmer climate, and he has few friends at Saint-Germain.”
She sympathized. “In that respect, the earl and I are equal.”
He’d come to a spot an arm’s length from her, and now he stood there and studied her face. “You were born there.”