Queen Mary's Daughter Read online

  Queen Mary’s Daughter

  Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  Queen Mary’s Daughter

  by Emily-Jane Hills Orford

  Published by Clean Reads

  www.cleanreads.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  QUEEN MARY’S DAUGHTER

  Copyright © 2017 EMILY-JANE HILLS ORFORD

  ISBN 978-1-62135-740-7

  Cover Art Designed by Cora Graphics

  Contents

  PRAISE FOR EMILY-JANE HILLS ORFORD’S WRITING

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Acknowledgments

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  About the Author

  Untitled

  PRAISE FOR EMILY-JANE HILLS ORFORD’S WRITING

  “There is no doubt that author, Emily-Jane Hills Orford enjoys telling a good story, whether about ordinary, or extra-ordinary people. The author’s talent and enthusiasm for her subject matter is evident throughout. She has presented us with a rich and moving reading experience.”

  ... Friederike Knabe, The Oscar

  “Stories that will make you feel all the emotions at once: love, courage, hatred, poverty, struggles, bully, domestic abuse and other social evils, Emily-Jane beautifully portrays it all.”

  ... seriousreading.com/book-reviews

  “Her [Emily-Jane’s] passion for the goodness of people, and her ability to describe them in ways that endears them to the reader is enviable.”

  ... Nancy Morris, Allbooks Reviews

  To Gran

  Margaret Murray Dickson Downer

  (1902-1995)

  A woman with a true Scottish heart and a passion

  for what might have been.

  My mentor, my friend, my beloved grandmother

  Chapter One

  LOCH LEVEN CASTLE, MID-SUMMER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1567

  “Poussez! Poussez!”

  “I am pushing!” A gasped breath. A grunt and a groan. Then an ear-piercing scream. Silence. Panting. More female voices speaking in French. “Do not forget to whom you speak!” A snarled retort before another contraction took hold.

  “It is far too early!” Screaming. Panting.

  “Only five months.” A whisper.

  Writhing. Screaming. Panting. Sweating. And all over again. And again.

  “Too early!”

  “There are two!”

  “So tiny!”

  “Do they live?”

  A scream. Panting. Another scream. Silence.

  Chapter Two

  KINROSS, 2016

  “Is there anything left of the castle?” Mary Elizabeth swung towards the young boy, the only other person standing beside the feisty waters of Loch Leven. It was bitterly cold, a sharp contrast to the intense humidity Mary Elizabeth had escaped in Toronto only days before.

  The boy watched Mary Elizabeth with the eye of one who had seen countless tourists wanting to know all the gory details of the fated castle on the island in the middle of the loch. He couldn’t have been much more than twelve, but he had the look of a man twice his age. “Aye,” he said simply, his Scotch brogue rich and thick. “A few stones and crumbled walls. Not much.” He paused, mostly to draw out the suspense. “There is the tower, though. Queen Mary was imprisoned in the tower. Strange how that survived and nothing else did.”

  “Is it worth venturing across the stormy waters to visit?” She had to know. She wanted to know. Her heritage lay here, somewhere, and she wanted to know if the stories told at her grandmother’s knee were true. It all began on this loch, in that castle. But she didn’t know the entire story. Gran had insisted she come to Kinross, to Loch Leven Castle, to study her past and discover the rest of the story for herself.

  The boy just shrugged his shoulders. “Not always so bad. Try again tomorrow.” He lifted his nose to the air and sniffed deeply. “The storm will pass by then.” And he walked away.

  “Wait!” Mary Elizabeth called out, but a stiff wind blasted her voice in the opposite direction. The boy kept walking. “Who will take me?” she called, but he was gone. There was no one to hear her request.

  Alone, she gazed out across the choppy waters. A storm was definitely brewing and it was moving in fast. She should find her way back to Mrs. Dickson’s Bed and Breakfast where she had checked in earlier. Her feet seemed anchored to the spot, her eyes glued on something she could not see in the distance. What was pulling her to this place? The voices whispered inside her head at night, voices in English, in French, and sometimes in Gaelic. She understood these voices, but why did they speak to her? And what were the misty, blurry visions that invaded her dreams at night, even more so since her grandmother had passed away? The voices had been louder since her arrival in Kinross. There had to be something in Gran’s stories. She wanted to know. She had to know.

  It would have been nice to come with Gran, but she was gone, dead and buried just a few weeks earlier. Gran had insisted with her last words that Mary Elizabeth make the trip, sooner rather than later. She hadn’t explained the need for urgency, just it was imperative Mary Elizabeth come to Loch Leven and trace her roots, follow the stories. “Before it’s too late,” Gran had whispered in her last, gasping breaths, her withered hand falling limp from Mary Elizabeth’s hold as her life seeped away.

  Mary Elizabeth had closed up Gran’s house, deciding to extend her leave, using accumulated vacation time, in order to follow her grandmother’s dying request. “Take the ring,” Gran had said, not that Mary Elizabeth would go anywhere without it as it had graced her hand since Gran had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday. “The ring is the connection,” Gran tried to explain, but Mary Elizabeth found her fragmented instructions difficult to follow.

  Her trip across the ocean had used most of her meagre funds, money saved from working as a junior editor at one of Toronto’s big publishing houses. She spent her days sorting through manuscript submissions, deciding what merited further consideration from the senior editorial staff and what ended up in the ever-growing slush pile. It was a low paying job in a city where the living expense was staggering. Fo
rtunately, she had the advantage of living with Gran, in the house that had been in the family for several generations, or so she assumed, as it was full of memorabilia and artifacts that suggested as much. She had grown up in the house, Gran the only parent Mary Elizabeth had ever known. Her parents had died tragically in a car accident when Mary Elizabeth was just a toddler, too young to remember. At least that was one story Gran shared with her. There were others, but the fact remained that Gran had stepped in to bring up her granddaughter. The two shared an inseparable bond right from the beginning, a bond that only death could shatter.

  Circumstances changed when Gran suffered a heart attack, her first and her last. At least, that’s what the doctor claimed it was. Mary Elizabeth had her doubts, though. Some things just didn’t seem to add up. No one listened to her protests or her concerns. With no other siblings or cousins, Mary Elizabeth was Gran’s only living relative. She inherited the entire estate, but with estate taxes, funeral costs, and catching up on the growing expense of maintaining a large house in an expensive city, she wasn’t sure if she could keep the house. She wondered how Gran had managed, and for so long. What to do with the house and all Gran’s treasures was a decision that would have to wait for Mary Elizabeth’s return.

  Gran had been full of stories about Scotland. She was a great storyteller, but there were times when Mary Elizabeth wondered how much was true and how much was embellished. One story had always captured her attention, the one that had brought her to Kinross, a tiny community just outside of Glasgow. Situated on the shores of one of Scotland’s illustrious lochs, Loch Leven, Kinross had a vibrant history that dated back centuries and included the imprisonment of one of the country’s most flamboyant monarchs, Queen Mary.

  As the wind picked up, blowing her deep red, unruly curls helter-skelter over her face, Mary Elizabeth’s eyes focused on her hands. She stretched out the left hand, revealing the old ring that sat on her baby finger. It was a tiny ring and it only fit on the one finger. At the same time Gran bestowed the heirloom gift on her granddaughter, she had shared her story of the ring, at least as much as she was willing to share. The ring had been in the family for generations and only the firstborn daughter of the firstborn daughter (and so on and so on) could wear it. The ring was her connection to a past she wasn’t sure she believed in, a past that had been shared from one generation to the next. Or was there more? Was there a story her grandmother never managed to share?

  What would she find at Loch Leven Castle? The clues had to be there. But the boy said it was mostly ruins, crumbled walls and tumbled stones, except for the tower. Queen Mary’s tower. What could she possibly unearth to collaborate Gran’s story? And she only had two weeks to do it. She couldn’t afford more time away from work. Even though it was a poorly paid entry level job, she didn’t want to risk losing it.

  A glow emanated from the ring on her outstretched hand. She felt a warmth spread up her arms. The wind picked up, violently tossing her hair in every direction, swishing her coat ends like laundry hanging loosely on a clothesline. She faced into the wind, allowing its vicious impact to draw her forward. She took a step, then another, until she felt the cold wet of the lapping waves of the loch splash over her feet. The water was cold; it jolted her back to reality. What was she doing walking into the loch? What was the strong pulse pulling her forward? She allowed her eyes to glance out across the loch, now almost obliterated by the darkened storm that raged all around her.

  “Miss.” She heard a voice from behind her as the power continued to drag her into the loch. “Miss!” A hand gripped her arm, yanking her back toward the dry shore. “Miss!” The hands tightened their hold as she tried to pull away, tried to return to the loch. A scream pierced the air. She didn’t know where the scream originated. It sounded like it came from across the water.

  It also sounded like it came from deep within herself.

  Another scream and everything went black.

  Chapter Three

  LOCH LEVEN CASTLE, MID-SUMMER, YEAR OF OUR LORD 1567

  “Lord, grant me mercy. Teach me to know that my love for Him is pure tenderness and constant.”

  “No! No! It cannot be!”

  “But it is!”

  “Mary. Mary. Mary. Mary. All my Mary’s. Come here.”

  “Oui Madam.”

  “Non, non.”

  Scream. Gasps.

  “Poussez! Poussez!”

  Silence.

  “I want to hold it. I want to hold my baby.” A whispered voice and a sob. “Why is the other baby dead?”

  “It was too early!” An almost harsh reply. Blunt. Abrasive.

  Silence. A voice, almost a whisper, sings softly. It’s a lullaby. A suckling sound and the voice continues to sing, ever so gently. The wind washes away the sound as the heavy footsteps approach.

  “Non, non.” Sobbing. “It is my baby! Do not take my baby away from me! Please! S’il vous plait!” Sobbing. “Non, non.”

  Chapter Four

  KINROSS, 2016

  “Mary Elizabeth Stuart,” a woman’s voice cut through the darkness. “She’s Mary Elizabeth Stuart. Rented a room for a couple of weeks. Here. In my B & B. Aye. That’s Miss Stuart. Place her on the couch. Better fetch the doctor. I’ll see if I can bring her around.”

  “I’ll be quick, Mrs. Dickson,” a man’s voice answered.

  “No!” Mary Elizabeth gasped. “Don’t let them take the baby!” She grabbed Mrs. Dickson’s hand as the woman held a cloth to her forehead. Mary Elizabeth, her eyes still closed, moved her mouth as she spoke the words in panic. “Don’t let them take the baby!”

  “What baby?” Mrs. Dickson asked, taking hold of Mary Elizabeth’s clasped hand and unwrapping the grip from her own. “Calm yourself, Miss Stuart. There is no baby here. No one’s taking any baby.”

  Mary Elizabeth stirred restlessly, but her eyes still didn’t open. She tried to open them, but the lids were like clay, thick and heavy. Voices chorused around her, as well as inside her head. Which was which? She didn’t know. It was all voices. Every so often she heard her name. But were they talking about her? Talking to her? Or was there another Mary Elizabeth?

  “She’s coming around.” A man’s voice. “Miss Stuart, can you hear me?”

  Mary Elizabeth moaned, turning her head from side to side. Just as suddenly as the voices in her head had erupted, they stopped. Her eyes popped open, no longer glued shut. She struggled to sit up. “What? Where?”

  “Lie back.” A hand gently put pressure on her shoulders and her head sank back into a cushion. “You’ve had a spell, my dear.”

  “Where am I?” she whispered, her voice croaking as if she’d been talking for hours. She tried to clear her throat, but it only made her cough. Calming herself, she tried again. “Where am I?”

  “At Mrs. Dickson’s Bed and Breakfast. I’m Dr. Fergusson.”

  Mary Elizabeth allowed her eyes to wander over the sea of faces looking down at her. The eyes said it all. Dr. Fergusson’s eyes, or she assumed they were the doctor’s as these eyes were the closest and his lips had moved when she received her answer, hovered over her with evident care and concern. Deep, blue eyes, or so she thought. Perhaps they were green. She felt a warmth emanate from them as he took time to assess her every move. The eyes were old, full of wisdom.

  Another pair, a little further off, were a gentle hazel; nondescript, but caring as well. She recognised them. They had greeted her the previous evening upon her arrival. Mrs. Dickson’s eyes. She was sure of it.

  A third set she couldn’t place. Dark, brooding eyes that bored into her own, seeking answers she could not give. Those belonged someplace else. Another time perhaps?

  These were, at the least, unsettling. They tried to fasten themselves to hers, drawing her deep within. Mary Elizabeth couldn’t help but shudder and she forced herself to look away, seeking once again the kindly doctor’s eyes. His smile encompassed his face, reaching beyond the merry crinkles at the corners. She returned the smile, re
assured, safe, but safe from what? So many questions, so few answers. And what had just happened?

  “I don’t understand.” Mary Elizabeth slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position. She felt the room spin out of control. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths and slowly exhaled. She opened her eyes and was relieved that her vision was clearing, and, best yet, the room no longer spun.

  “You were walking down by the pier,” the kind doctor explained. “You were about knee deep in the water and insistent on walking further out. Then you just blacked out. If Mr. Stuart here hadn’t been close by, you might have been washed away by the current.”

  The stranger from the waterside stepped closer. “James Stuart.” He held out his hand in introduction. His thick brogue was evidence that he was a true-blue Scotsman. “Another one of the vast and notorious Stuart clan. My friends just call me Jamie. I just arrived this afternoon from Inverness. After checking in at the best B & B north of Hadrian’s Wall–” Mary Elizabeth noticed Mrs. Dickson blush and swipe her hand in front of her face as if waving away the compliments, “–I took a stroll down by the water. I wanted some fresh air after the long hours of driving and I was hoping to get a walk in before the storm let loose. Good thing I came upon you when I did. The doctor is quite right: you would have been washed away by the current and possibly drowned.”