CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tuesday, 27th August, 1822
David had arranged to meet Murdo at seven o’clock on the night of the royal performance. They were meeting at the foot of North Bridge, a few minutes’ walk from the Theatre Royal.
As he drew near to their meeting place, David began to grow concerned at the numbers of people thronging the streets. Even as far from the theatre as this, there were dense crowds milling, and whilst the general mood was elated, there was a distinct edge of aggression, doubtless fuelled by the ale and spirits that were flowing freely. Murdo was already waiting when David arrived, as splendid as always in his elegant garb, but with a frown on his handsome face.
“Apparently the theatre has been practically under siege since three o’clock this afternoon,” he told David after greeting him. “They opened the doors to let some patrons in a few minutes ago, and there was nearly a riot.”
“What? Why? Is someone protesting against the King?”
“Not at all,” Murdo replied. “From what I can make out, it’s because it’s the King’s last public engagement and they all want in, but since there are seats inside for only one in twenty of this crowd, it’s beginning to get rather ugly.” A hesitant smile tugged the corner of his expressive mouth, and he raised one dark brow. “We don’t have to go, I suppose. You could come straight to my house instead. We could have an early supper.”
A bolt of panic ran through David at that suggestion. “I thought you had a box,” he blurted out.
“I do,” Murdo conceded. “But we’ve still got to fight our way through the crowd,” He gestured at the sea of people stretching from where they stood to the doors of the Theatre Royal, and hopelessness surged in David. What if Elizabeth didn’t come? What if Kinnell turned their carriage around and took her home?
“If you’d really rather not fight your way through the crowds, I don’t mind going alone,” David said. Too late he realised how ungrateful that sounded. Worse, how hurtful. As though he didn’t even want Murdo’s company.
Murdo stared at him in silence for a long, uncomfortable moment. When he finally spoke in a flat, calm voice, it was to say, “Of course I’ll come. You are my guest.”
“Murdo, I’m sorr—”
But Murdo just cut him off, striding past him. “Come on, then, if we don’t get a move on, you’re going to miss everything, and I wouldn’t want you to feel deprived.”
He began to push his way through the throng, earning himself some ripe curses in the process, and David followed in his wake, heartsore.
As they drew closer to the theatre—though still a good way off the main doors—it grew more difficult. The crowd was tightly packed here, none of them willing to give an inch.
Just then a man’s voice behind them gave a loud bellow. “Make way!”
David turned his head and saw the voice came from a coachman. He was walking his horses right into the crowd, his whip held aloft in a blatantly threatening manner. Men and women scuttled out of his way, cursing him. Someone hurled a stone. It hit one of the horses on its flank, making the beast toss its head and pull against the traces. The coachman had to stand in his seat and haul at the reins to stop it rearing. David leapt back, pushing at Murdo’s shoulder to get him out of the way of the panicky animal.
“Move aside!” the coachman shouted, swiping his whip at a man standing close by. David would have admired his reckless pluck if he hadn’t found the man’s attitude so offensive.
At that moment, a head popped out of the window of the carriage. At first all David saw was a handsome red-and-gold shako topped with an ostentatious black plume. Then his gaze moved down, and he saw that the owner of the shako wore a wicked smile, white teeth glinting under a splendid moustache.
It was Captain Sinclair.
“I say, Lord Murdo!” The captain grinned. “Whatever are you doing out here? This riffraff are waiting for the cheap seats. Don’t you have a box? Oh, and it’s your prodigy! Mr. Latimer, isn’t it?”
“Fuckin’ nerve!” someone beside David exclaimed. “Callin’ me riffraff!”
Sinclair turned his grin on the offended man—a big man with hands like hammers. “No offence intended,” he said with a twinkle that disappeared when the man made a noise like an angry bull. “Come on, Lord Murdo, in you get. You too, Latimer. Cunningham will have us at the doors in a jiffy.” He opened the door of the carriage, and before David could protest, Murdo had dived inside, pulling David in behind him by the collar of his coat. They toppled down onto the floor of the carriage while Sinclair quickly closed the door and snicked the window shut.
Something slammed into the door an instant later, followed by another bellow of “Fuckin’ nerve!” A few shouts of agreement chorused this conclusion, and then the coach was creaking forward again, punctuated by the coachman yelling at the crowd again.
David got to his feet and sat down, taking the empty bench opposite the captain, while Murdo settled into the space next to their host.
“Your coachman’s going to harm someone out there,” David snapped as he dusted his clothes off. “One of the horses was spooked by the crowd and looked ready to rear. We had to jump out of the way. It is beyond reckless to plough into them like this.”
The captain just laughed, uncowed. “Don’t fuss, Mr. Latimer. These are the calmest horses you could hope to find. I’d happily take them on a battlefield.”
“It’s Lauriston,” Murdo said. “Not Latimer.” His voice sounded oddly tight.
Sinclair sent Murdo an interested look. “Lauriston,” he said as though weighing up the name, then turned to David and said lightly, “My apologies, Mr. Lauriston.”
“No apology necessary,” David replied, shrugging.
“Do you have a box?” Sinclair asked Murdo then.
“Yes.”
“Might I join you?” Sinclair wheedled. “I was going to share Lord and Lady McInroy’s, but McInroy’s a terrible bore and I’d lief as not, if you could accommodate me.”
Murdo hesitated for a barely perceptible instant. “Of course,” he said eventually, and David felt a flush begin to rise up his neck. Brief as Murdo’s pause had been, David had noticed it and heard the note of reluctance, and he rather thought, from the one-sided smile tickling the captain’s mouth, that Sinclair had too.
“Excellent.” He turned to David. “Do you know what the play is, Mr. Lauriston?”
“Rob Roy,” David answered.
“Ah, one of Sir Walter’s works. I should have guessed. The King loves them. Will the play be very different from the novel, do you suppose?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” David answered vaguely, though he really had no idea.
On the other side of the carriage, Murdo stared at them, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. He remained silent while Sinclair chattered to David, asking him whether he’d enjoyed the ball on Saturday and how he’d liked the dancing, the music, the supper.
David could see how a man like this could become a King’s favourite at so young an age. He was a pleasure to talk to, with his sparkling eyes, ready smile and amusing conversation. He could see too that there was more to him than this happy and pleasing exterior. The blue eyes that twinkled so easily held a keen intelligence and a watchfulness that was belied by his careless manner.
It was another few minutes before the coachman thumped on the roof of the carriage to signify they had reached the doors of the theatre.
“Ready to charge when I give the order?” Sinclair asked with a grin.
“This is not one of your battlefields, Sinclair,” Murdo said dryly.
“Don’t you believe it,” the captain replied, half rising from his seat. “This mob might adore the King right now, but it could turn on us all in the blink of an eye. We’re as close to revolution now as we’ve ever been, gentlemen. Can’t you just taste it in the air?” His eyes sparkled, as though the prospect of revolution was positively delightful.
He stood up, then, rocking the carriage in the process, and threw the door open, jumping down and almost knocking over an old man in a drab coat that had seen better days. The man’s shabby appearance was brightened by a smart, new-looking saltire cockade on his lapel. He let out a yell when Sinclair all but fell on top of him.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the captain said apologetically, brushing the man’s coat down with a brisk arm movement. His actions managed to elicit an answering smile from the old man, even as Sinclair manoeuvred him deftly out of the way and moved forward to knock at the closed doors of the theatre, Murdo and David a step behind.
A moment later, a slot in the door shot open, revealing a suspicious male face. On seeing the captain’s splendid uniform and Murdo’s elegance, the suspicion faded away to be replaced by an expression of obsequious pleasure that only deepened when Murdo stated his name and informed the man that he had a box waiting for him.
“Please stand aside while I open the door, my lord,” the doorkeeper said. “We are not allowing any of this mob in till His Majesty has arrived and is seated, but those that have a box may make themselves comfortable and call for refreshments in the meantime.” He opened the door by the merest crack, obliging them to squeeze themselves through the tiny gap, then closed and bolted the door behind them.
The doorkeeper transpired to be an elderly man in moth-eaten highland apparel that looked more like an old theatre costume than anything else. All the colour had faded out of the fabric, turning what would once have been a red-and-green plaid to something that looked more like pink and blue. The sporran that hung at the front of the man’s kilt looked even worse—like one of the dead rats David’s father’s terrier used to bring out of the barn at home, clamped between its jaws.
The doorkeeper clicked his fingers, and a boy—similarly bedecked in faded tartan—appeared to lead the way up the winding stairs to Murdo’s box. After three long flights of wooden steps, they reached the floor that led to the boxes. Halfway along the corridor, the boy stopped, opening the heavy velvet curtains with a distinctly theatrical flourish and ushering them inside. Murdo flipped a coin to the boy as they walked past him. He caught it and pocketed it with a grin, gave a brief bobbing bow and left them, promising someone would come to take their refreshments order directly.
Inside, the box was positively luxurious, and David guessed it must be one of the best in the theatre. The floor was carpeted with a heavy Turkish rug and furnished with four gilt-painted chairs and a small table to hold their refreshments. The curtains at the back kept any draught off.
David stepped forward to the edge of the box, curling his fingers over gilded and moulded plasterwork as he scrutinised the other boxes, some of which were already occupied. Was Elizabeth here yet? he wondered. Would she come at all?
He could see no sign either of her or of Kinnell. Not yet.
“Mr. Lauriston, would you care to sit by me?”
David turned his head. Sinclair had made himself comfortable on one of the chairs, his long legs stretched out and his black boots gleaming. He’d discarded his shako on the chair to his right, and his hands cradled the back of his dark head, scarlet-clad elbows sticking out.
He really was a very comely man.
The captain raised a questioning brow and gestured to the empty chair to his left with a jerk of his head.
David wondered where Sinclair wanted Murdo to sit. Presumably on the fourth chair, on the other side of his ridiculous hat.
Whatever the captain’s views were, Murdo had other ideas. He lifted the shako up by its black plume and tossed it at Sinclair, sitting himself down in its place.
“This is my box, and Mr. Lauriston is my guest,” he said. “He will sit beside me.”
For a moment, David just stared at him, astonished by his blatant possessiveness.
“Ah, so it’s like that, is it?” Sinclair said archly.
David opened his mouth to demur, but before he could get a word out, Murdo replied, “Yes. It is.” He gave the captain a steady look, a distinct challenge in his gaze.
Sinclair chuckled. “I did rather wonder,” he admitted. “And I don’t blame you for warning me off, Murdo. He’s awfully fetching, this one.”
A hot flash of colour invaded David’s cheeks as he absorbed the captain’s words and his gaze snapped to Murdo, his heart beginning to race.
Murdo held up a hand. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “Captain Sinclair shares our preferences. And he’s not as reckless as he appears—I’ve known him a long time. You can trust him.”
You can trust him.
That reassurance from Murdo—Murdo who had no idea as to David’s real purpose here tonight—made David’s throat tighten and guilt bloom in his gut. He wished, suddenly, he could confess it all. Perhaps he would have done, if the captain wasn’t sitting there, regarding the two of them with interested amusement.
Instead, David nodded once, then crossed the box and took the chair next to Murdo. After a moment, he let his knee loll against Murdo’s, welcoming the tiny contact, wishing he could have more.
He glanced at Murdo. The other man stared straight ahead, but one of those rare, genuine smiles of his was just tickling the corner of his mouth. He must have felt David’s gaze upon him, because he turned his head and their gazes met, and Murdo’s smile—still small and somewhat secret—deepened. Deepened, oddly, without widening. Deepened in his dark eyes; in the gaze that gentled as it moved over David’s face.
On the other side of Murdo, the captain sighed heavily.
“I should’ve stayed with the McInroys,” he muttered.
Over the next hour, the finest seats in the Theatre Royal slowly filled with Edinburgh’s best and brightest. Sinclair secured them two bottles of something that professed to be champagne but tasted rather like David’s mother’s cider.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Murdo murmured in David’s ear at one point.
“Am I?” David replied, feeling guilty. He was so absorbed in watching for Elizabeth he could barely concentrate on the conversation in the box. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Soon enough he’d be making his excuses, slipping away to try to find her, wherever she may be.
It hadn’t really occurred to him till now that he’d be leaving Murdo to his own devices when he did that. But then, perhaps it wouldn’t take so very long? Perhaps he and Elizabeth would slip out easily, find Euan, and he’d return to his seat beside Murdo with no one the wiser.
Or perhaps not.
David ran through a hundred scenarios in his mind as he watched and waited, and all the while he was bothered by that nagging sense of guilt that had first struck him when Murdo suggested they miss the performance altogether and that had been growing in him ever since.
Perhaps he should tell Murdo about the business with Elizabeth. Just do it now. He’d understand; he’d already tried to help Elizabeth once before.
But no, it would be unfair to draw him into this, and foolish, with Sinclair sitting there. And it should be a simple matter, really. The fewer people who knew, the better.
A sudden warmth on the back of his hand made him startle. It was Murdo’s hand, resting briefly on his own, squeezing gently.
“Are you all right?” Murdo whispered in his ear. “You look worried.”
David nodded. “I’m fine,” he lied.
As Murdo went to withdraw his hand, David turned his own over so their hands were palm to palm. He tangled his fingers with Murdo’s in a brief caress, and Murdo lingered too, neither of them willing to break the contact even as their hands drew apart and Murdo returned his hand to his own knee.
It was only a few minutes later that David caught a flutter of movement in the box opposite their own, a box that had sat empty all evening till now. Its occupants had finally arrived, and when David turned his head, he saw them.
Elizabeth. And Kinnell.
Kinnell was seating Elizabeth, his every movement a study in uxoriousness as he rearranged her shawl around her shoulders and murmured in her ear. Elizabeth’s expression was blank, closed. Her eyes drifted, drifted…
And then she was looking at David, her shoulders going rigid, her eyes wide and pleading, unseen by her husband.
She mouthed three words, slowly, deliberately. Unmissable.
Half. Past. Nine.
When the King arrived, the orchestra began to play a medley of Scottish airs to welcome him. Once he was safe in his box, surrounded by his inner circle, the theatre management let the wider public in to file into the cheaper seats.
The ordinary people of the town thronged inside, chattering loudly and singing, bringing the place to messy life.
When everyone that was going to get in was inside and the doors were closed once again, there was a great cheer. The King waved from his box in that benign way of his, and in response, the crowd cheered again and waved back with whatever they had, handkerchiefs and scarves, hats and ribbons.
This went on for a few minutes, till the curtains opened to reveal the cast of the play, already in costume. The orchestra struck up the national anthem, and everyone began to sing, an emotional swelling of song, complete with a new verse composed especially for the King’s visit. Unfortunately, no one seemed to know the words to the extra verse.
Then, and only then, did the performance begin.
David barely noticed what was happening on stage. He checked his watch practically every five minutes. Half past nine. Only now did it occur to David how very thin their plan was. Thin and ill thought out. Doomed. How would they find Euan in that vast crowd? How would Elizabeth ever get away from Kinnell? The man was still standing behind her—standing when there were three chairs he could have taken his pick of. One of his gloved hands rested on her shoulder, a constant reminder; a chain made flesh.
David was aware of Murdo and the captain talking occasionally, sotto voce. From time to time, Murdo murmured something in David’s ear too, and David would give a distracted smile or nod in return. He realised he was entirely failing to act normally but was powerless to do better.
At twenty-five minutes past nine, David glanced at the box opposite and saw Elizabeth rising from her seat. She walked two paces before Kinnell’s hand shot out to grasp her wrist. Turning her head, she whispered something in his ear and made to walk away again, but he kept his grip on her wrist, and a visible tension stiffened the arm that held her in place. For a moment, he held her firm, but although they were alone in the box, they were visible to everyone in the theatre and Kinnell knew it. When she tugged again, he let her go, watching her as she disappeared through the curtains at the back of their box.
David stood then, and Murdo frowned up at him, surprised. He leaned over and said in Murdo’s ear, “I feel a little warm. I’m going to get some air.”
Murdo looked unconvinced, but David forced himself to move away without further explanation, stepping quickly towards the curtains and slipping through the gap in the middle.
Once outside the box, he moved quickly, hurrying down the first two flights of stairs to the common gallery, where he found Elizabeth. She was hovering anxiously. Her worried expression eased a little when she saw him, and she stepped towards him.
“Thank God!” she exclaimed as they came together. “I don’t have long. He may follow me—I made him angry.”
“Come on, then.” David grabbed her hand, and they tripped down the last flight of steps together. They were almost at the bottom when a commanding voice, far above them, called out, “Elizabeth! Where are you?”
Elizabeth froze and looked up at David in fear.
“Ignore him,” David said. “He’s further up, and we’ll be out of here in a moment.”
For a couple of vital seconds, Elizabeth stood, locked in fear, while Kinnell’s boot heels clicked on the wooden steps above them, bringing him closer.
“Come on!” David whispered, tugging her hand. “If you don’t go now, I may never be able to help you again.”
Her expression shifted then from fear to determination, and she nodded. They took the last few stairs quickly and tumbled into the foyer at the bottom, where they found the same doorkeeper as before, pacing the floor in front of the closed door that kept the crowd outside at bay.
“Open the door,” David demanded, striding towards him, Elizabeth’s hand still in his own.
“I can’t do that!” the doorkeeper replied. “Have you seen the crowd out there? We could only let a tenth in and the rest aren’t happy—I’m not opening that door till the play’s finished.”
“Open it now!” David snapped, and he must’ve sounded serious because the little man jumped and began to get his keys out.
“Stop there!”
At the sound of that dictatorial voice, David threw a glance over his shoulder. Kinnell was just coming round the bend of the last flight of stairs. He only had another dozen steps to go and the foyer to cross and he’d be on their heels.
“No, no!” Elizabeth moaned.
The doorkeeper had just inserted the key in the lock. David pushed him aside, took hold of the key and thrust it home, grinding it in the lock. It was stiff, but he wrenched at it until the lock gave, and then he was shoving the door open, pushing Elizabeth out in front of him and slamming it behind them.
The crowd David had been expecting to dive into wasn’t there. The steps that led to the street from the theatre doors were clear, and at the bottom of them stood a line of fine carriages waiting for His Majesty’s emergence from the theatre. The crowd had been pushed well back from the carriages and was being kept in place by a line of the King’s personal guard of troops. Euan had to be in there somewhere—somewhere in that throng.
“Come on,” David said, lunging forward, pulling Elizabeth behind him. But before they’d gone a few steps, the door behind them opened with a crash.
“Elizabeth!”
David met Elizabeth’s terrified gaze. “You have to run,” he told her, pushing her towards the steps. “I’ll hold him back while you find Euan. Go.”
This time she didn’t hesitate, just lifted her skirts and ran down the steps to the street below while David turned to face Kinnell, who was right behind him, his face twisted and red with anger.
“You again!” he yelled in harsh disbelief. “Get out of my way!”
David pitched himself at Kinnell, wrapping his arms around the other man, determined to stop him getting to Elizabeth.
Kinnell’s fist connected with his stomach, and he grunted, air rushing out of him. His feet stumbled, slipping on the stairs, and they fell together, tumbling to the bottom of the steps where the carriages stood.
The fall knocked the wind out of David, but he still hung on to the other man. Run, he thought. Run.
“Let go of me, you bastard! She is my wife!” Kinnell shouted, landing another punch.
The pain of that blow to David’s kidneys was astonishing, but even though his arms felt like porridge now, he kept his arms clamped round Kinnell’s body.
“David!”
A new voice this time. Murdo.
David twisted his head, looking up the steps to where Murdo stood at the theatre doors, eyes wide as he took in the sight of David brawling in the street.
Kinnell took advantage of David’s momentary inattention, breaking out of David’s arms and stuttering to his feet.
“Elizabeth!” he yelled as he surged forward, and David somehow knew from the tone of his voice that Kinnell could see her, that he had his sights set on her now.
By some miracle, David managed to lurch to his feet again, lungs labouring, shoes scrabbling against the slippery cobbles, body protesting. He lunged after Kinnell, a headlong leap of desperation, and grabbed at the tail of Kinnell’s coat, grasping just enough of a handhold to slow the other man down again.
Kinnell swung round in David’s grip, his expression murderous now. His hands came up, and he thrust David violently away from him. The shove sent David staggering backwards. Back, back, into empty air, his arms cartwheeling for a moment.
For that moment—or maybe forever—David was suspended there, in the act of falling. Falling, to the sound of panicked whinnying and someone shouting. Falling, under the immense shadow of a carriage horse as it reared in its traces.
The falling ended with a slamming pain.
Then nothing.