CHAPTER TEN
London, August 1747
After his meeting with Caroline and Edwin, the first thing Alex had done was to return to the field near Manchester where the chest of gold was buried, to retrieve more money. The last time, when accompanied by Graeme, he had taken enough to pay for a stay in London, the adoption of another couple of disguises if necessary, and for generous bribes to prison keepers. He had, however, not taken enough to pay for a trip to France, then to Martinique, followed by a possibly lengthy stay there while he searched for Beth.
This time he made sure that he had more than enough to fund whatever might need to be done. He could hardly return from the West Indies if he were to discover a need for even more money. He could always replace some if necessary; although he doubted that Beth would complain about the amount he had spent, if it meant they were reunited.
Reunited.
He still had to pinch himself on a regular basis to make sure that this was not some dream from which he would awaken to find that she had, after all, died at Culloden. He had a second chance of life with the only woman he had ever loved, the only woman he would ever love, and he was ready to do anything, anything at all to find her and bring her home.
He had spent the evening in an inn in Lancashire, where he demanded a private room, then sat up into the night sewing the considerable amount of gold coinage he now possessed into his clothing, ensuring that if he was robbed (unlikely as that was, considering his height, build and, when he wished to display it, air of menace) he would only lose the small amount of money he carried in his purse.
The next day he set off for London, where he rented a room near to the Royal Exchange, within reasonable distance of the coffee house at which he hoped to receive news of Beth’s whereabouts. He used the name of Sarah’s fictitious cousin, Adam Featherstone, although he abandoned the country bumpkin persona he’d adopted for Lydia’s benefit on the spur of the moment; it was not wise to appear to be innocent of the ways of the town, if you wished to remain unmolested. Particularly if you were carrying a small fortune on your person. The amended Adam Featherstone was from Cheshire, and was a man of small means but large ambition, who hoped to learn more of the stock market in the hopes of investing a little money and making a lot.
Mr Featherstone had, in the recent past, he made it known in the taverns and coffee shops he frequented whilst staying in London, been a pugilist of some renown in his native Cheshire, and also enjoyed hunting when he got the opportunity. Having established himself as a man not to be messed with, and openly wearing a small sword, he wandered the streets around his lodgings unmolested.
His lodgings were within walking distance of St Paul’s and Paternoster Row, where he could often be found perusing the bookstalls, from which he frequently chose a volume to while away the lonely nights in his room. They were also close to Newgate Prison, which he studiously avoided, knowing that were he to come across the keeper Jones he would be sorely tempted to exercise his pugilistic skills, to say nothing of his expertise with the dirk (which he also wore, though not openly). He did for a time contemplate actually looking the keeper up; it was never difficult to lure a greedy man to a dark and quiet place. But then he reasoned that he must take no unnecessary chances. He had to keep his mind on the main reason for being here, and keep a low profile while doing it.
Nevertheless the temptation to be where Beth had been, however silly and sentimental that might seem, was overwhelming, particularly as the days passed with no word of the disposal of the Veteran’s prisoners. To that end he took a trip to the Tower, along with a number of other tourists, where he visited the menagerie, paying his sixpence rather than looking for a dead dog or cat to be fed to the animals, which could be presented in lieu of an entrance fee. In keeping with the other visitors, he expressed wonder at the ferocity of the lions and tigers, and joy at the grace of the cheetahs which were led about the grounds of the Tower on leashes for exercise and the wonderment of the spectators. Meanwhile he wondered where Beth had been kept whilst imprisoned here, what her thoughts had been, and how hope must have changed to despair as the weeks and then months had passed without him coming for her as he had promised to.
I am coming soon, mo chridhe, I swear it on my life, he vowed, willing the thought to somehow cross the oceans and reach her, wherever she was.
Later, back in his room he paced up and down, looking not unlike the unfortunate and bored lion in its cage at the menagerie. Four weeks had passed since his meeting with Caroline and Edwin, and still no letter had arrived at Sam’s Coffeehouse for Mr Featherstone. He dared not make enquiries about travelling to France at the moment; France and Britain were at war.
France had, only a few weeks ago, achieved a resounding victory at Lauffeldt in which Cumberland’s reputation as Commander-in-Chief of the British Army had been badly tarnished, due to him losing his nerve at a decisive moment in the battle and withdrawing his forces. Unfortunately for the podgy duke, at the same time Sir John Ligonier had successfully launched a cavalry attack on the French, which he was then unable to follow up on due to Cumberland’s withdrawal.
It was very heartening to Alex to hear that Butcher Cumberland’s laurels were being trampled in the mud, but it also meant that any attempt to seek a passage to the enemy country would have to be made discreetly and then followed through quickly in order to avoid arrest as a possible spy or Jacobite. As eager as he was to be reunited with Beth, it would be idiotic after years of evading capture as Sir Anthony, to risk it now due to impatience and a wish to be active.
Instead he went to visit Sarah, partly because he liked her, and anyone who knew Mr Featherstone to be her cousin would expect him to, partly to see his beautiful little niece, even though her resemblance to his dead brother tore at his heart, and partly to obtain reassurance that Edwin and Caroline hadn’t changed their minds about contacting him when they had information.
“No, they wouldn’t do that,” Sarah said as they tucked into a hot steak pie and some boiled potatoes that Alex had purchased from a local cookshop on his way to see her. They were sitting in her little living room around the table. As soon as Màiri saw Alex she made a beeline for him, reaching her arms up to him. She had not lost physical contact with him since, with the result that he was now attempting to eat one-handed, the other being employed in supporting the little girl who was sitting on his knee. Sarah watched him struggling to cut his way through the pastry for a few moments, then pulled his plate across and deftly hacked her way through the crust before pushing it back to him.
“She’s completely different with you,” Sarah observed, watching as her daughter leaned comfortably back against Alex’s chest. He mashed half a potato against the plate, then lifted a forkful to his lips, blowing on it gently until it was cool enough before feeding it to his charge. “She’s shy with strangers normally.”
“Aye, but I’m no’ a stranger,” Alex said, lapsing into Scots now they were alone. “She kens we’re related.”
“You are, really?” Sarah asked softly. He paused with a forkful of steaming meat halfway to his mouth, and looked at her.
“Have you forgotten your cousin Adam so quickly?” he joked in a Mancunian accent. “If I’m your cousin, then it follows I’m hers too.”
Sarah didn’t pursue the matter. She knew better than that.
“I sometimes wonder if…no, it doesn’t matter. It’s silly,” she said.
“What? Ye can tell me, an ye want.”
“I…since you told me about Murdo…I wonder if maybe he knows somehow, about Màiri. There used to be an old woman in my village who said that the spirits of the dead would come back to watch over their families sometimes, and that very young children could see them because they were sensitive to such things.”
Alex smiled.
“I dinna rightly ken, but I’m sure of one thing; if he knows of her he’ll come to see her, and you too.”
“Sometimes she looks into space and smiles, as though she can see someone there. Once she lifted her arms, like she does when she sees you. But I thought you were a Catholic,” she added.
“Who tellt ye that?”
“No one. But I know that Beth is, and your cook…Sir Anthony’s cook Maggie, she is too. So I thought you probably were as well. Catholics don’t believe in ghosts, do they?”
“Aye, well, I daresay if you tellt a priest that Màiri had seen a ghost, he’d warn you that Satan sends such demons in the guise of loved ones to tempt you into sin. But then he’d also tell you that there’s no such thing as the second sight, but I’ve seen proof of that for myself. There are a lot of things we canna explain, but that doesna mean they’re evil. If the wee one here sees her father, then that can only be a good thing. There wasna an evil bone in his body.”
Sarah smiled, but her eyes were soft and sad.
“My father said the old woman was a witch and in league with the devil. He tried to bring a prosecution against her, but he couldn’t get anyone to take him seriously. Everyone knew she was just a harmless old woman whose mind was a bit weak.”
Alex raised his eyebrows and Sarah caught the look.
“He was a preacher,” she said, “and a vicious bastard who knew a lot more about the devil than any silly old woman.”
“Is he dead?” Alex asked.
“I don’t know. I hope so. And if there is a God and a devil, I’m sure he’s burning in hell right now, and Richard Cunningham with him. Oh! I forgot to tell you, Anne had a letter from Richard’s colonel. It seems Richard died during the execution of his duties. He was very brave, and it was very quick. He didn’t suffer at all.”
Alex’s mouth twisted.
“Aye, well, he was brave, that much is true. The man was evil, but he was never a coward, even at the end. Was Anne upset?”
“Of course she was! She’s an idiot. No, that’s not fair. She’s tender-hearted. But she was also very relieved. He was trying to take Georgie away from her. Caroline told me that Beth asked her and Edwin about the law and Edwin said it was possible Richard would win. I think that was one of the reasons why she told Newcastle that Richard was a traitor. And I think another reason she did it was because of me,” Sarah finished in a small voice. She put her knife and fork down, even though she’d only eaten a small amount of her meal.
“You?” Alex said.
“Yes. I’ve been thinking about it ever since Caroline told us what Beth had done. Just before Beth went to see Newcastle I visited her, and we were talking about Richard. I told her that I had a pistol and that if he ever came to the shop again I’d blow his brains out. She told me I couldn’t do that, because he was a soldier, and I’d hang. And I told her that I’d take my chance, but I would never let him anywhere near me again. I’m so sorry.”
“You shouldna be sorry. You’d have been right to shoot him.”
“I know, but if I hadn’t told her maybe she’d still be here. She did it to protect me, and I feel terrible about it.” Her eyes filled with tears. Alex put his own cutlery down and leaned across the table, capturing one of her hands.
“Sarah, dinna blame yourself. Beth would have gone to Newcastle anyway, to protect Anne and to get revenge for herself and our bairn. It isna your fault. You mustna think that way, no’ for a minute. The fact that she was protecting you and Màiri too would have been a consideration, I’ll no’ lie, but it was no’ the only reason.”
Sarah looked down at his hand enfolding hers. It was large, long-fingered like Murdo’s, but unlike his there was a ridge of scar tissue across the back of it. A tear splashed onto the table.
“She doesn’t know about Màiri,” Sarah whispered. “I never told her. I couldn’t bear to tell her the lie that she was my sister’s baby, and I…I thought she might be disgusted with me because I’d lain with Murdo without being married to him. Every time I saw her I determined to tell her, and every time I lost the courage.”
“She wouldna have been disgusted with you, any more than I am,” Alex reassured her. “I’m glad ye did lie with him, for there’s something of him left behind and that’s a comfort to me, and would be to Beth too.”
“I know that now,” Sarah said. “When you find her, will you tell her for me? And let her know I’m sorry I didn’t tell her myself?”
He could not promise what he wanted to, that he would bring Beth to see Sarah, so she could tell her herself. That would be too dangerous.
“I will. And when I do I’m sure ye’ll be getting a letter of some kind, from somewhere, about it. Maybe no’ from Beth, though. Maybe from your cousin Adam’s new wife.”
He winked, and in spite of herself she smiled.
“I do like you, Cousin Adam,” she said. “I wish you really were my cousin.”
He nodded, then squeezed her hand and let it go. They carried on eating in companionable silence, each wrapped up in their own thoughts.
* * *
Another two weeks of excruciating boredom passed, in which Alex went for long walks, read more books and finally wrote to Angus, something he’d intended to wait to do until he had more definite news to relay. He had already been away from home for over two months, and it seemed unfair to make his brother wait any longer. So James Drummond’s Uncle Archie wrote to him, telling him that the package he had gone to retrieve had unfortunately been mislaid, but he had high hopes of being able to locate it soon and would notify his dear nephew as soon as he had more news of it.
The next morning he took the letter to the post and then headed off for his regular morning coffee. Mr Featherstone was now a familiar face, calling in as he did every day to read the periodicals and enjoy a beverage. Although he was not a gregarious man he’d become embroiled in a number of discussions, and had made a few acquaintances in the weeks he’d been patronising the establishment. It was impossible to frequent a coffee house and not become engaged in conversation; that was after all the primary purpose of them.
“Found anything to invest in yet, Featherstone?” a fellow customer called as he saw the newcomer signalling for coffee. Mr Featherstone made his way over to join the man, a portly butter merchant who dropped in periodically to get a little respite from his wife and ten children. He usually came early in the morning, as by noon the place would be full of people and the ensuing debates would become lively and sometimes aggressive. At the moment, although at another communal table a group of men were already engaged in a heated debate about the War of the Austrian Succession, the merchant was the sole occupier of this table on the opposite side of the room.
“No,” Featherstone replied. “Everything seems either to promise too little return, or too much. The last thing I want is to lose all my hard-earned money on something like the South Sea disaster, or that Darien venture the Scotch lost everything on. I’ve no wish to lose my independence due to greed, as Scotland did.”
“I take your point, sir,” the butter merchant said. “But I think it was more than the failure of the Darien enterprise that led to the Act of Union.”
“You say so?” Adam commented. “I don’t know a lot about the Scotch myself. A strange heathen nation, I’ve been told, although I believe they’re coming into line now, since the rebels were routed.” It would do no harm, were Mr Featherstone ever to come under suspicion, for it to be reported that he knew little and cared less about the fate of the North British.
“Indeed sir, you have it. Things are changing there, and all to the good I think. If you ask me—”
The waiter arrived with the coffee, and a paper, which he handed to his customer.
“Letter came for you about half an hour ago, Mr Featherstone,” he said. Adam took the proffered missive, glanced at the seal, and then put it in his pocket.
“Don’t mind me,” his companion said. “Read your letter if you want.”
“No, it’s from my aunt, who lives down in Sussex. She writes the most tedious news, how many eggs the chickens have laid, that sort of thing. It will wait. You were saying about Scotland?”
“Ah, yes. I really do believe, now that the Highlands are being brought into line, that Scotland will become civilised. Of course it will take some time, but…”
Alex listened patiently while the genial merchant unknowingly maligned his country, his clansmen and his ancestors, occasionally dropping in a question to keep the man talking until he could finish his coffee, order another as was his custom, and enquire as to whether there was any news worth reading in the Gazette.
After an hour, which was the normal amount of time he stayed, Mr Featherstone made his farewells and set off for his lodgings at a leisurely pace. When he got back he exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather with his landlady and then made his way up to his room.
Only then did he show the urgency he had felt for the last two hours, pulling out the letter which had been burning a hole in his pocket since he’d received it, and breaking the seal. He unfolded it, to be confronted by a single line of writing.
There is news. Please call at your earliest convenience.
There was no salutation, and no signature. He could glean no hint as to whether the news was good or bad. Damn.
His first urge was to run back down the stairs, hire a horse and gallop to Summer Hill immediately. But if he did that he would attract a lot of attention, not least from his inquisitive and gossipy landlady. Sir Anthony Peters had never been apprehended, because Alex MacGregor knew the importance of reining in his impulsive nature and attending to details.
So he waited in his room for the longest hour of his life, until the landlady went out to market, after which he made his way to the nearest inn with horses for hire, hired one for a week, mentioning in passing that he was going to visit an aunt in Oxford who had been unexpectedly taken ill, then trotted out of London along the Oxford road for a couple of miles before deviating off it and heading in the direction of Sussex.
Only then did he give the horse its head, arriving in the late afternoon at a different inn to the one he had stayed at with Sarah. As much as he wanted to ride straight to Summer Hill, Sarah’s cousin Adam was not the sort of person to be able to afford a horse.
So he paid for a room and stabling under the name of Oliver Price, then advised the landlord with a wink and a lewd expression that if his luck was in he might not need the room, but was happy to pay for it, just in case the lady in question was not as accommodating as he hoped.
An hour of very brisk walking saw him standing in the driveway of Summer Hill. He paused just long enough to send up a prayer that all was well, walked up the steps and knocked deferentially at the door, removing his hat and twisting it in his hands while he waited for someone to answer his knock. Anyone observing would have thought that perhaps he was asking for work and was somewhat nervous of the response he would get from the master or mistress.
After a minute a maid opened the door.
“Ah, Mr Featherstone is it?” she said.
“Yes, miss,” he replied, bowing.
She grinned and blushed, obviously both amused that this handsome young man was ignorant enough to think he had to bow to her, and flattered as well.
“You’re expected. If you follow me,” she said, sashaying ahead of him in what was clearly meant to be an enticing manner. She knocked politely on the library door, then opened it. “Mr Featherstone is here, Sir Edwin, Lady Caroline,” she said.
So, they were both waiting for him. It was important news then. Alex felt the adrenalin surge through his veins, but gave no outward sign as he moved into the room at the maid’s signal. He bowed clumsily to Edwin and Caroline, keeping in character because the maid was still there but noting that they both looked tense, Edwin especially so.
“My lord, my lady,” he said.
“You may go, Emily,” Caroline said to the hovering maid.
“Yes, my lady. Shall I fetch tea?” she asked hopefully.
“No, thank you. That will be all,” Caroline replied in a tone that ensured they were alone within seconds. “Please, Mr Featherstone, take a seat,” she said, before walking past Alex to the door, opening it and looking out into the hall. She closed it again.
“We can speak freely,” she announced. “Anthony, how are you? Your face has healed!”
It had. As Sarah’s cousin had not told Lydia that his facial disfigurement was permanent, he had allowed it to heal naturally, once the need to be a one-legged battle-scarred army veteran had passed.
“I received your message this morning,” he replied, too anxious to hear the news to engage in small talk. “You have news of Beth?”
Edwin and Caroline exchanged a look.
“Sit down, Anthony, please,” Edwin said.
Alex put his hat on the back of the sofa and sat down on the edge of it. Edwin and Caroline sat opposite him.
“Perhaps tea would be a good idea after all?” Edwin said. Caroline made as if to stand.
“No, tell me the news first,” Alex replied, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.
“A letter arrived this week, from the Marquis de Caylus. He’s the—”
“Governor of Martinique,” Alex interrupted. “I’m sorry. Go on.”
“The prisoners who were on the Veteran have all been released,” Edwin continued. “The Duke of Newcastle has written a letter demanding that they be returned, but the marquis’ letter is dated the end of May, so it isn’t a reply to that. It doesn’t say anything about whether the prisoners will be sent back, or where they are right now.”
Alex ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and disappointment. This was no news at all, in his view. He had known that the governor would not just send the prisoners back to Britain of his own accord. Although they had been released, rather than being held awaiting negotiations, which was something.
What would Beth do? He sat there, thinking furiously. She thinks I’m dead, he reminded himself. Would she come back to Britain, in that case? If she did, she would go to her friends in Manchester, or to the MacGregors. But then she would risk capture, and possibly bring danger to her friends too. No. She would not do that. Maybe…
He looked up, aware that both Caroline and Edwin were staring at him anxiously.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said.
Edwin had a rolled-up paper in his hand which he was twisting, much as Alex had twisted his hat on the doorstep when he was being the nervous Adam.
“Er…the marquis said that all the prisoners…ex-prisoners were being treated well, and were free to—”
“For God’s sake, man, tell me what it is!” Alex interrupted, his voice rising.
Edwin blanched.
“Edwin, he needs to know. Beating around the bush isn’t going to make it any easier,” Caroline said.
“Needs to know what?” Alex asked.
“She’s dead,” Caroline said bluntly.
“Caroline!” Edwin cried in distress.
“I’m so sorry,” Caroline said, her tone softer now. “The marquis enclosed a list of those who had died during the voyage or shortly after landing. Her name is on the list.”
“Is that the list?” Alex said, very quietly.
“Yes,” Edwin said. “Anthony, I—”
Alex held his hand out.
“Let me see,” he said.
Edwin handed it over. Alex unrolled it carefully, then scanned down the list of names. It was a short list, comprising only eight names. Hers was at the bottom and had obviously been added after the others, in a different hand.
Lady Elizabeth Peters.
He looked up at the two worried faces across from him.
“Was she listed on the original ship’s manifesto as Lady Elizabeth Peters?” he asked.
“No,” Edwin replied, clearly taken aback by the unnatural calmness his friend was showing at this catastrophic news. He had paled, but otherwise showed no reaction. “No, she was listed as Elizabeth Cunningham.”
Alex nodded.
“She arrived there alive, then,” he said softly. He placed one finger on his lips, kissed it, then very gently ran it along her name. He rolled the paper up and placed it on the table.
“Thank you,” he said. Then in one quick movement he stood, turned, and walked out of the room, leaving the library door open.
He was halfway across the hall before Caroline caught up with him.
“Anthony,” she said, in her distress forgetting he was supposed to be Adam, “you can’t leave like that. I’m sorry, but there was no easy way to tell you.”
“I needed to know. You did right,” he said without turning back or stopping. She followed him across the hall and gripped his arm to stop him as he opened the front door.
“Please,” she begged. “Please, don’t leave, not yet.”
He froze, his body rigid, trembling with suppressed emotion.
“Let me go,” he said, in a tone that brooked no refusal.
She lifted her hand from his arm and he carried on immediately, walking down the steps that led to the drive without looking back.
Caroline went back into the library and joined Edwin at the window, where he was watching the man whose identity he did not know, but who he loved anyway, walk purposefully, not down the drive as one would expect but across the lawn at the front of the house, as though incapable of going in any direction except straight ahead. Edwin glanced at his wife, saw the tears welling in her eyes, and put his arm round her, pulling her in to his side.
“I shouldn’t have told him like that,” she said brokenly. “I should have found a better way than that.”
“No,” Edwin said. “There’s no good way to tell someone that sort of news. You were braver than I, that’s all. I thought he took it very well, considering.”
“No,” she said. “No, he didn’t.”
Edwin opened his mouth to contradict her, then stopped. Halfway across the lawn, about a hundred yards from the house Alex had stopped at an oak tree which was in his path and which had not been chopped down, partly because it was a particularly lovely specimen, and partly because it would provide natural shade in the summer for tea parties and suchlike. He leaned against it for a minute, his forehead resting on the trunk, his hands braced on the rough bark. Then he stood upright, clenched his fist and hit the tree as hard as he could, over and over again. His accompanying roar of pure agony and despair carried across the lawn, bringing more than one servant to a window to see what was happening.
“Dear God!” Edwin said. As one they both turned and ran out of the room, across the hall and down the steps, intending together to insist that their friend come back, to find a way to console him, although they had no idea how they would achieve that. But before they’d made it more than a few feet across the grass, Alex stepped away from the tree and carried on across the lawn, walking so quickly that they would have had to run at full speed to catch up with him. Edwin would have done just that, had Caroline not gripped the sleeve of his shirt and stopped him.
“Let him go,” she said. “We can’t help him, not now, at least.”
“We can’t let him leave like that!” Edwin cried. “God knows what he might do!”
He pulled away, tearing his shirt sleeve in the process. Caroline ran in front of him and gripped his arm with all her strength, bringing him to a halt.
“Edwin,” she said, her voice trembling with tears and distress, “we’ve just broken his heart. You were right when you said you were afraid of what he’d do when we told him. He’s beyond reason, we both saw that just now. If we try to bring him back, he might become violent. And if he does, he’ll regret it once he comes to his senses. We can’t do anything for him now. Let him go. He needs to be alone, I think. By the time he gets back to London he’ll have calmed down a little. We’ll go to see him tomorrow when he’s had time to take in the news.”
“We don’t know where he’s staying,” Edwin pointed out, still anxious to go after his friend before he got too far away.
“We’ll find him. Sarah will know where he’s staying,” Caroline said. “He’s supposed to be her cousin, after all. She’s sure to know.”
Edwin stopped pulling away, but was still clearly torn.
“I want to go after him too,” Caroline said. “But when I stopped him in the hall, he was shaking with the effort of holding himself together. He didn’t want us to see him fall apart and I think, as his friends we have to respect that.”
Edwin sighed and gave in, because she was right. They stood together and watched their friend stride away across the grass, both of them heedless of the rain that had started to fall or the servants staring with curiosity at the uncharacteristic behaviour of their employers. They watched as he walked up the incline to the top of the slope on which their Grecian temple or gothic building would one day be situated, and then he continued without pausing to admire the beautiful view, and passed out of their sight.
They stood for a while longer, still staring at the last place they had seen him, as though expecting him to come back and accept the comfort they both longed to give him. They stood until the rain soaked through their clothes and hair, running down their faces, mingling with the tears that both of them had shed.
Then they turned, and arm in arm slowly made their way back to the house.
* * *
The shop was closed, Màiri was settled in her bed for the night and Sarah was sitting with her feet in a basin of hot water sprinkled with dried lavender flowers and rose petals that she’d bought from a street seller on the corner. The relaxing scent of summer filled the room and Sarah sat back in the chair and sighed blissfully. She closed her eyes and was once again walking along a country lane, her hand firmly clasped in a strong warm one, except the strong warm hand of her imagination was Murdo’s, not Anthony/Adam’s, and the eyes looking down at her were clear grey like his daughter’s, rather than slate blue.
She hadn’t realised that she’d fallen asleep until the knock came on the door, soft, timid even, but even so, unusual enough to bring her instantly to wakefulness. She moved to stand, forgetting that her feet were in the basin, upending it and tipping scented water and soggy petals across the floor.
“Damn!” she said. “Who is it?” she called, not loudly enough to wake her daughter, but enough for whoever was at the door to hear her. It was the back door that led to the alley, so she reached for the pistol that she kept ready on a high shelf out of Màiri’s reach.
“I have something for you,” a voice replied after such a long silence that she had started to think the knock had been part of her dream. She put the pistol down and opened the door immediately, expecting Anthony, as she still thought of him, to walk in.
In the dim evening light she could just make out the shape of him leaning against the wall on the other side of the alley, drenched to the skin from the rain that had fallen steadily for the last few hours. Inexplicably, in view of the weather, rather than wearing his coat he carried it over one arm.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked, instantly alert. When he had called to see her the last time he had come to the front door, as anyone would expect her cousin to do. “Is there something wrong?”
“I didna want anyone to see me like this,” he said, and the combination of him not having moved away from the wall and speaking in a Scottish accent out of doors, rang alarm bells with her. There was something wrong. Quickly she stepped out into the alley, glancing from left to right to see if there was anyone there. Then she gripped his arm and pulled him out of the alley and into her room, closing and locking the door behind her before turning back to face him.
He stood in the middle of the room, the rain dripping from his clothes joining the water from the upended basin on the stone floor. In the fire and candlelight she could see that his face was white, his expression dazed, and he was shivering uncontrollably. There was clearly something very, very wrong.
Her first instinct, as always, was practical. Going into the bedroom she returned a moment later with a blanket, which she laid over the chair.
“Come on,” she said. “You need to get warm.” Gently she took the folded coat from his arm and hung it on a hook near the fire to dry. It was heavier than she had expected it to be, but she put that down to the fact that it was wet. As he still stood unmoving, his eyes glazed, she then pulled his shirt out of his breeches, intending to help him lift it over his head, as he seemed incapable of doing anything at the moment.
Then she stopped, assailed by the memory of all the shirts she’d helped men to take off in her past life, having to pretend she couldn’t wait to see what was underneath, while dreading what was to come. She took a deep breath, dismissed the memory, and reached for the bottom of the shirt again. His hands moved over hers arresting her movement, and she looked up at him. His eyes had cleared, and his expression told her that he knew exactly what she’d just been thinking.
Sir Anthony always had an uncanny ability for reading people’s minds, she thought.
“I’m sorry, lassie,” he said softly. “I shouldna have come here the night. It’s strange,” he continued, speaking more to himself than to her. “Last time I wanted to be alone, but this time…I couldna bear it. And you’re the closest I have to family here.”
“Then you should have come,” she said, “whatever it is that’s happened.” His hands were warm on hers and she realised that it was shock, not cold that was causing him to shiver. Whatever it was was very bad. She looked down and gasped. His right hand was badly swollen and covered with clotted blood.
“What have you done to your hand?” she cried.
He followed her gaze, staring at his mangled hand as though aware for the first time that he was injured.
“I…I dinna rightly remember,” he said.
He released her hands and turning, swiftly lifted his shirt over his head, placing it near the fire to dry. She had a glimpse of a broad, heavily muscled back and long, powerful arms, and then he unfolded the blanket and wrapped it round his shoulders. He sat down on the chair opposite to hers. She hesitated for a moment, torn between the wish to tend his injured hand and the need to find out what was wrong. Then she sat down facing him.
“What is it?” she asked. “It’s Beth, isn’t it? What’s happened to her?” She couldn’t think of anything else that would have brought this strong, capable man to the state he was in right now.
“She’s dead,” he said, as bluntly as Caroline had done earlier that day. He looked up at Sarah and his eyes filled with tears, which spilled down his cheeks unheeded. “She’s dead,” he repeated in a choked voice. He lifted his hands and covered his face, the blanket falling from his shoulders.
“Oh, God!” he cried. “I canna bear it.”
She rose from her chair instinctively and crossed the space between them, kneeling by his side and pulling his head onto her shoulder. He wrapped his arms round her and sobbed, his whole body shaking uncontrollably with grief. Gently she stroked his hair and murmured meaningless sounds of comfort, while the tears poured down her own face, dripping onto his hair. How could someone as full of life as Beth was be dead? It wasn’t possible.
Of course it was possible. It was just the sort of thing that the jealous, vengeful God her bastard of a father had believed in, had taught her to believe in, would do; take away the life of someone beautiful and caring just when she had everything to live for, even though she hadn’t known it. What had this man done to deserve to suffer such grief, not once, but twice? Nothing.
There was no God. And if there was, she wanted nothing to do with Him.
She sat, her mind full of hatred and pity, love and grief, and comforted this man whose name she did not know, until his sobs turned to hiccups and then shuddering breaths as he fought to regain control of himself. Then very gently she released him, stood up, and pulled the blanket back over his shoulders. She gave him her handkerchief, and he leaned back in the chair, wiped his eyes and blew his nose, still breathing heavily. She put some more wood on the fire, which was burning very low, noting with surprise that enough time had passed for the spilled water to have spread across the stone floor and started to dry.
She picked up the basin, hung the kettle on its hook over the fire to boil some water, and went into the shop to get some salve for Alex’s hand. When she came back he was standing and had his shirt in his hands ready to put back on, although it was still obviously wet. The church clock struck eleven.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he said. “I canna imagine what ye must think of me. I shouldna have come here tonight. It’s late. I’ll go, and let ye away to your bed.”
“Yes, you should have come. And if it was possible to think more of you than I already do, I would. Don’t leave yet. Let your shirt dry properly. I’ll look at your hand. I’m no Anne, but I can at least wash it for you.”
He looked down at his swollen hand, then straightened his fingers carefully, wincing as he did. “I dinna think there’s any bones broken,” he said indifferently.
She took the shirt out of his hands and hung it back up to continue drying. Then she bustled about, getting two pewter mugs from the dresser and pouring gin from a jug into them, followed by hot water and a spoonful of honey. She stirred briskly and handed him a cup. The scent of juniper rose from the mug.
“Sit down,” she said. “I’ll tend your hand, and while I do you can tell me what happened, if you feel able to. And drink that, it’ll comfort you.”
He sat, and drank, and told her what had happened earlier in the day, while she tenderly washed the blood away from his hand and examined it. The knuckles were badly swollen and skinned, and his whole hand was blackened with bruising, but it seemed he was right; nothing was broken, and in time it would heal.
“I canna mind what happened after I left,” he said. “I walked across the grass, I remember that, and then I was at the inn where I left the horse. I tellt the landlord some nonsense about the lady no’ being agreeable and that I’d decided to go home after all, then I rode back to London like the devil. I’ve no idea why I pushed the poor horse so, I didna have anything to come back for. Anyway, I sat in my room for a while, and then I thought I was going to go mad so I came here. I did need to come, but it could have waited till the morning. I wanted to—”
He was interrupted by a noise from the bedroom, then a small voice cried, “Adam!”
“Oh, Christ,” he said softly. “I’m—”
“If you say you’re sorry once more, I’m going to hit you,” Sarah said. She disappeared into the adjoining room, returning a minute later with a wild-haired, sleepy-eyed bundle in her arms. On seeing Alex, Màiri beamed and lunged towards him, causing Sarah to nearly drop her. Alex leaned across and grabbed the little girl, settling her on his lap, where she snuggled in against his bare chest. He pulled the blanket back up around them both, so that only her head was visible. She rested it against him, her eyes already closing again.
“Say goodnight,” Sarah said, “and then you have to go back to bed.”
“Ah, no, let her bide awhile,” Alex said softly. “She’s nae bother, and I need to say goodbye to her,” he added when Sarah looked doubtful.
She sat down suddenly.
“You’re leaving?” she asked.
“Aye, I’m leaving,” he said. “I’ve no reason to stay now, lassie. And I’m a danger to ye every day I stay. If someone finds out ye’ve no’ got a cousin Adam—”
“How would anyone find that out?” she asked. “I don’t want you to go,” she added sadly.
He smiled, his eyes warm, sad, still red-rimmed from weeping.
“I canna stay, Sarah. I have to try to go on wi’ my life. It’s what she’d want. Ye tellt me that when she was very ill she said she wanted to die, but then she changed her mind.”
“Yes,” Sarah said. “It was very sudden. She was eating and drinking because we blackmailed her into it, but then suddenly she got her spirit back, and that was when we knew she was going to get better.”
“Aye, well, she remembered,” he said.
“Remembered what?”
“That for us, suicide is a mortal sin. If she’d let herself die then she’d no’ have gone to Heaven and never could have been reunited with me. She knew well that I’d be waiting for her. And now she’s waiting for me, and I must take comfort from that and go on until God sees fit to let me go. I’ve an oath to fulfil, and maybe I can be useful in some other ways. And when He chooses to take me, then I’ll go to her gladly. What’s amiss?”
“You really believe that, don’t you?” Sarah said. “Do you think Murdo’s waiting for me, too?”
“I do. Do ye no’ believe in God at all? I ken ye’re no’ of my faith, but surely you believe that Christ is our Saviour? Did your father no’ teach you that, and him a minister?”
“No,” she said bitterly. “My father taught me that I was full of sin, and that God hated sinners and would send me straight to hell. He said that everyone was evil, but women even more so because of Eve, and that it was his duty as one who had seen the light and the will of God to drive Satan out of me in the hope that God would take pity on me. I don’t know if there is a God or not, but if there is, then He must be evil. What sort of God needs a little girl to be beaten and starved for Him to take pity on her?”
“God isna evil,” Alex said softly. “He loves us so much that He sent His only son to die for us, so that we could be forgiven. It’s no’ just the Catholics who believe that, but the Anglicans too, and other Christians. We’ve our differences, it’s true, but we all believe that. It seems to me that it was your father who was evil, no’ God.”
Màiri murmured softly in her sleep, and then settled closer in to him.
“The Christ I learned about loves bairns,” Alex said, smiling down at the little dark head resting trustingly against his chest. “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of Heaven. That’s what He said.”
“That’s what…someone told me that once,” Sarah said, straining to remember. She knew that biblical phrase. Who had said that to her? Not her father. He never would have said anything so gentle.
“Sarah, I wouldna ask you to bring wee Màiri up as a Catholic,” Alex said, “for that would bring you a world of trouble. But I wouldna want you to raise her in the hate of God either. For if you do, then it seems to me that your father will have won, and will have shut you out of the light of Christ forever. Dinna let a twisted man make your mind up for you on this. You must look into it yourself and make your own decision.”
“I’ve never thought of it in that way before,” Sarah said.
“You’re a good woman and a clever one, and a wonderful mother to this wee lassie,” Alex said. “Ye’ll do right by her, I’m sure of that.”
“I’ll look into it, for her sake if not for mine,” Sarah said. “But I can’t promise you anything.”
“No more do I expect you to,” Alex replied. “Now you must away to your bed, for it’s after midnight. No,” he said when she bent to lift Màiri from his lap, “please, let her bide a wee bit longer. She’s a comfort to me, and I need that tonight. I’ll no’ leave her alone.”
Sarah smiled. That meant he would stay the night, and in the morning he would still be there and she would have at least a little time more with him.
So she went to bed and lay for a while, wondering how a man who had just lost his wife for the second time, after having his hopes raised and then destroyed, could still believe in a God that would do such a thing. And then she cried for the loss of the woman she had called her friend, who had changed her life forever, and who she would never see again, and for the father of her child, who was also gone forever. She wondered if they were both in whatever Heaven was, waiting together for the handsome, enigmatic man sitting in the next room to pass from this life and join them. And then she fell asleep.
She woke at some point in the dead of night, and seeing the faint yellow light under the door she got out of bed and padding barefoot across the room, she opened it, intending to check on her daughter and maybe bring her to bed.
He was slumped back in the chair asleep, his long hair tumbling over his shoulders, his injured hand resting on the arm of the chair, his other arm wrapped protectively around the child. At some point Màiri must have moved, dislodging the blanket in the process.
The candle was still burning on the table and Sarah stood watching them, the powerful, heavily muscled man, his face peaceful in repose, long lashes resting gently on his cheeks as he slept, and the tiny fragile body of her daughter cradled tenderly against his chest, her dark hair fanned out across his bicep, her equally long lashes fluttering slightly as she dreamed.
She stood watching them for a long time, burning the memory into her mind, knowing that it would have to last her for the rest of her life. Then finally and with infinite care, she tucked the blanket around them both and went back to bed.
When she woke again it was full daylight. She yawned and stretched and looked automatically to the small bed in the corner, although she already remembered Màiri had slept in the living room. But to her surprise the little girl was in her bed, still asleep.
He must have come in at some point during the night, Sarah realised, and put Màiri back to bed. She lay for a moment, hoping to hear sounds of him moving around in the living room, but apart from the distant noises of the street coming from the front of the building, there was silence. He must still be asleep. That was understandable. He’d had a long ride and a terrible shock the day before. She got up, yawning, and wondering what time it was wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and opening the bedroom door walked into her living room.
It was empty, the fire burnt down to embers and not replenished, the candle snuffed out. Because the living room boasted no window of its own, the only light came from the small barred window of the bedroom, and at first she didn’t see the coat still lying on her chair, a dark shape against the light cushions. When she did, her heart soared. He had not left yet then. Maybe he had stepped out, gone to a bakeshop to buy bread, perhaps.
In the gloom she crouched down by the fire, blowing on the embers until they glowed. Then she added a few small sticks and soon she had enough of a flame going to add some logs. Although August, it was still chilly in the room; and having been cold for so much of her life, a good supply of wood or coal was one of the luxuries she allowed herself. She stood up. She would dress and then get some water from the pump in the street, and make tea to go with whatever Anthony brought back.
It was as she turned that she noticed the two mugs and jug were still on the table from the night before. And that all three vessels were full to overflowing.
With gold.
Her forehead creased and she bent over, picking one of the coins up and looking at it. It was a guinea. Twenty-one shillings. That was more than a week’s earnings for her – a good week’s earnings. She tipped the cup up and gold showered across the table, more than a year’s earnings in one cup. What was going on? It must belong to Anthony, but why had he filled the containers with it like that?
She moved to the chair and lifted the coat, noting how much lighter it was now that it was dry. And then she saw that the hem of the coat had been roughly unpicked, the lining torn in places. That was why it had been so heavy the previous evening, she realised. It was the weight of coins, not rain! So he had unpicked the hems and removed all the gold. But why?
As she lifted the coat off the chair a folded sheet of paper which had been pinned to it fluttered to the ground. She picked it up, realising that it was a page from her account book which had been torn out; one edge of the page was jagged. On it her name had been written in a smooth, flowing hand.
She moved back to the fire and unfolded it, reading it by the light of the flames.
I trust you, it said. Burn this.
The money is for Màiri, and for you. Enjoy her childhood, and your life. Take her to the countryside and pick flowers, and think of Beth from time to time.
Our name is outlawed and she dare not use it, but when she’s older and times have changed, I leave it to you to decide whether or not to tell Màiri MacGregor that her Uncle Alex was proud to have known both her and her mother, and that she has Duncan’s eyes.
A huge lump rose in her throat, and she closed her eyes tightly in a vain attempt to stop the tears from coming. The realisation that he had gone and that she would never see him again hit her like a blow, temporarily rendering the information in the letter meaningless. A wave of loneliness so powerful it made her gasp tore through her, and she sat down heavily on the chair, clutching her stomach and trying not to voice her distress and wake her daughter.
She sat like that for some time, until the worst of the despair passed a little and she could think clearly. Then she picked up the note from the floor and read it again. And again. And again. When she was sure that every word of the note was burned into her brain and her heart, she kissed it and then placed it into the flames, watching until it had burnt completely to ash.
“Duncan MacGregor,” she whispered to the empty room, “I love you. I will always love you. I’ll make you proud of your daughter, and one day I’ll tell her what kind of man you were and what kind of man your brother Alex is, and she will be proud to be Màiri MacGregor.” She waited a moment as though expecting a response to her declaration, then shook her head at her own folly.
Then she leaned across the table and carefully counted the gold coins, stacking them in little piles as she did.
Two hundred guineas. At least five years’ earnings, probably more.
He could not give her what she craved; no one could bring the man she loved back from the dead. But he had given her the next best things. His absolute trust. A name for her daughter and a sense of family. And security. Whatever happened to her business now, she would not starve and her daughter would never have to do what she’d done to survive. If Màiri ever gave herself to a man it would be through love, not necessity. He could not have given her a more precious gift, and he had known that.
It was why he had come to see her last night, what he had been trying to tell her when Màiri had interrupted him. In spite of his grief and despair, he had thought of her and his niece.
“I will take her to the country,” she said aloud. “And I’ll pick flowers, and I’ll think of Beth, and of Duncan, and of you, Alex MacGregor. And if your God is as good as you say, one day we will meet again.”
She put the money away, very carefully, and then she went into the bedroom, to wake Màiri, to dress and to start her day.
* * *
Once back in his lodgings Alex packed a small bag with his spare clothes. He still had a good amount of money about his person. More than enough to get home to Scotland in style. He sat for a while and thought about it.
He could not stay here any longer, had no wish to stay here, had no wish ever to see London again, for as long as he lived. He had only partially fulfilled his oath to Maggie, and he would return home to complete what he had started.
But not yet.
He could not go home yet. He could not bear to see the pity and sorrow in the eyes of his clansmen when he told them that he had lost his wife, again. He could not bear to see them hesitating before they spoke to him, dreading invoking his rage or his grief, or both. He needed to grieve, he knew that. His heart felt like lead in his chest, and at the moment the future opened up like a black tunnel ahead of him, completely devoid of light and hope.
It would pass, he knew that. He had survived knowing she was dead once; he could do it again. But it would take time, and he had already inflicted his despair on his clansmen once; he would not do it again, even though he knew they would want him to. But he needed to be active, and to occupy the time usefully until the ferocity of the sadness in him dulled and he could go home and be Alex MacGregor, chieftain of the clan again, instead of a liability. And extended practice of being the leader would do Angus no harm.
He sat for a while longer, deep in thought. And then he stood, suddenly decided, and moved to the rickety wooden table in the corner of the room. He trimmed a quill, took out paper and ink, and wrote a letter to James Drummond, in Glasgow.
Then he sealed it, put it in his pocket, picked up the bag and left the room. Downstairs he settled with the landlady, answering her queries as to his mashed hand and pallor with a tale about having drunk a little too much on the previous evening, and of having been attacked on his way home by some ruffians. His pugilistic skills (of which, she would remember, he had told her), had stood him in good stead, but unfortunately one of the footpads had ducked, which had resulted in him hitting the wall rather than the face of his opponent.
Yes, of course it would be fine. No bones were broken and he certainly had no wish to stay in this city any longer than was absolutely necessary. He had already hired a horse and intended to ride straight for his home in Cheshire, where a man could walk the streets at night even in his cups, without any fear for his life. But if anyone of his acquaintance were to express a desire to visit London, he would of course direct them to her fair establishment, where he had been made so very welcome. With these promises and a reasonable tip, he managed to extricate himself from the flirtatious invitations of the proprietor without too much difficulty.
He mounted his horse and rode away, stopping briefly at the post office to deposit his letter before riding out of the city, not in a northerly direction, which would take Mr Featherstone to Cheshire, or Mr MacGregor to Scotland, but eastwards, where lay the coast and, he had decided, his immediate future.