CHAPTER SEVEN
London, mid-June 1747
It was late afternoon and the streets were bustling with the usual sorts of people to be found in a reasonably respectable part of the city; maids searching for delicacies to tempt their mistresses’ appetites, ladies of means making purchases, accompanied by footmen laden with the parcels they had already bought, young men searching for a trinket to please a young lady, young ladies searching for a ribbon or a perfume to attract a young man. And of course those who were always to be found where there was money to be had; prostitutes, pickpockets and the ever-present beggars, hands held out as they pleaded for a copper.
In amongst this throng was a man, who was making his way down the street with some difficulty, hampered as he was by being possessed of only one leg but two crutches, which he employed inexpertly as he attempted to negotiate the street, with the result that more than one person uttered an exclamation of pain as their ankle or shin came in sharp contact with his wooden supports.
He was tall and well-built, and wore old-fashioned clothes, including a very long full-skirted frockcoat which covered his knees and which was buttoned up in spite of the weather, probably because he was trying to hide his lack of a waistcoat. His dark hair, which was long and tangled, was tied back, and he wore a battered round hat with a wide brim which partially hid his face. Only partially, though. Anyone who got close enough to see under the hat recoiled immediately, which, along with the clumsy use of the crutches, soon ensured that he had a reasonably clear path through the crowd.
Most of the shopkeepers on the street had left their doors open, partly to encourage customers, and partly because it really was a glorious day. The shop which the man was heading for was one of these, which made it easier for him to enter. He ducked his head as he went through the doorway, having to hop a couple of times as one of his crutches slid on the polished floor.
Sarah, who was occupied with a customer, looked up at his somewhat ungainly entrance. Regaining his balance, he leaned against the wall to the side of the doorway and executed an interesting manoeuvre that was clearly meant to be a bow.
“Miss Browne?” the man asked in a gravelly voice.
“Yes,” she replied. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I have heard of you. It is said you have some skill with cosmetics,” he said. “I was hoping that you might be able to assist me.”
“I will try,” she said. “In what way?”
By way of answer he removed his hat. His face was in shadow, but she could still see enough to make her step to the side of her customer to shield her from the sight of the man’s horribly disfigured features. The left side of his face was a mass of sores. That, coupled with the missing limb, led her to the conclusion that he was an ex-soldier who had probably been involved in an explosion of some sort. Her professionalism in dealing with clients of all kinds ensured that a widening of the eyes was her only reaction. To her relief, once he had shown her the reason for his being there he replaced the hat and turned the ruined side of his face away.
“If you would care to wait, Mr…”
“Featherstone.”
“…Mr Featherstone, I will see what I can do for you once I’ve finished here,” she said.
“Thank you. Would you prefer if I waited outside?” he asked politely. She wondered if he had suffered some damage to his vocal cords too; his voice was rasping. Northern English, further north than Manchester, but she couldn’t place his accent any closer than that.
“No, of course not!” she said. “If you would care to take a seat, I won’t be very long.”
“I’ll stand, miss, if you don’t mind,” he replied. “I’m but recently wounded, and am not very good with these things yet.” He gestured to the crutches.
“As you prefer,” she said politely.
She continued dressing her client’s hair, whilst he leaned against the wall, his head bowed, possibly out of consideration for them, as his position shielded his face completely; or maybe he was just tired. Sarah put him from her mind while she gave her current client her full attention, as was her way.
Once finished, Sarah said goodbye to her satisfied customer and went behind her counter to put her fee away. As she did so she noticed the man move from his position against the wall, accidentally pushing the door closed with his crutch as he did so.
Maybe accidentally. She came instantly to full alert, reassessing him. Very tall, heavily built, almost certainly a military man. Had Richard sent him?
Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself immediately. Richard would come himself. And if he didn’t, he certainly wouldn’t send a cripple to threaten me. I could be out of the back door and down the alley before he got halfway across the room. She relaxed a little, bent down and put the money in her box.
“Do you have any more appointments today, Miss Browne?” he asked. She looked up. “Only my situation is a…delicate one, you understand, and I’d rather we weren’t interrupted.”
“I have the time to talk to you, Mr Featherstone, and I will see if I can help you,” she replied formally, not answering the question. “And I will be discreet, but I will not stop other customers coming in with enquiries, as you did. Please be so kind as to open the door again. It is warm in here.”
Instead of doing as she asked, he leaned back against the wall again, reaching under his coat with his right hand as if to scratch his thigh. Or maybe draw a weapon? Sarah stiffened. There was something not right here. Better to be safe and offend him, than sorry. She reached for her pistol, which she kept next to the money box.
“Mr Featherstone,” she said, speaking loudly to cover the sound of her cocking the gun, “I—”
She got no further before the man exploded into action. She registered the movement and that he appeared to have regrown his right leg, but managed no more than to raise the gun a few inches before he crossed the room, leapt the counter, knocked the weapon from her hand with a bone-jarring blow and drove her back against the wall, pinning her there with his weight and covering her mouth with one huge hand. She had never seen anyone move so quickly in her life.
“Sarah,” her assailant said urgently, the accent the same, although his throat as well as his leg appeared to be miraculously cured, “I’ve no wish to hurt you. I need to ask you a question, that’s all. Once I have your answer I’ll leave, I promise. I wouldn’t have come, but I think…I hope I can trust you.”
Trust? What was he talking about? She didn’t know him. She’d never seen him before in her life!
Unable to move, she stared at him, her eyes above his imprisoning hand huge and terrified. Adrenalin flooded her body and her chest heaved as her breathing quickened.
“Promise me you won’t scream,” he said, “and I’ll let you go. I won’t stay more than a few minutes.”
She scrutinised his face, her mind racing, trying to identify where she knew him from. At very close quarters the apparent mutilation of his face seemed merely to be a mass of partially healed scratches. She disregarded them, took in instead the high cheekbones, the strong, straight nose, the mouth that curled upward slightly at the edges, the eyes, cold and ruthless, long-lashed, blue, with gold flecks in the irises…her eyes widened even further, and she gave a muffled cry of shock. He sighed.
“You recognise me,” he said softly, and it wasn’t a question. “I’ve come about Beth…”
The bell jingled and the door opened behind him.
“Hello!” came a familiar voice. “I was passing and thought I’d call in to see whether…” The voice trailed off as the woman took in the broad back of the man behind the counter and the apparent absence of Miss Browne.
Sarah looked at him, saw from his expression a variety of possible options running through his mind, none of them boding well for her, and then she locked eyes with him, trying to convey a complex reassurance with no more than a look and a very slight shake of her head, which was all she could manage due to the vice-like grip on her jaw.
The man she had known in the past as Sir Anthony Peters leaned away from her slightly, and removed his hand from her mouth. She knew without a shred of doubt, that if she made any attempt to call for help, did anything that would betray him, he would kill both her and her new client in a heartbeat.
She thought rapidly, all the survival instincts she had learned in her life before meeting Beth coming to the fore, and with an inspiration born of desperation, threw her arms around him, embracing him warmly before looking round him at Lydia Fortesque, whose eyes were sparkling with interest at having caught the prim and proper Miss Browne in what appeared to be a compromising position.
“Oh! Miss Fortesque!” Sarah cried, her voice trembling. “You have caught me at such an exciting moment! I must introduce you!”
Releasing him, she squeezed his arm briefly in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture, then moved past him. He did not stop her, which was something. She cleared her throat, tried to calm herself.
“This is…Adam, my cousin, from…Nantwich in Cheshire. I had no idea he was in London! Imagine, he returned home from working in…Newcastle, and discovered where I was. He’s come all this way to see me!” she improvised, trying to give him as much information to work with as possible. Please let him go along with this, she prayed, knowing that both her life and that of the pretty, vacuous young woman standing looking at them with open curiosity, depended on this man’s whim.
There was a moment’s silence, during which Sarah was sure Lydia would hear her heart crashing against her ribs in terror, and then the man moved to her side, took off his hat and bowed deeply.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Fortesque,” he said in a Manchester accent. Close enough, Sarah thought. Lydia wouldn’t know the difference between Manchester and Cheshire anyway. He stood, displaying the mangled side of his face to her scrutiny.
“Oh!” Lydia cried, recoiling from him.
“We haven’t seen each other for…oh…it must be five years, at least!” Sarah said, her voice a little shrill. Hopefully Lydia would put it down to excitement at being reunited with her relative.
“How nice,” Lydia said unenthusiastically.
“I’m sorry, Miss Fortesque,” Sarah said. “I didn’t mean to bore you with my family issues. How can I help you today?” The feeling was coming back into her hand now, pains shooting from her wrist to her forearm. Holding her hand behind her back, she curled and flexed her fingers, trying to ease the pain. She tried to calm herself, to behave normally. Sir Anthony was kind, caring. He wouldn’t hurt me, she told herself.
This man was nothing like Sir Anthony. Sir Anthony had never really existed.
“I believe you have some new scents, just in from Paris?” Lydia said, breaking into her thoughts. “I hoped to try them.”
“Of course!” Sarah replied. Behind her, her new relative stood observing her carefully.
I can’t do this, she thought. Not with him watching. I’ll make a mistake, and then we’ll both die. She turned to him, her eyes pleading.
“Go right through,” she said. “Make some tea. I’ll be finished in a few minutes and then we can have a nice chat.”
He looked at her, his eyes still cold, calculating. His lips pursed slightly, considering. And then he blinked, and in that moment transformed himself completely and was her cousin Adam, fresh from the country.
“Tea?” he said, smiling broadly, clearly very impressed. “You have come up in the world, cousin. You’re a proper lady now. I’ve no idea how to make it, though. Have you got one of them fancy pots, and cups and all?”
She could have fainted on the spot from sheer relief.
“Yes I have,” she replied lightheartedly. “And saucers too. Put the water on to boil, then. I’ll make it when I’ve served Miss Fortesque,” she said.
He disappeared through the door which led to her living area, closing it quietly behind him. No sooner had he done so than Sarah remembered that Mary was having her nap in the bedroom. She told herself that whoever, whatever this man really was, Beth loved him, and Beth would never love anyone who could harm a child. And anyway he was certain to be listening at the door, alert for any attempt on her part to raise the alarm.
Lydia seemed to take forever to try out the different scents, rejecting the Parisian ones and insisting on trying every other perfume Sarah had. Then she prevaricated again, unable to decide if she liked her favourite enough to justify the expense of buying it. Sarah had to resist the urge to give it to her free of charge, anything to get her out of the shop. She might have been able to get away with donating any other perfume to her, as she was a regular client.
But Sarah knew that if she gave her a bottle of the prodigiously expensive Aqua Melis, the gossipy Lydia would tell absolutely everyone, no doubt adding in an imaginative and amorous account of the so-called ‘cousin’ who Sarah was so desperate to get back to. You did not give away a perfume that cost more than a year’s wages without arousing a lot of suspicion. Which was exactly what she could not afford to do right now.
By the time she had managed to get rid of the indecisive young woman, shut the blind and lock the door, Sarah was bathed in nervous sweat. She dashed across the shop, noticing that the pistol, which had skittered into the corner when he had knocked it from her grasp, was gone, although she hadn’t seen him pick it up. She opened the door to her living room and went in.
The tea had been made, the pot, cups and saucers laid out for two on the table, and his hat and coat were neatly hung on a hook near the fire, but her unwelcome guest was not in the room. She closed her eyes for one horrified second, then picking up the nearest object to hand, ran into the bedroom, coming to a halt just inside the entrance.
He was standing over the baby’s bed, staring into it, preternaturally still. The afternoon sunlight coming through the window clearly outlined his profile and picked up the fiery copper highlights in his tangled hair.
She walked over to stand next to him, still clutching the cheap vase she had grabbed as a weapon, and looked down into the bed. The little girl was awake, was smiling and staring at the stranger with long-lashed clear grey eyes. Her father’s eyes.
The man Sarah had only ever known as Sir Anthony Peters took a deep shuddering breath, then lifted his gaze from the bed and looked at her, his slate-blue eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Jesus Christ, lassie,” he said softly, his Scottish accent breaking through due to his shock. All thoughts Sarah had had of telling him the oft-repeated fiction about her sister and the niece she had adopted flew from her mind.
“Her name is Màiri,” she said instead. “People think it’s Mary, and I haven’t told them otherwise. I thought he’d like it. He told me about her, you see, his wife, and I thought it would be right. Was it right?”
“Aye,” he replied. “Aye, it was right.”
The little girl lifted her arms to him and laughed.
“Up,” she said.
He bent over the bed, and with infinite tenderness lifted the child out. She put her chubby arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. Softly he kissed the tousled dark hair, breathed in her sleepy baby scent.
“Halò, a Mhàiri,” he said, smiling. “Nighean bhrèagha mo bhràthair.” Then he looked at Sarah, the corners of his lips still lifted, and saw the question in her eyes. His smile faded and his eyes misted again. He shook his head, very slightly, but it was enough to give her her answer. She closed her eyes for a moment, struggling for composure, and then she moaned, swaying slightly. He reached out with his free arm and drew her gently into him, and she, who hated physical contact, laid her head against his chest and surrendered to her emotions.
They stood like that for a long time, the man and woman, clinging to each other, united in their grief for the man they had both loved so deeply, while the child who would never know the man they wept for, but whom she so closely resembled both in looks and character, sighed softly, and with her little fists tangled in her uncle’s hair, her face nestled in the crook of his neck, went back to sleep.
Later, back in the living room, Alex sat at the table with his niece on his knee, bouncing her gently up and down while Sarah threw away the now cold tea and brewed a fresh pot.
“I’m sorry about your hand,” he said, retaining his Scottish accent, albeit less broad than he used at home. It was a little late to pretend he was English now. “I didna mean to hurt you, but I wasna expecting you to have a pistol.”
Sarah poured the hot water into the teapot.
“It’s not hurting any more,” she said. It was, a little, but the pain in her heart was far, far worse. “I bought the pistol in case Richard came to visit me again. Caroline taught me how to use it so I could be sure to kill him with one shot. I wouldn’t have managed it if he was as fast as you, though.”
Alex smiled grimly.
“Ye’ve no need to worry about Richard,” he said. “He’s dead.”
Sarah sat down suddenly and heavily on the chair opposite.
“Dead? Are you sure?” she asked.
He regarded her evenly for a moment, as if making his mind up about something.
“Aye,” he said. “I killed him myself. That’s why I’m here. I was told by…someone I trust that she was shot and killed after Culloden. But Richard told me that she didna die.”
“No, she didn’t,” Sarah replied. “The Duke of Cumberland had her brought to London and nursed back to health.” She watched as the colour drained from Alex’s face, and standing, quickly lifted the baby off his knee. He closed his eyes and swallowed heavily, and when he opened them again she was watching him anxiously.
“I’m well,” he said. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah answered. “Edwin’s been trying to find out. I haven’t seen Caroline for a couple of weeks though, so I don’t know if he’s discovered anything. Caroline would write to me if he had. She’s at Summer Hill.” She stopped, saw his look of confusion and realised that he hadn’t seen any of them for two years, since the night they’d fled after Lord Daniel found out who Sir Anthony was, or rather who he wasn’t. “Tell me what Richard told you,” she said. “And I’ll tell you the truth, as far as I know it.”
He told her, briefly, and then she told him the more honest version, that they’d all believed Beth to be dead or escaped to France, until Tom had come to Sarah and told her what Richard had done. Then she told him about her efforts to find Beth, and then Caroline enlisting Prince Frederick to help.
“Frederick?” Alex said incredulously. “He rescued her? A Jacobite?”
“Yes,” Sarah said, “and he came to see her afterwards.”
“Maybe there’s hope yet, an we canna succeed,” Alex murmured to himself.
“I’m sorry?”
“It doesna matter. Go on.”
She told him, because he deserved to know, that they’d nursed Beth back to health once more, stopped her from killing herself.
“She said that she knew you were dead, that you’d have come for her otherwise and she wanted to die as well, to be with you. That was when she was very ill, though. When she got stronger she changed her mind, and after that she recovered very quickly. Caroline and Edwin were hoping they’d be allowed to keep her with them until they managed to secure her release, but then she told them that she’d decided to do the right thing and wanted to see the Duke of Newcastle, to talk to him. That was at the beginning of April. We haven’t heard anything about her since.”
Alex had listened to this in silence, his face closed although his eyes were dark with pain. Sarah had an almost overwhelming impulse to take him in her arms, to comfort him. She had liked Sir Anthony from the start, but she felt closer to this man sitting opposite her, who an hour ago she’d thought would kill her, than she ever had to anyone except Beth herself, and Murdo. It’s because he’s linked to Beth, she thought, and because Murdo was his servant.
“Did he know?” Alex asked suddenly.
“Did who know?”
“Newcastle. When he sent Richard to torture her, did he know she was with child? Richard said he did.”
“No. He was lying. Beth didn’t tell him. She said…” She hesitated, unwilling to cause him even more pain than she already was doing.
“That’s one thing I dinna need to do, then,” he said.
“What?”
“Kill Newcastle. Because if he’d let Richard do what he did to her knowing she was with child, I couldna have let him live.”
Sarah stared at him, her mouth open. The matter-of-fact way he’d said it left her in no doubt that had the circumstances been as Richard had told him, Anthony, or whoever he was, would have killed one of the most powerful men in Britain without any hesitation whatsoever, regardless of the consequences to himself. And it also occurred to her that he trusted her, not only to tell him the truth, but enough to reveal his intentions, or at least some of them. Now, suddenly, she understood exactly why Beth had not betrayed this man, not even under torture.
“Tell me what Beth said,” he prompted Sarah gently. “I’m a grown man, and I need to know it all, so I can see what I must do to make it right, if I can.”
“Beth said that when she found out she was having a baby, she knew that it had almost no chance of surviving in prison or in a foundling hospital, and that the only way they’d have let her keep it is if she’d betrayed you, which she wouldn’t do. So when Richard came to talk to her she deliberately goaded him, hoping he’d kill her and the baby quickly.”
“But he didna.”
“No. She said he’d changed, had a better control of his temper. If we can find her, she’ll be glad to know he’s dead though. God knows I am. It’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time. Anne will be happy too. But of course I can’t tell her,” she finished.
“She’ll find out soon enough, I’m thinking,” Alex replied. “I made sure he’ll be found.”
There was a short silence while they both drank their tea and little Màiri chattered incomprehensibly to herself while she played with a ball on the floor. Alex smiled.
“She’s beautiful,” he said. Sarah took a deep breath.
“Tell me about what happened,” she asked. “How he…” She stopped, incapable of saying the word. It was too soon.
“It was in battle, Culloden,” he said. “We were waiting for the order to charge, and Cumberland’s men were firing the cannons…it was very quick,” he added.
Sarah looked at him sceptically.
“That’s what they tell all the women,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice the only sign of what she was feeling. “He was brave, it was quick, he didn’t suffer.”
Alex leaned across the table suddenly, grasping her hands.
“I’m telling ye true, lassie. You deserve that. He wouldna have tellt ye about Màiri if he hadna cared for you. He never spoke about her to anyone. He died so quickly he didna even get to finish his sentence. He really didna suffer, and I’m glad of that at least, because so many others did. And I wasna in any way to go back for him afterwards, for I was injured myself.”
She looked down at their clasped hands. His were long-fingered and strong, and engulfed hers, as Murdo’s had. A single tear ran down her cheek.
“John told me you were all alive when he last saw you,” she said sadly. “That was a year ago now. It gave me hope then. And later Beth said that you were all well the day of Culloden too. She told me what Murdo said to her, what he told her to tell me, if…but I thought he would have written to me, at least, if he’d survived. Beth said maybe he didn’t want to cause me any problems but she was just being kind, I knew that.”
“John?” Alex asked, his brow creasing.
“I’m sorry. There’s so much to tell you. John Betts – Beth’s stableboy.”
“You saw him?” Alex said.
“Yes. He was sentenced to death, but he escaped from prison with two other men, I can’t remember their names. He stayed with me until after the others were executed – he wanted to go, to watch them die, said he owed it to them. I told Caroline he was my brother, Jem. I don’t think she believed me though.”
“You have a lot of problem relatives,” Alex observed wryly.
“Not as much of a problem as the real ones were,” she answered darkly. “Anyway, he told me that you were all alive when he last saw you at Carlisle. He was going to tell me your names, you, Murdo and Jim, but I told him I didn’t want to know, because Newcastle had interviewed me once and might do it again, and the less I knew the better.” She saw him open his mouth and shook her head vigorously. “I still don’t want to know,” she said.
“I’m thinking you already know enough to identify me, name or no,” he said softly.
She looked up at him.
“No, I don’t,” she replied. “I only know that you’re tall, English, with dark hair and terrible burns on your face. I can’t say you’ve got one leg because I think Lydia would remember that. But that’s all I can tell anyone. I was too frightened to remember anything else.”
“Sarah, as stupid as Lydia is, and she is, she’ll remember that ye tellt her I was your cousin, if it comes to it.”
Sarah thought for a moment.
“I was afraid,” she said. “You told me you’d kill us both if I didn’t get her out of the shop. It was the first thing I could think of.”
“But ye didna run for help when I came in here,” he pointed out.
“No. Because you told me that you’d kill the baby if I did.”
He let go of her hands, and to her surprise he started laughing.
“Sarah Browne,” he said, eyeing her with admiration, “you are a wonderful woman, and I’m proud to know you. Murdo chose right with you.”
“He told Beth…he told her that he’d come for me, when it was safe, and marry me if I wanted to,” she told him. “I would have, whether it was safe or not. Anyway,” she continued, impatiently brushing a tear away, “I haven’t done anything special – it’s only what any friend would do.”
“No,” he said. “No, it isna. And you dinna ken me at all. I dinna want you to risk your life for me.”
She shrugged.
“I liked Sir Anthony,” she said. “He was funny, and he was kind. And he loved Beth and made her happy. That’s enough for me. Everything I have now is because of her. And you’ve come all this way to try to find her. And you killed that evil bastard. That alone would be enough for me never to betray you to anyone.”
“You owe me nothing,” he insisted, reaching up in his habitual gesture when frustrated to scrub his fingers through his hair, breaking the lace that bound it in the process. Tangled waves cascaded around his shoulders and face. He retrieved the lace from the floor, started combing through his hair with his fingers.
“Wait,” Sarah said, “I can do better than that.” She stood and walked through into the shop, returning a moment later with a brush and comb. Moving behind him, she gently started to tease the knots out of his hair. He sat for a minute in silence, enjoying the feel of the brush against his scalp. His mother had brushed his hair when he was very young, and he had always loved it. It was comforting, intimate.
“Ye’ve changed,” he said.
“In what way?” she asked. His hair was really beautiful; the colour was glorious, like burnished chestnuts.
“Ye didna like people touching you, as I remember.”
That was true.
“I still don’t,” she said. “But you’re different. I trust you. I know you wouldn’t hurt me, not for anything.” As she said it, she realised something about herself for the first time. She hadn’t minded Beth touching her, or Murdo, because she had loved and trusted them completely. And this man was the same. It wasn’t that she hated to be touched; it was that she didn’t trust many people not to hurt her if they got close to her. She stopped brushing Alex’s hair for a moment as the realisation struck her.
I love him.
Not in the way she had loved Murdo; not in a romantic way. But yes, she loved him, fiercely, as she loved Beth. And because of that, she would do anything for him.
She continued brushing.
“Caroline is at Summer Hill,” she said. “It’s her new country house. Edwin was knighted by the king last year, and Caroline’s built a lovely house in Sussex so she can annoy all her relatives, as she puts it.”
“Knighted!” Alex exclaimed, smiling. “He deserves that. He’s one of the most genuine politicians I ever met.”
“I’ll go tomorrow,” Sarah said, “and see if Edwin’s found anything out about Beth yet. You can stay here. I’ll only be away a few days.” She finished brushing out his hair and tied it back with a piece of purple ribbon. He was very handsome, even with his disfigurement. “What did you do to your face?” she asked. “It looks horrible.”
He lifted his hand to the mass of healing scratches that covered the left side of his face and laughed.
“Just before I was due to come here I had a wee stramash – a fight that is, wi’ an acquaintance of mine, and he rubbed my face in a gorse bush,” he said. “It hurt like the devil at the time, but it also made me look hideous. It gave me the idea for how to disguise myself, but it was nearly healed when I got here so I rubbed my own face in a rose bush yesterday. I knew that if I was missing a leg and my face was ruined, people would only remember that and nothing else.”
“Like with Sir Anthony and his makeup and clothes,” she said.
“Aye, like that,” he agreed. “Ye spoilt it a wee bit for me wi’ the leg, but it’s maybe for the best. Lydia’ll no’ remember much about me anyway because I’m your poor cousin and beneath her notice, and it would be impossible to ride in a coach all the way to Sussex wi’ my leg strapped up under me. I take it ye’ll no’ be wanting to ride there?”
“No, I won’t,” she said. “If I never sit on a horse again it’ll be too soon. But you can’t come with me.”
“I have to, I think,” he said. “I owe them an apology for what I did to them as Sir Anthony. I’ve never felt good about that. And I owe them thanks for saving Beth’s life, too.”
“You can’t,” Sarah insisted. “Edwin hates you. He thinks you abandoned Beth to save yourself. If he finds out you’re alive, he’ll call the authorities.”
“Maybe. When I came here, I thought you might too. But ye didna.”
“It’s not the same thing!” she protested.
“Aye, it is,” he said. “If ye tell me where this Summer Hill is, I’ll go alone. That’ll be best. Ye’ve already done too much. I didna intend to stay more than a few minutes. I’ll leave you in peace now.”
“No!” she cried. “You’re not going alone. If you have to go, I’m coming with you. And I am not letting my dear cousin Adam, who I haven’t seen for five years, sleep on the street or in an inn. You can stay here. I’ll go out and get a pie or a chop for us. Please stay here,” she finished, and there was a desperation in her tone that stifled his protest before it was uttered. He nodded, albeit reluctantly, and she smiled, vastly relieved. She did not want, could not bear, to be alone tonight.
Màiri, tired of the ball, gripped hold of the leg of the chair Alex was sitting on, and pulled herself up to a standing position. She looked up at him with Duncan’s eyes, and her lips curled upward in a smile. Alex leaned down with the intention of picking her up, his mouth curling in an identical smile.
“Papa,” the little girl said, quite distinctly. Both the adults froze for a moment, and then he lifted her up, plopped her on his knee.
“Ah, no, a Mhàiri,” he said softly. “I’m no’ your da, my love. She looks very like him,” he added, glancing across at Sarah, who was watching the tender scene with tears in her eyes.
“She looks very like you, too,” she replied. And then she rose and without a word took her cloak and went out to get the food, leaving him holding all that remained of the brother he missed so dreadfully. He held his tiny niece gently on his knee, and spent the time that Sarah was out telling her about the father she would never know, the tears running freely down his cheeks as he did, while she sat solemnly listening to the soft musical cadence of a language she had never heard before, as though she understood and was absorbing every word he was saying to her.