by Regan Walker
“I dinna suppose ye have any neeps an’ tatties?” her grandfather asked Emily, as he slipped a bite of beef into his mouth.
Nash raised his brows. “Neeps and tatties?”
“Turnips and potatoes,” said Will. Then to their grandfather, “Tatties aye, neeps no. But there are carrots.” Angus accepted some carrots and potatoes onto his plate as he pulled a rolled newspaper from inside his jacket and thrust it at Will. “The weekly. Thot ye might like tae see it.”
Ailie recognized their weekly newspaper the Montrose, Arbroath and Brechin Review. Robbie and Nash leaned forward, trying, she supposed, to get a look at it. Perhaps, being so far from London, they were starved for news. “Would you like to see the paper when Will’s done with it?”
“I would,” said Nash.
“Here,” Will handed him the newspaper, “just leave it in the library when you’re finished. It’s mostly local news, but occasionally there might be something that would be of interest to you and the others.”
From across the table, Martin said, “Shipping news?”
“Often,” said Will, “in the back of each issue, especially now that we have three shipbuilders in Arbroath and more than twenty ships operating from the harbor.”
“Weel,” began Ailie’s grandfather, “there’s talk o’ the clearances in the West, such as ye’d niver see here. No MacTavish ever put a puir man off his land.” He paused as if trying to recall more from what he had read. “An’ the laird from Dundee is still missin’, bless ’im.”
Mary addressed her husband. “Is that the one Captain Anderson told us about?”
“I believe so, sweetheart,” said Hugh. “The captain was unhappy about a man from Dundee charged with sedition for some speech he gave.”
“The verra one,” said Angus. “Admired in these parts. A man o’ quality who speaks fer the puir.”
Robbie and Nash exchanged a look. Ailie, sitting between them, wondered what was behind it. Why would they find George Kinloch of interest?
“I am happy for Kinloch to have escaped the authorities,” she said, speaking her mind. “The man only wants what’s fair for the people of Scotland. How is that sedition?”
Nash turned his wine glass in his hand, staring at the red liquid. “Perhaps it was not him but the worrisome crowd that came to hear him.”
“It might not have been sedition in November when he gave the speech,” Robbie interjected, “but, since then, the government has adopted a series of acts, one of which requires a magistrate’s permission to convene any public meeting of more than fifty people if they are discussing matters of state.”
“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Muriel. “Why the men’s clubs of London would have to close their doors. Most nights, that is all they talk about.”
Emily turned to look at her friend. “How might you know what men discuss at their clubs, dear Muriel?”
Muriel’s back went rigid, her nose lifting. “Many a night the Earl of Claremont would return all riled up about some argument a gaggle of men got into at White’s. The subject was always politics.”
“Doubtless, ’tis not the nobility the government is worried about,” offered Nash.
Her grandfather ruefully shook his head. “’Tis a sad day when a man canna gather his friends tae speak o’ what’s important tae him. If ’tis reform the Dundee laird seeks, ah’m sorry tae say he will nae be gettin’ his wish any time soon.”
The meal having concluded, the ladies retired to the parlor for tea, while Robbie and the six other men lingered around the table drinking brandy and port and smoking cigars. In the case of Angus Ramsay, a pipe.
With a glass of fine cognac in hand, Robbie listened to the conversation between Will and Angus on the political climate in Scotland, hoping to hear more about Kinloch.
“The problem,” explained William, “is too much power in the hands of too few. For Aberdeen, Arbroath and three other boroughs, there is only one representative in Parliament. For all of Scotland there are only fifteen.”
“Manchester has none,” mumbled Nash.
“That is a travesty,” put in Martin. “The massacre there reminded me of what happened in Derbyshire.”
Robbie shared a look with Nash. William’s words had echoed what they had heard in the taverns in Manchester. They had never told Nick and Martin of their spying for Sidmouth but their parents knew.
“Weel,” put in Angus, leaning back to send a puff of smoke into the air, “at least we hiv Joseph Hume in Parliament.”
“I have heard my father speak of him,” said Hugh. “Elected last year?”
“Aye,” said William. “After a long absence. Like as not you’ve also heard he’s a radical, as all those who seek reform are labeled these days.”
Angus pulled his pipe from his mouth. “Hume comes from guid stock. I knew his fathir, maister o’ a fine fishin’ boat in Montrose.”
“Montrose?” asked Nick.
“Halfway between Arbroath and Stonehaven to the north,” said William.
Robbie wanted to ask about Kinloch and he was certain Nash had the same urge, but it might give away too much for either one of them to mention the man. The thought occurred that no man here knew more about Kinloch’s whereabouts at the moment than he and Nash.
Muriel set down her teacup and inclined her head to better consider Aileen Stephen sitting beside her on the parlor sofa. She intended to take up her conversation with the girl, interrupted earlier with the entrance of her grandfather. London could provide many opportunities for a young woman like Aileen. If she did not make a match with one of the Powell twins, Muriel was confident a future husband awaited the girl in London, perhaps even a man possessed of a good title.
Aileen appeared to be anxious as she asked, “Did it go well at dinner?”
“Whatever do you mean, Child?”
“My grandfather. He is very dear to me, you understand, but I worried he might say something… well, something that might disturb you, something inappropriate.”
“Nonsense!” Muriel inwardly smiled, remembering Angus Ramsay’s words to her. “Actually, I found him rather charming. The genuine article. As you may have noticed, I appreciate directness and honesty.”
Aileen pressed her palm to her chest. “I am so relieved. It was my hope you and he would get along.” Moving in closer, she smiled. “I believe he likes you.”
Muriel thought of Angus Ramsay’s intense blue eyes and the lines around them that suggested, at least at one time, he had laughed much. “I think he misses his wife. How long has she been gone?”
“Grandmother Ramsay died five years ago, the same year I came to live in Arbroath.”
A sudden thought occurred to Muriel. “Do I perchance look anything like her?”
Aileen pursed her lips, giving Muriel an assessing look. “Aye, a bit. She had your silver hair and gray eyes, but her face bore more lines. And she wore the linen-wincey of a fisherman’s wife, not silk, pearls and feathers of a titled lady.”
Unable to resist, Muriel flicked the feather in her hair ornament. “I do enjoy my pearls and feathers.”
“But like you,” Aileen added, “Grandmother Ramsay had a quiet dignity about her.”
“If you find in me a hint of the dignity possessed by your much-loved grandmother, I stand highly complimented.”
Aileen smiled. “You are such a dear.”
“That is my secret, but you must tell no one.” There was something about this young woman that intrigued Muriel. Emily had told her the girl designed ships, a most unusual pursuit for a young lady. Yet, her manner indicated she possessed the breeding and intelligence of a young woman raised to marry a man born to wealth and position.
Not every man would want such a challenge. But for the right man, no other woman would do.
“Enough about us old folks,” said Muriel. “We must see about you, my dear.” She patted Aileen’s hand. “And I shall help you. If no man is to your liking here in Scotland, then a year in London at my side will f
ind you the perfect match. I am a very good judge of character, you know.”
Aileen laughed. “Oh I don’t doubt it for a minute, Muriel. William told me you matched him with Emily. But London? And marriage?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Muriel fingered her pearls, thinking of all the matches she had made over the years. “What say you we forsake the tea for a glass of Madeira? And while we drink our wine, I shall tell you all about what lies in store for you should you accept my invitation to come to London.”
Exhausted from the long day, Ailie was nevertheless determined to pen a note in her diary before retiring for the night. So, with quill in hand, she scratched out a few lines.
20 December, second entry
Today I was kissed for the very first time. Oh, not the kiss of my brothers or another man in my family. Or even the kiss of Donald Innes after that dance in Aberdeen when I was sixteen. This was different. Nash Etienne Powell kissed me in the woods in a most passionate manner and I liked it. But what did it mean to him? He and his brother are older, more experienced. I hesitate to think how many women they have known. Perhaps Nash sees me only as a diversion for his holiday in Scotland. And now Muriel, Countess of Claremont, wants to take me to London to show me about. My thoughts are in a jumble. How could I leave Scotland? Might a year with Muriel be, as she says, “quite diverting”?
Chapter 11
21 December
Nash had hoped to see Ailie at breakfast but Emily informed him both William and his sister were occupied with some issue at the shipyard. Angus Ramsay had departed early, apparently leaving word he would see them all at Hogmanay. So, Nash breakfasted with his brothers, their wives and their hostess, which turned out to be a noisy affair.
After that, he wanted only a moment of quiet before going to town. Retreating to the library, he found the book Emily had recommended to him. The book’s author, John Abercrombie, was a horticulturist, knowledgeable in the use of greenhouses to grow exotics.
The library was well organized and he easily found the book, settling onto one of the blue leather settees where there was good light from an adjacent window. Putting on his spectacles, he became absorbed in Abercrombie’s Practical Gardener and the description of the new ornamental style of greenhouse that afforded the plants more light.
He had only been reading a short while when Martin’s wife flitted into the room, petticoats rustling, sketchbook and pencils in hand. “Would you mind if I draw your likeness while you read? I promise to be as silent as a mouse in the corner.”
“All right,” he said, peering at her over his spectacles. He knew Kit to be a woman of her word and not given to unnecessary chatter.
She took a seat at the wooden table in the center of the room and went to work; he went back to his book, trying to ignore the faint scratching of her pencil on the paper.
After what seemed like an hour, he closed the book and looked up to see Kit smiling. “I am almost done and I can add the last touches later.”
“May I see?”
“Yes, of course.” She reversed her sketchbook and Nash blinked in astonishment. The image was the spit of that in his shaving mirror and without the spectacles.
“An amazing likeness. Am I the last or have you more to do?”
“Oh, I have more. I want each of the couples to have their own page. I have yet to add William to the sketch I did of Emily. I’ve only begun the sketch of Angus from seeing him at dinner. Then there is Ailie. I might do hers last.”
“What about you? Who will draw your likeness?”
“Oh, I did mine first. The mirror in our bedchamber is most accommodating. Self-portrait is the artist’s first subject so I know well my own imperfect countenance.”
“A remarkable talent. As I think on it, the women in the Powell family are all quite remarkable. You are an accomplished artist; Tara sails Nick’s ships as well as any man; and our mother, well, she fell in love with her kidnapper, didn’t she?”
Kit laughed. “When you put it like that, yes, I suppose we are an unusual group. Keep that in mind when you add to our number.” She picked up her sketchbook and pencils, waved goodbye and left.
Nash stared at the smoldering fire, thinking about Kit’s advice. Ailie would fit right in with the Powell wives, but could she be made to want to join them? Would she ever agree to come to London?
He set the book down on the settee so Robbie could find it easily and rose, more determined than ever to finish their work in Arbroath so he could devote himself to winning the Scottish lass.
In his bedchamber, Nash donned the clothes Robbie had worn when in Arbroath and covered them with a plain woolen scarf and a dark greatcoat. His knife was secured at his waist and he carried a small flintlock pistol in the pocket of his coat. He didn’t expect trouble but, ever since Manchester, he vowed to never again leave on a mission unprepared for the worst.
Shortly after Nash finished dressing, Robbie entered their chamber. “Are you finally leaving for town?”
“I am. After luncheon, don’t forget you need to go the library and take up the book I left on one of the settees.”
Robbie patted his coat pocket. “I’ve got my spectacles. By the bye, what book is it? One of the Waverley novels Ailie mentioned?”
“No. It is a book by an esteemed horticulturist.”
“Horticulture? Plants again? It sounds dull beyond belief.”
“To you, perhaps. I found it most interesting. Besides, Emily recommended it to me at breakfast. At one point, Kit wandered into the library to observe me reading. There’s another on the shelf on the geography of Scotland that looked to be a worthy choice, too. As long as we’re here, it might be good to learn something of the local geography.”
“Which, I remind you, is under several feet of snow.”
“Don’t quibble. It will melt in due season. Perhaps I will return to see the heather bloom.” Nash thought of that heather and Ailie lying on a hill overlooking a loch with him beside her. “Yes, I just might.”
Robbie sighed loudly. “Very well. Perhaps I can nod off for a nap. Are you sure you want to miss luncheon?”
“I’ll get a meat pie at one of the taverns. I want as much time in the town as daylight allows.”
“You have the map in mind?”
Nash tapped his temple. “I do.”
As he did most afternoons, George Kinloch followed his protectors into the dimly lit St Thomas Tavern where they would spend a few hours. He doubted Thomas à Becket would find the atmosphere of sour ale and smoke appealing. No wonder his face in the picture above the bar displayed a grimace.
George sighed, knowing he must be accepting of his guards’ choice of establishments. His cousin Grant had hired the men and, though the tavern’s atmosphere was a far cry from his farm near Dundee, it provided a respite from his small rooms at the boarding house and a refuge from Arbroath’s icy winds.
George had quickly learned the names of the men his cousin had hired, who were just now ordering ale. The tallest was the beefy Hamish whose name George easily remembered because his fists were like large hams. Hamish’s brother, Iain, a man of smaller stature, seemed content to stand in his brother’s shadow. The brains of the group appeared to be Derek, a fast-talking man with dark, intense eyes, who delighted in the rhetoric of reform which, all things considered, George never tired of hearing.
The man who caused George’s stomach to tie in knots was the hotheaded Lachlan, a Highlander from Argyll, and the only blond among them. Lachy, as his companions called him, would have been one of those men who had come to hear George’s speech carrying banners shouting, “Bread or Blood!”
Remembering those signs, George cringed. He was proud of the fact the meeting in Dundee had been conducted in an orderly manner and that there had been no disturbance of the peace of any kind.
Today, as always, he sat at the round table, the rough fabric of the brown wincey jacket and trousers, so foreign to his usual attire, chafing his skin. The ridiculou
s too-large brown top hat he wore, crumpled from years of abuse, had been given him to hide his distinctive baldpate, leaving only his fringe of dark hair to be seen. Regrettably, the effect rendered him a comical figure.
Soon, he hoped to return to a gentleman’s clothing. In France, where he could resume his role as a member of the gentry, he would find a better suit of clothes.
Lifting the ale that was placed before him, he took a long swallow, remembering the speech that led him to this day. He had been surprised at the thousands who had gathered that day in November to hear him speak about what could be done to alleviate the distress of the working classes.
Only later did he learn that special constables had been sworn to keep the peace as they had in Manchester. Thankfully, they had not intervened, but the government had its vengeance all the same. Guilty only of denouncing the massacre in Manchester and calling for much-needed reform, George had been charged with sedition. Sedition!
He did not have to think long before forfeiting his bail and fleeing north.
In France, he would be safe from the oppressive hand of the British government and Sidmouth’s fearmongering among the Members of Parliament, who never ventured north to witness the plight of the workers.
All George had was one man’s voice. Yet what good could he do if that voice were silenced, trapped inside the stone cage of prison walls? Or, dispatched to Botany Bay? No, he would flee now and hope to return one day when reform was no longer a dreaded word.
The conversations around him grew louder as the customers raised their voices to be heard in the crowded tavern.
Hamish raised his tankard in the semblance of a toast. “Willna be long now, Georgie lad. Ye’ll be on that ship afore ye ken it.”
