The Handfasters

by Helen Susan Swift

  “I must know more,” Mr Kemp insisted. “What horses are they riding, and what are they wearing. What road did they take? Where are they headed?”

  I saw Mrs Cairnsmuir take a deep breath in a visible effort to calm herself down. “Of course,” she said, and released Mr Kemp's shoulders. I thought it strange that she should ask him for help, but then I realised that there was nobody else. Women could not chase a pair of runaways, servants had no authority and John Forres was a broken reed, already reaching for a chair in which to rest after the shock.

  “They have taken my green gig, so they may make good speed.”

  Willie Kemp nodded. “That was eminently sensible of them. It is fast, and Miss Ballantyne would not ride well at night. In what direction have they gone, pray?”

  “They took the Edinburgh road. I fear they may take ship tomorrow.”

  “I see.” Mr Kemp nodded. “Well, I shall endeavour to head them off tonight, before they reach the city.” He glanced over his shoulder and spoke the first words that had been directed toward me since the excitement started. “Miss Lamont, I fear you must fend for yourself tonight. Never fear, you are safe here.”

  That was twice that Mr Kemp had assured me that I was safe. “Thank you for your concern, Mr Kemp,” I said, tartly, “but I think that my place is by your side.”

  For a moment I thought that he was going to push me away, but with a glance at Mrs Cairnsmuir, he nodded and gave the most devil may care grin I had ever seen in my life. “I do believe that it is,” he said. “Can you keep up?”

  “I've been riding since before I could walk,” I told him. I did not tell him that for the first ten years of my life it was on Highland garrons, but the rough terrain of Badenoch would surely make up for the horse's lack of height.

  “Come on then, Miss Lamont,” he said, and with hardly a nod to Aunt Elspeth or a by-your-leave to Mrs Cairnsmuir, he had dragged me to the stable block behind the house.

  That too was in an uproar, with stable boys and grooms and God-knows-whats all running around frantically, no doubt enjoying the commotion. Everybody loves a good scandal, as long as they are not directly involved, and my cousin Louise had certainly given the Cairnsmuir household something to keep them occupied that January of 1812. My goodness though, but did they not jump when Mr Kemp asked them to saddle two horses? I have never seen such instant respect.

  “Side saddle or plain?” Mr Kemp glanced at me and answered his own question. “Side saddle, but can you ride fast like that?”

  I could not, but I had never ridden astride. It's damnably unfair, you know, that women are restricted in so many things. However, we do have other advantages that men do not even know about.

  Within ten minutes we had left the stables behind and were trotting down the frosty drive that led to the Edinburgh Road. Mrs Cairnsmuir followed, calling out advice, while Aunt Elspeth merely watched, both hands twisting her shawl while her mouth was working silently. For a moment I felt sorry for her; one of the girls in her care had run off with a Frenchman and the other was handfasted to a mechanic. What a failure she had proved, and all her best friends would enjoy assassinating her character and morals until the next scandal happened along.

  Now in my day, the roads fringing the Pentland Hills were rough and ready and there were still tolls to slow down traffic and provide a nuisance. I followed at Mr Kemp's heels, getting used to the feel of my horse as I rode. She was a powerful brute, a piebald mare with a hard mouth and strong flanks, so I had to use bit and spurs to control her, and even wielded the whip on occasion, which is something I am loath to do.

  “Are you ready?” Mr Kemp looked across at me, his eyes urgent and impatience in the set of those broad shoulders. I can see him now, silhouetted against the star-lit night, with the hills behind him and the snow beginning to whirl in great white flakes that settled, unmelting, on our cloaks.

  “I'm ready;” I had the measure of the horse, I was comfortable in the saddle and the reputation of my cousin was at stake. What an adventure!

  Touching spurs to horse, Mr Kemp increased our speed steadily until we were cantering along that frosty road, with the horse's hooves drumming noisily and the great bare hills drifting past. Now, you girls have never experienced the excitement of a moonlight gallop, I hope, and you will probably never know the true thrill of horseback riding. Not as a sport or a hobby, but as a way of life. These railway trains and comfortable stage coaches have taken away much of the fun in life, for when we did things, they mattered. And that frantic ride really mattered.

  Once he started, Mr Kemp did not relent, and we pushed on, passing the village of Linton Roderick and the lovely house of Newhall; Carlops, with its memories of Ebeneezer, Nine Mile Burn with its dark inn and the tiny hamlets of Silverburn and Howgate. The miles flowed past in a blur of foaming horses and skill, for we had to really ride. The road was snowy, you see, with patches of ice, and we had no light but that provided by nature's lantern.

  I followed Mr Kemp's directions, obeying his instructions implicitly as he showed me a dangerous stretch of ice, or the best route to take, but I kept up. I am proud to say that I did not lag behind so when we reached the outskirts of Edinburgh I was only a few yards behind, but our horses were completely blown.

  “Look,” Mr Kemp indicated the road ahead. Until now it had been white with new-blown snow, but he showed me the distinct mark of a carriage, with the prints of four hooves and the straight grooves of two large wheels. “That's their gig, I'll bet my life on it.”

  “Can we catch them?” I did not doubt Mr Kemp's word. If he said that Louise's gig had made these marks, then I accepted that he was correct.

  “Perhaps we may, Miss Lamont. How is your horse?” Mr Kemp looked closely at me. “More importantly, how are you?”

  I was tired but exhilarated. This mad moonlight dash with Mr Kemp was something I would always treasure. We do so love to store these memories, don't we? And we think that such adventures bring people together in love, but that is not the case, my dears. Love is more than a few hours of adventure, or an hour or so of abandoned passion and exposed flesh. Love is the day to day grind of life, of living together through bad times and good, of bringing up children, of surviving the disappointments and triumphs and pain of life and still being together and happy in each other's company. That makes a true marriage, girls, not these mad cap escapades.

  They do provide the most splendid memories though.

  “Keep up as best you can, Miss Lamont.” Mr Kemp was back in the saddle and pushing his horse through the fringes of Edinburgh, with me riding at his side with my hair a wind blasted shambles and my face raw red.

  I said that women do have some advantages that men do not consider, and our weight is one. Now, we had been riding for exactly the same length of time, but while Mr Kemp's horse was gasping and shivering, mine was good for another few miles. Why was that? Why, simply because I am the lighter rider. True, I was not the most slender of girls, for even then my curves were ample, but even so, I weighed much less than Mr Kemp.

  Edinburgh has expanded since my day, with new suburbs and streets in every direction, so you must imagine it as little more than the Auld Town and the graceful New. There was a scattering of villas beyond the boundaries, but many of the little villages that are now incorporated within the burgh were then country hamlets, while Leith was connected to the capital by the broad street of the Walk and very little else.

  Within ten minutes we were riding along the quiet streets with the grey buildings on either side, their blank windows staring accusingly at us and only a few late night pedestrians wondering who we were and what we were doing. Unfortunately, even when quiet, Edinburgh possessed more wheeled traffic than most places in Scotland, and the marks of Louise's gig were soon lost in the general confusion.

  “They've gone,” Mr Kemp said, and for only the second time since I had met him, he resorted to very commonplace language.

  “Mr Kemp,” I ignored his impropriety. Af
ter all, he was only a mechanic and we must make allowances. “You have traced them this far. In your best judgement, where do you think they will go?”

  He looked at me, his face drawn. “I was about to ask you the same question,” he said. “You know Louise far better than I. Does she have any friends in the city?”

  I thought for a few minutes. “Louise has many acquaintances but few friends,” I said. “And I cannot think of anybody to whom she could honestly turn in times of trouble.”

  That was true. Everybody liked Louise on first acquaintance, but her constant comparisons and readiness to criticise always proved wearisome. After a few short hours, people preferred her absence to her company. Poor Louise, so beautiful, so shapely yet so unloved. I felt sorry for her then, and resolved to do everything in my power to gain her back. She would have hated to be the wife of a republican anyway; it would be too common for her.

  “So then, they could either find an inn or…” Mr Kemp looked at me with an expression so horrified that I almost screamed. “Or they are going direct to a ship.”

  “Oh no.” I shook my head. “You can't let them sail away, Mr Kemp. You must stop them.”

  He was riding even before the last word had left my lips, and I had to use the whip on my poor piebald to catch him. We trotted through Edinburgh's dark streets with our hooves ringing on the cobbles and the jingling of bit and bridle echoing from the serene squares. Without a pause, we passed over the North Bridge, that windy connection between the Old Town and the New; skirted the eastern edge of Princes Street and slithered down the slope to Leith Walk.

  You will know the Walk, with its broad street lined with tenements and shops? Well, we pushed our horses down there as if they were fresh young things rather than the tired old nags that they were, but by the time we reached the foot of the Walk, they were completely done.

  “We'll have to leave the horses,” Mr Kemp said. He sounded agitated now, in this dark port of stone buildings and interesting nautical smells.

  “Mrs Cairnsmuir won't be pleased,” I told him. I had the greatest respect for Mrs Cairnsmuir, with her icy common sense and level eyes.

  “The horses don't count beside the honour of Miss Ballantyne.”

  I wondered how a mechanic would know anything about honour, but Mr Kemp seemed to know something about everything.

  “Are you sure they will be here?” I looked around at the dark, unlit streets, where huddled people lurched from doorways and somebody was singing a song full of extremely maritime words. My aunt would not have approved of her beloved daughter wandering in such a place. My mother would have had a fit with her leg in the air.

  “It's high tide in an hour,” Mr Kemp told me, “and there are a couple of neutral ships ready to sail.”

  The words meant little to me then, but I have since discovered that Napoleon Bonaparte had established what he called his Continental System, which closed all the ports of Europe to British ships. That meant that only very fast blockade runners and a few ships from ports not at war traded with both Britain and Europe. If there were neutral ships in Leith harbour, then it was virtually certain that they would be sailing to Europe, and Louise and her French companion may well be on board.

  I moved on, staggering with fatigue for I had been on the move since just after dawn. Mr Kemp was quick to support me.

  “Go on,” I ordered, “leave me behind and save Louise.”

  “I'm not leaving you,” Mr Kemp said with his arm around my shoulders and his concerned face a foot away from mine.

  “But Louise…”

  “You're worth a hundred Louises,” Mr Kemp told me. “And I would not leave a dog here, yet alone you.”

  At that moment the words did not mean much, but I think that was Mr Kemp's way of declaring his affection for me.

  I believe it has altered since, but I thought Leith a dark place of wynds and tall stone buildings, with a plethora of warehouses and grimy beer shops. I followed Mr Kemp as he hurried to the harbour, where, along a stretch of river he called the Shore, a line of ships was berthed beneath a tall round tower.

  “Over there!” Mr Kemp pointed, and I saw, standing forlorn, a dark gig with a drooping, steaming horse.

  “Louise!” I screamed the name, but the only reply came from wailing seagulls. “Louise! Please answer!” I was not surprised when she did not, but somebody in the nearest ship advised me to keep quiet or he would quieten me himself. He used some other words too, but I think they must have been very nautical for I did not recognise them.

  “Hello!” Mr Kemp shouted, and a squat man in a dark uniform appeared. For a moment I thought he was from the Royal Navy and had a terrifying vision of Mr Kemp being press-ganged, never to be seen again, but it seemed that the squat man was only a Customs officer.

  “Did you see the driver of that gig?”Mr Kemp shot out the question.

  The customs man shone a lantern at Mr Kemp, and then at me, before turning a slow eye to the gig. “Oh yes, there was a man and a woman.” He nodded. “Nice looking lassie, she was. She had lovely blonde hair.”

  “That's her,” I confirmed, as if there would be a number of young women running loose along the Shore that January night. “That's Louise. Do you know where she is now?” I looked at the waiting ships as if she would magically appear.

  Again the man checked me with his lantern. “Aye,” he said again. “Her man took her on board Potomac.”

  The name meant nothing to me, but Mr Kemp started. “And where is Potomac, pray?”

  Pulling a silver watch from somewhere, the man peered at the dial, looked up and extended a finger upward. “She left on the high tide, about fifteen minutes since, so, given this wind, I'd say she's in the lee of Inchkeith.”

  Mr Kemp translated for me. “Louise and the Frenchman are on Potomac, that's an American vessel. They left about half an hour ago, so they are out in the Firth of Forth.”

  I felt my stomach slide sickeningly. For the first time I wondered what Aunt Elspeth had felt when I disappeared with Willie Kemp. “Then we're lost. She's gone.”

  “Gone?” the customs man looked curious, but we both ignored him.

  I leaned against the great stone building at my back. My cousin had run off with a Frenchman and was being taken away to France. There was nothing I could do to save her.

  Mr Kemp, of course, was not so easily defeated. “What way's the wind?” He licked his finger and held it in the air. “Backing easterly,” he said, “and the Forth is not an easy waterway to leave.”

  “She's a right bitch with the wind like this,” the Customs man said, pleasantly.

  “Then we have a chance!” Mr Kemp slammed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. “By God! We could not have a better chance!”

  The Customs man looked to me and shrugged his shoulders. He obviously doubted Mr Kemp's sanity; a sentiment that I shared.

  “We have a better chance for what, pray?” I asked, slightly hesitantly.

  “We have a better chance to catch them, of course! In my steamboat.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I must have stared at that mad man for a full ten seconds. I had vivid memories of scuttling crabwise across the North Loch in that contraption, with various bits and pieces breaking every few minutes and a mocking straggle of spectators. I could not contemplate venturing into the less-than-sheltered waters of the Firth of Forth in such a device.

  “Is your boat not on the Nor' Loch?” I knew that there was relief in my voice.

  “One of my boats is.”Mr Kemp told me, “the experimental one. The other, my older and more reliable model, is only a few hundred yards from here.”

  “You have two of such monstrosities?” The next words escaped before I could help myself. “God save us from such tomfoolery!”

  Mr Kemp only smiled. “Such tomfoolery may yet save your cousin.” He looked hard at me. “However, I will need help, and Ebeneezer, my crewman, is not here. Will you help me find a suitable replacement?”

 
; That was the first time that Mr Kemp had asked me for help, and I was unsure whether to be pleased or insulted. Again, I spoke before I thought. “And what is wrong with me? I have helped you before, if you recall?”

  “You?” Mr Kemp frowned, and his mouth gaped open. I could nearly hear his mind working as he considered his options. He was standing on the Shore at Leith, with a line of ships moored mizzen to bowsprit and with only the Customs Officer and a woman for company. He had resolved to save Louise from her French prisoner of war, and he had a steam boat, but no crew. What could he do?

  “Me,” I confirmed, already regretting my rashness.

  “Are you willing to sail out there?” Mr Kemp nodded to the blackness beyond the Shore and I looked out.

  Brought up in Badenoch, I knew the Highland hills, and I was beginning to feel more comfortable in Edinburgh, but the sea was a mystery. I had barely been to the coast, yet alone ventured out at night in a contraption that steered crabwise and worked by lumps of coal. I looked at Willie Kemp, bit my fear and nodded. “I will go if you want me to.”

  His smile was different, not slow but uncertain. “You're a brave woman, Alison.”

  I had become Alison; not Miss Lamont. Hearing my own name was worth the fear. “So why are we wasting time, Mr Kemp? My cousin is out there.”

  The steam boat sat in its own berth in a quiet corner of the harbour, dwarfed by the tall sailing ships on either side. I had expected Mr Kemp's two boats to be similar, but this one was about twenty feet long, with a taller funnel and two paddle wheels in the stern. There was a wooden ship's wheel about half way down the length, and a massive boiler taking up most of the rest of the space. The name Mary was emblazoned in white letters against her blue hull.

  “That's my middle name,” I pointed out.

  “I know,” Mr Kemp said, without offering an explanation, and lent me his hand so I could step on board.