By the time Beth came within sight of the post, Armstrong had already administered several strokes to Rosalie’s naked back. Too breathless to command him to stop, Beth kept running, cannoning into him from behind with such force that he went sprawling on the ground.
She stopped, standing between him and Rosalie so that he could not continue the punishment, and bent over, fighting for breath. Rosalie, tied by her wrists to the frame, was moaning incoherently. Armstrong clambered to his feet and glared at her. All the slaves in the vicinity stopped working. This was going to be interesting.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Beth gasped, when she could breathe enough to speak.
“This negress has been stealing!” Armstrong stated. “I am administering punishment, as it is my job to do.”
Beth straightened up. In the distance she could see Eulalie hurrying through the cane fields in her direction.
“Did Monsieur order you to flog her?” Beth asked.
“No, but—”
“And I certainly did not. Your responsibility is for the field slaves, Mr Armstrong, not for the house slaves. How dare you even think to touch my maid without first asking my permission?”
“I do not need your permission, madame, to chastise one of Monsieur’s slaves,” Armstrong replied coldly. “I have his authority to act as I see fit.”
“You are misinformed, sir. Rosalie is not one of Monsieur Pierre’s slaves. She belongs to me.”
Her voice, although she did not realise it, was pure ice. Pure aristocrat. Francis Armstrong recognised it, and for the first time his tone expressed some doubt.
“You? I have not been told of this. When did you buy her?”
“That is not your concern. Neither Monsieur Delisle nor myself need to ask permission of you to make a business transaction, I think?”
“No, but—”
“You have exceeded your authority, Armstrong,” Beth said, relegating him to inferior status by referring to him by his surname alone. In the background someone laughed, and Armstrong swivelled round, eager to vent his frustrated rage on someone. A sea of blank expressions faced him. He turned back, to where Beth was instructing one of the slaves to cut the maid’s bindings. When he did Rosalie slumped to the ground, where Eulalie, who had now caught up, gently covered her naked upper body with her apron.
“Madame, this woman stole some ribbons from you,” Armstrong said. “You should be happy to discover this before something more valuable is taken. She was brazenly wearing them in her hair, for all to see!”
“Some turquoise ribbons?” Beth said coldly. “She was wearing them ‘brazenly’ as you say because I gave them to her as a gift. Did you ask her where she came by them?”
“Yes, but—”
“And did she tell you that I had made a present of them to her?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you did not make the effort to come to me to ask whether or not she was speaking the truth? As in fact she was?”
“Slaves lie all the time!” Armstrong protested. “I cannot go and ask the master every time a slave lies to avoid punishment! No work would be done if I did that!”
“No work will be done by my maid for several days while she heals, because of your erroneous assumption, Armstrong. And you have damaged my property, and for no good reason, which I am extremely displeased about. I will be having very strong words with Pierre about you!”
Although it appeared to be a slip of the tongue, she had used Monsieur Delisle’s first name deliberately to demonstrate that she was on friendly terms with him, and she saw by Armstrong’s change of expression that he understood what she was inferring. He had a choice; lose face in front of the slaves by apologising to a woman openly, or risk her raising hell with the master. The slaves saw it too, and all of those out of his line of vision were grinning.
Beth resisted the urge to grin back at them. She had to maintain her cold, superior expression, which was not difficult as she was as angry as she’d ever been in her life, a cold anger. The two English people faced each other, while in the background Eulalie muttered soothing words to Rosalie.
Armstrong looked away, down at the floor, and she knew she had won.
“I apologise, madame, if I acted wrongly,” he muttered.
“You did. And now you will release one of the field hands to carry my maid carefully back to the house,” she said.
“But the field hands are not allowed in the house!” Armstrong protested.
“You seriously wish me to call Monsieur Delisle from his work to carry my maid back to the house? Very well. Eulalie. Please go and tell Monsieur that he is required urgently.”
“No!” Armstrong cried. “I only meant…I will carry her myself.”
“You will do nothing of the sort!” Beth responded. She turned her back in a gesture of contemptuous dismissal. “You,” she said, pointing to a young man, “will you carry my maid back to the house? You will receive no punishment if you do.”
“Yes, madame,” he said. “I won’t hurt her, madame.”
“Thank you. Come, we are finished here.”
The young negro bent, and with great tenderness picked Rosalie up as if she weighed nothing and set off across the fields with her, Beth and Eulalie following behind, walking slowly so as to cause her the least discomfort possible. Even so, by the time they got back to the house the young girl was unconscious from the pain.
When he got to the porch steps the young man stopped uncertainly.
“Follow me, please,” Beth said, and led the way up to her bedroom where she instructed him to lay Rosalie on the bed, face down. He bowed to her, turned to leave, then hesitated before turning back to her.
“Madame Beth,” he said. “You have made an enemy of Monsieur Armstrong. He is a very bad man.”
“I am not afraid of Armstrong,” she replied gently. “But I will be careful. If he tries to punish you for following my orders today, make sure I hear of it immediately. In fact, if he takes out his anger at me on any of you, I would like to hear about it.”
“I think he will not today, and maybe never.” He glanced at her neck, and smiled. “You are a good lady. You will be safe.”
He turned and ran lightly down the steps and was gone. Beth looked down at herself to see what had made him smile. The cord from which the amulet hung was showing. She tucked it back under her fichu. He must know about the amulet and also believe in its protective qualities. Maybe Raymond had showed it to the other slaves when he had found it.
She put the matter from her mind and went to tend to Rosalie.
Eulalie had removed her apron from Rosalie’s back and was gently washing the blood away to reveal a number of weals. Armstrong had hit her at least ten times.
“She will be scarred for life,” Beth said, tears coming to her eyes. “I didn’t reach her in time.”
“No, no, Madame Beth, it is not so bad,” Eulalie assured her. “It would have been much worse if you hadn’t run so fast. The punishment for stealing is a hundred lashes at the very least. Usually the hand is cut off, but Mr Armstrong cannot mutilate a slave without Monsieur’s permission.”
“But he has mutilated her!” Beth said.
Eulalie smiled at madame’s naivety.
“Oh, no, madame, I mean he cannot punish in a way that would reduce their worth. Rosalie will be scarred, though not very much thanks to you. But she will still be able to work for you! You told Monsieur Armstrong that she was yours?”
“Yes. I asked if I could buy her. Monsieur is going to gift her to me,” Beth said. She didn’t elaborate, not wanting anyone to know what she intended yet.
Eulalie started to rub salve into Rosalie’s wounds. The maid moaned, and her eyes opened. Then she realised where she was lying, and tried to move. She cried out with the pain, and Beth sat on the side of the bed, taking Rosalie’s hand in hers.
“Shh,” Beth said. “You must stay still. You are safe now. Eulalie is taking care of your wounds, and then
she will fetch something for you to drink to ease the pain and help you to sleep.”
“I cannot sleep here, madame!” Rosalie said. “This is your bed! It isn’t right. Monsieur will be very angry.”
“Monsieur will not know unless you tell him,” Beth said logically. “Rest. Everything will be well, I promise you.”
Later, when Rosalie’s wounds had been dressed and she was finally sleeping, drugged by one of Eulalie’s potions with the addition of some laudanum, Beth thought it safe to leave the room for a while. She wanted to go and talk to Pierre about Francis Armstrong’s actions, but Raymond intercepted her as she walked across the porch toward his office.
“Monsieur has guests, Madame Beth,” he said.
Ah well. Probably better to take a little time, think how to word her complaint against Armstrong in the right way.
“Thank you,” Beth said.
“How is Rosalie?” Raymond asked.
“She’s sleeping now. Eulalie says she will be better in a few days. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry, madame? You saved her from much worse!” Raymond said.
“I didn’t reach her in time to stop him hurting her. She will be scarred, I think.”
“Madame, you saved her. No one else would have done that. I thank you. And I wished…if I may ask you something?”
“Of course!”
“Do you really intend to take Rosalie to France with you?”
“I intend to take both of you to France with me, if you wish it,” Beth said. Almost she told him of her full intention, but reined her tongue in. No. She would tell no one until she was sure she could fulfil her wishes.
“You are very kind, Madame Beth. But I must tell you, Monsieur will never sell me, not until I am too old or sick to serve him. But I would ask you to take Rosalie with you.”
“Raymond, you have already lost your wife. I would not separate you from your daughter as well,” Beth replied.
“Madame, please. I beg of you, whatever happens, please take Rosalie away from this place with you. She will be happy with you and you will treat her very well, I know. That will not be the case if you leave her here. I will be sad to lose her, but happy that she will have a good life.” His eyes on hers were pleading, desperate.
“I promise you, Raymond, that I will take her with me when I leave. But I have not given up yet. I will do my utmost to take you with me as well, if you want.”
“I think it will not be possible,” he said sadly.
“Few things are impossible, if you want them badly enough,” Beth said. “We will see.”
Firstly she would fight to get Raymond. And then, if Alex was alive, she would find him. Whatever the cost, however long it took, she would find him.
She had been wrong. She did not want a new life; she wanted her old life back. And finally she had the determination, the courage, and most importantly, the freedom to obtain it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Glasgow, September 1747
Having ridden into Glasgow from Loch Lomond on a sturdy garron, arriving in the evening, Angus paid for lodgings and stabling just off High Street for two nights. The following morning he was up and about early, having a list of purchases to make on behalf of the clan, including pots, tools, stockings, and lengths of linen and woollen cloth to make dresses for the women and much-hated breeches for the men.
In defiance of the Act banning the wearing of Highland dress, the core group of MacGregor men still waging war on the redcoats wore the feileadh mòr when fighting, partly because it was a far more practical garment both for protection against the elements and camouflage, and partly because they reckoned that if they were captured the fact that they were wearing outlawed clothing would be the least of their worries.
The rest of the men had, with reluctance and resentment, abandoned the Highland garb. The plaids had been dyed in an attempt to get rid of the outlawed tartan pattern and had been refashioned into coats, skirts for the women and other items of clothing. None of the clansfolk, whether waging war or not had handed in their weapons, which was also required by law. It had been illegal for a MacGregor to carry any kind of weapon for as long as they could remember, and having been in breach of the law their whole lives they saw no reason to break with tradition now that law was general to all Highlanders.
To that end, when Angus set out the following morning to make his purchases and to check for any mail arriving from his brother he wore the required breeches, stockings and shoes, as well as a clean linen shirt and coat. He carried no sword, of course, but hidden about his person was a sgian dubh and a dirk, cleverly concealed in a specially added pocket in the lining of his coat. He didn’t expect to have to use them, but you never knew, and he would have felt naked without a weapon of some kind, anyway.
He spent a pleasant morning shopping, and by dint of fierce haggling managed to save enough money to allow him to buy a slender silver bracelet for Morag. Their first child was due in a few weeks, and she had been a bit irritable and low in spirits lately as the baby was lying in a position which made it difficult for her to sleep. Hopefully this would cheer her up a little.
He dropped his purchases off at his lodgings then carried on to the post, where he asked the clerk if there was any mail for James Drummond.
“For James Drummond, you say?” the clerk repeated. His eyes wandered briefly over Angus’s right shoulder, then he dipped his head in a nod. “Aye, there is. A letter came in from London a few days ago, sir.” He went through to the back room, returning a moment later with a folded sheet of paper sealed with red wax. Angus handed over his money and took the letter, putting it in his pocket and thanking the man.
He left the building and looked up at the sky. Another couple of hours yet before twilight. He carried on up High Street in the direction of the cathedral, then, seemingly on the spur of the moment, went into a chop house, where he ordered mutton chops and a pint of porter. He sat by the window gazing idly out into the street, and while waiting for his meal to arrive took his brother’s letter out of his pocket, examining the seal with some care before breaking it and unfolding the paper.
He had intended to take it straight back to his lodgings to read in private, but things had changed, and he wanted to know the news it contained now, in case it altered his plans for the evening. He quickly scanned the missive, which purported to be a letter from his affectionate uncle, Archie, and which contained some information regarding the mislaid parcel of the previous correspondence, which he had hoped to locate. It seemed innocent enough, should arouse no suspicion if a stranger were to read it.
He read it again more slowly, taking the time to interpret the message. Halfway through the letter his meal arrived and he thanked the server absently, before finishing the sentence and inhaling sharply.
“Is it bad news, sir?” the server asked, hearing the intake of breath and seeing his customer’s face contort. Angus looked up, seeing the man as if from a distance, then pulled himself together.
“This?” he said, waving the letter. “No, it’s just a wee note from my uncle. I’ve been having pains in my back. They take me unawares at times, and are very sharp. I’m thinking to see someone whilst I’m here. Would you recommend anyone who kens about such things?”
The serving man thought for a moment.
“Well, there’s John MacKenzie down by the river. He’s no’ a qualified physician though, ye ken, but a good man, even so. He fixed my shoulder the once, when I put it out playin’ the fitba’.”
Angus listened carefully to the man’s directions and thanked him. He put the content of the letter and its import firmly to the back of his mind, having more urgent matters to think about right now. Then he ate his mutton chop and drank his porter, by which time the sun had almost set and it was threatening rain, which suited his purpose even better. He ordered another drink and waited a little longer until the threat of rain became a reality, and then he paid his bill and left, thanking the serving man again and stepping out i
nto the downpour.
Turning his coat collar up he walked briskly along the street, keeping close to the buildings in an attempt to avoid the deluge. At the crossroads he turned down the Drygate, continued straight until he was sure the man following him had turned the corner and could see him, then he turned again, into one of the maze of dark alleys lined on either side by tenement buildings.
Once in the alley he ran at full speed for about twenty yards before diving into the shadows, flattening himself into the recess of a doorway. He reached into his coat, grasping his dirk in his right hand and sliding the sgian dubh into his sleeve where he could retrieve it instantly if needed. Then he waited.
Sure enough, after about thirty seconds the short, squat man who had followed Angus out of the post office after the clerk had nodded to him, had waited down a side street opposite the chop house while Angus had eaten his meal, and then had continued following him when he left, appeared at the end of the alley and started to make his way down it. Angus waited until the man had passed him, then followed him for a few paces before catching up to him and grabbing him from behind. There were the beginnings of a struggle, then the man felt the cold iron of Angus’s dirk against his throat and stilled instantly.
Angus stepped backwards, taking his captive with him, and set his back against the wall so he could not be attacked from behind by any accomplices the stalker might have following behind.
“Now,” he said quietly, “as ye’ve taken such pains to follow me all day, what can I be helping ye with?”
“I wasna following—” the man began, then gave a low cry as the knife pierced his skin. A thin trickle of blood ran down his neck.
“Ye’re in no position to be lying to me, I’m thinking,” Angus said. “Why are ye following me, and who tellt ye to? I’ll no’ ask twice, mind. I’m a busy man.” The man stiffened and twisted slightly in his grip as he tried to reach for whatever weapon he was carrying. Angus pressed the blade harder against the man’s neck, enough to cause the thin trickle to become a thicker one, upon which he seemed to realise that it was pointless resisting and the fight went out of him.
Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6) Page 29
