Mrs Captain Edmund Ferintosh. The name echoed inside my head. I thought of a lifetime of luxurious coaches and sumptuous meals in romantic locations. Mrs Edmund Ferintosh: was such a thing possible?
'Well now,' I had not seen Catherine lingering in the shadow of the Cross. 'That's a fancy chariot for a man you are going to tell me all about.'
'His name is Captain Ferintosh,' I said.
'And?' Catherine raised her eyebrows. 'You already told me that much.'
I attempted a mysterious smile, as women do in all the best romantic novels.
'You're not going to say any more, are you?' Catherine said. 'You are the most infuriating of women, Mary Hepburn.'
'Thank you,' I mocked her with a curtsey.
'Come on now, Mary,' Catherine said. 'We'd better get back before full dark.'
The entire ride home, I thought about Captain Ferintosh's words, trying to work out what he had been trying to tell me. He could have been hinting at a future marriage proposal, or he might not. Now I had another dilemma. There was a very amiable man requesting my hand in marriage, while my mother had quite another gentleman in mind for me. Now, despite my youth and apparent naivety, I was sensible enough to realise that Captain Edmund Ferintosh was not all he seemed. Charming gentlemen in beautiful clothes did not habitually enjoy a stroll across boggy muirland; nor did men assume the title of captain unless they had either commanded a ship or had military experience. My captain's hands were too soft for any seaman who worked with tarry ropes, while he had not shown any inclination to discuss military matters. Captain Ferintosh was a rogue, albeit a very amiable rogue.
I liked him. I liked him a lot. I thought about him every day. I tried not to think about Mr John Aitken. When I did, I had the most horrible palpitations. If I were a horse, I would say that I broke out in a cold sweat. As I was a lady, I will say I glowed. Profusely.
Three days later, my situation altered again, quite dramatically.
Chapter Five
I had never seen Father look so serious. He took the pistol from the drawer in which it had resided for many months, laid it on the table in front of him and began to clean it. I watched with some apprehension.
'Father, what are you doing?'
He looked up. 'Cleaning my pistol,' his smile was forced. 'Don't look so worried, Mary. It's only a precaution. I doubt I'll need it.'
'Father,' I asked. 'Where are you going? Why are you taking a gun? You never carry a gun.'
'Hold that will you?' Father asked. 'It's not easy loading with only one hand.'
I held the heavy, old-fashioned pistol as he loaded it, tamping down the powder and rolling in the ball before ramming down the wad to keep it secure.
'Do you remember these whisky smugglers I had before me on the bench the other day?'
'Yes; the scoundrels.'
'That's the ones.' Father looked surprised that I had remembered any details of his work. 'I questioned them before the trial to see if I could learn any more about their operations. They asked if I would give them a lighter sentence if they told me the location of their leader.'
'Did you allow such a thing?' I wondered.
'I did,' Father said. 'I am now going to arrest their leader.'
'Can you trust them, father? Will the scoundrels tell the truth?'
'If they mislead me,' Father had never sounded grimmer. 'They will regret it, I assure you.'
I held up the pistol. It was heavier than I expected. 'Will it be dangerous?'
Father took the pistol from me. He placed it on the table, where it lay, sinister, a reminder of the ugly side of life outside the confines of Cauldneb. 'Do you remember our conversation about a king of crime?'
I nodded, wordless.
'If this man is who I hope he is.' Father said, 'he may be in that category.'
'Father!' I did not want to point out the obvious.
'I know,' Father said. 'I only have one arm.' This time his smile looked more genuine. 'I am not going alone, Mary.'
I tried to smile. 'I should hope not, Father.'
'I have sent word to all our neighbours.' Father said. 'East Lothian is about to become lively.'
The first man arrived at Cauldneb half an hour later. James Flockhart came as if he was going to fight the French, with a pair of horse pistols at his saddle as well as a fowling piece strapped across his back. A rangy man in his thirties, Mr Flockhart was also a dedicated sportsman who knew how to handle his firearms. Elliot of Muirhead was next, a hard-faced man with a single pistol, followed by a middle-aged, balding man I did not know.
'Who is that?' I asked.
'That's Mr John Aitken of Tyneford,' Mother said.
I felt as if somebody had thrown a bucket of cold water over me. 'Mr John Aitken?' I studied the man that my loving parents thought would be a suitable match for me. He was of middle height, gasped as he rode and sat his saddle like a sack of potatoes. This ageing dotard was the fellow my mother said shared my tastes. When I compared John Aitken to Captain Ferintosh, I thought how wrong my parents were. While the captain was vigorous, handsome, dashing and decidedly romantic, Mr John Aitken was none of these things. Appalled, I looked away and shook my head.
Dear Heavens, Mother. Do you honestly believe that I could even be friends with an old man like that? Captain Ferintosh looked ever more appealing.
'What's to do?' I tried desperately to force my mind onto other matters. 'Why is everybody carrying guns? Is this fellow the leader of a band of desperadoes like the Hawkshurst Gang?' The Hawkshurst gang had been a bunch of murderous rogues who had created mayhem in southern England. We did not have their like in Scotland.
'We hope not.' Father checked the priming of his pistol before tucking it away in a holster. His smile was intended to reassure me. I refused to be comforted.
'If he is,' John Aitken's voice was like a rusty hinge, creaking as he spoke. 'If he is, we'll lay him by the heels and drag him back at the tail of a horse.'
James Flockhart looked at me, steady-eyed. 'Now, don't you fret, Miss Hepburn. We'll catch the rogue and keep him safe and sound. We know the area better than anybody living.'
I felt my heart flutter inside me. 'Thank you, Mr Flockhart. Father; take care. Don't be taking any chances.'
'I won't.' Father said.
'Your father knows what he's doing.' Mother looked as calm as if her husband was merely riding to market rather than venturing on some quasi-military expedition. She was at her best at times like this; bless her rock-solid devotion to what was right and proper.
'What can I do to help?' I looked around, feeling helpless.
'There are some men still missing,' Mother said at once. 'They've probably got lost coming here. See if you can find them.'
That was definite and precise. I had the stable lad saddle Coffee, mounted her and trotted out of Cauldneb's policies to find the missing riders. It was not the most important of tasks, but one that kept me occupied rather than worrying about Father and, incidentally, thinking about Mr John Aitken, who I already viewed as a horrible old man.
'It's that way, I say!'
'No! You're wrong. That's Cauldneb up there.'
'We've already passed it.'
I heard the argument only five minutes after I left our grounds. The three men all pointed in different directions, with only one indicating the path to Cauldneb.
'Good morning gentlemen,' I interrupted their discussion. 'Are you looking for Mr Hepburn's property?'
'We are.' The man who had been correct was first to speak. He was a slightly dishevelled, dark-haired fellow with a ready smile.
'In that case, gentlemen, if you would care to follow me, I will lead you right there.'
'Wait now,' a blond-haired young gallant pulled his horse beside Coffee. His name was George Aberdare, and I had known him all my life. 'Wait, I said. We are gentlemen. Do we jump when a woman tells us to?'
'Only when she is correct, George,' the dishevelled man said.
'I don't think she is
correct, Colligere,'
I sighed. 'Listen, gentlemen. I am heading back to Cauldneb. If you choose to follow me, you will be going the right way.' Turning Coffee around, I headed home. I had no patience with stupid men, and George Aberdare was just that. I heard the sound of only two horses behind me.
'Most people call me Alexander,' the dishevelled one introduced himself with a short bow from the saddle. 'How de do.'
'Mary Hepburn,' I bobbed as best I could.
'His name is Alexander Colligere,' the second man tapped his head with a long forefinger and pointed to Alexander. He lowered his voice to a very audible whisper. 'He's a bit lacking, don't you know?'
I looked at Alexander Colligere, expecting some retaliation. Instead, he smiled and looked away. A bit shy then, I thought.
'You must be Mr Andrew Aitken's daughter,' the second man said. 'I'm Wattie Ormiston.'
'How do you do, Mr Ormiston,' I was not sure if I liked him after his barbed introduction of Alexander Colligere.
George Aberdare galloped up behind us a moment later. 'This is the right way, after all, hang it.' He gave me a broad grin. 'Halloa, Mary I did not recognise you there.'
'Good morning, George.' Only George could ride past a gate he had entered through at least a score of times. I allowed him to follow behind us without any more ado. Anybody who was so stupid deserved no more attention from me. I will try not to mention George Aberdare again.
Mr Ormiston rode at my side, with Mr Colligere lagging behind.
'Are you all right, Mr Colligere?' I asked. I felt sorry for the fellow if Mr Ormiston and the stupid Aberdare were the best companions he had. There! I promised to try not to mention Aberdare again, and I have done so. Promises are such fragile things.
'Yes, thank you,' Mr Colligere said. 'You have some magnificent trees in your policies.'
'Thank you, Mr Colligere. My father is rather proud of them.' I warmed a little to Mr Colligere. Any man who appreciated trees must have a good streak in him, even if he was, in Mr Ormiston's words 'a bit lacking.'
I left Mr Colligere to admire the trees while I ushered the others into the withdrawing room, where Mother and Jeannie, our housekeeper, were busy fortifying them with food for the day ahead. Men need to be fed at all times, Mother often informed me, and ensured that she was at the forefront in the feeding process. Cook must have been busy that day. The withdrawing room was equally busy with all the men discussing their plans while Father moved around, everybody's friend although very much in charge.
'Who are they pursuing, Mother? It must surely be the King of France, or the Young Pretender returned from the dead or some such villain.' Charles Edward Stuart had won one of his victories at nearby Prestonpans, so he had been an ogre of our childhood, although the Jacobite threat passed decades before.
'It must surely be a great rogue,' Mother agreed. I could see the worry in her eyes beneath the smile of the hostess. 'Father does not discuss such things with me.'
That was the other side of Father, you see. Legal business was man's work. Women were excluded. It was the way of the world and still is in many households. I resolved that when and if I were married, my husband would not exclude me from that critical part of his life. That resolution edged my mind back to thoughts of John Aitken and Captain Ferintosh. My excitement at seeing such a great host in Cauldneb dissipated. I looked surreptitiously at John Aitken, with the candlelight reflecting from his balding head.
Oh Dear Lord. Am I to be married to that?
I listened as his rusty-gate voice creaked across the room, shuddered and wished that Captain Ferintosh had driven me to his non-existent ship yesterday and sailed away to the Americas, or Hindustan or some other wondrous place of colour and excitement.
'Go and serve our guests,' Mother urged. 'I see that Mr Aitken has joined us.' Well, she already knew that! Mother lowered her voice. 'Pay particular attention to him, Mary. Try and make a good impression.' She dropped her voice to a whisper. 'Do try to keep control of your temper!'
'Yes, Mother.' I drifted back to the guests, bobbed in a curtsey to Mr Colligere, who had managed to tear his attention from our trees, and ignored Mr Aitken as if he carried the plague. Mr Ormiston was paying his respects to a tray of Jeannie's cakes.
'These are devilishly good,' Mr Ormiston said. 'I must ask your cook for the recipe. My wife has an astounding love of sweet things.'
'I rather like the sound of your wife, Mr Ormiston,' I said, hoping that he was less acid-tongued with her than he had been with poor Mr Colligere.
'What the devil!' I turned at the shout and crash to see two men sprawled on the floor. John Aitken and Alexander Colligere had somehow managed to bump into each other, unbalancing both. Mr Aitken lay on his face, blaspheming fit to frighten the French, while Mr Colligere was laughing as if life was a great joke. I have to forgive myself for hoping that Mr Aitken was hurt. Ignoring him, I lifted my skirts and crouched beside Mr Colligere.
'Are you all right, sir? I trust that you are uninjured.'
'Right as the day is long,' Mr Colligere said. He stood up without my help. 'It was only a tumble.'
'You careless young snipe!' John Aitken had his own dash of temper, I noticed. Well, he had better not try to unleash it on me, or he'll find he has gripped the devil by the tail. 'What the devil do you think you were doing? By God, I've a mind to…'
'Are you injured, Mr Aitken?' Mother cut off his blustering rhetoric with practised words while the other men watched and grinned, thinking the entire affair a colossal joke.
'No,' Mr Aitken calmed down under Mother's administrations. 'I spilt my drink though. Damned young whippersnapper.'
'Here we are,' Mother found a glass of French brandy. You will notice that, magistrate or not, Father had no objections to imbibing with smuggled brandy. We lived by double standards, you see. I am sure he allowed some petty criminals go scot-free as well, although he was hard on others.
'Well, gentlemen,' Father spoke above the hubbub. 'If we are all assembled, I think we should be on our way. The day is wearing on.'
'Our quarry won't remain in the same den all day,' Mr Flockhart lifted a hunting horn to his lips. Only Mother's practised frown prevented him from blowing it inside the house. Some things are just not done in Cauldneb.
The men clattered outside with great noise and laughter. One would think they were engaged on some sporting occasion rather than hunting a no-doubt desperate scoundrel. Men are like that; they like to put sport before all things.
I watched them ride out. Father was in the lead, riding as well with his single arm as any of the others with two. James Flockhart was behind him, with John Aitken sitting like a lump of lard at his back, then came Elliot of Muirhead, James Flockhart, Anderson of Langdyke, and Brown of Laverockhill, Catherine's father. Except for John Aitken, Ormiston and the strange Alexander Colligere, all were local gentlemen I had known all my life, quiet, hard-grafting men of the soil, church-goers with wives and families, not wild men to ride into battle.
'I don't like this, Mother,' I said.
'Men do what has to be done,' Mother put her hand on my shoulder. 'It has always been. Come now, we have a house to run.'
I watched the riders' dust slowly settle onto the ground. Somewhere a cock crowed, with a gaggle of hens cackling shortly afterwards. A dog barked, once, twice and again. I remained at the doorway, feeling that my life was about to change. I don't know why I felt like that; perhaps it was because of the turning of the year with autumn crisping the leaves and clouds gathering above the German Ocean behind the great white lump of the Bass Rock.
'Mary,' Mother called. 'Watching won't bring them home any the quicker. Work is the answer. Work occupies the mind and the body.'
Mother had a simple solution to most matters. Work. We worked while waiting for Father. For all her words about a servant's work, Mother could scrub, polish and clean with the best of them. She led the way while I followed, pretending not to notice the way she looked out of the window every f
ew minutes and started up at every sound that could be her man coming home. I knew my mother, you see, the good and the better of her. I could not understand why she should choose a man such as John Aitken for me.
'Mother,' I asked. 'Why John Aitken?'
'John Aitken is a fine young man,' Mother said. 'But this is hardly the time to discuss him.'
'He's hardly young,' I said.
'He's a little older than you, true,' Mother said.
'Quite a lot older,' I retorted with more force than I intended.
Mother smiled. 'When you grow older, age matters less. Why, your father is quite a few years older than I am.'
'Only a few years,' I thought of John Aitken's balding head and decided paunch. 'Not very many.'
'There, you see?' Mother smiled at me across the floor we were scrubbing. 'Not very many. Your father and I jog along very nicely, don't we?'
'Yes, Mother,' I agreed, 'but John Aitken!'
'You'll like him when you meet him properly,' Mother said. 'Now, I don't want to hear another word on the subject. Not one word!' She raised her finger to signify that the discussion was closed.
I spent the majority of that day thinking of the candlelight gleaming on Mr John Aitken's balding head, his sudden flare of temper at placid Alexander Colligere and his rotund body. Comparing him with Captain Ferintosh, I felt a mixture of despair and anger.
No, I told myself. I will not marry that old man. I will not even contemplate marriage to that old man. I will run away, rather than that!
Run away where? I asked myself in a moment of sanity. Where could a lone woman escape to? We were not like men. We could not sign on a whaling ship, or join the army, or run away to the Hudson's Bay or the East India Company. Perhaps I could emigrate to Canada or the new United States? As what? A lone woman with no fortune? The very best I could hope for was a servant's position or perhaps a governess, and then only if I could afford the passage, or indentured myself for seven years.
I shuddered. I was trapped in my woman's body, condemned by my own mother.
The Name Of Love (Lowland Romance Book 4) Page 5
