by Arnette Lamb
Something unrepeatable and indefensible, Sarah was certain. “What else occurred with Turnbull?”
“Nothing so improper until Notch and William sneaked into the inn.” Worry scored her forehead. “It was after the sounding of the curfew drum.”
The boys roamed the streets of Edinburgh at will, but not for long. Soon they’d be tucked into soft beds at the orphanage by ten o’clock, instead of dodging the constable and his curfew, thanks to Michael Elliot. Would he teach the boys a lesson in geography or history, if she asked him to? Would he speak to her at all after Henry had his say? That possibility troubled her.
“Ain’t you interested in what Notch did?”
To hide her uncertainty, Sarah banked the fire. “Very much so. Did he behave himself?”
“Ha! About as well as Lady Mary did when the earl of Wiltshire told her a woman lacked the mental strength and moral discipline to be a great painter.”
Sarah remembered the occasion vividly. “He belittled Mary. He ought to have known better, after spending the entire winter asking for her hand in marriage.”
Rose nodded so vigorously, she almost dislodged her sleeping cap. “He was hat-throwing angry ’cause Mary got the upper hand with him.”
“She’s happy now,” Sarah said. “Just as we are. Tell me more about Notch.”
“He asked Turnbull if the king was dead.”
“How did Turnbull reply?”
“After he stopped looking at the lad like he was a tear in his master’s best tartan, he asked Notch who he was and what he was doing in a salon reserved for betters.”
Sarah couldn’t stifle a groan. “I can imagine what Notch said back.”
“Aye, you know him well. The scunner told Turnbull the same thing he tells the sparks in the lane.” Whenever the question came up, Notch liked to proclaim that he was a delouser of gentlemen’s purses.
“He must stop declaring himself a thief, or the constable will toss him into Tolbooth Prison for a common nuisance. What did Turnbull do?”
“Tucked away his purse and told Notch to take himself off to the nearest moving carriage and throw himself in front of it.”
Laughing, Sarah put away the fire iron. “I shudder to think what Notch did.”
“You would have been proud of the lad—after I told him to mind his manners and remember your teachings. He turned boyish and politely asked Turnbull his opinion on the rumor that the king had gone to glory. Turnbull settled himself down and said the king was hale and hearty. Then he explained that the Complement was in Edinburgh to fulfill a tradition. They always escort their general home when his service is done. Then they vote amongst themselves to choose a new general.”
“I hope Notch thanked Turnbull.”
“Not quite. In parting, the lad told Turnbull to inform the general that if he so much as thought to take a liberty with you, he’d wish he’d been born Cornish.”
“Notch said that?” Lachlan MacKenzie had said those very words.
“I think it came from Cholly. All of Notch’s fancy notions do. After the lad left, I found out from Turnbull that the general took rooms at the inn.”
That shocked Sarah. She expected Michael to stay at Glenstone Manor. It did explain why he’d arrived in a hired carriage rather than the crested Elliot coach and how he knew so much about the fare at the inn. “Did Turnbull say why?”
“Nay, and that’s the bloody English in him, for he didn’t favor the question in the least. He puffed himself up and said a gentleman of the general’s station could stay where he ruddy well pleased. Then I said only a sinner facing the fires of hell would stay with the countess. I was ambling up to his good will, you see, by telling him the truth about her. Sharing my experience, as good staff does with others in service.”
“Was he grateful?”
The cup rattled in the saucer. Rose tried to steady it, but almost spilled the milk. Huffing, she put the china down. “The wretch told me I had a foul mouth and said if I was an India woman, they’d cut out my tongue and chop off my nose. Of course I told him he was three parts drunk from Johnson’s ale.”
Sarah had read of the custom of harem-keeping. But gleaning the information from a book and imagining Michael with a host of willing women at his disposal were two different things. And both unfortunately disturbed her. Again, she put Michael Elliot out of her mind. “You’re smiling, Rose.”
Rose demurred. “As Lady Agnes is fond of saying, I enjoyed a frolicsome time tonight.”
Sarah laughed. Agnes could thwart a suitor’s efforts quicker than Lottie could stir up trouble. Rose deserved a respite from the bleak atmosphere in this empty house. Sarah was glad the evening had provided it.
“I never did learn why the general’s in boarding rooms.”
“Perhaps he prefers it.”
“Could be. The Dragoon Inn’s a lovely place, even the staff salon. That’s where I met Turnbull. After he took his leave, I saw the kitchen, and it’s as clean as cook’s pantry at Rosshaven. The laundry maid showed me one of the rooms—’twas empty, of course. I cannot imagine Turnbull under the same roof as those laggards at Glenstone Manor.” Rose yawned and shook her head. “The hearthboy at the inn said the general had taken rooms until September. He gave the stableman a crown to look after his horse. A crown above the board! Even his grace don’t give a crown for that.”
Sarah hadn’t considered that Michael might be wealthy; he had demanded her dowry. He had also promised to buy Mayor Fordyce’s half of the customs house. Did he possess enough wealth to free Henry? What if they returned together?
Sarah grew anxious. She had not seen Henry or heard directly from him since long before his incarceration. Her conversations had been with Lady Emily. The details of Henry’s crime and punishment had come from Notch, who heard them from the streetsweeper. A note from Mary, along with a clipping from the London Weekly Journal had confirmed the news of the downfall of the earl of Glenforth.
Rose finished her milk. “Turnbull’s father was butler to the earl of Suffolk. That’s where he gets his uppity ways. When the earl’s third son took up a career in the East India Company, Turnbull went with him. Poor gentleman fell in a battle, and after that Turnbull came into the general’s service. Seems an adventurous life, over in India.”
“I was thinking of asking Michael to teach the children history, once the orphanage is finished.”
“His tutoring cannot come up to yours. Everyone knows the sheriff of Tain could’ve afforded an Oxford man for his children, but he’d have none but you.”
Just thinking about confessing the truth of her parentage exhausted Sarah. She yawned.
“You’re toilworn, my lady,” Rose said. “I’ll just be off to bed. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow. If you have everything you need, I’ll take the dishes down.”
Sarah handed her empty cup to Rose.
What would Henry tell Michael? How would the information affect Michael’s opinion of her? Would his interest fade to cool regard? That possibility saddened her, for she found him interesting. And far too exciting, her sensible nature warned.
She blew out the lamp and climbed into bed, wondering if the enmity toward her ended with Lady Emily. What if Henry felt it, too, and influenced Michael?
But as she closed her eyes and drifted to sleep, she couldn’t block out the memory of his hand cupping her breast and his lips moving on hers.
* * *
Late the next morning, lunch basket and writing tools in hand, Sarah and Rose set out for the mile-long walk to the customs house. She planned to inspect every room and commit to paper the needed repairs. A count of the broken windows would top her list, with the needed stair runners and floor boards next.
Just as they reached the last bastion of the city’s east gate, the meridian bell of St. Giles chimed the hour of midday. Wagons and sedanchairs cluttered the lane, and gusts of wind scattered debris. High Street bore traces of the crowds that had come out earlier in the day to see the departure of the Co
mplement. Had Michael looked for Sarah in the crowd? Had her absence disappointed him? What would he think of her after visiting Henry?
“My lady!” Rose grasped Sarah’s arm and yanked her back.
A coal wagon lumbered past; Sarah had nearly walked into its path.
This preoccupation with the Elliots had to stop. Michael would believe what he chose to believe. Sarah MacKenzie would carry on, with or without his endorsement.
She shifted her box of writing materials and continued on her way to Reekit Close, as the area around the docks was called.
Wedged between a towering tenement and a warehouse used for the storage of kilned lime, the four-story customs house looked like a sturdy letter box dwarfed by burly ruffians. Across Harbor Street and above the lintmaker’s establishment were meeting halls for the hammermen’s and candlemakers’ guilds. Taverns and penny-pie shops dotted the neighborhood, their earthy aromas dulling the odors of commerce and poverty. Decades of grime clung to the arcaded stone facings of the buildings, and the few remaining panes of window glass were gray with neglect.
Most of the orphans had come from the tenements of Edinburgh, and on her first excursion here shortly after meeting Notch, Sarah had tried to match his face and that of the other orphans with the weary prostitutes who frequented the aleshops and loitered in the shadowy alleyways. The process had been depressing and short-lived. Sarah realized the women could scarcely feed and care for themselves, let alone lament the loss of a child they had turned out years before.
Were it not for Lachlan MacKenzie, Sarah might well have been one of the orphans. She seldom explored that fact, for it brought back the pain of their last meeting.
Good fortune would now come to some of the orphans, and Sarah was enormously proud of her own part in it. Formal credit for the orphanage would fall squarely on the lap of the Elliots. That irony irked her. She didn’t expect glory for doing her Christian duty. Caring for children was a woman’s responsibility, especially for one who’d been raised with love and in luxury. It just wasn’t fair that the Elliots would reap the praise when they had stood in opposition for so long.
Until Michael, the Elliot who stirred her blood and inspired her passions. Her stomach floated.
“Lady Sarah!” Notch skidded to a halt before her. “Come and see the warship, Lady Sarah. You said you ain’t never spied one close up.”
William said, “Edinburgh ain’t seen one since afore Notch pecked his way outta that egg.”
“Stow it, you flower-cheeked bumpkin.”
William fumed, as he did when Notch teased him about his girlish good looks.
Sarah couldn’t very well refuse them, and she was curious about the infamous vessel, Intrepid. “Very well,” she said. “Let’s have a look at the flagship of the king’s navy.”
With Rose at Sarah’s side and the lads in the lead, they covered the short two blocks to the quay. Anchored at least 100 yards away, the apple-bellied man-o’-war dominated the port of Edinburgh. Pennons flew from a dozen places in the rigging, and the deck teemed with smartly uniformed soldiers.
In a great show of strength meant to impress the onlookers, the gun ports had been opened. On the quay, the bagpipers from the Black Watch Regiment played a fine rendition of “Loch Lomond.” Patriotism captured the crowds. The women dabbed at teary eyes, and the men struggled to contain their emotions.
“I say she can blow the Froggies out of the water like that.” An overly impressed Notch snapped his fingers. “See them sixty-pounders, Pic? They’re all cocked and ready to defend us.”
A splash of yellow drew Sarah’s attention. Michael Elliot stood at the bow of the warship, a spyglass pressed to his eye, the distinctive scarf fluttering in the wind. He wore the caped greatcoat and cockaded hat she also remembered from last night, and his dark hair was clubbed at his nape. Surrounded by the uniformed members of the Complement, he looked like a prosperous businessman or a young noble.
“Look, my lady,” Notch yelled. “That’s Lord Michael and he’s waving to you.”
He was also staring at her through that spyglass. Her heart tripped fast, and she wished she’d taken more care with her appearance. But she’d planned to spend the afternoon laboring on behalf of her cause, not preening for an Elliot. “He’s not a lord,” she said, for lack of anything else.
“Lord or lime-shoveler, that’s himself bidding you goodbye.”
“Don’t act like a lord,” William said. “Decent to the core, I says of him.”
“I’m certain he thinks of himself in the same way, William.” Sarah wanted the words back. His amorous advances aside, Michael couldn’t be faulted for poor behavior.
“That’s your opinion and Pic’s.” Notch squinted up at her. “Got your ladyfeathers all ruffled up, did he?”
Notch could be absolutely infuriating, not a small part of his charm. She had no intention of discussing her feelings on the subject of Michael Elliot with him or anyone else. “If you believe that, Notch, you’re as wrong as you were about the king’s passing on.”
Reminding Notch of his recent folly had the desired effect. Now humbled, he said, “The king’s a bit of all right. I have it on the best authority.”
Rose said, “You overstepped yourself last night with Turnbull.”
“Me ’n’ Turnbull,” Notch allowed, “we’re the best o’ mates. See? There he is beside the general. I’ll wager he’s wishing he could spy Mistress Rose in her perky bonnet.”
“Get on with you, rogue.” Rose gave his shoulder a nudge.
Undeterred, Notch sidled closer to Sarah. “Did you truly talk the mayor into giving over the customs house?”
“Who told you about it?” Sarah asked.
“Cholly heard it from the lamplighter, who heard it from the mayor’s butler. Performing charitable deeds brings bad humors on the mayor.”
Rose gasped. “Enough of your sauce.”
“Is it true?”
At the hope shining in his eyes, Sarah said, “Yes. It’s true, and I’d like your help looking it over today.”
“Now?”
“Soon.”
The boys waved and whistled until the sails caught the wind and the ship moved out of the bay. Sarah stifled a bout of melancholy at Michael’s leaving, telling herself she was concerned over the delay in the acquisition of the customs house.
Notch replaced his cap. “We’d best be after inspecting the new digs.”
Once at the customs house, he propped his hands on his hips and surveyed the building. “Like I was telling Pic and Cholly this morn,” he said, “the lads’ll take turns guarding the doors at night.”
As if reciting a list, William said, “Protecting our womenfolk, our personal effects, and such food as we have in the pantry.”
Sarah spent the afternoon listening to their plans and preferences and vowing to make sure they came true. Thanks to Michael Elliot, the orphans of Edinburgh had a chance. Would he change his mind about helping once he talked to Henry?
She cringed, imagining the lies Henry would tell Michael. On a more sympathetic note, she wondered what opinion Michael would form of his older brother, and what the long-estranged siblings would say to each other.
6
Good God, little brother.” Henry gaped, looking up at Michael. “You’re a sizeable limb on the Elliot family tree. If I were prone to fanciful notions, I’d swear you were old Hamish come back to life. Come in, come in.”
Ducking beneath the door frame of the cell Henry shared with two other men, Michael drew a shallow breath. From the moment the carriage had crossed London Bridge and turned on to Black Man Street, the stench from gin shops and general debauchery had sickened him. The sight of his older brother after so many years sent Michael’s emotions into turmoil.
“Not the most accommodating place, is it, Michael?” Henry waved a hand to indicate the small room with three cots, two crusty lamps, and an untended slop bucket.
Wall pegs hosted an array of fashionable if unkempt clothi
ng. Henry wore a waistcoat and matching knee breeches of dark blue satin over a drab brown shirt. His shoes were missing the buckles, and his legs were bare of hose.
Michael said the only thought that came to mind. “This prison is newly built.”
“Aye. Gordon’s rioters destroyed it back in ’eighty, but the owners couldn’t rebuild it quick enough. There’s a profit to be made on the sins of man.” Moving two stools near a keg that served as a lamp table, Henry said, “Sit down.”
Michael folded his long legs to facilitate sitting on the wobbly stool. “Profit?”
“Costs me a shilling a day for these accommodations. Private quarters can be had for two pounds a week, but . . .”
Michael’s expectations fell far short of the reality, which was odd, considering the filth and depravity common in Calcutta. The need to aid his brother came naturally. “I’ve sold the customs house.”
Henry’s jovial expression faded to disdain, making him look even more like their mother. “Without consulting me? How much did you get for it? A fair price, I hope.”
“Fifteen hundred pounds for the Elliot half, once the papers are signed.”
“Give me the money now, and I’ll deal with the formalities later.”
To his further disappointment, Michael didn’t trust Henry; so he withdrew the document and writing materials from his satchel and put them atop the keg. “Let’s just get the formalities behind us now.”
Henry’s mood turned decidedly cool. He scratched his name on the parchment and flicked it at Michael.
The rudeness of the gesture set Michael’s teeth on edge, but he tried to put himself in Henry’s place. Were their positions reversed, Michael would be less than agreeable. Still, a business transaction was simply that.
Returning the record of sale to the keg, Michael said, “You’ll need to affix your seal, if you want the money.”
“How careless of me.” Henry fished through a tapestry bag hanging on a peg above him.
As he watched Henry melt the wax and apply the family seal, Michael couldn’t ignore the irony of the actions, the place, and the participants. Usually younger sons looked to their elder siblings for money and advice. To lighten the atmosphere, he said, “We’ll chuckle about this when we pass the tale on to our children.”
