by Fiona Monroe
"Oh, but..."
"There is no but, Lady Elspeth. I have only the word of a man I have not seen for twenty years that he has not alerted the militia to my presence here."
"Oh, but he is your brother. And I did not tell him you were a—what you were."
"He knew already. It seems my reputation has spread further than I might have hoped."
A great wind of fear swept through her, knocking the breath out of her, and she sat down on the edge of the bunk.
"I am not going to ransom you," he continued in the same cold even tone, ignoring her distress. "It is too dangerous now that I am no longer incognito, whether I can trust my brother or not. I am going to return you to your family in the character of a merchant captain, asked to escort you home by the American navy."
"What...?"
"I will explain the details on the way. Dunwoodie is ten miles from here? With fresh horses we can be there within two hours. Make yourself ready. Gather together whatever items you really do not want to leave behind, but we cannot take your trunks."
"Captain... I'm sorry."
She reached out to put her hand on his arm, but he stepped away without letting her touch him. Mortified, Elspeth shrank back.
"It's much too late to be sorry," he said.
"Punish me!" she cried impetuously. "I would rather you punished me for my folly, than turn me away without forgiving me!"
"It is not my place to chastise you any longer, Lady Elspeth. When we were at sea, when your safety was my responsibility, then I would have turned you over my knee and skelpt your bare backside raw. But you are no longer any concern of mine. Get yourself ready to leave within the hour."
And without one warm look, he turned away from her and left her.
Chapter Eighteen
The journey was unbearable.
Elspeth did not cry, would not cry. She had pulled her pride around her like a brittle shield. After all her adventures at sea, to step into the ordinary interior of a carriage and rattle and jerk along familiar city streets and country roads felt fantastically strange. And she was dimly conscious that after a voyage of so many weeks together, when they had been all but alone and each other's in the isolated freedom of the seas, this was the last time she would ever travel with her Captain.
The only man she had ever loved, the only man she ever could and now ought to love. He handed her into a hired coach and four in the street outside the harbour, and stepped in behind her and settled himself into an opposite seat without a word. She had said a fleeting, dreamlike farewell to Sir Duncan, who had made a point of bowing to her and kissing her hand. Elspeth had scarcely registered him this time, so numbed was she by the misery of her imminent parting from the Captain.
He said nothing while the carriage trundled slowly through the crowded streets of the city and along the newly-built grand thoroughfare of Union Street. Elspeth gazed unseeingly at the familiar granite shop-fronts, at the tradespeople and pavement-sweepers, the crowds with their bonnets and shawls; all around she heard the guttural tones of Doric, the dialect of Scots that few who were not from Aberdeen or nearby could understand any more easily than Gaelic. These were sights and sounds that she had believed she would never know again, but she felt no sense of joy or homecoming.
When they were out on the open road beyond the city bounds, driving at greater speed through the summer-green fields of cattle and ripening barley, the pounding of the horses' hooves and the rattling of the carriage wheels were loud enough to mask their voices from any chance of being overheard by the coachman up on the box in front. Only then did the Captain explain that they were going to spin James a fantastical story and that she was going to have to pretend to have been held captive on some kind of pirate island and rescued by the American navy.
"I do not like having to lie to James," she said sullenly.
"Only a week or so ago you were urging me to present myself to your brother as your saviour, rather than your captor. I thought you would approve the scheme."
"That was altogether different. Then you would have been telling everyone the truth about who you are. Then James would know you are a hero."
"I am not a hero," he said sharply.
The flash of anger actually made her look round hopefully, but in another moment his expression had closed up again.
"You do not have to say very much about your supposed experiences on the island," he continued, "or the American officers who rescued you. If anyone asks difficult questions, just say that you do not remember the details. The distress of such an adventure would easily account for any confusion."
"I am not in the least confused," she said stiffly.
"Then make no mistake about this. If you do not stick to this story until I have had a chance to sail clear of British waters, then the consequences for me will likely be fatal. After I am safely gone, you may tell your brother everything if you wish."
Elspeth did not reply to this. She was not going to plead yet again that she had no intention of ever betraying him, if he did not yet believe and trust her. And the idea that she would ever, could ever tell her brother everything just made her wonder whether he even remembered what everything included.
As they drew nearer and nearer to Dunwoodie, passing through the little village of Kirkhaven and the even smaller Bridge of Auchtie, as every hedge and cottage became familiar and recognisable, she began to be conscious of the great change that happened to her since she had last passed along these well-known paths. The loss, the irrevocable loss of the one treasure money could never buy; the jewel she ought to have hoarded, the one power she had truly possessed. A great cold sadness swept over her. She had been stripped of it, and left bereft. It was no consolation at all to think that this was a misfortune as old as time, now that it had happened to her.
She would pretend that it had not, of course. That was the only recourse open to her. She would hide her heartache and her shame, like untold thousands of women had before her. Like her little maid Birnie, whose distress she had been so ready to scorn.
She was no better, after all.
So wrapped up was she in her thoughts, so heavy and chilly was the silence between her and the Captain, that they came upon the great carved arched gates of Dunwoodie before she was aware of their near approach. There, suddenly, was Milne emerging from the gate lodge, in the same coat and cap he had been wearing when he had waved her on her way on that frosty spring morning. Then, Mrs Milne and an improbable number of little Milnes had been lined up at the side of the drive; now, Milne spoke briefly to the coachman, looked as taken aback as a weatherbeaten old lodge keeper ever could, and stood rigidly staring at the carriage for a few moments in defiance of all proper behaviour and deference.
Elspeth shrank back into the interior of the carriage. She did not yet want to be exposed to the astonished gaze of every servant on the estate.
The moment could not be delayed long, however. With an incoherent exclamation under his breath and a burst of energy that startled her, the Captain opened the carriage door and leaned out.
"Captain John Morris of the merchant ship Chieftain, escorting the Lady Elspeth," he said, in a tone that expected no argument.
Milne approached the open door of the carriage and Elspeth could no longer hide herself. She felt her cheeks reddening as the lodge keeper caught sight of her, and kept her eyes cast down.
It took Milne only a moment to recover his customary attitude of imperturbability. "Welcome home, my lady," he said with a bow, as if she had been gone to town for a fortnight, and unhurriedly opened the gates.
Milne was not wearing mourning, Elspeth realised as the carriage trundled along the avenue. Her father was still alive. A deeper dread settled over her. When they passed around the bend in the driveway that had been designed to bring all the magnificence of Dunwoodie House into sudden glorious view, she dared at last to look directly across at the Captain.
He was in the seat facing forward, and so had the full benefit of the dramatic r
eveal of Dunwoodie's facade. Most first time visitors could not resist an exclamation, or at least a word of surprise and appreciation. The Captain sat stony-faced, evidently unmoved.
He did not meet her eye, and Elspeth did not look at him again. When she found him handing her out of the carriage in front of the great entrance portico, she kept her face averted from him.
Somehow, by that mysterious process that allowed news to travel through the estate with a speed that seemed faster than physically possible, the house had already been alerted to the rumour at least of Lady Elspeth's quite unexpected return. She could see more than one servant's face peering through a window, and a couple of stable boys were loitering quite openly near the stable yard entrance to gape. Two footmen were hurrying down the steps to meet the arriving carriage with more promptness than usual.
They had left the two grand oak front doors standing open, and a figure in white emerged to stand at the balustrade above. Elspeth had half-feared, half-hoped to see James there, although under normal circumstances he would never bother to come to the door to greet her. Instead, standing over her with two bejewelled slender white hands placed delicately on the parapet, was Lady Arabella Grenfell.
"And will you not stay for dinner, sir? Lord Atholl and I are so grateful for the service you have rendered our poor sister. We would love to hear more of your adventures."
"I'm very much obliged to you, Lady Atholl, but I really cannot. I must sail on with all haste to Portsmouth now, my business there is urgent."
The Captain looked out of place in Dunwoodie's great drawing room, that vast and always chilly apartment where they were received. This had to be a fancy of the new Lady Atholl's. Guests were usually received in the much smaller, much more comfortable blue drawing room in the east wing overlooking the formal gardens, and the great drawing room was only used for balls or for sitting in after dinner when there was a numerous house party.
Elspeth perched uneasily on the edge of one of the embroidered overstuffed sofas near the empty fireplace, which was large enough to accommodate several full-grown men standing upright yet never, when lit, gave out enough heat to penetrate far into the room. She had been bustled there with elaborate solicitude by her new sister-in-law, and been brought sweetmeats and restorative wine. James had barely been allowed to embrace her before she had been whisked off him and made to sit down, rest and urged to eat and drink, as if she had just staggered into the house after a month lost and starving in the wilderness. Elspeth was surprised that Arabella did not wrap a blanket around her shoulders.
The three others were still standing a little awkwardly around her, as the Captain had ignored Arabella's gracious invitation to be seated.
Her brother seemed bewildered more than anything else. Neither angry, nor overjoyed to see her; just confused and serious, and darting constant glances towards his bride. Elspeth noticed immediately, as soon as the first fluster of embarrassment passed, that James was taking his lead from Arabella in everything. He let her take charge of the very unexpected situation, and sweep them to the great drawing room, and question the Captain about the circumstances of their arrival, and order emergency refreshments.
It was true that since she was now mistress of Dunwoodie, it was Arabella's duty to receive guests and make them comfortable, but she seemed extraordinarily assured in that role considering that she could only have been here a very few weeks. Technically, since her sister Henrietta's marriage Elspeth had herself been mistress of Dunwoodie, but nobody had paid the least attention to that. And now this girl, who had been presented in the very same season as herself, was presiding like a calmly smiling queen over Elspeth's own home.
And James was just letting her.
There was a bustle as the rest of the tea-things arrived and were placed on the various tables, and the Captain at last was obliged to be seated. He chose the same sofa as her, though the other end of it. Elspeth had not yet touched her own plate of sandwiches and dainty cakes. They looked tiny and alien, like nothing that could be eaten.
"My father the Marquess," said James, again glancing at Arabella, "would be here to thank you in person if he could, sir. His health, however, is very poor. He never leaves his room."
"I hope, sir," said the Captain—Elspeth could not help noticing that he was not eating, either—"that neither your honoured father, nor you and Lady Atholl have suffered any anxiety on account of Lady Elspeth's safety. I imagine that no news had yet reached you of the attack on the Heron."
James was about to reply, but Arabella interposed smoothly. "We had begun to wonder that we had received no word from my sister on her arrival at Barbados, but these things are very uncertain, are they not? My father has interests in the West Indies, and I have known letters from our steward there to go astray for weeks."
What was this sister business? Elspeth could not help scowling at her, as she sat with perfect self-possession in the chair nearest the fireplace. Arabella's white morning dress was simple but very elegant, the single strand of fat grey pearls against her throat was unassuming but must have cost James or somebody a fortune, and she was affecting a lace cap over her artfully curled dark hair. This last, in case anyone could be in any doubt that she was in fact married.
Elspeth was suddenly very conscious of how sea-stained and travel-worn her own garments were. She had not had clean clothes since setting out on the voyage. In fact, she was sure that she could catch a whiff of salt coming from herself.
The Captain was making some commonplace reply about the difficulties of overseas mail, and Arabella started talking with composure about the sugar trade in the West Indies. James was watching her with what was unmistakably admiring fondness.
Underneath everything, Elspeth felt the familiar prickle of hurt. Surely, surely, if returning home quite unexpectedly from a voyage to the West Indies, having been captured by pirates and then rescued did not qualify her to be the centre of attention for at least an hour, then she was never going to be of any account. It seemed that they had moved on from her adventures, to Lady Atholl's irritatingly well-informed opinions on the Abolition. She wondered what on earth the Captain could be making of her and did not dare to glance at him, but she could see quite plainly that James was bursting with pride and satisfaction at every word she uttered.
And James was bulging just as solidly against his waistcoat, and the top of his head was quite as shiny. His cheeks were covered with a fine tracery of red blood vessels, something she had not noticed before. How revolting it was to think that he and Arabella had -
But then, the Captain was just as old as James, or nearly. And in truth, he was much more weathered and lined; well-shaped and muscled from a life at sea, but battered. Was it at all possible that Arabella was not repulsed by James, but felt something like what she, Elspeth, felt for the Captain? She must have had some reason for agreeing to marry him. It could not have been for fortune, or consequence, or for lack of other suitors. Perhaps she retired with James every night eager for his embraces, improbable though that seemed.
Elspeth had a brief glimpse of how it might be, of understanding for her new sister-in-law; and then the contrast between Arabella's happy situation, mistress of a great estate and wife of a man she loved, and her own—deflowered, disregarded, about to part from her lover for ever—hit her so forcibly that she did what she had vowed she would not. Like a sudden cloudburst, the tears came.
It got her the attention of everyone. Arabella was all over her with insistent and oppressive kindness, with James backing her up gruffly. Elspeth found herself with her new sister's arms around her, being hurried upstairs.
"You poor dear," Arabella was saying in a low sweet voice. "Of course it is all too much for you. You must lie down and rest before dinner, and recover your spirits. It's all right, my love!" she called back down to James. "I'll look after her."
James was standing awkwardly at the foot of the staircase. "Of course you will, my dear."
There was not much Elspeth could do bu
t allow herself to be led to her own apartments, which were aired and fresh and seemed exactly as they had been before she went away. Arabella rang for more restoratives.
"A little hartshorn," said Arabella, manoeuvring her onto a sofa. "And you did not drink your wine. I will get you some more, and you must take it this time."
The housemaid who answered the call was one whom Elspeth did not recognise. She wondered, as she turned her head away to hide her weakness from the stranger, if the incoming Lady Atholl had made a clean sweep of the Dunwoodie servants and brought in her own. Elspeth did not recall seeing the footmen before either, now she came to think about it.
She fought to get her tears under control, but she could not seem to stem them. It felt like she had been holding back the torrent since the moment the Captain had turned his back on her while she had lain beside him, half-naked and despoiled.
"There, there, dear sister," Arabella murmured, kneeling by her and stroking her arm. "It must have been a terrible ordeal, but you're home now. You're safe."
Since it was impossible to explain that neither of those things were true, since it was impossible to tell her what really distressed her, Elspeth cried the harder. Arabella seemed not the least disconcerted or irritated, and when the hartshorn and wine arrived, insisted upon administering them. As usual, the smelling salts made Elspeth gag and splutter, and she had to stop sobbing to get her breathing under control. She gulped down the wine in an attempt to get rid of the foul searing taste behind her nose and throat.
"That's better. Now you should have a nice lie down until dinnertime, and if you don't feel well enough to come down to dinner, we'll understand. I must go back down, but would you like me to get my own maid to sit with you?"
Elspeth shook her head. She desperately wanted Arabella to go away and stop being nice. It was unendurable.
But Arabella would not leave her alone until she had actually seen Elspeth stretched out on her bed, and tucked the counterpane over her with her own hands, and drawn the curtains so that the bright summer afternoon sun was dimmed to allow her to sleep.
