'I haven't considered it,' she said truthfully.
'Then do so. Let's meet here tomorrow at the same time. But you'll have to decide quickly, I mean to leave in a few days, and there will be things to arrange.'
*****
Chapter 8
Catriona lay awake all night puzzling what to do. It should be easy enough to slip away with the help of Thomas, and, presumably, his friend. She would need money, if she left Thomas and attempted to make her own way to Holland. And she had no intention of going to Edinburgh with him. Somehow she had to get her jewels. She could sell them to pay for her passage.
It would be pointless to ask for them. Could she break open the strong box and steal them? It was too heavy for her to carry away. Not steal, she reminded herself, they were her own. Whatever excuses her uncle made, she had no doubt her mother would have wanted her to possess the jewels her father had given with so much love.
Then she would insist on taking her collection of fabrics. She rose from her bed, lit a candle, and went to the chest where she kept them. Could she, if she took only the barest necessities, pack all of them into a couple of panniers? She surveyed them and shook her head. No, there were far too many. She would need a separate pack pony.
If she could smuggle them out of the house she could tie the bundles on a pony's back. She'd make it a condition that Thomas helped her with this.
Satisfied, she blew out the candle, and shivering, for the night was cold, she crawled back beneath the bed covers.
On the following day she met Thomas secretly, as arranged.
'Well?' he demanded, and Catriona could hear the same note of impatience she had heard many times lately in his father's voice. He would grow like Uncle Colin as he aged.
'Yes, I'll come,' she replied, and evaded his attempt to seize her in his arms. 'No, Thomas, not here. Someone might see us, and that would spoil everything.'
She'd debated for a long time whether to involve him in helping retrieve the jewels, but decided it was too dangerous. Either he would want them for himself, being as acquisitive, probably, as his father, or he would insist on guarding them for her, which would frustrate her intention of leaving him and using them to pay for her journey to Holland.
'I must take my fabrics,' she said instead. 'I will need a pack pony, there are too many to put in panniers.'
Thomas looked impatient. 'Why do you need a pile of old pieces of cloth?'
'I am not leaving without them.'
He looked at her and sighed. 'I cannot imagine what you find of interest in them. Surely you'd prefer new ones, such as I will buy you when we get to Edinburgh?'
'My great-aunt and my father gave them to me, and it's all I have left of my family,' she explained, permitting her lip to quiver slightly. 'Some of them are old and quite valuable. Please, Thomas, help me with this, or I shall be forced in the end to wed that dreadful little man.'
'How can we get them out of the house?'
'I've thought of that. Tomorrow is the day your mother does her charity visiting in the village. She takes soup to any of the villagers who are ill. If you can take one of the ponies down to the end of the orchard, where you can hide him close to the hedge, and then take your father out shooting rabbits or deer, or something, I can load the fabric, and whatever else I need, onto the pony.'
'And leave the poor beast laden all night?'
'Well, they are not heavy, just bulky. And for one night it won't matter.'
'And we can go for a ride the following day,' he said, entering into the scheme. 'They'll think you're safe with me. I can come home briefly and say you gave me the slip, and mean to try and find you, and we'll be off, ready to take our pleasure of one another!'
'What about when you don't return here?'
'Oh, they'll think I've put up for the night at an inn. I'll send a letter later to say I was so far on my way to Edinburgh by nightfall I decided to go on. I'll tell them that morning I mean to leave the following day. Hugh can bring my clothes with him when he returns to Edinburgh.'
'You won't confide in him?' Catriona asked, suddenly fearful that something would go wrong.
'Of course not. But I'll leave him a note about the clothes.'
'You'll get your father out of the way in the morning?'
'Of course. You can depend on me.'
Once more she evaded his embrace, looking round fearfully and saying someone would see them. 'There'll be plenty of time, in a few days,' she murmured.
When Thomas and his father had departed the next day, Thomas having managed to tell her the pony was waiting, she waited impatiently for her aunt to leave.
'You ought to come with me,' Aunt Joan said worriedly when the men had left. 'Your uncle doesn't want you to be left alone. I'm sure that if Thomas were not here you would still be locked in your room.'
Catriona hastily invented a headache and said she could barely see or move for the excruciating pain, and would take a tisane and then have to lie down.
Aunt Joan fussed for a little, but the moment she had gone Catriona crept into the library. The strongbox was kept on a low shelf in a dark corner of the room, and she went straight to it. Without surprise she saw it was locked, with a heavy ornate lock.
Swiftly she began to search the drawers of her uncle's desk, but there was no key. Her heart sank. He probably carried it on his person. Just in case, she ran silently up the stairs to check in his dressing room, but found no keys there. Time was passing, and she had to move the fabrics. She'd do that first, and worry about the jewels later.
They were already packed in bundles, as were the few other possessions she meant to take. She made two journeys down to the orchard where a rather puzzled pony was tethered. Securing the bundles firmly she went back to the house. Another look at the strongbox convinced her of the futility of trying to force it. She tried to lift it, but it was too heavy, and too bulky to add to the pony's already awkward load. Her only hope had been to extract the jewels and trust their loss would not be discovered before she was well out of reach.
She had so little time left. There had been a roll of silver crowns in one desk drawer. Telling herself her uncle owed her something in place of the jewels, Catriona slipped the coins into her pocket. It would pay for her immediate needs.
Catriona went swiftly to the stables, and taking down a bridle she slipped it on the pony she normally rode, threw a saddle blanket over his back, and led him out of his stall. She'd ride without a saddle, it would be quicker astride, and she was used to it. With a swift look round to make sure no one was watching, she scrambled up and rode through the orchard. Collecting the leading rein of the pack pony, with almost no pause, she went through a small gateway onto a track which led up into the hills. Within five minutes she had passed through a narrow cleft in the craggy rocks, and was invisible from the house. Breathing a sigh of relief, she kicked the pony into a canter, and once up on the higher ground turned his nose southwards.
*****
Rory bowed to Susannah, and led her towards her aunt, who was sitting at one end of the ballroom with the other chaperones. She was looking charming in a wide-skirted gown, the hoops wider to the sides and not so full at front or back, and he presumed this was the newest fashion. It was of palest primrose, and Susannah carried a slender fan of chickenskin, with painted pictures of gold roses on it.
'Would you like some refreshment?'
She asked for lemonade, and when he brought it patted the seat beside her. He had arrived late at the Assembly, when most young ladies had filled their programmes. Susannah, however, at her father's insistence, she blushingly told him, had kept two dances free. He sat down beside her.
'You look very elegant, Mr Napier,' Aunt Elizabeth commented, and Rory glanced at the corded silk material of his coat and breeches, of a plain dark brown, trimmed with paler braid, and the fine lace ruffles on his shirt and cuffs. He had no time for fashion, and few occasions for social events, and cared little about the appearance he presented. These clothe
s were several years old, though he had recently bought a new embroidered waistcoat.
'When is your uncle returning to Glasgow?' Susannah asked politely when her aunt turned away to speak to the woman on her other side. 'He's been gone for two weeks now.'
'I had word he'll be back tomorrow or the following day,' Rory told her.
He was not relishing the inevitable arguments that would ensue. There were still problems with the printing processes, although the work was better than at first, thanks to the information Catriona had given him. It was not good enough to satisfy Matthew, though, and Rory himself would not be content until it was perfect. If Rory could not begin selling printed linens soon, to take advantage of Angus Mackenzie's apparent financial difficulties, Matthew would lose patience and order the experiment to stop.
If that happened, Rory felt he would owe his uncle no further loyalty. He would leave and set up his own business. It would be difficult, for his own fortune was small, but at least he could run it as he wished.
Rory knew his father had died at Culloden, in the fateful battle where the young Stuart Prince's gallant attempt to regain the English throne had ended in failure and the slaughter of many of Scotland's finest men. So many had died, or been unidentified, that Charles Napier's name had never been published as that of a rebel. His lands, therefore, had not been forfeit and Rory had inherited a modest fortune. Charles Napier had, however, given much to the Prince, and what was left for Rory was only half what Charles himself had inherited.
Rory would need to employ spinners and weavers, supervise or farm out the bleaching, employ a dyer, and men to deliver the flax and collect the finished linen. He would be forced to negotiate for the raw flax, and find purchasers for the fabric, tasks for which he now employed other men. He did not anticipate producing enough to be able to afford the same, and there would be none to sell for at least a year. He could afford all this for three, perhaps four years, if he were prudent and lucky, but if by then he was not making a profit all would be lost. It would be a desperate gamble, but it would be better than going against his instincts and reverting to the old, boringly plain, fabrics they'd been used to producing.
The world changed, not only in matters of better roads and new waterways. Manufacturers who did not look for ways of changing, but wanted everything to stay the same, soon lost trade. People like some of Mr MacNab's friends might deplore the changes, but on the whole customers were always prepared to try something novel. It had to be of good quality the first time, though, or they lost confidence and would refuse to try a second purchase.
Susannah was speaking again.
'I beg your pardon? I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said.'
She pouted and fluttered her fan, peeping at him over it. 'You're always so preoccupied whenever we meet. Are you really so bored with my company?'
'Of course not.' He was embarrassed at his discourteous lack of attention. 'I was thinking of some problems I'm still having with the printing.'
'Oh, like you showed me?'
He recalled she had been in his office, and pointed out some of the flaws in one of the first samples of printing. 'Yes, the weavers can be very careless, but as I am asking them to do it as a favour, I cannot refuse to pay them even when they make mistakes. It is so costly I doubt if my uncle will agree to continue. But we are so nearly there! It will be a great pity if he objects.'
'If you had money of your own, you could continue until they learned to do it properly,' she said softly, and he glanced swiftly at her. Her head was bent, and her curls as well as her fan now shaded her face, but he could see the delicate flush on her cheeks.
Could he? Would he have complete control over Susannah's dowry if he married her? In theory, yes, but could he then break with her father? He suspected she would exert pressure on him to remain with his uncle, as would her father. He wondered whether Silas would find a way of tying up her money in Matthew's business, or even insist on merging it with his own. Impatiently Rory thrust aside such speculations. They were pointless since the occasion would not arise. He did not intend to give way to the subtle hints she was making. This was something he had started, and he would not accept help in return for the bribe of her dowry.
Soon afterwards he excused himself. Not wishing to be forced to dance with those damsels who had not secured partners, he retreated to the card room where he found a friend from his schooldays. They played a hand of piquet until it was time for the supper dance, which Susannah had reserved for him. After that, he could leave.
They chatted of inconsequential matters, Susannah not again referring to the business, and immediately after supper, when Susannah had been claimed by her next partner, Rory went looking for his hat and cloak. The nights were getting colder, and he was standing on the steps of the hall, wrapping a muffler round his neck, when another man came and stood beside him.
'When will the betrothal be announced?' he asked. 'She was looking very charming tonight.'
'Who was? What betrothal?' Rory demanded, surprised, and looking closely at the man.
The other laughed. 'The delightful Miss MacNab, of course. Come, Rory, you can't dance with only one girl, and not even speak to any others without arousing speculation, believe me. If you don't announce a betrothal to the fair Susannah soon, tongues will start wagging in earnest. Many of us know it's what Silas wants, he's made no secret of it, and we're wondering what the delay is.'
With a nod, he walked away towards Tronegate Street, and Rory stared after him, appalled. Was he putting Susannah into a difficult position by singling her out so pointedly? She and Silas would never forgive him if he made her the subject of idle speculation. Abruptly he swung round, deposited his hat and cloak in the cloakroom, to the astonishment of the attendant who had so recently handed them to him, and marched back into the ballroom. They were forming sets for a new dance, and he strode across to the seats where the unfortunates without partners were sitting, and invited the first damsel he came to to dance.
For the rest of the evening he worked his way through as many of the unattached girls as possible. He was grimly aware of amused or speculative glances being cast at him, and a few hopeful ones from some of the girls and their mothers. These latter would be wondering whether he and Susannah had quarrelled, no doubt. What Susannah thought he had no means of knowing. He avoided her, and if the movements of the dance brought them close acknowledged her with a slight nod of the head, and avoided looking into her face.
He was protecting her from malicious gossip, he told himself. She might be puzzled, but it was better that way than having growing speculation about his intentions. Especially when he had no idea himself of what he wanted.
Problems with bleaching, trenches which were choked with mud or weeds, with weavers and blocks, pins and mallets, were far easier to deal with, he decided, as he walked homewards later, and preferable to puzzles about human emotions and motivations.
*****
Catriona rode blithely on, soon leaving the roads she knew, but always heading south and west through the glens and mountain passes, along the better, most frequented tracks. She had at first been determined to head for one of the east coast ports, Aberdeen or Dundee, or even Leith, where she could find a ship bound for Holland. This plan had changed when she failed to retrieve her jewels. The money she had taken would be insufficient to pay for a passage unless she also sold the locket, and that she would never do. Besides, the east coast ports were the first places her uncle would look for her. They knew she wanted to go to Holland, and if she had to wait for a ship she would be in great danger of discovery. The east coast would not do.
If Uncle Colin bothered to look for her, she amended. He might be only too glad to be rid of her and have the problem of disposing of her taken out of his hands. On the other hand, the theft of his money would infuriate him. The consideration that her jewels were worth far more than the few coins she had taken would not weigh with him, since he apparently thought they belonged to him already. He wo
uld want revenge, both for the theft, and for being made to look foolish in Mr MacNeill's eyes.
She had the ponies, of course, but the jewels were probably worth far more. She could sell them, but this could take time, and she had an odd reluctance to use the money for herself. A small sum of money, sufficient to pay for a few nights' lodging, was one thing: to dispose of her uncle's ponies was altogether different. One day, she hoped, perhaps with the aid of her Dutch family, she might be able to retrieve her mother's jewels. This, however, would be more difficult if Uncle Colin could accuse her of stealing his horseflesh.
Taking them had been essential for her escape. What to do with them when they were no longer needed was a puzzle. She wouldn't be able to afford stabling, wherever she went. And she ought to make some effort to return them to her uncle. This, though, might lead to her discovery, unless she could find someone trustworthy enough to take them back without revealing her whereabouts.
Catriona abandoned the problem. It was something she could consider later. For now, her destination was the most important decision she had to make. Eventually she concluded she had to go to Glasgow. Somehow she had to earn enough money to pay for a passage. In a large and growing city, made prosperous by its trade with the New World, there would be many opportunities, jobs in plenty. If she found work during the coming winter, by spring she might have earned enough for her passage. There was the further consideration that by then, any pursuit would have been abandoned, and she could go to Edinburgh and Leith to look for a ship without fear of encountering her uncle.
To begin with she skirted round the villages and isolated crofts where she might be recognised, but after a while considered she had travelled far enough for such a danger to be remote, and rode straight through. She met only a few crofters in the next couple of small villages, who nodded to her or gave her a courteous greeting. They must have assumed, she hoped, that with her pack pony she was on legitimate business, and willingly sold her bread and cheese, and a tankard of ale.
Wild Catriona Page 10
