by Regan Walker
“Or a lass with Emily’s black hair and thistle-colored eyes,” Ailie teased.
Her brother paused, his face taking on a look of bliss that told her he was thinking about the children he expected to have. “Aye.”
Resisting the temptation to roll her eyes, Ailie said, “Whatever the good Lord gives you, Will, I’m just glad we have the additional bedchambers for our visitors. Has Emily warned our cook?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I believe so. She mentioned something about talking to Martha about the cook Muriel is bringing, but you can ask her at dinner.”
“The countess is bringing her cook?” Ailie envisioned sparks flying in the kitchen as roast goose, boar’s head and turkey replaced salmon, venison and steak pie.
“Emily thought Martha might need help with the English dishes for the Christmas feast.”
“I just hope you ken what you’re about. The Kirk does not abide Yule celebrations.”
Will’s expression took on the look of a determined Scot. “I have loved Christmas since my days at Cambridge and ’tis worth the risk of a frown from the parish minister to make Emily happy.”
“As you wish. Are we still going to Grandfather Ramsay’s for Hogmanay?”
“If the weather allows, aye. A short sail up the coast to Stonehaven could be great fun. Our guests might like to take a sledge through the snow to see the old castle. I’ll ask Grandfather to book the Ship Inn. Now that I think of it, we’ll need all their rooms. Perhaps Father will come from Aberdeen. What do you think?”
“Grandfather might not be pleased with so many Sassenachs descending on him, but he will expect us for Hogmanay. Once Father hears of our plans, he and Mother will be staying put in Aberdeen. Aside from the fact he doesn’t like to travel at this time of year, he’s still riled about what happened in Manchester. The last time I visited him, our uncle had just returned from Glasgow where the mood of the weavers is angry.”
William frowned. “There’s talk in the Arbroath taverns, too.”
That night, after she retired to her bedchamber, Ailie took out her diary, drew her shawl around her and opened a new page. Replacing the candle that had burned to a stub, she dipped the quill in the ink and began.
15 December
I am preparing for a storm (not the current one that has brought so much snow, but one of a different kind). Will says we’re to have guests from London to celebrate Christmas—in secret, of course, else Mr. Gleig, the parish minister, will have something to say about our celebrating a holiday banned by the Kirk for centuries. Bother. Father will be ever so displeased. And, after we sail our guests to Stonehaven for Hogmanay, Grandfather Ramsay might never speak to us again. Oh, did I mention the Countess of Claremont is bringing her English cook? Batten down the hatches.
Adelphi Terrace, London, 16 December
Robbie set his coffee on the table in front of the parlor sofa and turned his attention to the Times article. The correspondent, who’d been on St Peter’s Field that sultry August afternoon when Robbie had nearly lost his brother to a drunken yeoman’s saber, recalled in shocking detail the events of that day. The newspapers had dubbed the debacle “the Peterloo Massacre” in a parody of Waterloo. They were not far off.
It had been months since that terrible day, yet London still spoke of little else.
The names of the four hundred injured were printed along with the nature of their wounds in the hope sympathizers would contribute to the charity set up to support them.
Over one hundred of the injured were females, the mothers, wives, sisters and children of those attending the meeting. The fifteen dead were also named, including one Sarah Jones, mother of seven, fatally injured by a blow to the head.
How the Prince Regent, after all that, could congratulate the hussars, who had entered the fray after the yeomanry, inflicting more bloody wounds, Robbie could not fathom. But there it was, signed by Sidmouth on behalf of the prince, clearing the hussars and magistrates of any wrongdoing.
No one in London believed a word of it.
Nash had recovered from his head wound, the scar buried under his thick brown hair, but Robbie shuddered each time he remembered the blood. He’d had to pull the drunken yeoman from his horse to keep him from taking another swing at Nash.
The newspapers had not exaggerated what followed that day. Sixty thousand people, peacefully gathered to hear about reform, attacked by saber-wielding yeomen and hussars. Like Nash, Robbie wondered if the result had been intended by Sidmouth all along.
Robbie took a drink of his coffee and read on, surprised to learn that a few days ago in the House of Lords, Sidmouth had openly spoken of a conspiracy and proposed coercive measures “to meet the evil”. The new laws, dubbed the “Six Acts”, would, among other egregious things, make any meeting to discuss radical reform an act of treason, the penalty death.
“Damn!” Robbie hissed under his breath. “Deuced stupid, if you ask me.”
His gaze shifted to the page containing a poem by satirist William Hone titled “The Political House That Jack Built”. Robbie thought it quite clever to sum up the reformers’ grievances using a nursery rhyme in an irreverent manner.
“By God,” he muttered. “He attacks lawyers, the Crown, the army, even the church. But he certainly has the massacre on St Peter’s Field right.”
“Who attacked all those folks, Nash?” came his mother’s French-accented voice.
Robbie raised his eyes to see Claire Powell gliding into the parlor, her black hair neatly coiffed, the few strands of gray adding to her dignity but taking nothing from her beauty. She wore one of her French gowns, a confection in sapphire silk.
He allowed himself a brief smile for her confusion in her sons that had her addressing him by his twin’s name. “’Tis the poet William Hone describing the grievances of the reformers and the blood spilled by the yeomanry in Manchester.”
Her blue eyes flashed in anger. “Sacrebleu. I cannot think about that horrible—” She froze, turning to give Robbie an assessing gaze, then pursed her lips.
He laid aside the newspaper and tried to look innocent. “Is something amiss?”
“Robbie, you scoundrel! You have cut your hair to match your brother’s. Even I cannot tell you apart when you do that. Well, not unless I hear you speak for a while. Why ever have you done it?”
“Nash and I believed it… necessary.”
“I see.” Likely she did, for their mother knew well that he and Nash had been on the Crown’s business in Manchester. “The two of you have accepted another assignment, haven’t you?”
He nodded, admitting the truth of her words but not providing any details.
“But why now when you are sailing to Scotland for Christmas?”
Robbie folded the newspaper and set it on the small table in front of the sofa, slowly rising to give his mother a knowing look, the message unspoken but clear nonetheless. She would not fail to note it.
Hands on her still slender hips, she scowled. “Alors, I begin to comprehend. Your next assignment is in Scotland, isn’t it? No wonder you were so eager to join your older brothers when Lord Ormond extended his invitation.”
Robbie cast his gaze toward the window looking out on the Thames, feeling only slightly guilty for not telling her he and Nash would be acting as spies once again. The family business, after all, was shipping, which served as a respectable cover for their more clandestine activities.
“Combining a holiday with friends and business for the Crown seems ill-advised, Son. I do hope Lord Sidmouth knows what he is doing.” She dropped her hands from her hips and shook her head. “I’ve never been overly fond of that man, even when he was just Henry Addington.”
“Believe me, I do understand and, as you might imagine, Nash is none too pleased with the Home Secretary either. But as this assignment is related to our last, I felt compelled to accept Prinny’s summons.”
She let out a sigh. “I can see there is no use arguing. I have long been aware that my fo
ur sons, like their father, do not require my help in making decisions. Are you and Nash packed? Mr. Stephen’s ship is expected to sail within the hour. When Nick and Martin brought the children, they left immediately to join Tara and Kit who were already aboard.”
Nick and Martin, Robbie’s two older brothers, were married and had homes of their own. Robbie and Nash still lived in the family house on the Thames but, in recent years, their work for the government kept them away from London much of the time.
“You needn’t worry, Mother. Nash and I sent our luggage to the ship with the footman when we came down. I only await Nash’s appearance. He tarries over breakfast with some book on Scotland’s plants, I believe.”
“Well, if you hurry, you’ll have time to say goodbye to your niece and nephews.”
“Are you prepared for the three little hellions this Christmastide?”
His mother smiled. “Oui. Both their nannies came with them, so we’ll have plenty of help. Your father and I are eager to spend Christmas with our grandchildren. One of these days, you and Nash—”
“Yes, yes. No time to discuss that now,” he said, striding toward her. “I must find Nash if we’re to sail with the tide.” Inclining his cheek toward his mother as he passed her, he accepted her kiss.
Her forehead creased in a momentary frown. “Robbie, you will take care of your brother, oui?”
“Haven’t I always?”
Chapter 2
Assured his luggage had been stowed below in the cabin he would share with Robbie, Nash left his brother chatting with Tara, Nick’s American wife, and climbed the ladder.
A cold wind blew across the deck as the crew of the Albatross prepared to set sail. Watching them occupied with the familiar tasks, Nash wondered what the Scottish sailors and their captain thought of having so many experienced English shipmasters aboard. Nick and Martin had their own ships. Even Nash had been sailing for most of his thirty-two years.
He spotted the Marquess of Ormond standing alone at the rail and went to join him.
Ormond tugged the collar of his great coat up around his neck, nodding his greeting. “Do I speak with Robert or Nash?”
“Nash.” His hands gripped the rail and, even though he had dressed for the frozen north with a many-caped greatcoat, beaver hat and leather gloves, he felt the cold to his bones. The brooding sky above them ominously threatened snow.
Ormond rubbed his gloved hands over his crossed arms. “If it’s this cold in London, it must be damned awful in Scotland.”
“I’m hoping for great heaps of snow,” replied Nash, glad he had remembered to pack his woolen scarves.
“All those years I spent in France for Prinny must have thinned my blood,” muttered Ormond, shivering beneath his greatcoat. “My family has lands in Scotland and, though I must visit from time to time, I have always tried to limit those occasions to the summer months.” He turned to Nash with an amused smile. “Of course, William Stephen’s invitation would have to be specific to Christmastide.”
“I rather like the idea of snow at Christmas,” Nash said thoughtfully. “Although I’d prefer to view it from inside a cozy room with a good book and a Yule log blazing in the fireplace.”
“And a glass of fine French brandy in hand,” added Ormond. He shot a glance at the aft hatch. “I assume the ladies have stayed below to see to the cabins.” He turned back to Nash. “My good friend, William Stephen, went to a fair bit of trouble having this ship altered belowdecks to comfortably accommodate all of us for a few days’ sail, even mustering a group of his men to act as servants. The ladies were pleased.”
Remembering the flurry of female activity belowdecks and the seamen helping with chests, Nash nodded. “’Twas most considerate of him.” He looked up and down the quay. “Are we all on board then?”
“All save the countess. I’ve been watching for her. I do wonder if, given her age, Lady Claremont is having second thoughts about making the trip. This is the worst winter in years.”
As they were speaking, a handsome landau drawn by a pair of fine black horses pulled up at the foot of the gangplank.
“’Tis the countess,” remarked Ormond, pushing back from the rail. “The crest on the door is hers.”
“I know of her from my parents, of course,” said Nash, “but I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting her. Robbie and I have not attended many balls this year.”
“She is much loved in London. Her soirees are not to be missed.”
“I seem to recall my brother Martin speaking of one he attended.”
A footman, perched behind the carriage, stepped down and opened the door, handing down a silver-haired woman in a dark blue pelisse buttoned up against the cold. On her head she wore a stylish blue hat graced with white plumes. Given her obvious age, Nash was surprised at the agile way she alighted from the equipage.
Another woman of middle years followed the countess out of the carriage. Her mobcap and simple attire suggested she might be a servant.
Striding to the gangplank, Ormond said over his shoulder, “I see Muriel has indulged her fancy for feathers.”
Nash fell into step behind him.
Reaching the countess, Ormond retrieved her hand from the footman helping her aboard just as Captain Anderson, a rather stern-looking Scot with dark curly hair and ruddy cheeks, strode across the deck to join them.
“Welcome, Lady Claremont,” he said with a pronounced brogue, lifting his cap in greeting. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Dougal Anderson of William Stephen’s shipbuilding. Your fellow passengers will be pleased to hear of your arrival.” Then with a chiding tone, “They were afraid we might have to leave you behind.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” the countess scolded in a commanding voice. Her back as straight as steel, her head held high, she confronted the captain nose to nose. A formidable woman, thought Nash. Definitely not one to be intimidated by the unsmiling captain. “I am an adventurer at heart, my good man, and I love to sail, this dashed cold weather notwithstanding.”
Lady Claremont moved aside, allowing the captain to view the woman with light brown hair and white mobcap who had been waiting patiently behind her mistress. “I have brought my cook, Mrs. Platt.”
“An English cook for my… my ship?” the captain sputtered.
Ormond turned to wink at Nash, clearly enjoying the exchange.
“No, no, my good man,” the countess scolded as if addressing a schoolboy. “For our Christmas feast in Scotland.” Then to her cook, she muttered, “One could not expect Mr. Stephen’s cook to serve up a proper roast goose, minced pie and plum pudding.”
The countess returned her attention to the captain. “Mrs. Platt’s supplies are in a crate sitting on the quay. Please have it loaded promptly.”
“Now see here—” The captain began, but stopping himself, he let out an exasperated huff and snapped his fingers at a waiting seaman, who hurried down the gangplank to retrieve the crate.
Ormond covered his mouth, stifling a laugh.
Nash pressed his lips together, holding in his own laughter, thankful Robbie chose that moment to emerge from the aft hatch to approach their small group.
The countess glanced from Robbie to Nash. “Another?”
“Twins,” said Nash, managing a small bow. “Nash Etienne Powell, at your service, my lady.” He gestured to Robbie. “This is Robert Pierre Powell, older than I by a mere five minutes yet he will not let me forget it.”
The countess perused them. “Humph. I believe I may know one of your older brothers. Sir Martin. Yes, that’s the one.”
Nash had always been amazed at the power of his brother’s charm over the ladies, but when Robbie bestowed his most brilliant smile upon the elegant countess and bowed over her hand, Lady Claremont had a very different reaction than Nash had expected.
She picked up a quizzing glass, dangling from a gold chain around her neck, and carefully examined Robbie through the lens. Dropping the glass, she said, “You must keep hearts in the
ton all aflutter, Mr. Powell. I shall have to keep an eye on you.” Then she turned to Nash. “You, too, I daresay. How confusing it will be if you have a smile like your brother’s.”
Nash thought to show her just how alike he and Robbie could appear but, just then, the captain pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, gave it an anxious glance and frowned. Narrowing his gaze at the Thames, in a tone that brooked no dissent, he said, “I would ask you and your servant to go below, Lady Claremont. We are about to sail.”
Dinner in the captain’s cabin that evening turned into an interesting one for Robbie, as he suspected it did for Nash.
A table from the crew’s mess had been added to the captain’s table and they all squeezed in for a meal of chicken, fried in the way of the Scots, roasted potatoes and a dark green vegetable the captain called “kale”. Robbie thought it a sad cousin to cabbage. When sampled, it tasted sour, like he imagined old newspapers would taste if he ever had a mind to eat them.
The chicken and potatoes were quite good, however, and were soon consumed. Everyone, save the captain, pushed the kale around their plates as if too distracted by the engaging conversation to partake.
Robbie was not fooled. Neither was Nash, judging by the look they exchanged. But the company made up for the strange vegetable.
Joining the men was Ormond’s wife, the former Lady Mary Campbell, a young aristocrat with pale blonde hair and eyes the color of green jade, whose features were as delicate as Dresden porcelain.
Next to the Ormonds sat Nick’s wife, the former Tara McConnell of Baltimore, a darker blonde than Mary and with blue-green eyes Nick said were the color of a tropical lagoon. Tara was a beguiling creature who knew ships and sailing as well as Nick.
On the other side of the table sat Martin’s wife, the redheaded Lady Katherine Powell, or “Kit” as she liked to be called. Her blue eyes, lighter than those of her husband’s, always seemed to take in much. Robbie wondered if she had brought her sketchbook because she was rarely without it.
