by Regan Walker
Returning to the somewhat cooler main part of the orangery, Nash walked among the orange trees, occasionally glancing toward the windows and the snow-covered ground outside just to remind him where he was in Scotland in December.
When the invitation had first come, Nash had questioned Ormond’s thinking stuffing his friends into a ship in the dead of winter and sailing them to the far edge of the North Sea. But the assignment from Sidmouth that Robbie had accepted for them changed his wonder into a fortuitous opportunity. Now that Nash had met Ailie Stephen, he wondered if it were fate.
Suddenly, between branches of green leaves, a flash of vivid red hair caught his eye. He eased around a tree for a better view. Dashing barefoot through the fruit trees, her long hair flying behind her, was Ailie.
“Can it be the Mistress of the Setters loose in the orangery?”
She gasped and whirled around, blinking, her hand over her mouth.
Slowly, he emerged from the trees. “I have caught you!”
She dropped her hand to her chest. “So you have. And scared me to death in the doing of it. I had no idea anyone was here.”
He came closer, noticing her flushed cheeks. Looking down at her bare toes, he thought of the ladies in London who would be horrified for a man to glimpse a bare ankle, much less bare feet. “Do you often run barefoot in the orangery?”
She let out an exasperated huff. “Every day as a matter of truth. I cannot very well run in deep drifts of snow, now can I?”
He smiled, delighted to have her alone. “I suppose not. I am glad to find you here, though our being alone is not quite proper, is it?”
“You’re a houseguest and you’re in Scotland. ’Tis different.”
“Then I shall look forward to more moments alone with you.” He imagined running with her not through the orangery but through heather on Scotland’s sun-bathed hills. He could imagine lying with her in that same heather. Shaking off his wild imaginings, he asked, “May I escort you to breakfast, Miss Stephen?”
“You may, Robbie. But first, I must find my shoes and stockings. I left them just inside the door.”
“’Tis not Robbie who would escort you, but Nash.” He was used to people mistaking him for his brother, at times he and Robbie even encouraged their confusion, but he did not want this woman to be confused.
“You are wearing the brown coat Robbie wore last evening!” she protested. “’Tis most unfair.” She turned abruptly and headed to the door. He fell into step behind her. When she arrived at her shoes and stockings, unceremoniously dumped in a pile on the stone floor, she turned. “Em… you must turn around while I recompose myself. The task requires a wee bit of time.”
“How can I refuse the Head Draftsman?” He turned his back to her and heard the muffled sounds of stockings and shoes being drawn onto what he imagined were gracefully arched feet, slender ankles and shapely legs. He fought the temptation to turn. “How is it, Ailie, that you never mentioned your skill at designing ships when I told you I did some designing myself?”
“I would have done, but we were interrupted by the call to dinner. And once you asked for a tour of the shipyard, it seemed best to save that discussion for today.”
Nash considered a woman who did not blather on about all she knew. Such a female was rare. That Ailie held something back she knew would interest him for a time when they would be alone appealed greatly. She was unlike the women whose favors he had sought in London. She is all that is fresh and innocent yet entirely direct.
“Then I shall not be disappointed.” Hearing no sounds, he said, “May I turn around now?”
“Aye.”
When he swung around, the woman who faced him was neatly composed, her previously unruly hair tied back at her nape, her stockings and shoes restored to their proper places. Though her cheeks were still flushed, the gamin was now clothed like a lady. Like a Scots lady anyway. He preferred her simple way of dressing to the lace, petticoats and frippery of the women in London.
“Shall we go?” He offered his arm and she placed her hand upon his sleeve. The small gesture felt so natural. In the brief time he had known her, she had managed to win his affection. What would she think if she knew he was a spy for Lord Sidmouth out to capture a Scot? He never planned to tell her.
They walked through the doorway back to the main part of the house. “How is it you speak the King’s English with only a wee bit of brogue when you did not spend years in London as William did?”
“Like my brothers, I have been blessed with a good education. By my father’s order, my governess was a Scot who had been educated in England. She drilled me near every day in the proper way to speak. Even so, you might still hear me utter a word or two you’ll not recognize. And when you meet Grandfather Ramsay in Stonehaven, you may need me or Will to translate.”
“Stonehaven?”
“Aye, just up the coast. We are sailing there for Hogmanay.” At his raised brows, she said, “Hogmanay is what the English call New Year’s Eve, I believe. ’Tis a very big affair in Scotland, even more so in Stonehaven. The tradition goes back to the times of the Norsemen. Did William not tell you?”
A New Year’s Eve celebration with the lovely Aileen Stephen. The very thought raised images of walks through the snow and a kiss under the moon. “No, he said nothing. Now, I will look forward to it.”
A kissing bough had always a part of the Powell family’s celebrations of Christmas. Perhaps Emily would have one for their celebration in Arbroath. The thought of kissing Ailie beneath the bough brought a smile to his face. Robbie might compete for her affections but Nash had plans, which did not include his brother.
She glanced up at him, her sherry-colored eyes glistening. “But first breakfast and a tour of the shipyard, aye?”
Robbie didn’t need a horse for the half-mile walk to the village of Arbroath, which was convenient since he’d announced he’d be taking a walk in the woods.
As he traversed the snow-covered road, the sun’s light was bright but gave little warmth. Some of the snow had melted only to freeze again, causing his boots to make a crunching sound as they broke through the thin crust of ice.
Arbroath’s countryside had a beauty of its own even a Londoner like Robbie could appreciate. Some of the trees were evergreens but others had lost their autumn foliage and now held on to the snow, the branches making a lacy pattern against the pale sky. The quiet, save for the occasional scurrying of a rabbit or the sound of a wintering bird, took some getting used to.
Robbie missed the bustle of London and the noisy parade of carriages and cries of street vendors. He even saw good in the city’s constant rain, for a deluge always washed the streets of their stench. And Christmastide brought foods and friends he rather enjoyed.
He pulled the woolen scarf he’d borrowed from Nash over his ears and stuffed his gloved hands in the pockets of his woolen jacket, the kind a farmer or storekeeper might wear. Tugging the same cap he’d worn in Manchester down on his head, he turned his thoughts to the last intelligence they had received.
George Kinloch, scheduled to be tried at the end of December for sedition, had fled. The information they were given before leaving London indicated Kinloch had a cousin near Arbroath who might help him sail from Scotland. According to Sidmouth, the “Radical Laird”, as he’d been dubbed, had spent time in France, becoming absorbed in the frenzy for change.
Reform was one thing, revolution quite another. It was the one thing Sidmouth’s government feared most.
Robbie raised his gaze from the path to see the snow-covered stone buildings of Arbroath looming in the distance.
He planned to frequent the harbor’s taverns and see what he could learn. Knowing they would be suspicious of strangers, he had developed a story about visiting a friend who worked for the Stephen shipyard. If pressed, he would say he had lived in London for a time.
In truth, he was determined to say very little. Men everywhere understood grunts, didn’t they?
Coming ou
t of the woods, he entered the town, strolling along the seafront, listening to the familiar cry of gulls swarming in the blue sky as they vied for fishermen’s scraps. A group of fishing boats was tied up at the quay, the fishermen sorting their nets. Women, Robbie assumed to be the fishermen’s wives and daughters, loaded the morning’s catch into baskets.
Ignoring the shrieking gulls, they sat in their plain wincey dresses and tartan headscarves, talking to each other as they worked. Children played at their feet, reminding Robbie of the street urchins in London.
Water lapped against the quay where several ships were tied up, their bare masts rising above the decks like a forest of winter trees stripped of their leaves. Snow clung to the decks of the ships that must have been in port during the last storm.
He continued down the quay, passing a gun battery of six twelve-pounders facing seaward, likely a remnant of the town’s defense against Napoleon’s threat, now reduced to an idle curiosity with the Frenchman’s exile to St. Helena.
In pursuit of the nearby taverns, Robbie turned up one street that looked promising. The town certainly didn’t lack for public houses. Nearly every third door led to such an establishment.
He chose one that appeared larger, judging by its three tall windows facing the street and the cluster of men standing out front. Above the door, painted in black letters, was the sign, “The Plow and Harrow”.
He touched the brim of his cap to the men lingering just outside the door. Ignoring their questioning gazes, he plunged into the dimly lit tavern. Immediately, his senses were assaulted by the smell of sour ale and smoke curling up from the pipes several men smoked as they sat at a large table talking.
He crossed the stone floor to the bar and asked for ale. As he waited, he cast a furtive look on either side of him. Wooden tables held several groups of men. At the largest, what looked to be merchants, wearing proper waistcoats and jackets, were having a heated discussion.
Like Robbie, they wore half boots, except the odorous brown substance clinging to the heel of their boots suggested they’d stepped in something other than snow. Though he knew Kinloch to be a farmer, he could not imagine Kinloch doing that even for a disguise.
Thanking the proprietor, Robbie slid a coin over the counter and carried his ale to a small table adjacent to the large one, listening to the local farmers who drank ale while talking and chewing on the ends of their pipes.
The argument the men had been engaged in when he’d first entered the tavern must have ended, for now they speculated on the arrival of the next storm. When they’d exhausted that topic, they laughed about one of their fellow farmers who had managed to misplace some cows in the snow. All very boring and nothing of politics.
He was about to leave when the conversation turned to the clearances happening in the West.
A bald man with sideburns and ruddy cheeks addressed the others. “Word is Lord Stafford’s factor, a man named Sellar, has been torching crofters’ roofs to empty the glens for his lordship’s sheep.”
“Them English swells care naught fer the puir folks whose verra lives lay in that soil,” said an older man with gray hair and a wizened face.
“I hear Stafford doesna even visit his lands,” said the first man. “My uncle told me Sellar forced one auld man and his wife from their home in the cauld night where they died.”
“He’s tearin’ the heart outta the Highlands, all for Stafford’s sheep.”
Sinking into a dour mood, the men shouted to the proprietor for another round of ale.
On his other side, Robbie heard murmurs of disagreement. Finally, one man slid his chair back and stood to address those at the large table. “Ye have it all wrong. Stafford’s givin’ notice but some cottars ignore it. Sellar’s jus’ doin’ his job.”
Rising from his chair, a young farmer at the large table took offense. “Ye be Stafford’s man, too?”
“Can ye talk mair slow?” slurred the first man, pretending not to understand.
The young man, egged on by his dour companions, threw a fist.
A hullabaloo ensued as fists flew in all directions, ale splashed onto the stone floor and chairs were upturned. Men from both sides strained to get at each other.
The proprietor yelled. “Och! Ye fools!” and waded into the fray. “See what comes of yer bleetin’?”
Robbie had no desire to become a part of their fight. Not that he didn’t enjoy a stimulating round of fisticuffs now and then, but he could not risk his identity or his mission being compromised.
Pressing himself against the nearest wall, he inched his way to the door. Avoiding tankards sailing through the air and stepping over groaning bodies, he at last gained the exit.
He opened the door to the street and the men standing outside, hearing the noise, rushed past him to join the fight.
Robbie pulled his scarf up around his neck against the brisk wind. He found it surprising that men so easily given to violence had never mentioned the events in Manchester or Kinloch’s speech in Dundee. He would have thought such events would have united them and been the subject of great debate.
He headed toward the waterfront, hoping to hear of ships that might be sailing in the next few weeks. On the street called Horner’s Wynd, he entered The Lorne Tavern.
Relieved to see a smattering of men dressed as sailors and a few fishermen in the blue knitted shirts they favored, he claimed the one free stool at the wooden bar. As he waited for the proprietor, he stared at the painting of a ship hanging on the wall facing him.
A fully rigged black-hulled schooner. He could just make out the name Panmure on the starboard bow.
“Ye ken somethin’ of ships, do ye?” the proprietor asked, coming to take his order. The burly man’s curly gray hair and muscular arms reminded Robbie of a ship’s carpenter he once knew.
“Aye, a wee bit,” Robbie replied, pulling off his cap. “Sailed a few times.”
“What ye efter?”
Hoping the inquiry spoke to the drink Robbie wanted, he grunted. “Ale.”
The burly man nodded. “Ye’re a stranger in toun. Visitin’?”
“Aye, fer Hogmanay. I’ve a mate up at Stephen’s shipyard.” He spoke truth but the proprietor did not need to know his “mate” was the shipyard’s owner.
“Some guid men work fer that yard.”
Robbie attempted a grunt of agreement, relieved the man did not ask for a name.
The proprietor poured the ale, then looked over his shoulder at the ship. “That’d be the Panmure, built right ’ere in Arbroath by Alex Fernie. Named fer the Earl of Panmure, who lost his title efter the Fifteen. She’s in the harbor now if’n ye want tae get a look at ’er. She sails fer France end of the month.”
“She’s a bonnie ship.” Robbie speculated this could be the ship on which George Kinloch intended to sail were he holed up in Arbroath and looking for escape. “She tak’ passengers?”
“’Tis a merchantman, but, aye, sometimes the master’ll tak’ a few. Lookin’ tae sail south?”
“Mebbe.” Robbie downed the rest of his ale.
“Cap’n Gower’s a former mate o’ mine,” he offered. “Ye might ask if’n he has room in the crew’s quarters.”
Robbie made a mental note of the shipmaster’s name, thanked the proprietor and, with as few words as possible, indicated he might return in a day or two.
Anxious to see the Panmure for himself, Robbie tugged his cap down on his head and launched into the cold wind blowing onshore. He set a brisk pace as he strode to the quay, setting in his mind the two taverns he’d visited, the men he’d encountered and conversations he’d had so he could report all to Nash. To act for each other, they had to possess the same information.
Several ships were in the harbor. He had passed them before without much notice since his focus had been on the taverns. Now he carefully scrutinized them.
The three-masted Panmure, the largest, was tied up at her moorings, her sails harbor-furled, rolled up tight and tidy as he would expect
in a squared-away ship. The few sailors on deck stood out of the wind in huddled conversation, not busy with repairs or loading. The ship would not be sailing anytime soon. Most of the crew were likely in town or with their families.
Taking the gangway in a few long strides, he looked to the officer of the watch. “Cap’n Gower around?”
“No, he’s gone into town, but he should return tonight.”
Robbie couldn’t wait that long. The noon meal might be in process at the Stephens and he intended to return for the afternoon. “I dinna suppose Cap’n Gower takes passengers?”
“Aye, he does, but the passenger cabins have been booked for the next sailin’.” He lifted his gaze to the ships lined up at the quay. “You might try one of the others in the harbor.”
Robbie tipped his cap. “Much obliged.”
As he headed back to Stephen’s shipyard, he wondered if the cabins were reserved for George Kinloch and whoever might be traveling with him. The coincidence of the ship’s destination and Kinloch’s former association with that country were too great to ignore.
Chapter 6
Breakfast with Nash Powell turned out to be an amusing experience for Ailie. She had gone to her room to change her gown and, when she entered the dining room, she found him standing in front of the sideboard, staring at the dishes offered.
“Confused?”
He scratched his head, holding his empty plate. “A bit. I scarce know where to begin.”
She looked around. “They’ve left you all alone?”
“The countess and Emily were leaving just as I was coming in. They told me Kit, Tara and Mary ate early with their husbands before they left for the geese hunt.”
Ailie watched Nash pile eggs, biscuits and butter onto his plate, turning up his nose at the more Scottish fare.
He pointed to a pale substance in a round dish. “Do you actually eat that?”
She resisted a laugh. “’Tis gruitheam, or to the uninitiated Englishman like yerself, curds and butter. And, aye, we do.” She spread some on a girdle scone and placed it next to the strong-smelling cheese she had just added to her plate.
