by Regan Walker
“Montrose?” asked Nick.
“Halfway between Arbroath and Stonehaven to the north,” said William.
Robbie wanted to ask about Kinloch and he was certain Nash had the same urge, but it might give away too much for either one of them to mention the man. The thought occurred that no man here knew more about Kinloch’s whereabouts at the moment than he and Nash.
Muriel set down her teacup and inclined her head to better consider Aileen Stephen sitting beside her on the parlor sofa. She intended to take up her conversation with the girl, interrupted earlier with the entrance of her grandfather. London could provide many opportunities for a young woman like Aileen. If she did not make a match with one of the Powell twins, Muriel was confident a future husband awaited the girl in London, perhaps even a man possessed of a good title.
Aileen appeared to be anxious as she asked, “Did it go well at dinner?”
“Whatever do you mean, Child?”
“My grandfather. He is very dear to me, you understand, but I worried he might say something… well, something that might disturb you, something inappropriate.”
“Nonsense!” Muriel inwardly smiled, remembering Angus Ramsay’s words to her. “Actually, I found him rather charming. The genuine article. As you may have noticed, I appreciate directness and honesty.”
Aileen pressed her palm to her chest. “I am so relieved. It was my hope you and he would get along.” Moving in closer, she smiled. “I believe he likes you.”
Muriel thought of Angus Ramsay’s intense blue eyes and the lines around them that suggested, at least at one time, he had laughed much. “I think he misses his wife. How long has she been gone?”
“Grandmother Ramsay died five years ago, the same year I came to live in Arbroath.”
A sudden thought occurred to Muriel. “Do I perchance look anything like her?”
Aileen pursed her lips, giving Muriel an assessing look. “Aye, a bit. She had your silver hair and gray eyes, but her face bore more lines. And she wore the linen-wincey of a fisherman’s wife, not silk, pearls and feathers of a titled lady.”
Unable to resist, Muriel flicked the feather in her hair ornament. “I do enjoy my pearls and feathers.”
“But like you,” Aileen added, “Grandmother Ramsay had a quiet dignity about her.”
“If you find in me a hint of the dignity possessed by your much-loved grandmother, I stand highly complimented.”
Aileen smiled. “You are such a dear.”
“That is my secret, but you must tell no one.” There was something about this young woman that intrigued Muriel. Emily had told her the girl designed ships, a most unusual pursuit for a young lady. Yet, her manner indicated she possessed the breeding and intelligence of a young woman raised to marry a man born to wealth and position.
Not every man would want such a challenge. But for the right man, no other woman would do.
“Enough about us old folks,” said Muriel. “We must see about you, my dear.” She patted Aileen’s hand. “And I shall help you. If no man is to your liking here in Scotland, then a year in London at my side will find you the perfect match. I am a very good judge of character, you know.”
Aileen laughed. “Oh I don’t doubt it for a minute, Muriel. William told me you matched him with Emily. But London? And marriage?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Muriel fingered her pearls, thinking of all the matches she had made over the years. “What say you we forsake the tea for a glass of Madeira? And while we drink our wine, I shall tell you all about what lies in store for you should you accept my invitation to come to London.”
Exhausted from the long day, Ailie was nevertheless determined to pen a note in her diary before retiring for the night. So, with quill in hand, she scratched out a few lines.
20 December, second entry
Today I was kissed for the very first time. Oh, not the kiss of my brothers or another man in my family. Or even the kiss of Donald Innes after that dance in Aberdeen when I was sixteen. This was different. Nash Etienne Powell kissed me in the woods in a most passionate manner and I liked it. But what did it mean to him? He and his brother are older, more experienced. I hesitate to think how many women they have known. Perhaps Nash sees me only as a diversion for his holiday in Scotland. And now Muriel, Countess of Claremont, wants to take me to London to show me about. My thoughts are in a jumble. How could I leave Scotland? Might a year with Muriel be, as she says, “quite diverting”?
Chapter 11
21 December
Nash had hoped to see Ailie at breakfast but Emily informed him both William and his sister were occupied with some issue at the shipyard. Angus Ramsay had departed early, apparently leaving word he would see them all at Hogmanay. So, Nash breakfasted with his brothers, their wives and their hostess, which turned out to be a noisy affair.
After that, he wanted only a moment of quiet before going to town. Retreating to the library, he found the book Emily had recommended to him. The book’s author, John Abercrombie, was a horticulturist, knowledgeable in the use of greenhouses to grow exotics.
The library was well organized and he easily found the book, settling onto one of the blue leather settees where there was good light from an adjacent window. Putting on his spectacles, he became absorbed in Abercrombie’s Practical Gardener and the description of the new ornamental style of greenhouse that afforded the plants more light.
He had only been reading a short while when Martin’s wife flitted into the room, petticoats rustling, sketchbook and pencils in hand. “Would you mind if I draw your likeness while you read? I promise to be as silent as a mouse in the corner.”
“All right,” he said, peering at her over his spectacles. He knew Kit to be a woman of her word and not given to unnecessary chatter.
She took a seat at the wooden table in the center of the room and went to work; he went back to his book, trying to ignore the faint scratching of her pencil on the paper.
After what seemed like an hour, he closed the book and looked up to see Kit smiling. “I am almost done and I can add the last touches later.”
“May I see?”
“Yes, of course.” She reversed her sketchbook and Nash blinked in astonishment. The image was the spit of that in his shaving mirror and without the spectacles.
“An amazing likeness. Am I the last or have you more to do?”
“Oh, I have more. I want each of the couples to have their own page. I have yet to add William to the sketch I did of Emily. I’ve only begun the sketch of Angus from seeing him at dinner. Then there is Ailie. I might do hers last.”
“What about you? Who will draw your likeness?”
“Oh, I did mine first. The mirror in our bedchamber is most accommodating. Self-portrait is the artist’s first subject so I know well my own imperfect countenance.”
“A remarkable talent. As I think on it, the women in the Powell family are all quite remarkable. You are an accomplished artist; Tara sails Nick’s ships as well as any man; and our mother, well, she fell in love with her kidnapper, didn’t she?”
Kit laughed. “When you put it like that, yes, I suppose we are an unusual group. Keep that in mind when you add to our number.” She picked up her sketchbook and pencils, waved goodbye and left.
Nash stared at the smoldering fire, thinking about Kit’s advice. Ailie would fit right in with the Powell wives, but could she be made to want to join them? Would she ever agree to come to London?
He set the book down on the settee so Robbie could find it easily and rose, more determined than ever to finish their work in Arbroath so he could devote himself to winning the Scottish lass.
In his bedchamber, Nash donned the clothes Robbie had worn when in Arbroath and covered them with a plain woolen scarf and a dark greatcoat. His knife was secured at his waist and he carried a small flintlock pistol in the pocket of his coat. He didn’t expect trouble but, ever since Manchester, he vowed to never again leave on a mission unprepared for the wors
t.
Shortly after Nash finished dressing, Robbie entered their chamber. “Are you finally leaving for town?”
“I am. After luncheon, don’t forget you need to go the library and take up the book I left on one of the settees.”
Robbie patted his coat pocket. “I’ve got my spectacles. By the bye, what book is it? One of the Waverley novels Ailie mentioned?”
“No. It is a book by an esteemed horticulturist.”
“Horticulture? Plants again? It sounds dull beyond belief.”
“To you, perhaps. I found it most interesting. Besides, Emily recommended it to me at breakfast. At one point, Kit wandered into the library to observe me reading. There’s another on the shelf on the geography of Scotland that looked to be a worthy choice, too. As long as we’re here, it might be good to learn something of the local geography.”
“Which, I remind you, is under several feet of snow.”
“Don’t quibble. It will melt in due season. Perhaps I will return to see the heather bloom.” Nash thought of that heather and Ailie lying on a hill overlooking a loch with him beside her. “Yes, I just might.”
Robbie sighed loudly. “Very well. Perhaps I can nod off for a nap. Are you sure you want to miss luncheon?”
“I’ll get a meat pie at one of the taverns. I want as much time in the town as daylight allows.”
“You have the map in mind?”
Nash tapped his temple. “I do.”
As he did most afternoons, George Kinloch followed his protectors into the dimly lit St Thomas Tavern where they would spend a few hours. He doubted Thomas à Becket would find the atmosphere of sour ale and smoke appealing. No wonder his face in the picture above the bar displayed a grimace.
George sighed, knowing he must be accepting of his guards’ choice of establishments. His cousin Grant had hired the men and, though the tavern’s atmosphere was a far cry from his farm near Dundee, it provided a respite from his small rooms at the boarding house and a refuge from Arbroath’s icy winds.
George had quickly learned the names of the men his cousin had hired, who were just now ordering ale. The tallest was the beefy Hamish whose name George easily remembered because his fists were like large hams. Hamish’s brother, Iain, a man of smaller stature, seemed content to stand in his brother’s shadow. The brains of the group appeared to be Derek, a fast-talking man with dark, intense eyes, who delighted in the rhetoric of reform which, all things considered, George never tired of hearing.
The man who caused George’s stomach to tie in knots was the hotheaded Lachlan, a Highlander from Argyll, and the only blond among them. Lachy, as his companions called him, would have been one of those men who had come to hear George’s speech carrying banners shouting, “Bread or Blood!”
Remembering those signs, George cringed. He was proud of the fact the meeting in Dundee had been conducted in an orderly manner and that there had been no disturbance of the peace of any kind.
Today, as always, he sat at the round table, the rough fabric of the brown wincey jacket and trousers, so foreign to his usual attire, chafing his skin. The ridiculous too-large brown top hat he wore, crumpled from years of abuse, had been given him to hide his distinctive baldpate, leaving only his fringe of dark hair to be seen. Regrettably, the effect rendered him a comical figure.
Soon, he hoped to return to a gentleman’s clothing. In France, where he could resume his role as a member of the gentry, he would find a better suit of clothes.
Lifting the ale that was placed before him, he took a long swallow, remembering the speech that led him to this day. He had been surprised at the thousands who had gathered that day in November to hear him speak about what could be done to alleviate the distress of the working classes.
Only later did he learn that special constables had been sworn to keep the peace as they had in Manchester. Thankfully, they had not intervened, but the government had its vengeance all the same. Guilty only of denouncing the massacre in Manchester and calling for much-needed reform, George had been charged with sedition. Sedition!
He did not have to think long before forfeiting his bail and fleeing north.
In France, he would be safe from the oppressive hand of the British government and Sidmouth’s fearmongering among the Members of Parliament, who never ventured north to witness the plight of the workers.
All George had was one man’s voice. Yet what good could he do if that voice were silenced, trapped inside the stone cage of prison walls? Or, dispatched to Botany Bay? No, he would flee now and hope to return one day when reform was no longer a dreaded word.
The conversations around him grew louder as the customers raised their voices to be heard in the crowded tavern.
Hamish raised his tankard in the semblance of a toast. “Willna be long now, Georgie lad. Ye’ll be on that ship afore ye ken it.”
“The name is Mr. Oliphant, Hamish. You must address me as Mr. Oliphant.”
Having been to the Panmure to speak to Captain Gower, Nash went to The Foundry, a tavern on Mary Street where he’d found a hearty meat pie, washing it down with ale.
As he watched the other men in the tavern, he thought about Ailie. Finding time alone with her in this dashed cold weather was proving a challenge. Either they were surrounded by people or alone in the freezing woods. Being with her without being able to touch her was proving tortuous. He had only to be near her to stir thoughts of his lips on hers.
Reminding himself he was supposed to be gathering information, he listened more attentively to the men’s conversations around him, but learned nothing substantial. Having finished his ale, he decided to brave the cold and seek another tavern.
He supposed he picked the St Thomas Tavern because the irony of the name appealed, a tavern in Presbyterian Scotland named for the Archbishop of Canterbury.
Becket might have been low-born and the rumored companion of King Henry in their earthly pursuits, but he became a martyr venerated by both Catholics and Anglicans.
No matter its namesake, the smoke-filled tavern was clearly one favored by the locals. Men of all sorts crowded up to the bar and most of the tables were filled. Nash slid into a chair at a small table against the far wall to nurse his ale while going over his conversation with the Panmure’s master in his mind.
Captain Gower had graciously allowed Nash to see his ship, his first mate remembering his prior appearance—which had actually been Robbie’s visit to the ship a few days before.
“Aye, we’ve two cabins sometimes booked by passengers, but they are both reserved for our sailing the afternoon of the twenty-sixth. We’ll return in a month’s time, weather permitting, and you can book passage then.”
The captain did not mention the passengers’ names and Nash did not ask for fear of rousing suspicion. If the shipmaster had knowingly promised one of his cabins to a fugitive from the law, he might warn Kinloch.
Nash returned his attention to the tavern’s customers, catching bits of conversation.
Five men came through the door. The proprietor waved them to the large round table that he must have been saving for them, as it was the only one unoccupied.
Once they had their ale, the men began to speak in low tones. All had dark hair save one whose eyes flashed fury beneath his fair hair. Had they but known a spy lurked in their midst, they might have spoken in a regular voice. Men who lowered their voices as if to hide their words when all around them raised theirs were, to Nash, like a tasty lure to a hungry fish.
The word “ship” coupled with the name “Georgie” rang in Nash’s ears like a ship’s bell. The man who had spoken them was a rough character, a great burly fellow in a stevedore’s plain clothing. His scarred face, thick chest and huge fists made Nash think he had seen many fights. But the man to whom he had spoken, the man he had called “Georgie”, who insisted he be called “Mr. Oliphant”, presented a puzzling figure. Nash scrutinized his common worker’s clothing and the odd hat that seemed to dwarf his fine-boned head. Despite being dresse
d as a commoner, his manner and speech shouted he was a gentleman.
Putting together the information Captain Gower had given him with the words spoken to “Georgie” in the tavern, Nash concluded the man he was looking at might well be George Kinloch, who could be sailing for France on the twenty-sixth as Mr. Oliphant.
Nash ruminated about this, thinking that when George and his companions left, he would follow them. His thoughts were interrupted when a skirmish erupted next to the round table.
One man, who had been sitting at a small table next to the wall, abruptly stood, sloshing his ale onto the floor. “I say ye’re wrong!”
His companion pounded the table. “Them weavers deserved better than tae end up deid.” His words were slurred but Nash instantly grasped their meaning.
“Haud yer tongue fer yer owin sake,” said his companion, furtively looking about the tavern. Nash judged him the more sober of the two.
By this time, every man’s attention had turned to them.
The man who had remained seated tugged on his friend’s jacket. “Sit ye doon. I hae no intention…”
From the round table, the blond man with the angry eyes rose and stepped toward the two arguing. “The two of ye need tae quit yer bletherin!”
The man seated, who’d clearly imbibed too much ale, awkwardly got to his feet and pushed his finger into the blond’s chest. “Dinna tell me what tae do, ye scunner!”
Nash might not understand all their words but the men’s expressions spoke loudly.
The blond narrowed his gaze, drew back his fist and rammed it into the drunken man’s face, sending him crashing into his chair, both collapsing to the floor.
His companion’s eyes narrowed as a scowl formed on his face. “Ye nickum loon!” He reared back and took a swing at the blond.
The blond ducked and laughed. “Away an bile yer heid!” Then, with a smile on his face, he hit the man, sending him flying into another table, causing ale to spill on its occupants.
