by Regan Walker
Other than a few bouts of calf-love as a young girl, Ailie had never been in love, but she was certain what she felt for Nash was the stuff of which Rabbie Burns wrote in A Red, Red Rose. Nash had become a sweet melody to her, playing in her mind. Was it too much to think her love for him would endure “till all the seas ran dry”?
She remembered his laughter, his face set aglow by the firelight, his glorious hazel eyes shining with mirth. When he kissed her, her blood sang in her veins. She wanted to see his face every day. She wanted to share a bed with him every night.
Knowing she must record her thoughts this Christmas, she took a seat at her writing desk, dipping her quill in the ink.
25 December
A Happy Christmas, as the English say, made more so because I spent the day with Nash Powell. To please Emily and her friends—who are now my friends, too—we attended St Mary’s. It felt so right to be sitting in church with Nash. Afterward, we shared wassail and the Christmas feast. Yes, he is English, but he understands me and believes in my dream of one day seeing the Ossian sail. His very touch has me tingling in places I have never tingled before. I long for his kisses. It is hard to say goodnight when I must part from him. His words make me think he, too, has such thoughts.
We have a week before he sails for London. Will he ask me to go as Muriel’s companion, or possibly something more? I could not bear it if he asked not at all.
Chapter 18
26 December, Boxing Day
Nash’s plan was not without risks. But he could bear his brother’s wrath more readily than he could the idea of sending an innocent man to prison. Or looking into Ailie’s accusing eyes if she were to learn he’d had Kinloch arrested.
He and Robbie had intentionally chosen to wear gentlemen’s clothing, though of a plainer variety. Their jackets and breeches were made of ordinary wool, their waistcoats an indiscriminate color, and their hats shorter than the ones they wore in London. Today was not for visiting taverns but for watching those heading toward the harbor and a particular ship.
Nash had seen men in Arbroath dressed in similar fashion, so he and Robbie would blend in. Their greatcoats, worn over all, concealed their pistols which, at least in Nash’s case, he had no intention of using.
Nash left Robbie pulling on his boots and went down to breakfast. He had intended to pass through the parlor on his way to the dining room, but when he reached the threshold, he paused, encountering an unexpected sight.
The ladies, chatting and laughing, stood in the midst of tables covered with baskets, baked goods, ribbons and fresh vegetables and flowers he recognized as having come from the orangery.
“If you linger there much longer, young man,” quipped Muriel, “we shall put you to work!”
Ailie came to him, her cheeks flushed. He hoped it was for excitement at seeing him. She wore a simple blue day gown, her hair captured at her nape by a ribbon of the same color. The effect was enchanting. “Oh Nash, isn’t it amazing what Emily and Muriel have done?”
He gave her a smile conveying his deep affection. “Good morning, Ailie. Yes, if you mean all that is before me, the effort appears… overwhelming.”
She glanced toward the dining room. “The other men have gone into breakfast.”
“Hiding behind closed doors?” he teased.
She swatted him on his arm. “We sent them away if you want the truth of it. They were a distraction, as are you!”
Nash looked behind her to take in the flurry of activity engaged in by the five other women laughing as they tied bows on the basket handles. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Aye, if you mean have I brought gifts to the shipyard families and to the church for the poor, but no, if you mean have I worked with so many women to assemble pretty baskets. Why don’t you go in to breakfast?” In a flirtatious manner, she added, “I’m sure the men have saved you some haddies. There might even be an omelet with kale.”
The smirk on her face told him she was in excellent humor. “Very funny, Miss Stephen.”
“Go,” she urged. Looking over her shoulder at the women, she said, “We will join you as soon as we have finished assembling the baskets. Will has arranged for a wagon with bench seats on the sides so the other ladies and I can ride with the baskets between us. Won’t that be fun? Will has even agreed to take us himself.”
“Brave man,” said Nash as he proceeded into the dining room.
Stepping inside, Nash greeted the men and found his way to the sideboard.
“Did you run the gauntlet of skirts, bows and baskets?” asked Hugh.
“I did,” he said, lifting a plate and perusing the offerings. “’Twas most impressive.” Nash availed himself of a bowl of oatmeal and raspberries, but could not summon much hunger given what he knew lay ahead.
He took a seat adjacent to William who was in his usual place at the head of the table. “Ailie tells me you are to drive the wagon taking the ladies to town. I thought it quite brave of you.”
“Aye, I’m determined to be the knight today.”
The others chuckled.
“What stops will you make?” Nash hoped William did not find it an odd question. He had to know if they would be anywhere near him and Robbie.
“We’ll visit the shipyard folks first, the ones with large families and small incomes who could use some help. And then we’ll go to St Mary’s to deliver the rest of the baskets to the minister there who knows the needy families in town. You are welcome to join us.”
“Too many petticoats for me,” Nash replied, taking a swallow of his coffee and forcing down his rising panic. William’s schedule would put the women near the harbor just as the Panmure was to sail.
He lifted his head to consider Hugh and Nick sitting across from him. “What might the rest of you be doing while the ladies deliver their baskets?”
“I thought to ride along with them,” said Hugh. “They might need another hand to carry baskets.”
“It is perfectly all right to admit you want to spend the day with your wife,” said William. “We require no excuse.”
“Very well,” offered the marquess, “I intend to spend the day with my wife, but I’m sure you could use the manly support, Will.”
Aware of how often Hugh and Mary had kept to themselves since coming to Arbroath, Nash smiled.
“Martin and I plan to go over the orders Powell and Sons expects to place for ships this next year,” said Nash’s eldest brother Nick. He waggled his brows at their host. “We want to be prepared when we meet with William later today. How about you and Robbie?”
“We hope to sample some of the local taverns in town.” There, he’d provided a reason for them to be in Arbroath.
William gave him a curious look, but said nothing. Nash averted his gaze, regretting that Ailie’s brother might think he preferred getting foxed with Robbie to being with Ailie and the ladies, but he had to lay the groundwork should they be seen.
Robbie viewed Marketgate from where he and Nash stood at the corner of that street and Bridge Street, a short way from the harbor. It was the most likely path Kinloch’s guards would take and the crossing allowed them a clear view of both streets.
The sky above was clear of clouds for the first time in days, but the air was bitter cold. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, wrapping his right hand around his pistol. He hoped the threat of force would render Kinloch cooperative, though he worried about the guards, particularly Hamish and Lachy. It was too late to ask for the magistrate’s help and such men often complicated matters. He wanted no bloodbath on the streets of Arbroath.
At the moment, those streets were bare, save only for snow piled in the corners. The atmosphere was dreary, the tall buildings lining Marketgate standing like cold dark sentinels braced against the wind blowing offshore.
“I don’t like it,” he said in a hushed voice. “It’s too quiet. Feels like the whole town has gone into hiding. I fear we waited too long. Kinloch might already be aboard the Panmure. Passenge
rs often board early on the day of sailing.”
“Not Kinloch,” argued Nash. “His plan will be to board at the last minute, leaving no time to be seen or a magistrate to be summoned. Still, I doubt many of Arbroath’s citizens would inform on him.”
“We’re not in Dundee,” Robbie reminded him. “Many in Scotland oppose the kind of change Kinloch advocates. ’Tis why he is called the Radical Laird.”
“Not all oppose his views,” muttered Nash.
“No, not all,” agreed Robbie, noting the brooding look on his brother’s face. He recognized its source. “The Mistress of the Setters is one who supports him.”
They had inquired about the tide and, using their own knowledge and the activities underway onboard, guessed at the Panmure’s expected sailing time, now a mere quarter of an hour away.
From where they stood, Robbie could see the masts of the ships in the harbor. They had passed the Panmure on the way to their current post, and he had observed the seamen working aloft, putting the sails in their gear and pushing them off the yards, leaving them hanging down ready to set. The captain and his officers had been walking the weather deck, likely checking in with the bos’n and carpenter to assure the supplies essential for repairs had been loaded. Robbie had overseen the same procedures many times.
Nash followed Robbie’s gaze. “Captain Gower must be pleased with these westerlies blowing offshore. ’Twill make his departure from Arbroath a smooth one.” Then with a stern look, he added, “It’s not too late to turn back, Robbie. I wish you would. If we have to tell a lie, let it be to Sidmouth, not our family and friends.”
Robbie never replied for, in the distance, he saw a group of men emerge from an alley close to the harbor. “Damn! They have taken a different route.” To the five men, a sixth had been added, a gentleman by the look of him. Kinloch had foregone his odd hat for what looked to be a gentleman’s wig. They moved toward the quay at a leisurely pace, perhaps so as not to draw attention. “We must be quick!”
Robbie took off at a run, Nash on his heels. Fifteen feet from the men, Robbie slowed.
The men turned at their approach.
“George Kinloch!” Robbie shouted, “Halt in the name of the Crown!”
The guards placed themselves in front of Kinloch and the other gentleman.
Robbie pulled his pistol, intending to fire a warning shot.
“Robbie, no!” Nash shouted. “Let him go!”
The blond they knew as Lachy raised a pistol and smirked. “I’ll no be askin’ agin, Englishmon. Drap yer pistol!”
Robbie held his pistol steady, focusing his eyes on the space a foot above Lachy’s head. Before he could fire, Nash yanked his arm to the side. Robbie’s pistol shot a burst of flame and smoke as the ball went wild.
Robbie bit out an oath. “I wasn’t going to shoot him.”
Ahead of them, Kinloch shouted, “No!”
Lachy fired his pistol, which spewed fire and smoke into the air.
Searing pain shot through Robbie’s head as stars appeared before his eyes just before his vision went black.
Splattered with his brother’s blood, Nash dropped to the pavement beside Robbie, staring at the fountain of red flowing from his head to pool on the ground. “Oh God, Robbie!”
The muffled sound of boots approaching made him look up, but the tears streaming from his eyes blurred the image. “Physician! I need a physician!”
“Ye’ll miss yer boat Kinloch if ye dinna go now!” said a heavily-accented voice.
Nash wiped the tears from his eyes to see George Kinloch bending over him, his guards pulling on him, urging him away.
“I’ll not leave a man to die on my account,” Kinloch said, shaking off their hands and returning his attention to Robbie’s still form.
“Go!” Nash shouted. “Go, while you can.”
“I cannot leave you alone. Let me at least summon a physician.”
“Go,” said a familiar voice from behind Nash. Ailie. “I will get one for him.”
“I am sorry,” Kinloch lamented. “Truly I am. I will pray the wound is not fatal.”
Prevailing over the objections of their charge, Kinloch’s guards swept him across the street and to the waiting ship.
Ailie crouched beside Nash, her hand on his shoulder as she handed him a handkerchief. “Press this to the wound while I fetch the physician.”
Nash nodded. “Oh, Ailie, please hurry.”
As she ran back toward High Street, Nash took off his coat and made a pillow for Robbie’s head. Then he pressed the cloth to the bloody wound.
From the deck of the Panmure, Nash heard a cry of orders and turned to see the sails of the big schooner bloom open and stretch taut. A minute later, the ship pulled away from her mooring, heading into the harbor, her spread of canvas rising higher and higher as she caught the wind and picked up speed.
His heart aching, Nash said a silent prayer for his brother, as he watched the Panmure slant away to the south toward France.
Ailie ran down the street toward Mr. Wilson’s receiving room, her mind filled with images from the horrible scene she had just witnessed.
She had wandered off as the ladies finished handing out baskets and happened to glimpse Nash and Robbie talking to a group of men. Walking toward them, she heard the pistols fire and saw the smoke as one twin dropped to the ground. Terrified, she had run to them and heard Nash shout his brother’s name.
That is how she knew the twin who lay bleeding on the ground was not the man she loved. Guilt assailed her for the joy she felt because Nash had been spared.
Her dreams—both portents of the future and harbingers of danger—had become reality.
Many questions swirled through her mind, but there had been no time to ask. Why had Robbie been shot? She had heard enough to know it was George Kinloch who stood over Robbie and Nash. Why had he come to Arbroath? Why did Nash urge him to go? And why did Kinloch think Robbie might die on his account? The Powell twins had to be more than mere passersby when the pistol was fired, for there was the matter of Robbie’s pistol lying on the ground beside his open hand.
She raced up the stairs to the door, the sign above it announcing “W. Wilson, Physician”. The bell on the door jingled as she entered the small waiting room, her chest heaving from exertion.
The waiting area was empty but the air against her cheek felt almost hot after the cold wind blowing outside. She knew the receiving room as well as she knew her own parlor, for she had been there more than once seeking help for injuries sustained by their workers.
The nurse opened the inner door and approached. “Why, Miss Stephen, what is it? Trouble at the shipyard?”
“No,” she said breathlessly, shaking her head. “One of our guests has been shot down by the harbor and lies bleeding. Can Mr. Wilson come?”
“Aye, I’ll fetch him straight away.”
The nurse disappeared through the door that led to the examining room and returned almost immediately with the middle-aged Mr. Wilson, his brown leather satchel in hand.
The nurse held his bag while he slipped on his coat. “Good day, Miss Stephen. I understand we have a patient lying in the street.”
“We do and I thank you for coming in haste to tend him.”
Mr. Wilson grabbed his hat and accepted back his satchel. “As we go, you can tell me what happened.”
She told him the few things she knew as he ventured down Bridge Street and then onto Lady Loan Shore that ran by the harbor.
“Is the wounded man conscious?”
Hurrying to keep up with his long stride, she said, “He wasn’t when I left him with his twin brother.” Remembering what she had seen, she added, “There was a lot of blood.”
“It happens with head wounds.”
She tried to draw hope from his words but the scene she had left was too terrible for her to believe Robbie wasn’t in grave danger.
They arrived at the place where Nash hunched over Robbie’s prone form. Mr. Wilson crouched next
to them. “I am Walter Wilson, the physician. Let me see the wound, please.”
Nash lifted the cloth Ailie had given him, his tear-streaked face and dire expression conveying his desperation to know Robbie would live.
The surgeon opened his case and took out a bottle marked “Spirit of Lavender”. Dousing a fresh cloth with the liquid, he dabbed at the blood flowing from Robbie’s left temple.
“Lavender?”
“Aye, oil of lavender is useful for digestive ailments but also good for cleansing wounds and soothing headaches and ’tis kind to the skin. I just want to wipe the blood away to see how deep is the wound.” Lifting the lavender-soaked cloth, now crimson with Robbie’s blood, Mr. Wilson appeared relieved. “He’s fortunate ’tis only a flesh wound, but he’ll have a wicked headache and a nasty scar.”
Nash let out a sigh. “Thank God he will be all right.”
Ailie reached her hand to cover Nash’s, trying to comfort him. “Mr. Wilson is an excellent physician, trained at Edinburgh University. You can trust him with Robbie.”
“I’m thankful to you both.”
Mr. Wilson stuffed the crimson cloth into his satchel and took out another small bottle. “My own mixture for treating wounds.” Putting some on yet another bit of cloth, he dabbed at the wound. The gash, now clearly visible, went from the end of Robbie’s eyebrow to the edge of his hair and a bit beyond.
When the surgeon was finished with the small bottle, he took out a roll of white linen. “In addition to a fresh bandage, I’ll wrap his head to protect the wound. The bandages will need to be changed at least once a day.” He handed Ailie another roll. “I know you can do this, Miss Stephen, but remember to first clean the wound with a bit of brandy until it scabs over. A coating of honey will help avoid infection.”
Ailie had treated wounds before, dutifully following the physician’s instructions.
