The Young Pretender

by Sheila Simonson

  A gust of wet wind slapped her face. She turned to him. "We'll come." She ignored Alice's cry of protest.

  His teeth flashed in a smile. "Ye relieve my mind." He bent to the trunk, grasped it by the handles, and heaved it up, grunting. "Whsst, what's in here, flatirons?"

  A rhetorical question. The trunk held both ladies' shoes and gowns, token Christmas gifts, and two three-volume novels. The bandboxes contained their hats and petticoats. It became clear that Sholto might be willing to row Alice and Jean to Brecon, but he didn't intend to row their belongings.

  He hauled the trunk as far up as the landing, dropping it at Alice's feet with an audible gasp. Jean brought the bandboxes up too, just in case. It might flood. Alice passed her going down. The older woman looked wounded but said nothing. They left the luggage on the landing.

  Sholto waited for both ladies to don their gloves and bonnets and offered only nominal resistance to taking the carpet bag. They set off into the dark. When he had settled his passengers in the rowboat, he cast off the line and took the middle seat himself with a few wobbles. Jean was sitting in the prow at his insistence, because she weighed less than Alice who clutched the carpet bag. Water seeped through Jean's pelisse where she sat.

  There was a pole and a bailing scoop in the small boat, and the oars were shipped. Sholto shoved off, pointed the prow toward the pavilion, and began to row. Rain pelted down, each drop as large around as a shilling piece. Every once in a while Jean bailed. Her feet in wet jean boots were lumps of ice.

  "You ordered rooms prepared for us. How did you know whom the chaise had brought?"

  He rowed, digging deep. "Logic, Lady Jean."

  "Logic?"

  "I thought. Might be Lady Clanross. Her telescope." He punctuated each phrase with a stroke of the oars.

  Elizabeth was an astronomer. Before she wed Tom, she had set up her great refractor on a knoll beyond the dower house stables. In the twelve years since her marriage, she hadn't removed it. Had she known of the danger of flooding, Liz would have sped to the rescue of her telescope, no doubt of it, but she couldn't have known.

  "She'd have driven to Brecon. Not," he gasped, "the dower house."

  That was probable. Tom and Elizabeth lived at Brecon some months of the year. She would have gone there first with her servants and luggage, and, in any case, would not have taken a post-chaise. "Even so--"

  "Other sisters. Don't visit."

  True. Anne, Kitty, and Maggie were married, fixed in their own homes, and deeply tangled in motherhood. Jean was not, which was how she had been able to nurse Fanny.

  "So you were sure I was the one who had come."

  "Likely."

  "Then I thank you for the rescue."

  "Not safe yet." He shipped the oars, grabbed the boat hook from the scuppers, and used it to fend off a half-submerged bough Jean hadn't noticed. Alice squealed as a twig brushed her hand. The tree limb looked heavy enough to damage the boat. It slid past without dire consequences, but a surprising amount of debris cluttered the water. Jean saw a wooden crate and something like a broomstick.

  Hasty maneuvers ensued as Sholto fought a current that wanted to turn the boat around. When he had pointed the prow in the right direction again, he resumed steady rowing. She had a good view of his back. He bent. His muscles bunched. He pulled. Very smooth. He didn't catch crabs, and, notwithstanding he had to row against a current, they were making progress toward their goal. In the distance Jean saw lights at Brecon.

  "Watch out," she cried. "Branch!"

  He evaded the hazard and rowed on, tireless. Someone was carrying a torch from Brecon toward the lake. Jean wondered why Sholto didn't just row for the shore. They could scramble out onto the bank and get only a bit wetter. He kept the boat in the middle of the lake all the way, however.

  Wind was beginning to whip the water. Whitecaps foamed. The boat rocked as larger waves formed, but it surged on. It became clear that he meant to row around the pavilion and come to the bridge on the far side. Jean recalled that a ladder led up to the surface of the bridge on that side, and there was moorage for the boat.

  "Bail!"

  Water had slopped over the gunwales. Jean picked up the scoop and set to work. She dropped the bailer several times, because her gloved hands were numb with cold. Her teeth chattered. Alice was moaning.

  At last they rounded the pavilion and shot along parallel to the bridge, bumping on the waves. A Brecon footman waited by the moorage with a flickering torch. But something was wrong.

  "The lake's draining," Sholto shouted. Alice wailed. He dug savagely at the oars, and the boat scraped along to the ladder that led up to the bridge. The footman was reaching down. "Skip out, Lady Jean! Hurry!"

  She scrambled up past the grinning fellow--it was Michael, she thought, the senior footman. She plumped onto the surface of the bridge and turned to look.

  Sholto was shouting at Michael to drop the damned torch and grab the rope. The boat was appreciably lower, and Alice had frozen in place.

  Jean wrested the torch from the footman's upheld hand. "I'll take it. Hold the boat steady, Michael."

  "'Es, me lady." He was still grinning, but he pulled at the rope with both hands.

  With no ceremony, Sholto jerked Alice to her feet, turned her to the ladder, and boosted her upward. The boat took on water under his shifting weight and began to sink. Jean heard him curse in Scots.

  The head groom, Durbin, thumped down the bridge toward them as Michael caught Alice's sleeve.

  "Alice!" Jean screamed, "take hold of the rail!" Mrs. Finch was still clutching the carpet bag. "Drop the bag and climb. He can't come up till you do." The carpet bag tumbled from sight.

  "Michael, ye gormed fool, pull the woman up." That was the head groom Durbin, puffing. He scrunched down the ladder and clenched a fistful of Alice's pelisse. Her face was white, her mouth gaping. Between them, he and Michael hauled her up and laid her on the bridge beside Jean. They turned back at once.

  Jean held the torch out to light the scene. The carpet bag bobbed in the water, the boat had sunk, and she couldn't see Sholto for Michael's head and Durbin's beefy shoulders. "Where is he? He can't have drowned!"

  At that point, he surfaced, spewing water, and reached up for the ladder one-handed.

  Jean clutched the torch and screamed something at the men on the ladder. Alice stirred.

  "Here now, lad, take me hand. That's the ticket." Durbin gave a mighty heave, and Michael caught at Sholto's other arm. Between them they pulled the steward onto the planks of the bridge. He lay beside Alice, still and very wet. Alice squealed and shrank from him.

  The water level in the lake continued to fall. It would have been dramatic in broad daylight.

  Jean thrust the torch at Michael and yanked Alice to a sitting position. "Help the man," she begged Durbin. "He's not breathing!"

  To her huge relief, Sholto rolled to his side and began to cough.

  Jean was aware of a crowd waiting on the shore, housemaids, grooms, another footman. She thought she saw Jem among them. She hustled Alice to her feet and put an arm around the older woman's waist. "There, you can lean on me. Let's go to the house and warm ourselves. Come now, Alice." And soothing and prodding, she led her companion out of the men's way.

  As she walked, she glanced back and was relieved to see Sholto sitting, head bent, left arm trailing, whilst Durbin and Michael leaned over him. He had to be freezing. Jean was freezing.

  It seemed a long way up to the house. At least it was not a solitary way. The housemaids clustered, offering her their arms and their sympathy. The two footmen lifted Alice between them and bore her all the way to the front door where Mrs. Smollet waited.

  A short time later, though it seemed hours, Jean found herself neck deep in a steaming bath in the best Brecon guest room. The holland covers had been stripped from the furniture, and a coal fire blazed on the hearth. Alice, she supposed, was soaking before the fireplace of the adjoining room. Jean heard her plaintive voice.r />
  Mrs. Smollet and one of the housemaids flitted back and forth, fetched dry garments from Elizabeth's wardrobe, and sent the footmen for more hot water and fresh towels, all the while chattering. The maid shrieked her excitement. Mrs. Smollet wrung her hands over Fanny's death and bemoaned Jean's misadventure on the lake. The housekeeper was convinced Sholto ought to have waited for a groom to harness the gig and driven to the dower house, as was only proper. Imagine. A rowboat.

  Jean ducked under the water to rinse her hair and shut out the fluting voice. If the steward had waited for the gig, the three of them would have drowned, the horse as well, in the surge of water as the lake began to drain. She didn't doubt that, not for one second. And if he hadn't come at all, she and Alice would now be stranded on the first floor of the dower house without food, water, or warmth, and with no hope of immediate rescue. At best. They might well have drowned in the house had they been trapped on the ground floor or, worse, in the basement. She thought of the dank kitchen and shuddered.

  Suds cascaded onto the tiles as she surfaced. Mrs. Smollet squawked and handed her a towel for her hair. "You ought to stay in till the water cools, Lady Jean."

  "Nonsense. I'm warm now." Jean wrapped her head, turban-style, stood on the mat, and dripped as the maid swabbed her dry. Her teeth began to chatter again. She clenched them and wriggled into one of Elizabeth's nightgowns. It was inches too long. The maid handed her a green robe, also long but blessedly warm.

  Scuffing into slippers, Jean made her way to the bench at the foot of the bed. "Why are you dressing me for bed? It can't be six o'clock."

  "Almost," Mrs. Smollet said. "You've had an Ordeal. You should rest until dinner."

  Jean's stomach growled. "We missed tea."

  "Cook is preparing trays for you both. Eat then rest. I shall serve dinner at half eight."

  When tea came, Jean inhaled the contents of the tray without noticing what she was eating. Her mind kept reviewing the last moments of the rescue.

  She had shrieked at Alice to drop the carpet bag. Alice had complied. It had probably hit Sholto as it fell, knocking him into the water. My fault, she thought. No, he was already knee-deep. He almost drowned. But he didn't. He's all right. What's wrong with his left arm?

  Hair still damp, she climbed into the four poster and flopped back against the heap of pillows. Five minutes. She would lie here five minutes. Then she would rise up and find out what had happened to their rescuer.

  She fell asleep.

  2.

  When Jean woke she did not at first remember where she was. Then it all came sweeping back, including Fanny's death. Somehow, though, she had escaped from the depths of the pool of grief into which she had fallen.

  She lay a long time, eyes closed, thinking of Fanny. When she opened her eyes again, reality seeped in. The bedroom was dark, but a crack of grey light between curtains betrayed the truth. She had slept the night through. Her empty stomach and full bladder reinforced the message, and she was almost overcome with guilt. How was Mr. Sholto? How was Alice? What must Mrs. Smollet be thinking after all her trouble? And Cook.

  Jean groaned and climbed out of bed. As she pulled on Liz's robe, she saw that the tin bath had been emptied and removed from the hearth, the floor mopped where she'd splashed. She hadn't heard a thing.

  She found one of Liz's wool morning gowns laid out beside her own dry and freshly-brushed traveling outfit. Her boots had dried too. Fifteen minutes later, clad in the blue gown, face tingling from a cold-water wash, Jean crept out. It was not half-past seven, so she hadn't had the heart to ring the bell for hot water.

  The hour was far too early for breakfast, even at Brecon where, thanks to Clanross's early rising habit, the family breakfast was available from half eight. In many country houses the meal was not served before eleven. She could hear human rustlings. Someone was out and about.

  Downstairs, she hurried past the holland-shrouded reception salons and stuck her head into the morning room. No one in sight. Well then, the kitchen. Why that useful place lay at such a distance from the dining rooms no one knew. A peculiarity of Italian architecture perhaps. Signor Palladio had much to answer for.

  She followed the trail of increasing noise. The kitchen itself, though warm and clearly in heavy use, was empty. She stuck her head in the next door, the staff dining room.

  A dozen people fell silent where they sat at the long, half-empty table. They straggled to their feet. Had the house been open there would have been twice as many servants.

  "Please sit. I don't want to cause any trouble." Jean slid into the nearest unused chair. "If I could just have a cup of tea."

  Everyone sat. "Millie," said Mrs. Smollet in icy tones from her post at the head of the table.

  One of the kitchen maids leapt to her feet and vanished next door. She returned what seemed hours later with a fresh cup and saucer and a place setting. Michael, as senior footman, rose in the absent butler's stead and poured Jean's tea. She spotted Jem with Durbin and the grooms and smiled at him. Jem ducked his head. No one said anything. The other footman ate a cautious spoonful of porridge. Somebody passed toasted bread.

  "What's this, the funeral baked meats?" said a familiar Scotch-flavoured voice behind her.

  An uproar arose. "Mr. Sholto!" "Lad!" "What the devil are you doing out of your bed?" And so on. Michael offered Sholto a seat.

  "Good morning, Mr. Sholto," Jean said.

  He blinked at her. However, he was a quick study. He took the seat. "Lady Jean, you do us honour."

  "No, I'm a great nuisance. I fell asleep before I could find out how you fared. I came seeking information." That was a lie. She had come seeking breakfast. "You don't look well."

  He didn't. He was tidy enough, but his eyes were shadowed, his left arm hung in a sling, and someone should have shaved him. He grimaced. "It marches."

  Michael poured a fresh cup of tea and set a bowl of porridge in front of him.

  He glanced up with a brief smile of thanks. "Seat yourself, Mick." He looked over at Jean. "Unless her ladyship desires a wee bowl of porridge?"

  "Thank you, I'd like that."

  One of the maids giggled. Jean waited for her porridge, took up her spoon, and commenced eating. Michael pulled a chair and sat beside the agent.

  Jean's plebian porridge sent the right signal.

  The chatter soon rose to a cheerful level, the tea pots and toast racks passed back and forth, and the staff relaxed. Or almost. Cook was scowling, perhaps because of her futile dinner efforts the previous evening, perhaps because the nobility ought to break their fast with two cold meats, bacon, an array of fresh breads, smoked haddock, and at least one egg dish.

  Jean was conscious of being stared at. She was used to that. She ate her porridge with deliberation and picked up her cup. "Is your arm broken, Mr. Sholto?"

  He took a spoonful of porridge and chewed. It was the chewy sort of oatmeal. "Collarbone."

  She winced. Michael had hauled him up by the left hand. He must have fainted.

  "Durbin set it." He laid down his spoon and added, helpful, "He's guid wi' horses."

  "You must call Mr. Wharton."

  "D'ye want to send a message to your sisters?"

  "Send for him to see to your arm!" Jean spluttered. "He's a first-rate surgeon." Besides being a local landowner, Charles Wharton was chief surgeon at the Chacton Infirmary. In consequence, it had become a place of pilgrimage for the halt and the lame.

  Sholto smiled. "So he is, but I'll do well enough. I daresay a rider can reach Hazeldell now the water's gone down. Shall I send Jem with a letter for the ladies?"

  Jean's heart sank. She had half-forgot she must relay the sad news to Miss Bluestone and the girls. "No, thank you. I'll send Jem. Have you heard whether the village flooded?"

  "It did. One of the grooms enquired last evening. I sent him as soon as it was safe for a horse to use the road."

  Whilst I slept the sleep of the just. Jean brooded.

  "I mean to take a
look at the dower house this morning," Sholto was saying. "And yon telescope. I'll bring your baggage when I return to Brecon."

  "Should you not rest?"

  "Ah weel, 'tis a question of whether I prefair tae lie miserably in bed or tae ride miserably in t'gig. I prefair t'gig."

  And you can stop trying to bamboozle me, she thought, indignant. "My mother was a Scotswoman." Though the countess would have died before she spoke braid Scots.

  He flipped his hand in a gesture of surrender. "Your trick, Lady Jean. I need to assess the damage before I write his lordship, and I must write him today."

  "I see." She supposed that was true. Sholto did manage the vast estate, its farms, and at least two outlying manors. They were probably all in disarray if the flooding was widespread.

  It occurred to her that he was as out of place sitting at the staff dining table as she was. As steward--or factor or whatever term he preferred--he was the earl's representative. His status was much higher than Mrs. Smollet's or Durbin's. He even outranked the gardener, who was an artist with his own house and three apprentices. If Sholto ate with the servants at all, he ought to sit at the head of the table. Yet, hierarchical as they might be, they were all comfortable in his presence. Even Mrs. Smollet.

  "Be sure to take someone with you to the dower house," Jean said at last. "To heft the trunkful of flatirons."

  His mouth quirked in a grin. "I shall."

  At that point conversation became general. From his place at Mrs. Smollet's right hand, Durbin said, "Is the other lady well?"

  "I believe so. Mrs. Finch is still asleep."

  "Ye may tell her we pulled yon carpet bag from the water."

  "Thank you, Durbin."

  "Soaked," Mrs. Smollet said, as if Durbin were to blame.

  Jean felt a twinge of justifiable guilt. "I screamed at Alice to drop it. Did it hit you, Mr. Sholto?"

  "Bung on. I fell like a stone."

  "I'm sorry."