Journey to Enchantment

by Patricia Veryan

  “And for why should she not?” demanded MacKie. “Does it escape ye, mon, that Mrs. Hortense has played whist wi’ us on fine Fridays any time these ten years?”

  “We have a guest tonight,” said Hortense. “Perchance he may be willing to take a hand.”

  Neither of the gentlemen remarked upon the presence of the guest, nor enquired as to his identity. When Delacourt was wheeled in just before the dinner gong was sounded, Prudence watched narrowly, and thought it singular that whilst the Englishman was not greeted with the affectionate admiration that might have been logical had they known the truth of his activities, nor was he the object of the enquiries that would have been perfectly natural had he been a complete stranger.

  The conversation at table ran along easily enough. Hortense was comfortable with her two suitors, and she had become so fond of their ailing guest that in her eyes he was almost one of the family. As always, MacTavish was the perfect host. Prudence sensed that Delacourt was uneasy and, noting that his glance flickered often to the tall clock in the corner of the room, she guessed his thoughts were with Elizabeth.

  Troubled because he was troubled, she accompanied Hortense to the drawing room and went at once to the windows. The moon was high and bright, making the loch into a sweep of silver and lighting the heavens to a deep clear blue. There should be little difficulty in travelling tonight, but there were countless reasons why Lord Briley might have been detained. She walked over to the sofa, lost in thought.

  “You sense it, too, don’t you, love?” said Hortense. “It closes in. Inevitable. Inescapable.” She frowned. “And I had so wanted to get that new lavender gown finished.” She tilted her head, the great Spanish comb sliding precariously. “My goodness me! Here they come, so soon. I hope there was no disagreement.”

  Prudence was equally surprised as the gentlemen hurried into the room, Lockerbie guiding the wheelchair. Delacourt looked grave. “Troopers,” he said succinctly, meeting Prudence’s questioning glance.

  MacTavish added, “Quickly, ladies.”

  The card table was already set up, and Sir Matthew sprang to take up the cards and deal them out. Hortense, always nervous around redcoats, did not find anything to wonder at in the fact that the others behaved in a rather odd way, and she took the chair MacKie pulled out for her without hesitation.

  When Colonel Cunningham strode into the room some two minutes later, he came upon a tranquil scene: the three older gentlemen and Mrs. MacTavish intent upon a game of whist, and Miss Prudence MacTavish seated nearby at her tambour frame while Captain Delacourt sorted out her tangled embroidery silks.

  Looking up as the Colonel entered, unannounced, MacTavish rose, his lifting brows betraying surprise, but with a hand courteously outstretched. “I give you good evening, Colonel. Do you—” He stopped.

  Lord Briley came in, looking stern, and with a pale Miss Clandon on his arm. “Thome rabble hove a brick at my carriage,” he lisped, his gaze steady on Delacourt. “Frightened Mith Clandon, I’m afraid. The Colonel wath good enough to ethcourt uth.”

  Prudence hastened to put her arm about Elizabeth. “How dreadful! Do you care to come upstairs and rest? We shall have a tray brought to you.”

  Miss Clandon admitted she was rather shaken, and indeed she looked it, a haunted expression in her big eyes. Ushering her into the hall, Prudence was annoyed to see half a dozen troopers standing about and one brazenly inspecting the gold saloon. She made no comment beyond a frigid stare, and not until the door to Miss Clandon’s bedchamber was safely closed did she whisper urgently, “Whatever is it? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes. But—oh, lud! I’ve bad news for Geoffrey. And that wretch Cunningham suspects something. You were right!”

  This confirmation of her fears was dismaying. Prudence went over to tug at the bellrope. “What you need is a nice cup of tea. Poor girl, you’re upset, and small wonder.”

  At the same moment, Colonel Cunningham, his back to the drawing room fireplace, and a glass of Madeira in his hand, was saying much the same thing. “Small wonder the lady was distraught. I’d hoped we had put down the troublemakers for a while, but”—he shrugged—“only let that rabble-rouser, Doone, make a move and they’re all stirred up again.”

  Sir Matthew stared at him without pleasure. “Is Doone hereaboots? I’d heard naught of’t.”

  “He is.” Cunningham took a mouthful of wine. “We’d a traitor in our grasp, practically, but Doone whisked him away. How he managed it, I’ve not the remotest notion. The rebel was trapped in a farm-house. My men are ready to swear not a soul went in or left that had not been accounted for. Yet when they searched the place—no sign of him.”

  “Likely a secret room,” said MacTavish. “These old places, you know, have many a priest’s hole or hidden chamber, dating back to the days of Cromwell.”

  Cunningham said silkily, “Not this one. We tore it down, room by room.”

  A muffled snort came from Sir Matthew, and MacKie glowered in tight-lipped silence.

  Delacourt yawned. “Perhaps the fellow was actually never there, sir.”

  “He was there all right.” The Colonel put his glass on the mantelpiece. “Like all crusaders, Doone’s a braggart and has a sign to let us know we’ve been duped.” He took a tablet from his pocket and drew a large capital ‘D’ with inside it the letter ‘L.’ “We usually find one of these chalked up after one of his jaunts.”

  Sir Matthew said grittily, “And ye found one on the wee croft?”

  “We did. And in a cave in the hills to which we were subsequently decoyed. Ah—you find that amusing? Well, I assure you, sir, I do not. This Ligun Doone may be a fine folk hero for the Jacobites, but he ferments trouble for both sides. Only let word of him be breathed in an area we’ve managed to subdue, and all the locals are stirred up and ready to risk life and home to shield rebels they’d not have dared aid before. He is a pest, sir! And a pest I mean to put an end to!”

  Hortense, who had crossed to the quiet Delacourt, said kindly, “The poor boy’s fallen asleep.” She beckoned Lockerbie, and he came to take the handles of the chair and wheel it out.

  Cunningham thanked MacTavish, but refused an offer of refreshments. Neither did he leave, but chatted idly with the group, his questions as mild as his eyes were sharp. In a few minutes he had deduced that both MacKie and Garry were probably sympathetic to the Jacobite Cause, and were also enamoured of Mrs. Hortense, a condition he thought rather pathetic. He judged them a pair of feeble old dodderers, all huff and no puff, and abruptly excused himself to stamp along the hall to Delacourt’s door.

  He did not knock, and the Captain, who had been looking worriedly at a small piece of parchment that Briley had slipped into his hand when greeting him, was barely in time to tuck it into the side of his chair before the Colonel stalked in and slammed the door behind him.

  “What is the Clandon woman doing up here?” he demanded without preamble.

  “She nursed me when I was hit,” Delacourt replied calmly. “She was most kind, and—”

  “Egad, Captain, I hope you did not rouse false expectations in the lass.”

  Delacourt was seized by a not unfamiliar urge to ram his fist into that smirk. He lowered his eyes, but when he looked up he was smiling. “I hope I did not, sir. But she’s a handsome girl, and I fancy Thad Briley would not be averse to—er, taking her off my hands.”

  Cunningham chuckled. “Young reprobate. Is that the way you treat your own cousin?”

  So this was what he was fishing for. Delacourt said, “I dare swear you were not gulled by that rasper, sir. Elizabeth is no kin of mine. It answered the purpose after Prestonpans, so we held to it. Thanks to her, I was brought up here when they couldn’t get me to the Border.”

  “So you said. To her grandmama. That would have been in the new year, when the Jacobites had sniffed you out down south.”

  “Yes, sir. It was risky for them, and you may guess I am deeply indebted to Miss Clandon and the old lady, both.”


  “Hum. And now the girl is here to visit her grandmama. And—to see you, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. Though I doubt MacTavish would allow her to stay here did he think that she and I, er…”

  The Colonel gave a bark of man-to-man laughter. “I’m damned sure he would not. He speaks softly, but ’pon my word, he is a strait-laced old martinet. What I want to know, Delacourt, is where in the devil is that son of his? If I thought the boy was out with Charles Stuart…! What d’you make of it?”

  “If he was a rebel, sir, I’ve heard no breath of it. And I’ve been bending every effort to win over the servants.”

  “Play on their sympathies, do you? Excellent. Keep me informed. Cauldside will be out periodically to look at you, and you can send word by him. As for the rest of the family, the aunt’s mad, but harmless enough, I fancy. What of the daughter? A spirited little piece, and ripe—eh?” He thought to detect a sudden flash in the eyes of the invalid and went on slyly, “What a luscious shape to her! I’d not blame you for a little dalliance in that quarter. Wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay with her, myself.”

  A muscle twitched in Delacourt’s cheek. He said without expression, “She’s a rare little beauty, I’ll own, but I fear I’m not up to a duel with claymores, which is what I fancy it would take to roll her in the hay. Have you learned aught of Doone’s whereabouts, sir? If he tarries here, I’ll warrant you have him before the month is out.”

  Cunningham’s face hardened. “By God, but I will!” He brandished his riding crop at Delacourt. “He’s getting too cocksure by half, but he’s taken on the wrong man this time. Fiend seize him, he’s good for my promotion, if nothing else.”

  With false eagerness, Delacourt leaned forward. “Are you assured of that, sir? Have you spoke with Cumberland?”

  “I have. And his Grace promised that the day I bring about the lopping of that bastard’s head, I’ll be a General!” He frowned, and muttered, “He’s nearby, I know it. If I can just manoeuvre him within my grasp.”

  Delacourt regarded him admiringly, then wheeled his chair closer and put out his hand. “Some day, Colonel, I shall brag of having shaken your hand.”

  Flattered, the Colonel grinned and returned the handclasp. “Perhaps you will, my dear fellow. Perhaps you will.”

  Busied with turning down the bed, Lockerbie smiled at the coverlet.

  * * *

  Miss Clandon would say nothing to Prudence of the news she brought, save to murmur in a distracted way that poor Geoffrey must be beside himself, having to wait to hear what she had to tell him.

  “While he does so,” Prudence begged, “could you please tell me about the cypher? I fancy it has to do with the treasure Prince Charles gathered, but I’d heard it was too late, and he could not get the gold to Europe to hire more men and arms.” She paled at the thought that struck her. “Oh, heavens! Never say they mean to do so now?”

  “Our Cause is lost, alas. And enough good men have died for’t. No, the treasure—and it is not all gold, Miss MacTavish, but jewels and plate, and even artworks, I heard—all of it, has been hid at several locations.”

  “But if we cannot use it, why not return it to the donors?”

  “A gigantic task, but it is what they hope to do. For the meanwhile it must lie concealed until the proper disposition can be made. So many who were Jacobite sympathizers, or whose menfolk were known Jacobites, have been stripped of homes and land. Some are starving. If we can restore their belongings, it may make the difference twixt life and death for them.”

  “Poor creatures! Oh, the suffering that has come out of all this. But if the treasure is safely hidden, I—”

  “Well, there is the trouble, you see,” Elizabeth interrupted wearily. “The council, those who gathered and guard the treasure, fear the locations are not as secure as they would wish. They’ve chosen a permanent hiding place, and all the treasure is to be gathered up and conveyed there. The problem is to get word to those who now store it, so that they know what to do and to whom it is to be finally entrusted. A tricky business, you may guess.”

  “Faith,” whispered Prudence, her eyes wide. “How will they dare send such a message? Every renegade and bounty hunter in the three kingdoms would be after it! To say nothing of the soldiers!”

  “Aye! Would they not! So the message is coded in four stanzas of a poem. Each stanza contains one word of the cypher. When all the stanzas reach a certain man in England, he will decipher them and arrange for the treasure to be collected and taken to its new home.”

  “England! Why England?”

  “Because it is already there. Oh, never look so astonished, dear ma’am. When they couldnae run the blockade from here, it was sent south in hopes of getting it to Europe from English ports. Things became desperate suddenly, and it had to be hidden fast.”

  “Whisht! What a bumble broth! And how shall they know to make proper distribution—if all goes well? There— Oh! Never say that is the list Captain Delacourt mentioned?”

  “Aye. At first it was made only so that Prince Charlie could properly acknowledge the donations. Later, it was kept for a record so that restitution could be made. One o’ the couriers carries it. And now Geoffrey risks sending out another copy, for fear the first is lost.”

  “My God! I’d not be the men carrying those papers!”

  “’Tis a fearsome responsibility, I grant. If the list falls into English hands, everyone named will be executed, you may be—Listen!”

  Together, they ran to the window and peeped out. The troopers were clattering along the drivepath. Relieved, the two girls hurried down to the drawing room. Upset by Cunningham’s visit, Hortense had retired, but MacTavish, Sir Matthew, and Mr. MacKie were still there, attending to Lord Briley, who stood with his back to the hearth, speaking in a low, urgent voice. He glanced up as the girls entered, and the other gentlemen came to their feet. Prudence went at once to sit beside her father. Briley drew up a chair for Miss Clandon, and she occupied it, asking, “Did you give Geoffrey the cypher, my lord?”

  “I did, but had no opportunity to talk to him, unfortunately.”

  Lockerbie came back, wheeling the invalid chair. Looking stern, Delacourt said, “They’re away, but I’ve sent Cole to keep an eye out, just in case.”

  Prudence’s suspicion that Sir Matthew and Mr. MacKie were aware of the plotting at Lakepoint was confirmed when MacKie asked, “How do the lads in the pyramid go on?”

  Delacourt replied, “A deal better than they did in that damp cave.” He slanted a glance at Prudence. “I take it you’ve told them, Mr. MacTavish, that your daughter has joined us?” And a corner of his mind registered the fact that their new recruit managed to look enchanting, even with worry plainly writ on her face.

  “Much against my better judgement,” MacTavish confirmed wryly.

  “I’ll not let you down, gentlemen,” said Prudence.

  Sir Matthew gave her a troubled look and murmured that they’d not a wee bit of concern on that count.

  “I think you all know that Miss Clandon went to see her grandmother, Lady Ericson,” Delacourt went on briskly. “You’ve returned Johnny’s cypher to me, Elizabeth. I take it the news is bad.”

  “Very bad indeed,” said Miss Clandon with a sigh. “Our—second courier was intercepted near Tullynessie, and—”

  “Tullynessie!” exclaimed MacKie, taken aback. “Did ye send him that route, Captain?”

  “No, sir. But I know from bitter experience that the route a man starts with up here can be far from the route he’s obliged to follow. Was John taken, Elizabeth?”

  Her mouth trembled. She answered falteringly, “Taken and shot. But he managed to give the cypher to a shepherd, and he led the redcoats away.” She bowed her head for an instant and when she looked up, her eyes were bright with the sheen of tears. “Johnny Robertson was—was executed at Perth on the morning of the tenth.” On a sob, she gulped, “That … fine wee lad!”

  Delacourt shrank in his chair. “My God!�
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  The MacTavish murmured, “May the Good Lord rest him.”

  Prudence had not known the hapless fugitive, but it was obvious that Delacourt had, for his shoulders slumped and he covered his eyes for a moment. “Cumberland!” he gritted, as though it had been an oath. “What disgrace and dishonour he visits upon our England!” Nobody spoke, and after a pause he went on with forced calm, “So the shepherd carried the cypher to Lady Ericson, did he? It was well done. And she is a most gallant lady. I only wish she’d be done with this desperate business.”

  Miss Clandon smiled faintly. “She says the same of you.”

  “I know.” He gave her a rueful glance and sat straighter. “Mr. MacTavish, can you get word to Johnny’s people?” MacTavish indicating that he could do so, Delacourt went on, “Robertson was a right gallant gentleman, and he’d not thank us for sitting here mourning him instead of attending to business. My friends, it seems we’ve a cypher to be delivered, and no courier.”

  “Devil take you, Geoff,” exclaimed Briley, viewing Delacourt through his haughtily upheld quizzing glass, “if you can meth about in a Jacobite frolic, you might have the goodneth to allow me to play!”

  “I’ll hae ye to know, my lord,” snorted Sir Matthew, “that there are Scotsmen here, willing and able!”

  “And Scotswomen,” put in Prudence, her face flushed, her eyes glowing with excitement. “I could carry your cypher, Captain!”

  MacTavish glared at her, started to speak, but subsided. Delacourt leaned back, elbow on chair arm and chin in hand, and regarded them in turn. “Sir Matthew, your courage does you credit, but I am very sure Cunningham would never allow you to take ship without you had an excellent reason. And if we fabricated one, you would be searched from head to toe and like as not escorted and watched like a hawk thereafter.” He kindly refrained from pointing out that it would be a difficult journey by land in these perilous times, and that Sir Matthew was plagued by gout. The older man’s irked protests ceased when Delacourt lifted an authoritative hand and went on, “No, sir. I thank you, but it will not do. The same would apply to you, Mr. MacKie. And as for you, Miss MacTavish”—his eyes softened as they rested upon the girl’s radiant eagerness—“can you really suppose I would repay your father’s kind hospitality by—”