by Clare Jayne
“We are all here to serve you, sir,” MacCuaig said, unthawed. “At whatever hour.”
Ewan headed to his bed chamber to wash and change and found his valet, Rabbie, waiting.
“I did not intend to wake the household,” Ewan said as the young man walked forward to help him change.
Rabbie gave him an amused look, their similarity of ages and his own nature making Ewan view his valet more as a friend than a servant. “It was no trouble. The staff are mostly awake every day at sunrise.”
“Good lord, really?”
Ewan removed his blue coat and handed it to Rabbie, who caught sight of the smudge on its sleeve, all brightness fading into an expression of horror. He raised his eyes to give Ewan a wounded look. “I trust the court case was worth such a price.”
“It is not yet over. I will return soon to hear the verdict,” Ewan ventured.
“Yes, sir.” Rabbie’s normally friendly tone was neutral, registering his annoyance as clearly as MacCuaig’s tone had.
“After today I doubt I shall ever attend another trial,” Ewan said in appeasement. “Nothing else could match up to the grandness and notoriety of Brodie’s case.”
Rabbie accepted the crumpled cravat Ewan had unwound from his neck and, in a brighter manner, asked, “I’m sure your decision is for the best, sir. You have too much going on in your life with all the balls and card games and such-like to fit in many days like the last one.”
Ewan could not have said why he felt a twinge of regret upon hearing these words since his life did hold more than enough amusements to fill his time. He thought, not for the first time, that he must find a wife - marriage and children would bring his life more meaning.
Rabbie poured water from jug into basin and Ewan washed his face and underarms, the cold water refreshing him and bringing his sluggish senses back to life. A few minutes later, clad in a new outfit of turquoise breeches with matching jacket and turquoise-and-white striped waistcoat, he walked to the dining room and helped himself to breakfast. Mrs Middleton, at least, must not be annoyed with him since she had provided the fresh strawberries he loved along with cooked food and ale.
Not wanting to miss the end of Brodie’s trial, Ewan did not linger at home. He refused the suggestion of a sedan chair – causing MacCuaig, who had served his more conservative father for decades, to look at him as if Ewan were a troublesome child – and swiftly walked back to the large courthouse on Parliament Square. Taking a sedan chair or curricle might better befit Ewan’s status as one of the landed upper-classes but he enjoyed the chance to get some decent exercise and the opportunity to see more of Edinburgh’s population.
St Giles’ Church bells struck eight o’clock as he joined the throng of people outside the court. He quickly struck up a conversation with several merchants as they all waited for the jury to return.
“I still find it difficult to believe that someone as well respected and wealthy as Mr Brodie could have behaved in such an appalling manner,” the oldest member of the group said. He was a smart but plainly dressed man with more grey than brown in his tied back hair. “What would possibly make him don mask and go off to rob people, many of whom had previously employed him?”
“I expect it cost a bit to house his mistress and that child,” a younger man said with a smirk.
“Two mistresses, Black,” the third man – a sandy haired fellow dressed in orange clothes – corrected him, “and any number of children.”
“Two mistresses?” Ewan asked, startled.
“Aye. Did you see the commotion in court when the first mistress gave evidence?”
“A woman got upset,” Ewan remembered, frowning.
“She was the other one. Hadn’t known a thing about Potts, the first mistress, until today.”
“Disgraceful,” the older man said.
“True,” the sandy haired man agreed, “but Brodie obviously wrung every bit of pleasure he could from his wild life. You cannae help admiring him for that.”
“I can,” the older man said shortly. “He’ll deservedly hang for this.”
“Do you not think transportation more likely?” Ewan suggested. “After all, he never killed or harmed anyone.”
“Hanging,” the older man insisted.
“I think they’ll just chop a hand off,” Black said and Ewan winced inwardly at the thought and wondered what was going through Brodie’s mind as he sat in prison now.
A few more hours passed by and Ewan was thinking of luncheon when a court officer told them the jury were back with a verdict. They all hurried inside and took seats then, as they waited for the judges, Ewan remembered the lovely woman who had been there earlier. He looked round the large room and sea of faces then spotted her distinctive red hair as she hurried in and took a place just a couple of rows behind him. He was finally able to see more than a glimpse of her face and was charmed by the view of red curls and wide-brimmed hat framing a delicate oval face with dark eyes and small full lips. She noticed his glance and he saw recognition enter her eyes. He smiled and stood to make a quick bow to her and her cheeks dimpled as her mouth quirked upwards.
The judges were announced and, mood buoyed by that smile, he turned to face the front of the courtroom as they walked in and took their places. A sealed piece of parchment was carried from the jury to the judges and the sentences were pronounced: guilty.
The room fell still and silent as Lord Braxfield said, “The prisoners William Brodie and George Smith to be carried from the bar to the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, therein to be detained till Wednesday, the first day of October next, and upon that day to be taken forth of the said Tolbooth to the place fixed upon by the magistrates of Edinburgh as a common place of execution, and then and there, betwixt the hours of two and four o’clock afternoon to be hanged by the necks, by the hands of the Common Executioner, upon a gibbet, until they be dead.”
The unnatural silence persisted and Ewan looked over at the two prisoners. Smith looked as one would expect: white-faced and dull-eyed. Brodie brought a hand up to his chest, a theatrical gesture, and, as all eyes fell on him, took a step forward and opened his mouth to speak.
Ewan held his breath and waited for his final words but the lawyer put a hand on the prisoner’s arm, muttering in his ear, and Brodie closed his mouth, and let himself be led away by members of the town guard, their red military coats making Ewan think uneasily of blood and the spectre of death that hung over everyone.
The judges had left and the audience in the courtroom were talking or leaving by the time Ewan got to his feet. He turned to the seat where the red-haired lady had been, hoping to find out her name and exchange a few words, but, to his disappointment, she had already left.
As he walked away from his seat he noticed something white on the floor beneath the chair the lovely stranger had sat in. He bent down and picked it up: it was a lady’s handkerchief with an elaborately embroidered letter ‘I’ on it.
* * *
“I need to find a young lady and hoped you might be able to help me,” Ewan Campbell said to his aunt, Lady Morrelly. She knew every titled and land-owning family in Edinburgh so, having been unable to get the woman out of his mind all day, he had confidence that his aunt would be able to tell him who she was.
Sitting in her parlour with an abandoned piece of embroidery on the chair arm and a cup of tea and large slice of cake on the coffee table beside her, his aunt’s eyes lit up at these words, clearly reading more into his interest than he had intended. “Indeed. What is her name?”
“I do not know,” he admitted as a large cat with long white fur jumped onto the chair beside him then stepped onto his lap, moved in a circle then sunk down on him. He stroked the silky fur until the air was filled with the soft sound of purring and, after a night without sleep, he struggled against its soporific effect.
“Which family is she related to?”
“I have no idea. She dropped this and I wish to return it to her.” He held out the lady’s handkerchief, havin
g to lean forward to pass it to his aunt and the cat made an annoyed sound and dug her claws into his legs, sending pricking pains through them. He resumed his petting and her grip relaxed.
Lady Morrelly examined the handkerchief as she said, “My dear, it is pleasant to see you showing an interest in a young lady but perhaps now you see the wisdom in obtaining a proper introduction so that you at least know the name of your future wife.”
Ewan started at this. He had liked the woman but they had not even spoken yet. He had not intended to fall on one knee when he saw her again, although he did hope for a chance to get to know her better.
“You are, of course, looking to marry in the immediate future.” Lady Morrelly fixed him with a look of heartfelt hope.
“Certainly,” he agreed amenably.
“Do you happen to recall anything of this lady’s appearance?”
“She had red hair,” he said with satisfaction.
“Eye colour?”
Ewan looked up at the painted ceiling and tried to visualise the woman he had seen. “They were dark so I would say either brown or black, although they might have seemed darker than they were in the dim light of the courtroom so it is possible they were blue or green.” At his aunt’s sigh, he added, “The handkerchief has the letter ‘I’ on it and she was clearly a lady, although her clothes were unremarkable.”
“Do you mean that she looked untidy or dressed badly?”
“Neither,” he said at once, feeling he was letting down the unknown woman with such remarks. Perhaps he should not have approached his aunt for help after all. He tried to put his comment in a more complimentary form: “I had the impression that she had more important matters on her mind than dress.”
Lady Morrelly gasped. “Ewan, I know that you had a mother since she was my sister, but I cannot imagine what she taught you about women if she did not impress upon you the necessity of a lady knowing how to dress well. Where did you say you encountered this person?”
He had deliberately not said. He braced himself before he did so now: “At the trial of the thief, William Brodie.”
She fell backwards in her chair as if about to swoon.
“She wore a brooch!” he remembered. “It was in the shape of a flower – the flower was purple.” He looked at her eagerly and she sat up and responded with the same disgruntled expression her cat had aimed at him once when he refused to feed it fish heads.
“Yes, I am aware of that young lady: Miss Ishbel Campbell.” Her tone made it clear that this knowledge was no good thing but then she unexpectedly smiled. “I believe you will find her at the home of her cousin, Lady Huntly.”
Ewan froze, his endeavour suddenly taking a deadly turn. Lady Huntly was one of the most influential women in Edinburgh. She was always invited to the most exclusive dinner parties and balls and their success or failure rested on her opinion. When she cut someone, as she frequently did, they lost all standing in society. She was said to bring men, women and children to tears on a daily basis.
Lady Morrelly was still smiling sweetly as she said, “I look forward to hearing the outcome of this little adventure of yours, my dear.”
.
Chapter Three
THE BUTLER entered the parlour while Harriette was in the middle of berating Ishbel about propriety. Since she was somewhat in the wrong on this occasion, Ishbel stood silently in the face of Harriette’s comments and admonishments. Sharing titian hair and brown eyes, the two women were said to have a similar appearance – one unfortunate lady, never seen in polite society again, had thought them mother and daughter – but Ishbel hoped she would never have so fierce an expression on her face.
“... Clearly you do not care about ruining your reputation but I will not allow you to sully that of our family by turning up at all hours of the night for some ludicrous reason. As long as you live under this roof...” Harriette broke off as she noticed the butler. “What is it, Gallach?”
“A gentleman is here to see Miss Ishbel, my lady.”
The butler stepped forward and held out a silver tray. Ishbel took the white card off it and Harriette looked over her shoulder to read it and demand, “Who is this Mr MacPherson?”
Ishbel was at a loss. She did not think he was a student at the university but that was her only guess. “I do not know.”
“Then let us find out,” Harriette said and strode out, heading for the drawing room, Ishbel hurrying after her, a bit irritated that Harriette was interfering although she knew she would not have been allowed to speak to a gentleman without a chaperone being present. Here, at least, Ishbel was forced to conform to the ridiculous proprieties of the upper-classes.
They entered the drawing room and Ishbel instantly recognised the slender gentleman with the soulful green eyes from the courthouse. He gave them a wide smile and a graceful bow. Harriette’s curtsy was of course perfect while Ishbel felt herself wobble slightly as she straightened from her own.
“Are we acquainted with you, Mr MacPherson?” Harriette asked in her usual quelling manner.
“I met Mr MacPherson at the courthouse yesterday,” Ishbel hastened to explain, although met was an exaggeration since they had never actually spoken.
“Indeed.” Harriette looked far from reassured by this, her manner remaining forbidding.
“I apologise for the intrusion,” Mr MacPherson said at once. “I came to return this.” He held out the handkerchief Ishbel had lost – having ruined one handkerchief with ink recently, her maid Lucy would be pleased to have this one safely back. Ishbel too was glad as this would save her an inconvenient visit to the shops to buy more.
Ishbel took the cloth from him. “Thank you. That was kind. How ever did you find me?”
“I simply asked the location of the most beautiful lady in Edinburgh,” he said gallantly and Ishbel felt herself blush, unaccustomed to such comments, and heard a slight snort of disbelief from Harriette.
“MacPherson...” Harriette scrutinised him. “You are related to Lady Morrelly, I believe?”
“That is correct, Lady Huntly,” he said, smiling, although there was a wary expression in his expressive eyes. “She is my aunt.”
“And does she think it proper for you to gad about until the early hours of the morning, attending a court case surrounded by dissolute and disreputable characters?”
Mr MacPherson stared at her, clearly rendered speechless by such a rebuke from a complete stranger. Mortified and knowing the words were actually aimed at her, Ishbel exclaimed, “Harriette!” and glared at her.
Mr MacPherson glanced from one to the other of them then said, “The court case affected a great many members of society which is why so many attended the trial. I myself had my home robbed by Deacon Brodie, which is why I took such an unusual interest. Had you been there yourself I am certain you would have seen that no one would think the worse of your cousin for being in attendance.”
Ishbel held her breath, knowing that Harriette hated being told what she should think; however her cousin’s frown was now more curious than angry. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr MacPherson?”
“Er, yes, thank you.” He looked thrown by this change in Harriette’s attitude, as if suspecting a trap.
Harriette rang the bell for Gallach and told him to have afternoon tea brought in and they sat down to wait. Ishbel, perched on the edge of a stiff-backed chair, glanced at the grandfather clock. She could wait no more than twenty minutes or she would arrive late for the lecture and interrupt Professor Black, which would be unforgiveable.
“Will you be attending Lady Moreau’s private ball on Monday?” Harriette asked Mr MacPherson.
“Yes, I shall. Will I have the pleasure of seeing the two of you there, My Lady?” His eyes met Ishbel’s as he spoke and his gaze was admiring. Other men had looked at her in that way but their interest had soon faded away once they learnt more of Ishbel’s character so, even if she wanted to see more of him, there was no point in expecting it.
“Yes, we will
both be there.” Harriette smiled at Ishbel in a way that said there would be trouble if Ishbel did not agree to this.
Reluctantly and with annoyance, reminding herself that she owed Harriette this, Ishbel said, “I am looking forward to it.” A superstitious chill ran through her as she wondered if she would be struck dead for such a complete lie, but of course nothing happened.
“Then would you allow me the honour of a dance?”
Ishbel swallowed against a sudden dryness in her throat. “I am not the best dancer.”
“To put it mildly,” Harriette agreed with feeling.
“Nor am I,” Mr MacPherson said, ignoring Harriette’s interjection, and continuing to gaze at Ishbel with a look of hope, as if her acceptance or rejection actually mattered to him. “Perhaps we could muddle through one together?”
He would regret this when he saw how graceless she was but she found she could not refuse him: “Yes. Thank you.”
The door opened at this point and Gallach returned, supervising the footmen as they laid out the china tea cups and plates of shortbread. Ishbel’s eyes darted once more to the clock. Ten more minutes. Harriette would be furious.
“The architecture of this house is beautiful,” Mr MacPherson said to Harriette. The poor man was certainly trying his best to be amenable.
“Thank you. We are considering renting somewhere in the New Town but the building of the residential streets seems to be taking an unconscionably long time.”
“I visited the New Town a couple of days ago,” Mr MacPherson said. “The parks and streets are beginning to take shape. I believe, once the work is complete, it will add immeasurably to our great city’s renown.”
“You could be correct.” The polite tone said that Harriette was undecided about Mr MacPherson but willing to give him a chance to prove he was not a complete fool.
