by Marie Laval
She approached the house with caution, but there were no guards at the front door. Just to be on the safe side, however, she tiptoed around the back. After tying the mare to a post, she paused to listen to the music again. It came from one of the downstairs rooms.
Creeping close to the window, she peered inside. The three musicians she remembered from Algiers sat on large cushions on the floor. They were alone. Rose tapped on the glass, and the luth player turned to her. His eyes opened wide in shock. He dropped instrument to the floor, jumped to his feet, and ran to the window.
He lifted the window sash up and leant out.
‘Ourida? hl htha hqyqi؟’
She couldn’t help but smile. It was good to hear her name in Arabic, Ourida, ‘Little Rose’ – the name her father, family and friends called her back at home.
‘Salaem’alekoum.’ She bowed her head. ‘Yes, it’s me, and no, you’re not dreaming,’ she whispered in Arabic.
‘Wa’alekoum salaam,’ the musician replied, bowing in return, his greeting echoed by his companions who had rushed to his side.
When she raised her hand to silence their questions, she wasn’t smiling anymore. ‘I need your help, my friends.’
‘My clerks will work on the documents tonight, my Lord, and I’ll have a draft agreement ready by tomorrow,’ Charles Longford gathered a pile of papers into a black leather portfolio before rising to his feet.
‘That soon?’
Two faint pink spots appeared on the old man’s cheeks and there was a flicker of unease in his pale blue eyes.
‘With all due respect, my Lord, we have been preparing for this eventuality for a while.’
Bruce narrowed his eyes.
‘You have?’
‘Well, it’s no secret that your estate is in a delicate financial situation and that you are not in the best of health…’
This time Bruce had to make a conscious effort to retain his calm.
‘I had no idea my health – or lack of – was worth gossiping about.’
The lawyer had the decency to look embarrassed. He coughed to clear his throat, smoothed his thinning grey hair with a shaky hand and tucked the portfolio under his arm.
‘I can assure you that my associate and I do not gossip,’ he replied stiffly.
Bruce walked to the window. He had been given a room on the second floor at the front of the castle with a good view of the grounds and of the stream of elegant carriages that queued in front of the porch steps, waiting to disgorge their well-dressed, perfumed and bejewelled occupants.
He had bathed and shaved, and now wore his spare black jacket, trousers and a crisp white shirt a maidservant had pressed for him. His lip curled as he looked at his reflection in the window. If it weren’t for his hair, far too long for the prevailing fashion, and the cuts and bruises on his face, he could almost pass for one of McRae’s cronies.
He turned to face Charles Langford and crossed his arms on his chest.
‘Enlighten me, Langford, what exactly is wrong with my health?’
The two pink spots on the man’s cheeks deepened to dark red. He coughed again.
‘We heard my lord suffered from… I mean, there have been rumours that my lord was afflicted with…’ He paused, drew in a deep breath. ‘…an incurable illness.’
Bruce arched his eyebrows.
‘Is that so? And you carried draft sales documents with you just in case I happened to stop by at Westmore before I dropped dead?’
Looking even more agitated, the lawyer shook his head.
‘No. Of course not. My associate and I were going to travel to Wrath this very week to put to you a purchase offer from Lord McRae. Your coming here today saves us a long and uncomfortable journey.’
‘I’m glad to oblige,’ Bruce replied pleasantly, but inside he was seething.
Someone from Wrath had talked. Someone who knew about his debilitating memory losses, his headaches and the nightmares that had these past few months kept him from sleeping at night – someone who had noticed his slow descent into insanity. Who could it be?
However infuriating, there was no time to dig deeper right now.
‘Will that be all, my lord?’ Charles Langford looked at him in earnest.
‘What do you remember about a French officer, a man named Pichet who paid you a visit about Niall McRae in August 1815?’ Bruce asked abruptly.
He had intended to take the man by surprise. He had succeeded.
Charles Langford’s face drained of all colour, his mouth opened on a silent gasp, and panic flickered in his eyes. The portfolio slipped from his grasp and fell on the floor with a loud noise.
‘Well?’ Bruce asked again.
The old man bent down and picked up the leather wallet with trembling fingers.
‘Thirty years ago? I am sorry, I don’t recall ever meeting this gentleman.’
Bruce stared at him. He was lying. The question was why.
‘The McRaes being your most important clients, I would expect you to remember everything about them, especially something as unusual as Pichet’s visit.’
The old man closed his eyes briefly.
‘Pichet, you said? Now that you mention it, I do vaguely recall a Frenchman visiting our offices.’
‘What do you remember about him?’
Langford shook his head.
‘I am afraid my memory is hazy. I shall have to confer with my associate – it was a long time ago.’
‘Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with your memory! You just gave me a list of most of my assets without even reading your notes, so surely you can remember the Frenchman who brought you Niall McRae’s last will and testament.’
Bruce walked towards him. Langford stepped back, a terrified look in his watery blue eyes. Damn it, did the old man think he was going to hit him?
‘How do you know about that?’
‘Let’s say I came upon some papers – some very interesting papers. So what changes did the new will make to McRae’s succession?’
‘You must realise I cannot discuss any confidential matters regarding the McRae family affairs with you or anyone not related…’ he coughed, and spoke the rest of the sentence so fast his words seemed to stumble over one another, ‘not related to the family of the deceased, my Lord.’
Bruce shrugged, impatient. ‘I know Pichet was carrying three letters. One for you, one for Lady Patricia. Did he tell you about the third letter?’
His hand clutching the portfolio tightly, the old man took another step back towards the door.
‘I don’t recall the man Pichet mentioning another letter, my lord.’
It was plain Langford wasn’t going to say anything more. Bruce took a deep breath. He had to try something else.
‘It must have been very upsetting for Lady Patricia to receive her husband’s letter as well as his personal items – his flask, tobacco case and gloves, and I believe an embroidered handkerchief… Anything else?’
The old man’s shoulders seemed to lose their stiffness and he let out a shaky breath. He must have thought he’d better answer at least some of Bruce’s queries because he was more accommodating suddenly.
‘Once again, I fail to understand how you can be in possession of such detailed personal information, sir, but…ahem…you are right. Monsieur Pichet did entrust me with Lord Niall’s letter and personal effects, which I took to Westmore. There wasn’t much, just the items you mentioned.’
‘Nothing else, you are quite sure?’ Bruce frowned, pensive. So the medallion wasn’t destined to Lady Patricia.
‘Positive. I will never forget how upset poor Lady Patricia was to receive her husband’s monogrammed handkerchief, stained with his own blood. It was part of a set she had embroidered herself and given him as a wedding present, only six months before.’
This time, Bruce’s heart flipped in his chest. ‘They’d been married only six months?’
‘That’s right, they were married in March 1815, only a couple of months before Lord McRae’s regimen
t was dispatched to Belgium. It was a terrible ordeal for her, in her…ahem… delicate condition.’
‘What delicate condition?’ Bruce repeated without understanding.
Charles Langford nodded. ‘At the end of August, she was only half-way through her pregnancy of course. It was all very, very sad…’
It suddenly hit him. Of course! What a fool he’d been not to see what had been staring him in the face all along. Niall McRae was desperate to provide for his son and the woman he loved, but Cameron wasn’t born then, and that could only mean one thing. The son he was referring to wasn’t Cameron, and the woman he so wanted to protect and care for wasn’t Lady Patricia.
That was why Langford hadn’t mentioned the half medal. McRae didn’t send it to Lady Patricia, but to that other woman – the mother of his son, and the woman he loved – together with the third letter.
No wonder Lady Patricia was so eager to get her hands on Colonel Saintclair’s diary, and Cameron was ready to go to any length to acquire, and destroy it. What Colonel Saintclair had written in his diary changed everything.
He remembered Niall McRae’s portrait in the library – a tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man. His throat tightened and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. Could it be that…?
‘Will that be all, my Lord?’ Charles Langford stared at him, an inquisitive look in his blue eyes.
‘Yes, Langford, that will be all,’ he answered absent-mindedly. ‘Thank you.’
He had some thinking to do, all he wanted now was to be alone. He hardly noticed when the old man bowed and let himself out.
‘What do you think of the party so far? It’s rather splendid, isn’t it?’
McRae handed him a champagne flute. Bruce drank a sip and winced. He didn’t care much for fizzy wine at the best of times, but that one left a foul taste in his mouth.
He surveyed the ballroom, magnificent with its crystal chandeliers, gilded wall mirrors and shiny parquet flooring and the couples dancing to the orchestra’s waltzes, cotillons and quadrilles. There had been rousing polkas and mazurkas, the latest dance crazes to sweep across the ballrooms of Europe, or so an elderly gentleman had informed him a few moments before.
Women, dressed in delicate pastels or deep, shimmering blues or crimsons, swirled past on the arm of their dance companions, their jewellery dazzling under the lights.
‘Aye, it’s very impressive,’ he replied at last, turning to look at his host.
They were the same height, McRae a slighter built, probably because he’d never had to train hard or fight. Nevertheless Bruce had to admit the man cut a dashing figure in a sober black suit, his shirt and silk cravat gleaming white against the dark wool, and shiny gold-coloured buttons shaped like griffins adorning its jacket.
It was no wonder he had dazzled a naive young woman like Rose. In fact he must have looked like a fairytale prince charming, the man every little girl dreamt of. Watching McRae earlier on as he paraded in the ballroom’s extravagant decor as if he didn’t have a care in the world was enough for Bruce to feel the urge to smash his fist in his face all over again.
If Bruce didn’t like the champagne, McRae seemed to have no problem draining his flute, and from the unnatural glow in his blue eyes and the animated tone of his voice, it was clear that it wasn’t his first either. He leant towards Bruce in a conspiratorial manner.
‘I daresay it will soon get even better. I have a surprise for my guests – my male guests, that is – I think all will enjoy. I guarantee it’ll cheer you up.’
Bruce arched one eyebrow. ‘Then I’ll look forward to your surprise, McRae.’
He surveyed the room. ‘I don’t see Lady Patricia.’
Cameron’s face clouded over. He plucked another flute from the tray of a passing waiter.
‘My mother has been taken ill and will unfortunately not be joining us tonight.’
He drank more champagne and turned to watch a couple twirling on the dance floor to the lively tune of a polka. The woman, tall and rake thin, was dressed in a pale and unflattering shade of blue. Her dance partner wore the 92nd Gordon Highlanders officer’s parade uniform.
‘Ah, here she is – my lovely fiancée, dancing with someone I think you are well acquainted with.’
Bruce’s shoulders stiffened. There was a man he had hoped never to meet again.
‘Captain Frazier.’ His fingers tightening around the stem of the flute, he watched the couple dance.
The last time he’d seen him was at the Whitehall enquiry when Frazier was cleared of all wrongdoing and Bruce discharged for misconduct. That had been their first encounter since the man had run away from the battlefield at Ferozeshah, allegedly suffering from heatstroke and leaving Bruce’s men and himself exposed to enemy fire – and the deadly explosion of the ammunition depot.
A dull ache now throbbed on his temple, just above his right eye. He felt himself grow a little shaky, and the bright lights suddenly hurt his eyes. Damn. This wasn’t a good time to suffer another fit.
He’d better get a grip on himself, the last thing he wanted was for McRae and Frazier to notice he was unwell. There were clearly enough rumours flying about as it was. He took a long, deep, calming breath, put his half-drunk flute down on a console, and focussed on the dancing couple.
Lady Sophia’s lacklustre brown hair was curled in tight ringlets and bounced around her slim face, her eyes were narrowed to slits and her lips pinched in concentration as she followed the dance steps. Frazier hadn’t changed in the year and a half since he’d last seen him. With his blond hair flopping fashionably on his high forehead and a gormless smile plastered on his fleshy lips, he seemed not to have a care in the world.
And why would he not be enjoying himself? Bruce sneered. He wasn’t the man who got discharged and was now fighting to save his estate and his people – the man who was slowly, inexorably, going mad.
‘My dear,’ McRae held out his hand to his fiancée when the polka had finished, ‘let me introduce you to Lord McGunn who is paying us an unexpected visit.’
The woman’s small brown eyes opened wide in shock and she recoiled as if faced with a dangerous animal. Bruce bowed as Lady Sophia recovered her manners. She muttered a greeting and curtsied quickly. Next to her, Frazier blushed a deep crimson.
‘Lieutenant McGunn… I never thought… ah… I’d see you here,’ he stammered.
Bruce nodded curtly. ‘Frazier.’
‘I hope you are… ah … well,’ the man added, his fingers fiddling restless, with the tie of his red and yellow sash.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Frazier cleared his throat as if to speak but didn’t seem to find anything to say. Bruce would be damned if he made it easier for him. What lay between them was more than mere enmity and wounded pride – it was the blood of many good men.
‘I don’t know about you, my dear girl,’ McRae said, slipping his arm under Lady Sophia’s arm, ‘but I’m in great need of a bowl of punch.’
She nodded in agreement, and McRae turned to Frazier. ‘Would you care to join us?’
‘Of course,’ Frazier nodded, hardly able hide his relief.
Bruce watched as the trio made their way through the crowd and out of the ballroom, then turned on his heel and walked out through a door at the opposite end. Hopefully people were too engrossed in the music, the dance, the buffet or the gossips, to notice him as he slipped into the library.
His heart beat a little too fast as he closed the door behind him. Slightly dizzy, he leaned against the door panel. The room was empty and dark except for a single oil lamp on the desk that gave a little light.
He closed his eyes, and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal.
This was madness.
What exactly was he hoping to find? Some kind of proof that the farfetched notion that had taken shape in his mind after his conversation with Charles Langford was indeed based on truth? The fantasy that Niall McRae might be his…
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No, this was ludicrous! He almost opened the door and walked out again when something stopped him. It wasn’t quite the sound of a woman’s voice, or the touch of a woman’s hand against his cheek. It was like a gentle whispering wind enveloping him, coaxing him, urging him to go to Niall McRae’s portrait, and lift it off the wall.
He carried it with great care to the desk, pushed the lamp closer and turned it up to get more light. His breath short, he searched through the drawers for a magnifying glass, found one and bent down over the painting to read the inscription.
The sound the magnifying glass made when he dropped it on the desk echoed in the library. So he’d been right. The Battle of Alexandria had taken place in 1801, his medal had borne the first two digits, 18. McRae wore the other half of the Battle of Alexandria medal, the one that read 01.
He made himself check again.
Was he reading too much into the portrait? Could it be that the artist made a simple mistake, and that the fact Niall McRae looked like him was a mere coincidence?
He stared at the man in the painting, his dark hair, his proud stance, his uniform – and the claymore at his side. No, there was more than a mere resemblance. If McRae’s hair had been shorter, he could be McGunn himself.
A long-forgotten event pushed its way into his memory. He had once called in the regimental mess where a reunion of officers who had fought at Quatre-Bras and Waterloo was underway. An old man – a colonel, judging by his uniform – had stared at him across the room most of the evening with rheumy blue eyes. Sometime after the toasts he had ambled towards him, gripped his arm in a claw-like vice, and asked his name. ‘Lieutenant McGunn?’ he had repeated, disappointment in his voice as if he was hoping to hear another name. ‘Sorry, man, you reminded me of someone I used to know a long time ago. Damn strange how you look like the man too. Thought you might have been his son. The poor chap died at Quatre-Bras.’
Bruce had dismissed the event as delusions of an old man who’d drunk too much whisky. He hadn’t thought about it for a long time. Of course, it now took a completely different meaning. It was obvious who the old man was thinking of. Niall McRae.
His father.
The light grew dimmer, the room shrank, closed in on him, and the world as he knew it collapsed.
