What sort of welcome would he receive from Mrs. Finch if he paid a call at Prince’s Lodge this evening? For the second time in far too few days, Sir Robert found himself riding along the Windsor Road, not certain what had drawn him here.
From the reedy shallows of Bedford Basin, frogs serenaded him with their shrill twilight chorus. The sun had almost set behind the rugged hills to the east, painting the sky in the vivid shades of a driftwood bonfire.
Might Jocelyn Finch be persuaded to take a stroll down to the music pavilion with him, to watch the last shimmer of sunset reflected on the water? He wanted to thank her for what she had done last night—making the levee at Government House pass so quickly and enjoyably for him. In the bustle of departures, he had not been able to find a private moment to express his gratitude.
A gloating grin tugged at the governor’s lips as he rode along, recalling how Mrs. Finch had shown a marked preference for his company over that of the wealthiest man in all the northern colonies. Or perhaps she’d only been pretending out of pity for his lack of social graces. If that was the case, Sir Robert did not resent it.
He could not recall when he’d enjoyed himself more. The pleasant memory of it had made his step lighter, his appetite keener and his disposition more amiable. The weight of responsibility for his colonists sat lighter on his shoulders, more a satisfaction than a burden.
He knew he could be stubborn, even rigid, at times. But Sir Robert prided himself on having a mind not entirely closed. He was willing to admit he might have been mistaken about Jocelyn Finch and her bride ship. The young ladies’ behavior at his levee had been perfectly decorous. The foremost citizens of Halifax had received them warmly and appeared to welcome the excuse they provided for livelier society than the town had seen in quite some time.
To think he had denounced them as strumpets and feared they would wreak havoc in his well-ordered colony! Sir Robert shook his head and had a derisive chuckle at his own expense. He was still scoffing at his own foolishness when his horse whinnied and shied toward the edge of the road.
Sir Robert bent forward and gave the beast a firm, reassuring pat on the neck. “What’s the trouble, old fellow? Catch the scent of a wolf, did you?”
In spite of bounties on them, the creatures still roamed these woods near town. They tended to prey on stray sheep from farms in the area, which must be easier to catch than the watchful, fleet-footed deer in the forests.
“Help!” A breathless cry erupted from an alder thicket on the opposite side of the road. The brush rustled furiously for a moment then a soldier staggered into view.
Sir Robert slid from his saddle. “What’s the matter, man? And what the devil are you doing out here?”
“Pardon, sir,” the young soldier gasped. “Which way is Rockingham Inn?”
Sir Robert pointed back down the road. “Half a mile that way. Why? Are you not supposed to be on guard duty at Prince’s Lodge?”
Perhaps the young soldier did not recognize the governor in the twilight shadows, but he responded to the voice of command when he heard it.
Shouldering his musket, he stood tall and saluted. “Aye, sir. Corporal Jack Henshaw, sir. Could I borrow your horse? Mrs. Finch sent me to fetch help from town.”
Sir Robert felt his flesh crinkle—not just on the back of his neck, but over his whole body.
“What sort of help?” he cried. “And why does she need it?”
Corporal Henshaw was too winded and agitated to give an account that was both quick and coherent. If he could only have one of the two, Sir Robert elected to settle for speed. He hoped his mind was nimble enough to make sense of the young soldier’s disjointed explanation. He did not waste precious time by interrupting with questions.
“By all means take my horse, Corporal.” He helped hoist the young soldier into his saddle. “Tell the officer on duty that you have orders from Governor Kerr to send an armed, mounted detail as fast as they can get here.”
“The governor?”
“The governor.” Sir Robert tapped his chest. “Me. Now hand over your musket and be quick about it!”
“What are you going to do with it, sir?” The corporal loosened his grip on the musket stock when Sir Robert reached for it.
“Head to the lodge and do what I can until help arrives.” He should have insisted on a larger guard detail, but he hadn’t reckoned they might have to fend off a mob. “Powder and shot, too. Come on, man—we haven’t got all evening!”
In the process of switching riders the horse had got turned around, so it was headed toward town. Once Sir Robert had his hands on all available weaponry, he struck the beast a firm blow on the rump and cried, “Hurry!”
The gelding gave a shrill whinny and bolted for town, the young corporal clinging to the reins for dear life. As the muted thunder of flying hooves retreated, Sir Robert loaded the soldier’s musket. Then he slung the canister of powder and shot over his shoulder by its long leather strap and headed into the brush from whence the corporal had emerged.
Daylight was fading fast. Sir Robert prayed it would last long enough for him to scramble up the ravine and find a path that led to the lodge. As he surged up the hill, plowing through the alders, stray branches struck stinging blows to his face, almost like the slap of a woman’s hand.
If any harm came to Mrs. Finch or her young ladies, he would never forgive himself. Guards or no guards, he should not have consigned a group of women to so remote a place. He had reckoned they would be less trouble to him out here than billeted in town. Instead he should have asked himself what trouble might arise for them being all the way out here.
By the time he had pushed through the dense thicket of alders, his hat had been knocked off and his chest heaved from a mixture of alarm and exertion. The ravine presented new challenges. Though the way was clear, Sir Robert found his footing treacherous, made worse by dwindling daylight. The moon was more than half-full, but it hung too low on the horizon to do more than deepen the perilous shadows at his feet.
He followed the bed of the ravine for some distance, keeping watch for a less steep spot on the western face of the rock wall that he might climb. At last he spied a promising location. There appeared to be a gap in the trees above it, too. If he could find a clear, smooth path through the woods, it would not take him long to reach the lodge.
His first few steps were deceptively easy. Then without warning a large stone shifted beneath his right foot, throwing him off balance as it tumbled down into the ravine. Its fall dislodged several other rocks, which rolled over Sir Robert’s left foot—the one that had been wounded at Corona. He flailed about for something to break his fall.
He dropped the musket, which discharged with a deafening blast that echoed off the walls of Hemlock Ravine. Sir Robert fell backward, striking his head. As he lay there, dazed and in pain, he heard the distant baying of a wolf.
Chapter Nine
A surprised, expectant hush fell over the crowd in front of Prince’s Lodge when Jocelyn stepped through the front door.
Behind her, she could hear Lily and Mary Ann pushing the settee back in place as she had instructed them. Something about the slow, muted rumble sounded reluctant.
Then, from off in the distance, came another sound—the sharp report of a musket. Had the corporal got into trouble? Dread tightened its grip on Jocelyn. She’d hoped the young soldier would have made his way much farther than that in the time he’d been gone.
Hearing the shot, the intruders exchanged questioning mutters. They almost drowned out another distant sound, one Jocelyn had only read about until now—the chilling howl of a wolf. Given a choice between facing that creature or the hard-faced men at her doorstep, Jocelyn was not certain which she would have picked.
The wolf’s howl seemed to trouble the intruders less than the shot, as if it explained the other sound in a way that posed no threat to them. Jocelyn overheard someone say, “Old Fred Clayton guarding his sheep pen.”
Once the distraction h
ad passed, the men turned their attention back to her.
Jocelyn swallowed the lump in her throat and clasped her hands together to still their trembling. “Gentlemen, to what do we owe the honor of your visit? The hour is rather late for paying a call, is it not?”
She took care to moderate her tone. The last thing she wanted was to provoke these men, yet neither did she wish to betray her fear of them. Resolute civility held the greatest promise for safely biding time until help arrived.
If help arrived. After hearing that shot and the howl of the wolf, Jocelyn was far less certain anyone would be riding to their aid soon.
The men shuffled and muttered among themselves, until finally one of them stepped forward. He was not a tall fellow, but straight and strong looking with an unruly shock of dark hair. A darker beard covered his lower face, giving him a somewhat savage appearance. His clothes and boots were the coarse, serviceable type worn by farmers and laborers.
“Ma’am.” He nodded but did not bow. “I reckon ye must be the Mrs. Finch that was writ about in the paper.”
He must be an Irishman, Jocelyn guessed by the lilt of his deep, husky voice. That did not soothe her trepidation. His countrymen were not above resorting to violence when they reckoned themselves hard done by.
Still, his greeting was civil enough to shore up her precarious hopes. “I am Mrs. Finch. But I fear you have the advantage of me, sir. Whom have I the honor of addressing?”
Her words were met with some sputters of laughter from the Irishman’s friends. One of them mimicked her in an exaggerated falsetto. An ember of outrage began to smolder deep in Jocelyn’s belly—its heat burned in her cheeks. But she did not have the luxury of venting it.
The spokesman rounded on the mimic and let fly with his thick fist. Jocelyn could not suppress a savage flicker of satisfaction at the wail his blow produced.
Glaring at the rest of his mates, the Irishman growled, “Any more o’ that and ye’ll all be laughing out yer arses before I’m done with yez.”
His threat provoked a low hum of stifled protest, but no one dared talk back to their fierce spokesman, who turned to face Jocelyn again. “Me name don’t matter, ma’am, on account of it’s not meself alone I’m speaking for.”
“Indeed? For whom do you speak then? And what business can you have here?”
“I speak for the bachelors of the Nova Scotia colony, ma’am. Not the officers and rich traders and government lackeys in Halifax. Not half of them will be here ten years from now, ye mark me.”
“What makes you say that?” At last, Jocelyn began to understand what had brought these men to her door. But she continued to pretend ignorance to stall for time. “And why do the bachelors of Nova Scotia need you to speak on their behalf?”
The Irishman ignored her first question in favor of the second, which clearly gave him the opening he desired. “On account of they’re being cheated, ma’am, same as always, by the swells in town.”
“I am sorry to hear that.” Jocelyn interjected the comment to prolong their exchange. “But I fail to see what it has to do with me or with your coming here this evening.”
“I reckon ye know better than ye want to let on, ma’am.”
The man might be uncouth, but he was also perceptive. Too perceptive for Jocelyn’s peace of mind. She hoped he would not divine her reason for keeping him talking.
“Perhaps I do, at that, sir.” She managed a pallid smile. “But would you kindly indulge me by making it quite plain. That way there will be no misunderstanding between us.”
After a moment’s consideration, he nodded. “If it’s plain ye want, it’s plain I can be. Me and the lads read in the paper about ye coming to Nova Scotia with this here bride ship. We thought it was fine idea altogether—lasses for the settlers to woo and wed.”
One of the others called out, “’Cept they wasn’t ever to be for the likes of us, was they?”
The man’s voice had a belligerent slur that suggested he’d taken a detour past some tavern on his way here. Jocelyn caught a sour whiff of spirits on the night air.
The Irishman ignored the interruption. “Then what do we hear tell but all the lasses are being presented at Government House, followed by a fine ball to dance the night away with the officers and town gents. Somehow the lads and me got overlooked on the governor’s invitation list.”
His sour jest hit Jocelyn harder than she expected. Mrs. Beamish had devised this scheme to provide wives for men like these, who truly needed them. Somehow, in her eagerness to relive the carefree days of her first Season, Jocelyn had lost sight of that.
“You must realize the governor’s levee was only the first of many gatherings at which I hope to introduce my young ladies to Nova Scotia society. And I do not mean only high society.”
The Irishman crossed his arms in front of his broad chest and stared at her, as if weighing her sincerity.
“I give you my word—” Jocelyn swept her gaze over the whole group, trying not to quail at a glimpse of the odd hatchet or crowbar in their hands “—you and other men in your position will have an equal chance to court the young ladies in my charge.”
“Ye wouldn’t just be saying that to appease us, would ye?”
The man was far too perceptive. “Would you rather I made no effort to appease you, sir?”
Immediately she regretted her sharp retort. The honor, and perhaps the safety, of her girls was in peril and she could not help feeling partly to blame. She must not jeopardize them further by letting her temper get the best of her.
But the Irishman only laughed. “If yer lasses have half yer cleverness and spirit, ma’am, they’ll make fine wives for the likes of us.”
His brazen flattery emboldened Jocelyn to risk saying something she hoped might defuse the whole situation. She spoke in a gently chiding tone. “If they refuse you, gentlemen, you will have only yourselves to blame after frightening them by calling here so late and in such a large, menacing group.”
A look of doubt crossed the Irishman’s rugged features. Behind him the other men exchanged words in hushed tones. From the snippets of conversation Jocelyn overheard, it sounded as though the sober members of the group were having second thoughts about the whole enterprise.
“Ye swear the lasses won’t all be wed off to the swells from town?” The spokesman appeared to be searching for a means to retreat from the situation with honor and a sense of moral victory.
Though practicality urged Jocelyn to say anything that would get rid of them, some streak of perversity and a sense that she owed them the truth made her reply, “I cannot promise you whom the young ladies will choose. Some may elect to make advantageous matches if they are offered. But I believe most did not come to this colony with that in mind.”
Sensing something more was needed to sway the men, she added, “You may have read in the newspapers that I am the daughter of a nobleman. Yet I married a man without title or fortune and we were very happy together. I believe with all my heart that affection must be the first consideration for marriage. The officers and merchants of Halifax have no monopoly on that.”
“Ye speak true, ma’am.” The Irishman made an awkward bow to her. “I reckon we can be satisfied with that. Tell the lasses we never meant ye or them any harm. We had a complaint and we wanted ye to hear it firsthand, is all.”
Relief swept through Jocelyn with such force it made her knees weak. The men were going to leave peaceably and everything would be all right.
Then, from the balcony above, came the last words in the world she wanted to hear.
“Seeing as ye’ve come all this way, gents,” called Vita Sykes, “why don’t ye pop in for a proper visit? The cellar’s full of good wine. We could have a grand time!”
Jocelyn wished the other girls would push the little minx off the balcony!
Intemperate from drink, a number of the men were eager to accept Vita’s invitation, even if it meant forcing their way into the house. Their sober companions, including the Ir
ish spokesman, tried to restrain them. Before Jocelyn’s eyes, a full-fledged brawl broke out on the front lawn.
Fists flew. Jocelyn prayed the men would have more sense than to use their hatchets and crowbars against one another. She also feared what might happen if a torch got dropped in the wrong place. She longed to retreat into the safety of the house, but the door had been barricaded behind her, on her own orders.
The darkness and shifting torchlight made it difficult to see exactly what was going on and who might have the upper hand in the fight. At the foot of the steps, two men were trying to restrain a third, but could not lay hands on him because of the crowbar he swung in a most erratic fashion. If he’d been less drunk, he might have done one of the others a serious injury. As it was, he managed to evade them and make a lunge for the door of the lodge.
Hurriedly trying to decide whether to stand her ground or flee, Jocelyn glimpsed a blurred movement out of the corner of her eye. One of the other men must have scrambled up over the balusters. Pressing her back to the door, she clenched her lips together. She would not frighten the girls any worse by screaming, nor would she give these intruders the satisfaction.
Less than a yard from her, the man with the crowbar came to an abrupt halt, the barrel of a musket pointed at his chest. Glancing over, Jocelyn discovered Governor Kerr standing beside her, the musket stock in his hands and his forefinger finger upon the trigger.
“Drop your weapon!” he roared. “Or I will blow a hole in your chest big enough to pass a cannonball through!”
A bar of blackened iron clattered onto the deck of the veranda.
“Bloody shite!” one of the intruders gasped. “It’s the gov’ner.”
“Well spotted,” said Sir Robert, his tone as grim as his countenance. “There is a mounted detail of soldiers not a mile from here and riding fast. If you slip away before they come to arrest you, I promise you will not be hunted down. Any of you still left on this property when they arrive will be lucky to get off with a public flogging!”
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