by Jan Constant
Mrs. Barton sat down hastily on a convenient chair. “Well, I never did!” she gasped and stared at Anstey, the bright colour gone from her cheeks. “I won’t ask you the whys and wherefores,” she said at last. “It’s none of my business ... but I will say this: if you did so, I daresay there was a good reason. I’ve heard tales about the army’s behaviour since Culloden.”
“Oh, no, it was nothing like that,” cried Anstey impulsively, “Captain Smythe was - it was all a terrible misunderstanding.”
Molly Barton stood up briskly shaking out the folds of her skirt. “This Isabel you were talking about in your fever, what had she to do with it?” she asked shrewdly, to the other’s dismay.
“Nothing - she had nothing to do with it at all. Please don’t ask me any more.” Trembling, Anstey turned away and to hide her nervousness peered at her reflection in the looking-glass, touching her hair and the lace at her shoulders with shaking fingers. “I haven’t thanked you for my dress,” she said, “and for your help.”
“The Captain has ordered dinner for two in the parlour downstairs,” announced Molly Barton.
“Oh, I couldn’t - really, I—”
“About seven, he said.” The landlady paused in the doorway, surveying the girl critically, “lt’ud do you good,” she observed.
Once alone, Anstey fell to wondering anxiously how much she had given away to the English soldier, nibbling her lips with anxiety as she waited for the expected summons and starting nervously to her feet when at last fingers tapped at her door.
“M-my compliments to Captain Ward,” she called, “but I have the headache and will dine in my chamber.”
“May I come in?”
Before she could reply the door was opened and James Ward entered. Wondering if he was aware of the beating of her heart which was shaking her, she stared at him.
“Mrs. Barton assures me that you are better, and that being so I wish you to dine with me - that we may discuss the future travel arrangements.”
Bowing, he bent his elbow and proffered his arm to Anstey. Reluctantly she laid her hand on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her from the room, trying to hide the dread she felt of the forthcoming interview.
Like the rest of the inn, the parlour was a bright cosy room, low-beamed and panelled in dark wood.
Molly Barton herself served the meal, hurrying in with laden trays and a succession of succulent dishes which she set before them with as much aplomb as if she had been the finest chef in the kingdom. Anstey kept up a flow of brittle chatter, afraid of any silence which would give the Redcoat opposite the opportunity to mention her sister. At last the cheese and wine was set on the table and the landlady, her duties done, was forced to retire and leave them alone.
“Do you know why this inn has such an intriguing name?” asked Anstey as the door closed behind the ample form. “Mrs. Barton told me.”
“I believe it’s due to some English raiders being caught robbing a plum tree,” James Ward supplied coolly.
Catching his eye, Anstey subsided, clasping her hands together in her lap to still their tremor. For a moment there was silence in the room and she stole a glance at the soldier, finding him apparently studying the depths of his wine as he twirled the glass between his fingers. At last he spoke, making her start.
“Since we are so near England, I have decided that you may wear female dress.” He looked at her suddenly, a hint of a smile in his grey eyes. “I may say that Mrs. Molly has been at pains to point out the moral outrage of forcing a young lady to display her legs in breeches. Bearing that in mind and your recent illness, I think it best for you to continue the journey in a coach.”
Anstey looked at him, while her heart slowed its frantic beat and gradually returned to normal. So he was not going to mention her delirious mutterings. Hope began to rise in her breast and she sat up straight in her chair.
“All being well, we will set out the day after tomorrow. Do you think you will be recovered by then?”
“Oh, yes,” she cried brightly, her relief making her speak too forcefully and realizing her mistake she tried hastily to cover it with an explanation. “That is - I would that this journey was at an end. I grow tired of ceaseless travel.”
“I am sorry to have put you to so much discomfort. I have not always been ... kind, and for that I apologise.”
Anstey stared across the table in astonishment. For the first time in their acquaintance there had been genuine warmth in his voice. Unable to think of anything to say, she sat in silence and after a while Captain Ward cleared his throat and reached across to refill her glass.
“After you fell the other day and while you were still unconscious you said a great deal in your delirium,” he said, hesitating a little over his words. “Enough to make me realize that you were not responsible for Leo Smythe’s unfortunate death.”
Suddenly Anstey’s hand, which had been in the act of reaching for her glass and had paused at his first word, was covered by strong, brown fingers. Wordlessly she gazed down at his hand emerging from the red uniform sleeve, while her breath quickened and her neckerchief rose and fell with her growing agitation.
“I will not deny that at first I regarded you with very real dislike, supposing you a murderess, but over the weeks we have been together I have felt a growing admiration for the staunchness of spirit with which you have met adversity. I have even come to respect the loyalty which you give to your cause, however mistaken.” He leaned forward and holding her gaze spoke with grave intensity. “Confide in me, Miss Frazer and I give you my word to do all I can to see that the accusations against you are removed and the rightful criminal brought to justice.”
Snatching away her hand, Anstey regarded him with horror, and suddenly knew what she must do unless all the sacrifices she had made so far were to be in vain and Isabel and Jamie still in danger.
“Let me help you. I would make amends for my treatment of you, and to that end I offer you ... my friendship.”
Anstey had the feeling that Captain Ward was offering very much more, and reluctantly closed her mind to her own response, regretting what she was forced to destroy.
“Friendship, sir!” she cried, making her voice ring with scorn. “Do you think I would accept friendship from a Redcoat? I want nothing, Captain Ward, from you or any other of your race.”
James Ward sat back, his face hard, and already she could see the tentative kindness he had felt for her wither and die, and felt an unexpected grief at its passing.
“Forget whatever suspicions you are harbouring,” she went on, searching for the unforgivable, “I shot your friend and my only wish is that it had been a hundred more of your English invaders.”
“How very bloodthirsty. I vow you’d do credit to a melodrama. I’ve often heard tell that the female of the species is more deadly than the male, but until now I’ve not believed it.” His eyes travelled disparagingly over her. “And you look such a delicate miss - so petite and womanly. One would not suppose that so pleasing an exterior hid so fierce a murderess.”
Anstey flushed at his tone, but recalling her assumed role, lifted her chin. “Captain Smythe did not laugh,” she told him, and at once wished the words unsaid.
The Englishman’s grey eyes turned to ice, his mouth tightened and the skin across his cheekbones grew taut. The thin stem of the glass he had been holding snapped between his fingers, but he seemed totally unaware of the spots of blood that welled up like red raindrops.
Dear God, thought Anstey, he’s going to murder me, and unable to tear her gaze away felt an icy shower of fear slide down her backbone.
Captain Ward looked down at his hand, and taking a handkerchief from his pocket twisted it around his fingers. He seemed to take an inordinate time over the simple task, but when he spoke again he appeared to have his emotions under control.
“Miss Frazer, you do yourself no good speaking in such a fashion,” he said evenly. “However, I will accept your obvious dislike for the company of men of my
race, and from now on you shall be treated with all the remoteness due to a prisoner of state.” Standing up he bowed formally. “With your permission I shall withdraw. When you wish to retire you will find a trooper waiting to escort you to your room.”
Without another glance he left the room, leaving Anstey to finish her wine, unhappily toying with her glass and aware, now that she had wantonly destroyed the tentative relationship the Englishman had offered, how much that fragile amity had come to mean to her. From a bigoted dislike on both sides for that which the other represented, there had grown an unexpected respect, almost a guarded liking, and on her side at least a warmer feeling which she was reluctant to acknowledge.
She saw no more of Captain Ward until the morning of their departure from the Sour Plum, and then only fleetingly, for he acknowledged her presence with the briefest of nods and at once turned away to supervise the business of resuming the interrupted journey. Anstey surveyed the coach which had been hired with interest; in the Highlands travel was confined to horseback, but even to her eyes the vehicle appeared old and decrepit, its bodywork battered by countless journeys, while the wheels gave clear evidence of the many miles it had travelled since first it took to the road.
Reading her expression as he helped her into the dim interior, Sergeant Wright grinned. “Hardly fit for the Queen of Sheba,” he commented, “but it’s all we could find.”
Closing the door, he climbed on to the driver’s seat and gathered up the reins. Anstey looked about her at the torn leather seats and discoloured red lining. Her nose told her that sometime recently it had been used to transport onions, and while some efforts had obviously been made to clean the seats and remove the worst of the dirt, there still remained a general air of grime and disrepair which disgusted her. Wrinkling her nose with dislike, she drew her cloak carefully about her and reluctantly settled back against the ancient upholstery. With a jolt and the promise of discomfort to come they set off. Anstey caught a glimpse of Molly Barton at an upstairs window, and leaned out of the coach to wave to her before a rut in the road threw her back in her seat with a jerk that jarred her teeth.
In the days that followed Anstey came to dislike that coach with a fervour that amounted to hatred. With unerring judgement it seemed to find every boulder and every unevenness in the road’s surface, throwing her against the unpadded walls and across the hard seats until her body cried out in protest. Every muscle she owned ached, and she had long ceased to count her bruises which were so numerous that she appeared a variegated mass of purple and yellow.
Regardless of her discomfort, Captain Ward pressed on at top speed and having left Scotland behind they headed for Durham and the Great North Road with such haste that the Scottish girl was hardly aware that she had left her native country, and by the time she discovered the fact, she was so tired and weary that it seemed of little importance.
CHAPTER SIX
The days passed in monotonous regularity. At first Anstey had been interested to see the tall verdant trees and rich green pastures with their well-fed cattle, so different to her own highlands with the few weather- bent trees, and thin cows from which the poorer crofters still took blood to mix with their porage in time of need, but after a while the sight of such wealth palled and she huddled back in her seat, hanging on to the leather strap provided to protect herself from the worst of the jolts and jars.
Once on the Great North Road the towns began to pass in quicker succession, the sturdy stone houses of Yorkshire seeming not unlike her native style of building to Anstey’s Scottish eyes. Gradually the worst of the violent motion grew less, and she realized that either the roads were better or Sergeant Wright had at last mastered the art of driving the four-horse team that pulled the cumbersome vehicle.
Late one afternoon they drove into Thirsk, a quiet market town with a new broad market-place and stopped at a new and prosperous inn. Here Anstey met with the first dislike of her countrymen that she had encountered; hearing her soft accent the landlord demurred loudly at accepting the party, and only Captain Ward’s looking down his thin nose and talking about the King’s business provided them with accommodation. As it was, Anstey’s room was mean and dark with a single dormer window so high that her only view was of a neighbouring roof and a patch of sky. The sagging bed and rickety chair were so uninviting that she quit the squalid chamber as soon as she could, meaning to take refuge in the parlour, a more attractive apartment of which she had caught a glimpse as she climbed the stairs.
Entering somewhat hastily in case any should see her and send her back to her room, she closed the door and only then became aware that it was already occupied. A thin, drooping man in a snuff-coloured suit had been seated by the table and rose at her entrance.
For a second Anstey eyed him, taking an instant dislike to a certain shifty air about him as he bowed obsequiously to her.
“Madam, forgive me for troubling you. Our good landlord said someone would come, and I presume the gallant Captain is busy and has sent you in his stead. No doubt you are his lady wife?”
About to indignantly deny the unwelcome supposition, Anstey paused, wondering if it could be to her advantage to allow herself to be supposed the Englishman’s spouse and instead of violently repudiating Captain Ward, seated herself and smiled graciously.
For a moment the man seemed uncertain how to begin, clearing his throat several times and running a finger around the inside of his none too clean cravat.
“Terrible times, madam,” he said at last, his voice startlingly loud in the small parlour. As though surprised himself, he glanced uneasily at the door behind Anstey and threw a quick look over his shoulder at the window which gave on to the broad main street. “Terrible times we live in,” he began again in carefully moderated tones, “with all that trouble up north and our brave fellows risking life and limb against the Scots - who are little better than savages, so I hear, living in mud huts and going about half naked.” Anstey’s hands slowly clenched in her lap, but by now she had the man’s measure, realizing clearly that he was about to divulge some information obviously damaging to the Jacobite cause. Concealing her feelings with difficulty, she waved him to a chair and intimated that she agreed with his estimation of her fellow-countrymen.
Thanking her profusely, he leaned forward with a confidential air. “You would not credit it, madam,” he whispered, “but there are some who side with the rebels even here in Thirsk.” He pursed his lips and nodded once or twice, watching her reaction with satisfaction, as Anstey managed to appear suitably shocked.
“There are some,” he went on, “who wished for the Pretender to continue his march to London and who were dismayed when he lost the battle at Culloden, and even some who hope for his escape to France.”
“You astonish me,” Anstey told him, feeling some comment was called for.
He nodded again. “Traitors, I call them - that’s why, as soon as I saw your husband’s gallant troop ride in, I set about writing out a list.”
“A - list?”
“The names of all the people who favour the Pretender.” He produced a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and jumping to his feet, proffered it to Anstey.
Taking it reluctantly, she glanced distastefully at the columns of names. “Who are these people?” she wondered.
“Neighbours - tradesmen.”
“And how did you hear these things? Surely they don’t make their loyalties plain to all?”
“I keep a shop - I hear things.”
“I see,” said the girl slowly. “And does your shop do well?”
“Not so well as it did before Joss Bakewell set up next to me - and he’s the worst of the lot. Only the other day I heard him say it was a shame to read in the news sheets about the treatment afforded the Scottish Rebels—”
Catching her eyes and reading the expression she was unable to conceal, he broke off and stared at her, his eyes narrowed. “I’ll keep the list, madam, if you don’t mind, and give it to your husband myself,”
he said, his hand stretched out to reclaim the paper she still held.
“What a weak female I am, to be sure, to feel sympathy for such wicked, wild men,” Anstey cried hastily, eager to redress the mistake she had made. “My husband even tells me how soft-hearted I am. Why, only last week I wept a little when we saw a group of Scots hanged at Edinburgh ... You must make allowances for us frail womenfolk, but you would not like us so much were we not the soft, gentle creatures we are.”
For a moment she thought she had gone too far, but the man’s intelligence was as limited as she had sup-posed, and his expression cleared as an indulgent smile appeared on his thin face.
“The folk who fight against our good King George don’t deserve a tear in your pretty eye,” he said unctuously, and would have said more, but Anstey stood up and perforce he had to do the same.
“Be sure I will hand your list to my husband as soon as I see him,” she said. “No doubt you will have thanks in the future for your good services to the King.”
Well pleased, the man bowed himself out of the room. As soon as the door was closed behind him, Anstey smoothed out the folded paper and glanced at it again with a troubled gaze. Even while her eyes travelled down the column of ill-written names she heard Captain Ward’s voice in the passage as he spoke to the landlord, and she barely had time to conceal the paper down the front of her bodice before the door was thrust open and the Redcoat officer entered.
Kicking the door to behind him, he folded his arms, and leaned his broad shoulders against it, eyeing her ominously. “The landlord tells me you had a visitor,” he said.
Anstey took a deep breath. “H-hardly a visitor,” she said lightly, casually putting the table between herself and the soldier. “There was a little man here, but he left—”
“He had something for me.”
