by Gian Bordin
"I don’t know. I didn’t keep track."
She pulled away from him. "That many?" Her voice had assumed a bellicose quality. "I thought you loved me! And the moment you left me, you went to other women?"
"Love, none of them compared to you."
"How can I believe you really loved me when you forgot me so quickly?"
"I couldn’t forget you, nor did I love any of them. Initially, I tried to forget you, … and then it dawned on me that I tried to find you in them. But I never did… I guess this is why I had to come back… I only love you."
She was still sulking. He pulled her back in top of him. She tried to avoid his kiss.
"Helen, I never stopped loving you. Do you believe me?"
She nodded, putting her head on his chest. He stroked her back.
"Come, give me a kiss, love."
She raised her head and offered him her lips.
"Don’t you ever dare even looking at another woman again!"
"Looking, yes. But no more."
"You promise?"
"Yes, my love. I promise," he murmured with a smile. "I didn’t know you were jealous."
"I am …with you. I wouldn’t have cared a hoot if Robert had been unfaithful, but I want you all to myself."
"Oh Helen. I’m glad that you’re jealous." He nuzzled her. "I only want you. I’ve no desire for other women. I never wanted another woman… You believe me?"
"Yes, but you did go with other women."
"You forgive me?"
"Yes, but—"
He turned her briskly on her back, and his kiss smothered whatever she wanted to add. "Let’s do it again, love," he murmured with a wistful smile, as his right index drew ever tighter circles around the nipple of her right breast with a featherlike touch.
* * *
Saturday morning they dressed in their best, Helen in her dark blue gown, Andrew in the clothing that the maid had cleaned and ironed overnight. The intention was to find a minister of the church who would be willing to marry them. Rather than go to the cathedral, they searched for one of the smaller churches on High Street closer to the center of town. After ascertaining that they were both above the age of consent and accepting their reasons for getting wed without the presence of any family members, the minister agreed to perform the ceremony. He instructed them to be in the church in half an hour’s time with two witnesses.
After leaving the minister’s sanctuary, Andrew whispered: "Helen, I’ll go to find two witnesses. Will you wait inside the church? Maybe two of the men we saw working outside will agree to do it."
"Don’t be long, Andrew."
"I won’t, love," and he hurried away.
But rather than simply search for the workmen, he quickly ran down High Street to Trongate where he asked a flower girl to prepare a small bouquet, as he had seen brides carry at weddings while traveling in France. He waited impatiently, watching her select the flowers and tie them with a small white lace ribbon. Then he rushed back, offered two workmen sixpence each to serve as witnesses, and joined Helen in the church. All this took longer than he had intended, and he found her sitting anxiously near the entrance. With the light behind him, she saw only his silhouette in dark outlines as he entered. She rushed up to him and whispered reproachfully: "Where have you been so long? I got all worried!"
Then she saw the bouquet of delicate lilies of the valley that he held out to her, and she broke into tears. "Oh Andrew, I’m sorry… How sweet, … how thoughtful of you."
"You like them?"
She took them and nodded, smelling their sweet fragrance, smiling through tears. He dried her cheeks with his handkerchief. She took it and blew her nose, laughing softly, embarrassed, relieved that he was back. They sat, holding hands, while they waited for the minister to call them to the altar.
This time the ceremony went off quietly and without a hitch, and afterward the two newlyweds walked arm-in-arm out of the church, Helen with a mixture of elation and vague doubts about what they had just done. This was final. No going back. She had cut all ties with her own family.
Rather than return directly to The Good Shepherd, Andrew suggested that they celebrate by eating in a tavern. They wandered down High Street, strolled around Trongate and down Saltmarket Street, admiring the impressive stately houses of the merchants. A vague memory surfaced about the first time she had met Andrew at the Killin market. How she had then fleetingly toyed with the thought that marrying a man like him would offer her all the worldly comforts of living in a big house. These mansions here were even bigger and more beautiful than the ones of her dreams. And she had fallen in love with Andrew without ever thinking of such comforts. Will I ever live in such a house? she wondered, but she didn’t really care.
At the top of Bridgegate Street they saw a tavern with a big sign outside. The delicious smells wafting from its door invited them to dine inside. They toasted each other over a bottle of champagne, followed by a scrumptious dinner of smoked salmon and grouse. After the meal, Andrew retrieved several coins from his little purse, slipped them into a pocket of his coat, and passed the purse to Helen: "You keep this."
She looked at him questioningly. "Why?"
"In case we ever get separated temporarily… I’ll try to get more cash tomorrow from Jarvis and Sons, the local correspondents of my bankers in London. By the way, there’s a piece of paper in the purse with their name and London address, should you ever need it and I can’t help you."
With an uncertain expression on her face, she hid the purse in the pocket of her skirt. "You frighten me with such talk. I wouldn’t know how to contact them in the first place."
"Look, Helen, it’s just a precaution. We never know, and now that we’re married, anything I own is also yours. Any reputable merchant house will be able to help you, but I’m sure you’ll manage if you ever need to. I’ve close to one thousand English pounds with these bankers. If anything happens to me, you should not want."
"Andrew, don’t talk like this, not on our wedding day. I don’t want your money, I want you."
"It’s better to plan and be prepared, hoping the worst will never happen… Come, let’s drink to a happy, long life together!"
* * *
It was early afternoon before they found their way back to The Good Shepherd. As they entered the small reception hall, the innkeeper came rushing to Andrew, grabbed him by the coat, and lamented: "What have you done? A constable has come to my reputable establishment looking for you. This has never happened. You have cast shame on me and my house."
Andrew pulled the man’s hands from the lapels of his coat and exclaimed with his impeccable English accent: "I have done nothing, my good man. Show me to the constable. I am sure this must be a misunderstanding that we can clear up quickly."
Although his voice sounded calm, underneath this veneer his mind was racing wildly. What could be the cause? Dougal MacGregor and his little band could hardly have caught up with them already, and even if they had, it was too late—Helen and he were married, nor would Dougal summon the law to apprehend him. He was convinced that Mary MacGregor hadn’t told anybody else that she believed he was her son. It would have stripped her of all her dignity and pride. His days as a brandy smuggler were well in the past and no law enforcement officer had ever seen him anyway. So what could it be? He looked at Helen. Her rosy cheeks had turned ashen white. She held on to his arm, and he felt her hand tremble.
He had to repeat his request before the innkeeper finally recovered his wits and showed him into the parlor. Helen stayed at the door. The constable rose immediately when he saw them enter.
"Good afternoon, sir. I am Constable Fraser. Are you the owner of the black stallion in the stable?"
"Good afternoon, constable. Yes, I am. May I ask about the purpose of your inquiry?"
"This animal has been reported lifted in a daring daylight robbery from the property of Sir Hugh Stafford some weeks past."
"Oh? … I purchased this stallion for twenty guineas from
James Drummond of Balquhidder three days ago."
"Do you have any papers to certify that, sir?"
For a moment Andrew looked at him dumbfounded and then answered: "No, I have not. We shook hands to seal the deal." It had never occurred to him to ask for a receipt. He recalled Helen’s warning that the horse might have been stolen, either by the Drummonds or another MacGregor. Why had he been so dumb and not suspected anything when he bought it. It should have been so obvious to him that a Highlander would hardly care to own such a striking and expensive horse when cheaper alternatives could equally well transport him where he needed to go. Why hadn’t he smelled a rat when James had been willing to let that exceptional animal go for such a paltry price?
Like through a thick fog, he heard the constable repeat: "Sir, I have to ask you to accompany me to the magistrate in the tolbooth." He noticed that the constable used the word ‘magistrate’, rather the local term ‘bailie’, expecting him to be English from the accent he had carefully maintained.
"Yes, certainly. I would though just like to have a few words with my wife, constable."
The constable followed him closely. Only when Andrew turned and looked at him sternly did he keep some distance, so Andrew could talk to her in privacy.
"You heard what he said?" he asked in a low voice. "What a fool I was! You were so right. I should not have bought that horse."
"Oh Andrew, will they now put you in prison?" There was panic in her voice.
"I hope not, … but if I don’t come back by tonight, find a solicitor tomorrow to look after my interests."
"Andrew, I don’t know how to find a solicitor!"
"Go to the House of Jarvis and Sons, you know, the agents of my London bankers. They’ll help you."
"Andrew, I’m afraid." She held on to him with trembling hands.
He took them into his and whispered: "Helen, remember, you’re a MacGregor!"
A nervous chuckle escaped her.
"I love you." He squeezed her right hand and then turned abruptly away, nodding to the constable. The latter opened the door for him and then led the way. After two hundred feet, Andrew quickly looked back. Helen stood at the entrance of the inn, watching them.
While walking down High Street, he attempted to milk the constable about the robbery at Sir Hugh Stafford’s estate, but without success. The taciturn constable was not forthcoming with any details, simply repeating that the magistrate would instruct the gentleman of all the necessary details. This only increased his apprehension. Being accused of stealing a horse, and possibly even more, was not a trifling matter. If convicted, he was liable to be transported to the colonies. This wasn’t the way he wanted to go to America. He cursed himself again for having been so gullible to buy the beautiful stallion. Why had he been so blinded by his beauty? He knew the reputation of the MacGregors of Balquhidder, he should have suspected that the horse had been stolen. At the least, he should have insisted on getting a receipt. This would have gone a long way toward proving his innocence. He racked his brain to discover another way of proving that he wasn’t the thief, but only another of his victims. If he could find out when the robbery had occurred, he should be able to establish his innocence by showing that he had been nowhere near the scene of the crime. But to find witnesses who would remember him and willing to provide sworn statements or even get them into Glasgow could easily take two or three weeks. What would happen to him and to Helen in the meantime? Her father might be able to track them down by then. And how did the authorities find out about the horse being back in town? Who denounced them? The innkeeper? His ruminations were cut short when they reached the tolbooth.
The constable briefly conversed with the clerk in the entrance hall. The latter ushered them into a sizable office and instructed them to wait for the provost, the chief magistrate of the burgh. An impressive oak desk, intimidating by its very size, stared at Andrew, the blinding light of the windows reflected on its polished surface. The constable stood on guard to his left.
The wait became interminable. The provost himself would see him! That didn’t augur well. It did nothing to sooth his anxiety.
Finally, a tall, gaunt man, a yellowing peruke carelessly thrown on his head and a magistrate’s cloak covering his shoulders, entered the room through a door at its back, followed by a younger man of medium height. With the light of the two windows behind the provost, his features were difficult to discern. He could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. Only his slight forward stoop hinted that he might be closer to seventy. Without acknowledging Andrew or the constable, he seated himself behind the desk. The clerk placed an open, leather-bound book in front of him and then sat at a small table next to the desk, opening another book and looking expectantly to the magistrate, quill in hand. The latter scanned the open page for several minutes and then raised his gaze, fixing two piercing eyes on Andrew for a few seconds, as if to read his mind directly without the need for questioning.
"What is your name, young man?" His voice was dry and brittle. A small cough accompanied his question.
"My name is Andrew Matthew Campbell, your Honor."
In comparison to Andrew’s impeccable English accent, the provost’s broad manner of speech sounded uncouth. The clerk began to write busily.
A slight raising of his eyebrows was the old man’s only sign of acknowledgment, his eyes boring even more intensely into Andrew. "And where do you live?"
"I have no fixed abode currently, as my wife and I are on our way to England, your Honor."
"Where did you then live before?"
"I have traveled greatly these last four years in England and studied on the continent, your Honor." Without waiting for the obvious next question, he continued: "I grew up in Argyle, your Honor, and studied four years at the university in Edinburgh." He hoped that this last fact would duly impress the magistrate, but the latter’s expression betrayed nothing.
"Since you claim to be a Campbell, are you not from Balquhidder?"
"No, your Honor, I never lived there, nor are the Campbells of the MacGregor clan of Balquhidder any relations of mine. I am a Campbell from Argyle, Inveraray, to be precise." He did not add that he was the son of the Duke of Argyle. But that fact reminded him of his rights. "Your Honor, before I answer any further questions, I humbly beg to know what I am accused of and by whom."
The magistrate scrutinized him intensely for several seconds. "You stand here accused to be in possession of a horse that was stolen from the estate of Sir Hugh Stafford at Balmore. You were seen riding the horse in question through Balmore yesterday by the stable master of Sir Hugh who had you followed to The Good Shepherd… How did you come into possession of this horse, Mr. Campbell?" He put a sneering emphasis on the name.
Andrew vaguely remembered noticing another rider a few hundred feet behind them as they had ridden toward Glasgow. Trying to remain composed and calm, he answered: "Your Honor, I purchased this beautiful horse from James Drummond of Balquhidder just three days ago, so that my wife and I could travel faster. I paid twenty guineas for it."
And then came the question Andrew was afraid of. "Do you have any proof of this? Did you get a receipt for the purchase?"
"No, your Honor. As is the custom in the Highlands, the deal was sealed with a handshake."
"So you have no proof?" It was more an observation than a question. The magistrate conversed with his clerk in a low voice, nodding, and then continued: "There is thus only your word that you purchased it. Under these circumstances, I have no choice but to detain you in the tolbooth until your guilt or innocence can be declared."
He doesn’t believe me, went through Andrew’s mind. "Forgive me, your Honor, but it should not be difficult to establish that I purchased the horse from James Drummond," he interjected, realizing immediately that if Drummond had stolen the horse, which he now thought was a certainty, he would also deny selling it to him. Getting close to panic, he tried to think of other ways to prove his innocence. "I traveled through Scotland these
last seven weeks and people I stayed with can testify that I was nowhere near Balmore at the time the theft was perpetrated, your Honor."
"Then tell the clerk the places and people you stayed with, so that they may be contacted."
Andrew began to recount the dates and places he had visited, but was promptly interrupted by the magistrate.
"You say that five weeks ago you left Edinburgh on your way to Perth, Mr. Campbell?" Again the disparaging emphasis of his name.
"Yes, your Honor."
"So you could easily have made a small detour through Balmore and that would place you exactly at the scene of the crime when it was perpetrated. Young man, this does not look good. Statements from the people you visited will not be of any help to you, except to confirm that you were in the area at the time of the theft."
Ignoring the magistrates raised hand to silence him, Andrew exclaimed: "But your Honor, if I had stolen the horse, I would hardly be so foolish as to bring it back into these parts and ride it past the estates of Sir Hugh."
The color of the provost’s face turned dark at this bold impertinence to speak out of turns. Again, he bored his eyes into him and retorted scornfully: "We know all about the arrogant brazenness of the Campbells of Balquhidder…"
Andrew wanted to protest, but the magistrate raised his voice. "Mr. Campbell, I will order to have the horse in question sequestered until the stable master of Sir Hugh has had the opportunity to verify whether it belongs to his lordship. In the meantime, you will remain in custody. Constable, convey the prisoner to the tolbooth to have him locked up securely!"
"But your Honor, I am innocent. I did not steal that horse."
The magistrate rose, ignoring his plea, and slowly retreated from the room by the same door he had entered. The clerk closed the book in which he had been writing during the interrogation, collected the other one from the magistrate’s desk, and followed him from the room. Andrew remained standing in front of the desk, dumbfounded at the turn of events. Everything seemed to be stacked against him. At every step, the interrogation had dragged him deeper into trouble. And the provost clearly didn’t believe him. In fact, Andrew had the distinct impression that the man had made up his mind about his guilt the moment he had heard the name Campbell. What irony to be accused of belonging to the notorious MacGregors of Balquhidder, when he and Helen had just been running away from their cousins! The constable’s hand on his arm and firm order to follow him pressed home the precariousness of his situation.
