Miss Leslie's Secret

by Jennifer Moore

  With Dores’s help, Aileen had taken Jamie as her own, concealing his identity by giving him her own last name. War and relocation had created enough young widows that none ever gave a second thought to Mrs. Aileen Leslie and her son, James. Especially here in Dunaid, so far away from Croick. Only the two women knew the truth, and neither had as much as whispered the lad’s father’s name in eight years.

  Aileen glanced down at their joined hands, and her heart softened. The three of them, though unrelated by blood, were as close to a family as she had. “I ken ye only want the best for the lad,” she said. “But Mr. McLeod’s mistaken. Jamie assured me ’twas the Murray boys chased the goats from the pen. And Fiona Brodie’s red bloomers must have blown off her clothesline. Jamie didn’t hang them from the kirk steeple belfry. He wouldn’t do such a thing. I’m sure of it.” She rose, ignoring the tick of Dores’s left brow and pushed aside a curtain, noting that the rain had slowed to a drizzle. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve supper to prepare. I thank ye for the tea. And the visit.”

  Dores stood and followed her to the door. “Until tomorrow then, dearie.”

  “Until tomorrow.” Aileen kissed her friend on the cheek and hurried back across the muddy street to her own cottage. She stepped inside, and exhaustion settled into her shoulders. Candles in various stages of completion hung from strings crisscrossing the cottage. The table was covered with dried weeds being woven into skep beehives. Water had leaked through the rags she’d stuffed between loose stones in the walls, creating puddles on the muddy floor. And it looked like there was another hole in the roof. She moved the bucket beneath it to catch the dripping water. At least the spring weather was warm enough to keep the goat outside, she thought, glancing to the side of the cottage where the animal had been penned during the winter.

  She put another hunk of peat onto the fire, realizing too late that it was wet and scowled at the smoke billowing from the hearth. It appeared the new hole in the roof would do some good after all. She pushed wet strands of hair from her face, scratched a drip of dried wax off her apron, and moved the unfinished hives to the floor; then she set about attempting to make yet another supper of bread and dried herring look appealing to an eight-year-old boy. With any luck, Jamie would return too tired to complain about the meal and they’d go to sleep early. She wondered if there was the slightest possibility that his clothes weren’t covered in mud.

  A pounding sounded on the door, giving her the usual burst of fear that Jamie’s father had found them at last.

  “Hello?” a man’s voice called from outside. “Color Sergeant Conall Stewart. I’d like a word.”

  Aileen’s worry dissipated. She, of course, knew of the man. In a village of this size, a new resident was a novelty. She’d seen Sergeant Stewart twice in kirk on Sunday. He seemed pleasant enough, tipping his hat to the women, speaking after the service with the minister. The women in the village were quite taken with him and understandably so. He was handsome indeed.

  According to Dores, he’d returned from the war a hero and had taken the largest house in Dunaid, rejuvenating the neglected land and orchards surrounding it. Good news for Aileen. Orchards needed bees, and she was the only one in the village to supply them. Perhaps that was the reason for his call this evening?

  Aileen opened the door and drew back with a gasp. Sergeant Stewart stood at the threshold, one large hand holding Jamie by the arm. The child twisted trying to escape his grip.

  “Good evening. Mrs. Leslie, I presume?” His voice was polite in spite of his angry expression. He inclined his head but did not loose his hold. “May I speak to your husband?”

  “No, you may not.” Aileen’s hands tightened into fists. “And I’ll thank ye to release my son immediately, or I shall call for the constable. What is the meaning of this, sir?”

  Sergeant Stewart’s eyes widened for an instant, then his expression returned to a scowl. “Madam, perhaps ’tis I who should call the constable.” He glared down at Jamie. “I discovered this lad sneaking aboot my library.”

  “Unhand him at once.”

  The sergeant released his hold, and Jamie ran toward her. She clasped him in her arms. He appeared unharmed, only frightened. “Jamie, mo croí. My love, did he hurt ye?”

  Jamie shook his head and moved behind Aileen, burying his face against her skirts.

  The sight of tears on his freckled cheeks made heat boil up inside her. She turned toward the man in the doorway. “Have ye no decency a’tall? Treatin’ a wee child like a criminal.” She jabbed a finger toward his face. “Yer library? And what would ye accuse him of then? Thievin’ yer books?”

  “Éist! Listen!” He held up a hand, stopping her rant.

  Aileen hadn’t realized that, in her anger, she’d switched to speaking Gaelic until he answered in the same. Just as well. She considered it a far more suitable language for an argument.

  “’Tisn’t only books in there. There are other things—dangerous things to be wary o’. Muskets, blades, a bayonet . . . I’d not want the lad to hurt himself.”

  “And I don’ think his well-being was forefront in yer thoughts when ye dragged him home, frightened and weeping.” She turned, bending down to Jamie’s level, lowering her voice to a gentle tone. “My darlin’, tell us. What were ye doin’ in the sergeant’s house then?”

  Jamie shot a scared glance at the sergeant then looked up at her, his eyes still wet and his lip trembling. “The cat, Mam. He ran in through the open door, and I just thought tae chase him out again.”

  “O’ course ye did, my dearest.” She stroked his soft hair and kissed his cheek. The fact that he allowed it attested to his apprehension. She gave him a push toward the table. “Now eat yer supper there, and worry yerself no more.”

  She turned back to the sergeant and returned her fists to her hips. “Perhaps, Sergeant, ye should learn the facts before makin’ accusations.” If only Aileen possessed Mrs. Campbell’s expressive brows, she would be able convey the depths of her indignation with only a slight lift.

  The man’s face reddened, and he stepped closer, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Perhaps ye should open yer eyes instead of allowin’ personal bias and female irrationality to blind ye to the truth.” He glanced toward Jamie then slowly back to her, his gaze taking in the room.

  Seeing the arrogant man survey the smoke, the tangles of dry weeds, the meager meal, the muddy floor, and the strings of candles in the leaky cottage, Aileen’s chest heated in embarrassment, and that only caused her ire to rise further. “And exactly what truth is it that I’m blind to, Sergeant?”

  He looked down at her, and she stood taller, not wishing to appear intimidated. “Madam, I’ve spent the past few years guarding prisoners in New South Wales. A child like yours needs discipline—thievery is only the beginning of a criminal career. Do you have any idea what life is like in a penal colony?”

  That was the second time in just a few hours that her ability to raise her son had been called in to question. She glanced toward the table, where Jamie’s hands were pressed together and his head bowed in prayer. How could a person believe the lad was any other than a perfect child? “I don’t like what yer suggesting, sir. The lad already explained his actions.” She stepped around him, holding on to the doorknob and fighting to keep her voice steady. “I thank ye for returning Jamie safely home, and for yer well-meant but poor child-rearing advice. I will instruct him in the future to stay far away from your verra dangerous library, and I’ll pray my cat doesna make the mistake o’ trespassin’ again.”

  “Mrs. Leslie, the lad has you fooled. He—”

  She raised her voice to cut off his words. “Yer an intolerant, cruel man, Sergeant, and I’d thank ye not to trouble me or my son again.”

  “Madam, that child—”

  Even though he still stood in the way, she started closing the door. “Good evenin’ to ye, sir.”

  He took a few surprised steps backward. “But . . .”

  “I said, good evenin
’ to ye.” Aileen shut the door with a bang. She imagined it closing just a few inches in front of the sergeant’s nose, and the thought was satisfying indeed. She stood for a moment, fists clenched and shaking, breathing heavily as her wrath dispersed, leaving her feeling wrung out.

  Small arms wrapped around her from behind. “Mam, I’m sorry. I didna mean to make the man angry.”

  She turned, crouching down and pulling him into an embrace. “Jamie, my precious, perfect lad, ye’ve done naught to apologize for. Now come. ’Twas a wearying day. Let’s get ye out of those muddy clothes and ready for sleep.”

  Chapter 3

  The sound of the slamming door still rang in his ears as Conall stormed up the path toward his house. Rain dripped into his collar, and he was glad for the cooling. How had he come away from the confrontation looking like ’twas he in the wrong? Mrs. Leslie’s inability to see the truth was absurd. She was stubborn and sharp-tongued and unable to have a rational conversation when it came to her son. ’Twas a pity, really. The woman seemed intelligent and witty. The kind of person he’d have liked to have as a friend in this sparsely inhabited village.

  Her words returned to him. Cruel. Intolerant. No decency. He picked up his pace, indignation flowing over him in hot waves. That woman had no idea what sort of man he was. She’d seen him at his worst, in a moment of anger. And anyway, why should he care what she or anyone else in Dunaid thought of him?

  He turned at the fork in the road, heading up the hill away from the village.

  For just an instant, he’d felt a burst of shame when she’d embraced the lad, soothing with a gentle touch and soft voice. At that moment, Mrs. Leslie’s actions reminded Conall so much of his own mother that he’d actually opened his mouth to apologize and take his leave, but then the boy had peeked around his mother’s skirts, giving a knowing smirk, and Conall’s anger had surged.

  Jamie Leslie had his mother completely hoodwinked. The lad was a delinquent in the making. His performance—the tears; the wide, innocent eyes; even the impromptu prayer—was a classic display of manipulation. Conall had seen criminals of the very worst kind in his assignments to the New South Wales penal colony. He had enough practice seeing through deception, and this lad . . . Conall tightened his jaw, wishing the child hadn’t gotten the better of him.

  And where was the boy’s father? The beekeeper? Spending the evening in the tavern? The man was obviously not caring properly for his family. He was a poor role model to his son. The home was in need of repair. Based on the smoke, the chimney was likely plugged, and from what he’d seen, the family meal consisted of a wee fish and part of a loaf of dry bread. Without knowing him, Conall thought very poorly of Mr. Leslie.

  A bead of guilt trickled through his anger, softening it to a mild frustration. It was difficult to remain angry with the boy when his father was negligent and his mother coddled him. He’d seen a number of soldiers from indulgent families, newly arrived to the battlefield. With no one to take care of them, they’d been unable to handle the simplest tasks, often turning to rebellion. And it had been Conall’s duty to enforce the discipline, keep them from trouble, and turn them into soldiers.

  He climbed the steps, opened the heavy oak door, and met his housekeeper in the entry hall. The stout woman took one look at him and pulled him forward to drip on the rug. “Och, ye knew ’twas dreich weather today, Sergeant.” She pulled off his coat, wrinkling her nose at the wet wool. “Why did ye no’ wear yer oilskin?”

  “If you remember, Mrs. Ross, I left in a bit o’ a rush.”

  “Aye, so ye did.” She laid the offending garment over the stair railing. “And did ye return young Jamie to his ma then?”

  He gave a nod.

  “And I reckon Aileen Leslie wasna at all pleased wi’ yer complaints aboot her lad.” Mrs. Ross’s mouth pulled to the side in the expression she made when she tried to subdue a smile.

  Conall removed his hat, placing it atop the wet coat. “That’s puttin’ it mildly, Mrs. Ross.”

  “I ken. She’ll not heed any ill words aboot him.”

  “Well, she should. Tha’ boy’s a nuisance an’ his ma worsens the problem by refusin’ to acknowledge it.”

  Mrs. Ross nodded. “I suppose when a person’s lost everythin’, she gives all her love to the one she has left—even if he is a wee menace.” She gave a wink. “Come. I’ve yer supper waitin’.”

  Conall considered what she’d said. Though she’d spoken with a teasing tone, there was some truth to her words. What if his family lived here in Dunaid? He’d defend any of them to his dying breath. His ill feelings toward Mrs. Leslie softened a bit. She’d been through hard times, just like everyone else in Dunaid. If only the laird hadn’t grown greedy, he thought. If only the war had ended a few years earlier. If only . . . A man could drive himself mad with those two words. He ran his fingers through his hair and followed Mrs. Ross into the dining room.

  “Davy MacKay dropped by wi’ yer mended plow harness.” She took the cover from a warm plate of food. “Left it in the stables.”

  “Good. I’ll turn under the north field tomorrow.” Conall sat at the table. When he slid his chair forward, the movement made his chest muscles twinge. He grunted and rubbed his sternum. The old pruning shears he’d used on the fruit trees had left his arms, chest, and back sore.

  Mrs. Ross shook her head. “You’re workin’ yerself too hard. Ye need some help, if ye don’ mind my sayin’ so. There’s plenty o’ young men in the village willin’ to work. You’ve been away so long fightin’ the French. Let yerself rest, Sergeant. Ye deserve a rest.”

  He gave her a nod and cut into the slice of lamb. “I’ll consider it.”

  She curtseyed and left him to his meal.

  Conall knew very well he’d not consider it. Luckily, he’d been stationed upon extremely successful ships, and his share of prize money was a tidy little sum building interest in a London Bank. He didn’t need to work to support himself. When he’d taken the house, he’d intended to do just what Mrs. Ross suggested: read some books, take long leisurely walks through the heatherlands, and enjoy the gentle life of a man of adequate means. But within a few days, he’d come to find that the consequences of an idle mind and rested body were horrific dreams that haunted his nights. In the quiet hours, his memories surfaced, bringing with them the fear and horrors of war that he’d thought he’d left far behind.

  Within a week, he’d cleared the overgrowth that had crept into the orchard and then started chopping off dead branches to prepare the fruit trees. He’d purchased horses and cattle and the equipment to plow and sow the fields. The labor left him exhausted each night and able to sleep without hearing the sounds of musket fire and the cries of the wounded and dying. And he was surprised to find that he enjoyed the work. The same dull farm labor he’d hated as a youth had become his salvation.

  If only his da could see him now. If only Conall could tell him. If only . . .

  ***

  Aileen helped Jamie remove his muddy clothes, noticing how short the sleeves were on his nearly threadbare shirt. She slipped an old nightshirt over his head and wiped the smudges from his face with a wet rag. “There ye are, my dearest. Handsome as ever a young man was.”

  He smiled with sleepy eyes and knelt on the pallet beside her, holding his palms together as he recited the Lord’s Prayer.

  These quiet moments before bed were Aileen’s favorite part of the day. “Now, lay your head, mo croí.” She covered him with the blanket. “And what story would ye be wantin’ tonight?”

  “Tell me aboot Fionn mac Cumhaill, Mam.”

  “Och, tha’s one o’ my favorites.” She shifted around, tucking her legs beneath her.

  Jamie’s eyelids grew heavy as he listened to the story of the ancient warrior and his quest for the salmon of wisdom.

  Aileen had hardly begun when she heard a snore. “Sleep now, lad.” She brushed his hair from his forehead, smiling at the angelic face, so peaceful in sleep. She examined his dirty g
arments as she gathered them. Jamie had only two sets of clothes, and one was for Sunday. So unless she meant to send him out tomorrow wearing naught but his skin, she’d washing to do tonight.

  She took down the hunk of lye soap and fetched the bucket of rain water from beneath the hole in the roof, moving as quietly as possible. Her head had started to ache an hour ago, and she desperately wished to go to sleep and put this day behind her.

  For Jamie’s sake, Aileen had kept a smile on her face through supper, but inside, she was fuming. How dare that man come here and accuse her boy of a crime? Now that the incident was over, she realized the true reason for her anger wasn’t simply offense at his words, but the fear that he might truly call the constable. Thievery wasn’t looked upon with the least bit of tolerance, and Sergeant Stewart was wealthy. He would have much more influence on a magistrate than would a poor widow.

  Jamie muttered something in his sleep, and she smiled. Her boy was truly a dear, and if only the sergeant had met him under different circumstances, he would find Jamie to be a smart lad full of energy and curiosity. Not a criminal.

  The harsh smell of the soap seemed to make her headache stronger. She brought the large pot from the hearth, pouring some of the hot water into the bucket.

  Her mouth still tasted bitter from the confrontation. She wasn’t one to cast insults at a stranger, but Sergeant Conall Stewart certainly earned them. His supposition was utterly without cause. Perhaps spending time around criminals caused a person to assume the worst about everyone he met.

  She tossed the shirt in the water, using the soap on the muddy spots. Candlelight made discerning cleanliness difficult, but after a few moments, she was satisfied that she’d gotten the worst of it. She rinsed and wrung the shirt, hanging it to dry over the back of a chair near the fire.

  Aileen sighed as she lifted the trousers. The knees were nearly worn through. She felt something heavy in a pocket, another rock no doubt. Why did lads collect—

  Her thoughts froze as she withdrew the object. Gold-colored, it appeared to be a coin of some sort with a symbol in the center. A sick feeling rose from her stomach as she held the object near the candlelight and studied the engraving—an anchor resting on laurel branches beneath crown. Not a coin at all, but a medal. Her heartbeat sped up, and her mouth went dry. Circling the image were the words: His Majesty’s Royal Marines.