by Sara Donati
Hannah thought of the nights she had shared with Many-Doves, who was not her sister but her mother’s sister, and she felt sorry for Jennet.
“Perhaps one day you’ll see Isabel again, when all this trouble is over. Where do the Campbells live?”
“The Earl o’ Breadalbane, ye mean?”
“Is that the one called Walter who is married to Isabel?”
Jennet produced an amused grin. “Walter Campbell, the chief o’ the Glenorchy line? Aye, weel, he’s slippery enough tae do the job. Ne, Walter is one o’ the earl’s bastards. Breadalbane made him curator o’ Loudoun. That was before Walter ran aff wi’ Isabel.”
Hannah had grown up hearing her mother and grandmother and great-grandmother recite their family history, but she had to admit that the complexities of the Breadalbane clan were a challenge. She rubbed a hand over her eyes.
“So Walter Campbell and Isabel live with the Countess of Loudoun?”
Jennet rewarded her with a smile. “Aye, Flora by name. At Loudoun Castle, near Galston. That way—” She pointed west. “But ye willna find Isabel there the noo.”
“I wasn’t planning on going to look for her,” said Hannah, and discovered to her surprise that perhaps her mind had moved a little in that direction.
Jennet tossed her head. “It wad be a lang journey for naucht. The countess is dwaumie—bad lungs, ye ken, and they carry her tae the spa at Moffat for the summer. Isabel and Walter will be there wi’ her.”
They were silent for a time. “We passed Moffat on the way here from Dumfries.”
“Aye. Sae ye did. But what guid wad it serve tae talk tae Isabel?”
Hannah shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just wondering.” And more quickly: “What was it your granny said about the kitchen window?”
Jennet had an elaborate frown that involved her whole face. She said, “I’ll ha’ naebodie tae play wi’, should ye run aff.”
The cart bumped and swayed over the rocky ground. From the village the faint sound of a crowd and howling dogs rose up on the breeze. Dame Sanderson was fighting for her life to please the man who fed her.
“I have a grandmother, too,” Hannah said gently. “And she doesn’t know what happened to me, or where I am, or even if I’m alive.”
Jennet looked straight ahead. “The laird wants yer faither tae stay.”
Hannah said nothing. The question was not what the laird wanted—that was clear—but whether Jennet was enough of a friend to put Carryck’s wants and wishes aside. For five minutes or more she said nothing, and then Jennet straightened her shoulders resolutely.
“Come on, then.” She gathered her skirts together to hop off the wagon.
“Where are we going?” Hannah asked.
“Hame by way o’ the kitchen window,” Jennet said irritably. “Ye’ll see soon enough for yersel’.”
They cut up over the brae on a faint path that snaked around and between high stands of gorse covered with tiny yellow flowers. There was a clean, sweet smell about the hillside in the sun and Hannah was so happy to be walking again—walking uphill—that she did not mind the hot prickle of the nettle when it brushed against her bare skin.
A startled grouse rose up out of the heather and Jennet stopped to watch it go, shielding her eyes against the sun. Then she pointed. “Ye see yon rowan tree?”
Hannah did, and said so.
“There’s a path there that gaes doon tae the north side o’ Aidan Rig. It’s aye steep and rocky, and I wadna chance it in the wet.”
They walked on in silence, Hannah working hard to remark the way: a boulder in the shape of a man’s face with moss pushing up through cracks in his cheeks, a stand of three thistles taller than herself, and just beyond a grouping of young white pines.
In the meager shade of one of the trees Jennet set herself on a large rock and wiped her face on her sleeve. They were close enough to the falls to hear the rushing of water.
Hannah climbed up a boulder to get her bearings. Just over this rise must be the wood that ran down to Carryckcastle.
“No’ that road,” said Jennet, reading her thoughts.
They walked through the wood for a good ways, Hannah memorizing the trees as she went and marking the position of the sun. All the time the sound of the waterfalls was getting louder, and then the forest opened up.
They stood on the shoulder of the mountain, with the whole valley spread out before them. A hawk circled on the uplifting wind, a sign too obvious to be overlooked. The skin on Hannah’s back rose in a shimmer of renewed hope, as sweet and cool as the mist of the waterfall rising up around them.
Jennet put her mouth to Hannah’s ear to be heard over the waterfalls. “There’s nae time tae show ye the way doon tae the vale but ye see there—” She pointed. “The path. Ye need a guid hour, in the daylight.”
They followed a spring up from the rock face and back into the forest to where it disappeared into the ground. Jennet turned to look at her, and Hannah saw many things on her face: sadness and resignation, and through that still a sense of excitement.
“Have ye heard tell aboot the Rising of ’15, and the troubles that came after for the Jacobites?”
“A little,” Hannah said, trying to remember the stories her Granny Cora had told. “Did the Duke of Argyll defeat the Stewarts?”
Jennet bristled. “Campbell defeat the Jacobites? Och, and wha’s been tellin’ ye such falsehoods? Oor troops walloped the usurper’s men soundly at Dunblane!” Then her face fell. “But it was aa for naucht. Bobbin’ John lost his nerve, ye see, and he fled tae France and betrayed muny guid men tae the Crown. And in the years that followed those wha were loyal tae the Auld Pretender paid dearly, for the Hanoverians werena wont tae be forgivin’. And that’s why the third earl built Forbes Tower.”
She gave Hannah a very close look. “Have ye took note o’ how thick the walls are inside the kitchen?”
Hannah had not, really, and she admitted this.
“Six feet thick, can ye imagine? Ye see, in those days the earl needed a safe place. A hidey-hole and a way oot o’ the castle, should the usurper’s men ever take it intae their heids tae come askin’ questions. And sae he built a stair intae the kitchen wall that goes doon tae the tunnels.”
And without further explanation Jennet pushed aside the bushes to reveal a dark opening.
They walked with hands stretched out, trailing fingers along the walls as they went through the dark. There was the rustle of dry leaves underfoot and the scent of trodden pine needles and mouse droppings. They walked for a good while, and Jennet stopped. Hannah could not see her, but she could feel her warmth, and when she spoke her breath touched Hannah’s face.
“Here’s the door,” she said. “We’re under the castle.”
The door swung open with a creak. On the other side there was a narrow hall with a low ceiling, lit by a single hanging lantern. To the left was a small stone stair. MacQuiddy’s voice drifted down to them.
“Arguin’ wi’ Cook,” said Jennet with a sigh. “We’ll wait until he’s awa’.”
“Where does this corridor go?” Hannah asked, peering into the shadows.
“Doon tae Campbell Tower.”
“The pit?” Hannah stepped in that direction.
“The hidey-hole under the pit.” Jennet sat herself on the stone step and started rummaging in her apron for food, coming up with an apple which she broke in half.
“There’s naebodie there the noo,” she said, biting into her half and offering Hannah the other.
“Nobody at all,” said a man’s voice from the shadows, and both girls leaped to their feet just as Mac Stoker came forward, limping under the weight of a sack over his shoulder.
“The pirate,” breathed Jennet.
There was a sheen of sweat on his brow, but his color was much better. Hannah realized that it was many days since she had last seen him or asked the Hakim about his condition—a vague guilt washed over her at that thought—but it was clear that he was much bette
r.
“Ladies. Sneakin’ in through the kitchen, is it?”
“Where are you going?” Hannah asked.
“Sure, and have you forgot your manners?” He shifted his sack and there was the muffled clank of metal on metal. “Lucky for youse I’ve no time to be giving you any lessons. I’m away, to find me ship and me crew and the sweet Giselle, o’ course. To settle accounts.” There was nothing cheerful about his smile.
“Does the laird ken ye’re goin’?” asked Jennet. She had stepped back a bit, just behind Hannah.
“Sure, and why should he care? He has no further need of me. So I’ll thank youse to step out o’ me way.”
“We’ll need passage home,” Hannah said. “Soon.”
He laughed, putting back his head to show the scar around his neck.
“Ah, you’re your father’s daughter, I’ll say that for you. Give him this message from Mac Stoker: next time he wants to put a foot on a ship of mine, he’ll pay me first. In gold.”
27
“Now look at this.” Curiosity stood at the open door with her arms crossed. “A house so big you got to write a letter to send word from one end to the other. That from the earl?”
The footman extended the note on a small silver platter. “Aye, mem.”
“Ain’t for me, I’m sure.”
“No, mem. For Mr. Bonner.”
Nathaniel had been walking back and forth to exercise his leg, and he came to the door to take the letter. But Curiosity was not yet done with the footman.
“MacAdam, is that right?”
“Aye, mem.”
“Mr. MacAdam, tell me now, what was all the fuss in the courtyard earlier?”
He blinked. “Visitors for the earl, mem.”
“Is that so. Anybody interesting?”
MacAdam’s face crumpled in surprise, and then straightened. Nathaniel wondered if Curiosity would keep him there until she made the man laugh out loud.
“Monsieur Contrecoeur, mem, an associate o’ the earl’s. And two French ladies wi’ him.”
“That’s what I wanted to know. Thank you kindly, Mr. MacAdam.”
He bowed from the waist. “Is there a reply, Mr. Bonner?”
“Not right yet,” Nathaniel said.
Curiosity said, “Before you go, tell me—have you seen our Hannah anywhere?”
He stopped. “She’s in the kitchens, mem, suppin’ on bread and new milk wi’ Jennet.”
“Is she, now? Thank you kindly.”
She closed the door behind him and came over to Nathaniel where he was unfolding the note in the light of the window.
“You’ve made a conquest of that footman, Curiosity. I expect he’d tell you anything you care to ask.”
“All it takes is some common courtesy,” she said. “Now, what the earl got to say that he cain’t tell you to your face?”
“We are summoned to dine.”
Curiosity took it from him and held the heavy paper away, squinting at it. “You and your lady. Elizabeth won’t like it.”
“Elizabeth won’t like what?”
She stood at the door to the dressing room, fixing the buttons on her bodice. She was wearing her gray linen again, and she seemed much more at ease. Nathaniel held out an arm, and she came to him.
“The little ones sleeping?”
“They are, finally. Now, what is it I won’t like?”
“The earl wants to see the two of you at his dinner table,” said Curiosity. “I suppose he wants to show you off to his friends from France.”
“We don’t need to go, Boots.”
There was a line between her brows as she thought it through, and then she surprised him. “I think we should accept,” she said. “Perhaps there is something to be learned from them.”
• • •
Elizabeth had no interest in the earl’s dinner guests, but she did hope that Monsieur Dupuis would be there, to lay her hazy fears to rest. She had asked about him today in the expectation that she could bring him and Nathaniel face-to-face, but thus far there had been no response.
She went to dress for dinner in a poor mood, made worse by the sad state of her best gown.
“No’ the gray, mem,” Mally said, unable to hide her horror at the idea. “No’ wi’ the ladies frae France at the table, and them sae fine.”
“I do not care a fig what they think of my gown,” Elizabeth said, trying very hard to mean what she said. “They will talk to me nonetheless, I am sure.”
“Gin ye’ll pardon me, mem—” Mally broke off and then started again, very earnestly. “If ye take yer place at the table lookin’ like a puir governess, it willna matter what ye ha’ tae say. They canna see beyond the claes. It’s the way o’ rich folk.”
Elizabeth did not doubt Mally’s sincerity and goodwill, nor could she deny the simple truth of what she said. Rich French merchants and their wives would dismiss her out of hand if she went to the earl’s table in a much mended Quaker-gray dress. The question was, did she really care if they took no note of her? Why had she agreed to this dinner at all?
A voice kept whispering that these French had something to do with Dupuis, and more—that Dupuis held the key to the mystery that had brought them here in the first place. Perhaps she was being silly and superstitious; perhaps tonight’s dinner would give them a way to getting home.
“Very well, Mally. But nothing too pretentious. Did Miss Somerville have no simple gowns?”
Mally considered. “There’s this lovely silk gauze. See the silver shells sae delicate on the hem. Or the silk drugget, wi’ the fine embroidery.”
They were beautiful, and Elizabeth resented them greatly even while she admired their artistry: silk pongee, sequins of gold and silver paper appliquéd with invisible stitches, chenille embroidery, tiny pleats.
“A thousand hours o’ work,” said Mally, reading her mind. “Yer Miss Somerville had a verra guid seamstress, mem, and ye dinna mind me sayin’. She should be richt proud o’ this fine stitchery.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said, taking some satisfaction in this idea of the seamstress, whose work deserved to be admired. “So she must. The silk drugget, I think, Mally. Subtlety is the thing.”
“Lord above,” said Curiosity, breaking out into a great smile. “Is that you, Elizabeth?”
“I don’t feel much like myself, I must admit.” Elizabeth drew in a long breath and let it go again. “But it is only for one evening and tomorrow I will be back in my own clothes. Aren’t you going to say anything, Nathaniel?”
He grinned at her. “I like you better in deerskin, Boots, but I can’t deny how pretty you look.”
It was a great irritation to her that she could not accept a simple compliment from her husband without flushing, but he was kind enough to take no note. Elizabeth gathered her shawl around her. The bodice of the gown was very low, indeed, and motherhood had made sure that she filled it just short of overflowing.
Nathaniel had had an easier time dressing. She made a turn around him. The cut of the dark blue coat was out of fashion, but the materials and workmanship were impeccable. The breeches and stockings were severe in line but very elegant, and the cloak that lay over a chair was lined with silk the same color as the coat. Understated, and effective.
“The earl was no macaroni as a younger man.”
Curiosity laughed out loud. “A macaroni? What is that?”
“A man who spends too much of his income on his wardrobe, and too much time before the looking glass,” said Elizabeth.
“Not our Nathaniel,” said Curiosity with a certain satisfaction. “He sent back the flowered waistcoat. Posies just don’ suit the man.”
And it was true: no clothes could do him justice. Suddenly Elizabeth was glad that she had worn Giselle’s fine gown. She knew he really would prefer her in doeskin or gray linen, but tonight at least she would not be a moth to his butterfly.
She smiled at him, and he took her arm.
“Let’s get this over with, Boots. Then you
and me can take a walk in the garden I’ve heard so much about.”
In the hall they ran into Hannah, who drew up short at the sight of them, her mouth falling open.
“Is it such a shock to see us well groomed?” Elizabeth asked, putting a finger under her jaw to close it gently.
“Yes. No.” She shook herself. “Are you going to eat with the earl?”
“We are.”
Hannah clenched her hands together before herself. “But I wanted to talk to you about the village—”
Nathaniel frowned down at her, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, Squirrel? Trouble?”
“No.” She swallowed. “No trouble. Just a story I heard in the village—”
“You wait up for us,” said Nathaniel. “We’ll want to hear it as soon as we get back.”
The Frenchwomen were not wives at all. Madame Marie Vigée was a widow and distant cousin to Monsieur Contrecoeur, a wine merchant who had taken up residence in London. She was chaperoning her niece, Mademoiselle Julie LeBrun, on her first tour of England and Scotland. They presented the whole undertaking as a lark, a journey for her amusement alone, but Elizabeth knew without being told that these ladies had escaped the Terror in France, although not in any huge rush—they had brought their finery with them, including the mass of purple feathers that trembled above Madame Vigée’s elaborately piled hair. The question was, why were they abroad in Scotland when sentiments against the French were so much in evidence? There was a story here, one that might be worth hearing.
But neither of the Frenchwomen were the type to tell such stories, or any stories at all. Julie LeBrun was very young, and the company either bored or intimidated her, for she kept her eyes on her plate, ate almost nothing, never spoke unless addressed, and then in a hesitant and diffident tone. Madame Vigée seemed more interested in her wine glass than in conversation, although she turned a generous smile toward the earl at every opportunity.
But it was the men at the table who surprised her. The earl, because he studied his guests at length but spoke so little; and Monsieur Contrecoeur.
