A Scot to the Heart

by Caroline Linden

  But finally the door opened and they were shown into Lorde’s private office, and another man was there, too. Tall and lean, wearing the garb of a common laborer and his natural hair, stood William Fletcher. Ilsa caught her breath with a sob and flew to him before she knew what she was doing.

  “Ilsa, love,” he whispered, holding her tightly. “Oh my child, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to find you! I’ve been so worried . . .”

  He squeezed her to him again, and for a few minutes they simply held each other.

  Finally she pushed back to see him. His face had aged since she saw him, the lines deeper and his skin paler. Or perhaps it was the effect of seeing him without his usual fine clothing and wig styled in the height of fashion; his hair was short, faded brown heavily sprinkled with gray. She would have passed him on the street and never recognized him. “Why, Papa?” was all she could ask, heartsick.

  He sighed and eased out of her grip. “Because I couldn’t bear to hurt you or Jean. I’ve made mistakes in my life, but always did my best to shield you from my failings. I never wanted you to be tainted by association.”

  It felt like an iron hand gripped her chest. “Papa—are you saying—you can’t be admitting—?”

  “Come.” He motioned toward chairs at the table behind them. “Sit. I want Lorde to explain things to you.” He gave Drew a long look, but said nothing.

  She resisted. “Papa! Did you—did you do it?” Her voice at the end was that of a frightened child.

  “Come sit,” he said again. “I can’t stay long. Lorde, bring the documents.” Obediently the solicitor moved to the table, a sheaf of paper in his hand.

  “Tell me,” she pleaded. “Did you?” Drew was watching with a concerned frown, and a wave of mortification washed over her, that she had dragged him into this and been so spectacularly wrong. I believe in Papa, she’d insisted again and again. She’d thought the nightmare would end when she found her father, and instead it was growing worse by the second.

  “I’ve told Lorde to convey everything absolutely,” Papa went on, stubbornly ignoring her questions. “There are deeds and stock certificates, although he will sell those.”

  Helplessly she looked to Drew. He stepped up beside her and urged her into the chair before turning to Papa. “Deacon Fletcher, you have to tell her if you know. Who really committed the robberies?”

  Papa’s hands went still on the papers, his face expressionless. Ilsa reeled, clutching Drew’s hand. His fingers closed around hers, providing an anchor as her world pitched off its axis.

  “You do know, don’t you,” Drew added quietly.

  Her father sat motionless. Mr. Lorde looked vigilantly from him to Ilsa and back, saying nothing. “I do,” Papa said at long last, very quietly. “But I will not give him up, not even if it costs my own life,” he added as Ilsa jerked in her chair.

  “What? But no—Papa, you can clear your name! Of course we will try to help this person—explain to the sheriff—you cannot let this charge go unanswered—”

  “No!” He recoiled from her outstretched hands. “No, Ilsa. I will not. Do not argue,” he added sharply. “I said no, child, and that is my final word.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Drew was watching Papa, a pensive look on his face. At her glance he put his free hand on her shoulder.

  Then he spoke. “Is he your son?”

  The quiet question seemed to echo in the room. Ilsa’s mouth dropped open. Mr. Lorde pursed his lips. And Papa . . .

  Papa’s mouth closed in a hard line.

  “What?” She turned to Drew again, in outrage this time. “Why would you say that? I have no brother!”

  Her father glared at Drew. “You’re the fellow who’s caused such a stir in town, aren’t you? The one everybody leapt to accommodate like lackeys. I’m not impressed by a fancy title, lad, especially one you’ve not even got yet. Keep to your own business.”

  Drew did not flinch under this. “A man would only go to such lengths to protect a few people. Someone beloved, someone dearer than life to him. It’s not you, Ilsa, and I cannot believe it’s your aunt. You told me you’ve got no uncles, no other aunts, no cousins, and your grandparents are dead. That leaves . . . a son.”

  The anger that had animated her father had drained away as Drew spoke. Now he put a hand over his face. “Stop.” His shoulders slumped. “Yes. He’s my son.”

  Ilsa thought she might faint—might have already fainted and was imagining the whole scene.

  “I’ve been a terrible father to him all his life,” her father went on, seeming to age before her eyes. “This is the least I can do, save his life.”

  “It’s a terrible thing he’s done,” said Drew quietly.

  “Who?” Ilsa asked at the same moment, unable to form any other thought or word.

  Her father turned to her. His handsome face sagged in defeat. “Please understand. I—I was young. I was careless.” He paused, his throat working. “I met his mother and was smitten. Things . . . got out of hand. I never meant to . . .” He sighed. “But I could not hold it against the boy. I supported him and his mother ever since and did what I could for the lad. But I could never claim him. I didn’t dare, even though it had been my dream for a son to inherit—” His voice broke, and he reached for her hands. “Forgive me, child. I thought I could keep the secret, provide for the boy, and raise him almost as my own.”

  “Does he know?” asked Drew. Ilsa was grateful one of them could form coherent questions.

  Papa eyed Drew for a moment, a muscle working in his jaw. “Yes, he does.” He looked back to Ilsa. “Don’t hold this against him. He’s known, and envied you, his entire life. ’Tis a hard thing for a man to bear.”

  And hard for a daughter to learn, she thought bitterly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I always feared you would discover it. It was never my intent.”

  “But why?” she protested.

  Papa hesitated a long time. “He’s your age, Ilsa. Only two months older.”

  No. That meant—that meant Papa had been unfaithful to her mother, not in the later years when Mama was ill but before, when they were newly married. He’d always told her theirs had been an incomparable love match and declared he’d never married again because he would never love another woman as much.

  “I realized what a fool I’d been when your mother told me she was expecting you,” he said. “I ended my—my flirtation, sobered and aware of how reckless I’d been. But it was too late. Anne . . . was also carrying my child. I pledged to support her, but she wanted more. She . . . she told your mother and broke her heart.” Papa hung his head. “I promised Cordelia I would never tell you about my betrayal.”

  It was all Ilsa could do to breathe.

  “Your mother was never strong again after you were born and the midwife said she shouldn’t have more children. When she died, I resolved that the promise I made to her would guide my life, and I tried to be the best father I could be to you, child . . .”

  “Who is he?” asked Drew.

  Papa looked up, his mouth a firm line. He would not answer.

  “Liam Hewitt,” said Ilsa faintly. Papa started but didn’t deny it.

  She had wondered for years why Liam disliked her so much, and why Papa always tolerated Liam’s rudeness and insolence. This explained why Papa had always favored him and promoted him so rapidly in the cabinetry shop. It even suggested why Mrs. St. James’s shop, small and modest, had been robbed—Ilsa had gone to Perth with them for two weeks. People had seen her walking on the hill with Drew. Liam had always taken pleasure in spiting her, and hurting her friends was the nearest thing to hurting her.

  And it was all because Liam had known of their connection, while she had been kept ignorant, like a child.

  Suddenly furious, she flew at her father, pounding his chest with her fists. “How could you? How could you not tell me something so important? How could you put our lives in front of him like that, making him resent a
nd despise us? How—?”

  Drew pulled her back, sitting beside her and wrapping his arms around her. Papa, who had not defended himself, stared long and hard at the way Ilsa clung to Drew.

  “How are you certain he’s the one?” she demanded, slightly calmer but her voice still throbbing. “Doing this.”

  He gazed at her with sadness and resignation. “Several of the victims were patrons of ours. They were robbed weeks after Liam supervised the installation of new locks and doors. I began to suspect . . . Well, I tried to protect him. I discovered he has a weakness for the cockfights, as I once did. I tried to dissuade him from them and paid several debts, but I heard he’s been playing deep again, and losing. One of the men arrested is his known companion, a low fellow who would do nothing but debase him and poison his mind.”

  “Thomas Browne,” murmured Drew.

  Papa nodded. “When Browne claimed the King’s Pardon, I feared Liam was involved. I tried to see Browne—hoping against hope he would deny Liam had scouted the shops and made duplicate keys—but they refused to let me see him. And then I heard my own name implicated, making clear what Liam meant to do. They’ll leave the other fellow to hang, cast the blame onto me, and Browne and Liam will walk free. The keys were likely made in my workshop. I’ve no doubt more evidence will be found there. It will appear beyond question. I daresay Liam will profess himself shocked and dismayed, and completely ignorant of my crimes.”

  “Papa,” Ilsa pleaded. “How can you allow this?”

  His hand on the table closed into a fist. “I cannot send my only son to the gallows. No matter how abhorrent his actions, no matter the cost to me. I cannot, Ilsa. Do not ask it of me.”

  “But if you explain,” she began, a little wildly.

  “If you drag me back to Edinburgh, I will confess,” he warned. “I am decided, Ilsa.”

  She collapsed in her chair, bereft. He would confess to a crime he didn’t commit to save his son, who had betrayed him, regardless of what it did to his daughter, who had believed in him when no one else did. Between the two of them, Papa was choosing Liam—over her.

  “What do you mean to do?” asked Drew.

  Papa seemed relieved that the confession was over. He cleared his throat and nodded at Lorde, who had been apparently absorbed in his study of the grain of the oak table beneath his hands. The solicitor leapt into action, sliding a thick document to him.

  “I’ve made over my will.” Papa glanced at Ilsa. “Almost everything to you, Ilsa. A bequest to Jean, of course, a remembrance to Mary, annuities for the servants, a few charities. And . . .” He paused. “Two hundred pounds to Liam. At one time I had thought to leave him the workshop . . .” He shook his head, avoiding her numb gaze. “I pray he uses the sum to start fresh and make the most of this escape.” He gave her a faltering smile. “Do some good with my money, my dear. I know you have thoughts on this matter, and I trust you to do right with it.”

  She couldn’t think of that now. “Are you going to harm yourself, Papa?”

  He flinched. “No. No! Never think that. If I meant to do that, I never would have seen you today.” Mr. Lorde shifted and coughed, but Papa shot an irked look at him. “Quiet, Lorde. I’ll tell her if I want to. I’m taking passage on a ship bound for America. They call it the New World, and I shall be a new man there, no longer William Fletcher but . . . someone else. Someone better, God willing.”

  There were no tears left in her. Ilsa gazed vacantly at the papers he put in front of her, dimly heard his assurances that Lorde had everything worked out and would help her, and only roused when Papa rose.

  This was farewell, she realized. Forever. She flung herself into his arms and thought her heart would burst at the thought of never embracing him again, never hearing his welcoming cry, never seeing his irrepressible wink and nod again.

  “How will you dance at my wedding?” she said against his chest. “How will you spoil my children?”

  His hands were gentle on her hair. “There, love,” he said tenderly. “I’ll kiss you now for your wedding.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, then raised his gaze to Drew. “Take care of her, lad.”

  Ilsa ignored that. She gripped her father’s jacket and shook him. “When do you sail? Let me come say good-bye.”

  “No, child—”

  “If you want my cooperation with this lunatic scheme, you’ll grant me this,” she said fiercely.

  His mouth twitched, in that half-irritated, half-amused way he had. “All right,” he agreed, and kissed her once more. “Tomorrow night on the tide. The Carolina, bound for New York from Port Glasgow.”

  “And you have funds?”

  Finally he smiled. “Aye. Lorde has divested all my shares with Mr. Cunninghame, which you so despised. I’ve enough for a new start.”

  Lorde showed them out a back way, in case anyone had remarked their entrance. “He can’t have planned this in the last few days,” Ilsa said to the solicitor. “How long has he been readying this plot?”

  “Several weeks, ma’am.” His eyes were sympathetic. “Not to this extent, but he told me to sell the Cunninghame shares months ago and to retain the funds here in Glasgow instead of forwarding them. I believe he was even then guarding against the possibility of something like this.”

  She nodded and they left.

  “Where do you want to go?” asked Drew in the street.

  Dazed and overwhelmed, Ilsa looked up at him, squinting against the sunlight. He’d let his beard grow and his hair was definitely curling now under his bonnet. Booted feet braced apart, arms folded over the plaid that crossed his chest, he looked more Highland outlaw than English duke.

  “Can we walk?” she asked wistfully. “I miss our long walks on Calton Hill—I wish Robert were here—”

  She missed her old life, the one where she painted her ceiling and danced all night and flirted with a handsome soldier and kissed him and fell in love with him. How charmed and easy it looked now.

  He understood; without a word Drew offered his arm and they turned north to the garden grounds.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The next day they rode eighteen miles down the River Clyde to Port Glasgow. Drew saw Ilsa’s eyes scanning the streets of the town—looking for her father, he thought. She’d been quiet since they’d parted from him yesterday, and he wanted to give her space to accept her father’s actions.

  They took a room in a clean little inn near the church. The town was a heaving mass of activity: wagons ferrying cargo to and from Glasgow, sailors and merchants on the docks and in the coffeehouses, children and servants darting through the narrow streets. The harbors bristled with ships’ masts, the wide expanse of the Clyde sparkling behind them.

  It was a simple matter to discover the Carolina. She was a large ship rocking at anchor near the mouth of the harbor. The shipping agent pointed out where passengers were to board the launch to the boat, leaving them nothing to do but wait.

  For hours there was no sign of him. The sun was setting, and sailors had begun ferrying people out to the Carolina. Drew was beginning to wonder if Fletcher had lied to Ilsa about his plans, unwilling to face another emotional confrontation, when a figure strode around the corner of the customhouse with a large pack over one shoulder. Ilsa tensed but Drew held her back. “Don’t call attention to him,” he murmured, and she stilled, holding tight to his arm.

  Fletcher came up to them and doffed his cap. His expression was calm and peaceful today, and his eyes were full of love as he looked at Ilsa. “You came.”

  “Of course I did.” She even managed a smile. “Your daughter is not the sort to fall into a fainting fit, sir.”

  He smiled at that. “Well do I know it! And how proud it makes me.” He let down his pack. “You’re a better daughter than I deserved.”

  “Papa.” Her eyes shone with tears as she went into his embrace. Drew turned to scan the docks one last time, giving them a moment of privacy. He’d silently kept an eye out for any more officers followin
g them or Fletcher but had seen no one suspicious. He hoped there were none. Let Fletcher get away with this, he thought. For her sake.

  “There now.” Fletcher stepped back, taking out his handkerchief and dabbing at Ilsa’s cheeks. “Don’t waste your tears on me. Wish me a bon voyage and be happy.” He glanced at Drew. “And I wish you great happiness.”

  She pressed his hand. “How can I write to you—?”

  “Ah, child.” Regretfully he stepped back. “You know you can’t. I don’t know where I shall go, in any event.”

  “All right,” she said, remarkably poised in Drew’s opinion. “Then you must write to me. Somehow. I expect you to find a way, Papa. I will look every month for a letter from my distant cousin in America.”

  His mouth quirked in reluctant amusement, and he winked. “God willing that he does write to you someday.”

  A shout from the launch made them all look around. The bell in the church began to chime the hour. Fletcher hesitated. “Good-bye, lass,” he said to his daughter. “God go with you.”

  “And with you, Papa.”

  Her father’s mouth twisted into a sad, trembling smile. He gripped her hand to his heart. “Saints, I’ll miss you.”

  Her chest heaved. “I know. But this is better than me missing you because you’re in a crypt in the graveyard.” She bent her head and kissed his hand, then gently disentangled her fingers from his. “They’re waiting for you.”

  “Better they than the hangman,” he quipped. The moment of emotion over, Fletcher slung his pack onto his shoulder and turned toward the shore. The men waiting in the launch were untying the ropes, and he picked up his pace, trotting along the short beach and down the dock until he climbed into the craft.

  Ilsa’s face was calm as she watched him go. The sailors cast off the last line and shoved the launch out to sea. Fletcher gripped the gunwale as the boat rocked from side to side, but managed to lift his cap for a moment. The afternoon sunlight glinted on the sprays of water thrown up by the oars as the men bent to their task, taking William Fletcher away from Scotland and the hangman—and his only daughter.