A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3)

by Helen Susan Swift

  'I hope that's not your uniformed officer.' Emily said. 'He looks out of temper with the world.'

  I smiled. 'I have no intention of finding an officer, whatever Mother Faa might say.' I watched the major hectoring a trio of junior officers with language that he should hesitate to use in front of ladies. I had no wish to ever meet such a man, let alone have him in my life.

  'I have never heard so many oaths,' Emily said. 'That major is quite a card. He should be on stage.'

  I nodded. 'He would draw a crowd for his language alone.'

  Within a remarkably short period, the Volunteers had cleared us off the beach so they could practise fighting the French.

  These sort of military Field Days were fairly common when we waited in daily expectation of Boney's Frenchmen invading. As well as giving the militia and the Volunteers the opportunity of improving their military skills, it provided free entertainment for crowds of people, a chance for some recruiting and plenty of purses for the busy pick-pockets to snatch.

  The gunboats formed in line abreast half a mile off Portobello. Despite my dislike of wars, I could not help but watch. The boats were three cables-lengths apart and with a cluster of men around the six-pounder cannon in the bows. I saw the puff of smoke around each gun a second before I heard the crack of the shots.

  'Oh, they're firing! How exciting!' Emily clapped her hands together, the white calfskin gloves making little sound against the rising clamour of the crowd.

  The foul-mouthed major shouted more orders, and the Volunteers spread out to form two long red lines, the line in front carrying muskets and the one in the rear with the long pikes.

  'Why don't they all carry muskets?' Emily asked. 'They could kill more Frenchmen then.'

  'Oh, you bloodthirsty thing!' I rebuked her. 'I don't think they possess any more muskets. That's why they have pikes.'

  'It's very mediaeval,' Emily said. I did not argue. It seemed strange that a nation as rich as Britain should arm its men with weapons similar to those used by Spartan hoplites or Wallace's freedom-fighters.

  The gunboats were closer now so I could make out the faces of the crews, who cheered and shouted like madmen and waved cutlasses and muskets in the air. The cannons fired again, causing Emily to start.

  'Oh, my goodness. I do hope nobody gets hurt.'

  'They're only firing powder,' I reassured her. 'Not solid ball.'

  'Do you think so?'

  'I hope so,' I said. 'We've few enough men to defend the country without killing them off in Field Days.'

  With white powder smoke adding to the rain, vision was unclear, so we only saw the left flank of the Volunteers, with the double scarlet line becoming more obscure as it stretched toward Joppa in the east. The gunboats were now a couple of hundred yards from the shore with the crews still bunching in the bows. The cannons roared again, echoed by the major's hectoring voice.

  The front rank of Volunteers stepped smartly forward until they stood at the line of surf. The major strode along the line, while half a dozen other officers stood at regular distances.

  'What about him?' Emily indicated a tall captain. 'He's handsome enough, surely.' She gave a sly smile. 'If I were not married to James I would give him a second look, and a third.'

  'I'm not looking for an officer,' I said, 'whatever Mother Faa said.' I wished I had not gone to Emily's house that evening.

  'He's a very handsome captain,' Emily insisted, turning her head to one side for a better look.

  'You can have him, then,' I nudged her forward.

  'I'm married!' Emily tried to look shocked.

  'Then neither of us is interested.' I said.

  The Volunteers stood at rigid attention until the major shouted again. The long brown muskets came up, the men aimed and then fired a rolling volley that sounded like hell's thunder.

  'My! What a noise!' Emily clutched my arm in delight.

  At the major's orders, the second line of Volunteers formed into four columns.

  The volley of blanks failed to stop the gunboats, which ground onto the sand about fifty yards further out. The crews immediately jumped into the shallow water with a loud splashing and yelling and waving of cutlasses andboarding pikes.

  'They're active enough but not quite Boney's Invincibles.' Emily crushed her handkerchief in both hands, her eyes bright. 'Isn't this exciting?'

  The major gave an incomprehensible order, and the first Volunteer line fired another volley of blanks and then formed four great gaps through which the columns of pikemen charged. One unfortunate fellow slipped, jammed the point of his pike into the ground and came down in a tangle of scarlet jacket and white trousers. The others advanced at the run and jabbed at the seamen with their long pikes. For a moment the line of surf and gunboats became a mock-battlefield, although not all the strokes were in jest as warriors of the land and the sea threw more than a few shrewd blows in earnest.

  Within a few moments, and possibly in a pre-determined outcome, the seamen turned around and pushed their boats back into deeper water. The sweeps frantically flailed as they withdrew.

  'Well, that's Boney defeated again,' Emily sounded satisfied.

  'I wish it were that easy.' I watched the Volunteers congratulate each other as the major passed around a silver flask to the officers. The handsome captain was smiling, his teeth white against a tanned face. I looked away without having to remind myself that I had no interest.

  A civilian in a low-crowned hat as battered as his face, and old-fashioned knee breeches that had seen better days hurried through the Volunteers to help the fallen pikeman.

  'There's another noble fellow there,' Emily nodded to a be-whiskered lieutenant who presented his profile to us. His chin was nearly as prominent as his nose.

  'I don't believe I should like him.' I said. 'Come, Emily, the rain is getting heavy now.' I watched the battered civilian help the pikeman to his feet. His gentleness contrasted with the seeming indifference of the soldiers. The two men limped away together, with the civilian balancing the long pike on his left shoulder. Eventually, the tall captain strolled across and took the pike. I watched the other officers drinking and laughing together, and my opinion of them dropped even further. At least the captain had tried to help, I thought, grudgingly, albeit a little late.

  With our parasols giving little protection from the increasingly heavy rain, we hurried to the carriage. Emily squealed as she stepped into a deep puddle, and we hunched our shoulders and tried to push through the crowd. When we first arrived the road had been comparatively quiet, but now our carriage stood in the middle of a whole row of chariots, carriages and country carts. The horses drooped under the rain, while the drivers sought what shelter they could and exchanged desultory conversation as they smoked their pipes. There were farmers in their best blue coats and broad-brimmed hats, with smart knee-breeches and shining brass buckles on their shoes; there were a scattering of hillmen with black-and-white collie dogs and a few ploughmen with clay on their boots and gay gaiters. Mainly though, there were city folk and townsfolk out to see the soldiers, white-faced clerks and their simpering wives, brewers and distillers, shop assistants, sharp-faced lawyers and solemn men from the university.

  One mulberry coloured coach stood apart from the rest, with a handsome coachman sitting in front with his fancy hammercloth cape resplendent with lace and his tricorn hat dripping with water. On either side of the door, a liveried footman paraded his yellow uniform with a short jacket and breeches so tight I feared for the wearer should they ever have to bend.

  The carriage door was open, and an elderly lady sat inside with her white well-coiled hair dry and her hands sparkling with rings.

  'Good afternoon, your Ladyship' Emily gave a deep curtsey.

  'Good evening Mrs Napier.'

  'May I present my friend Miss Dorothea Flockhart?' Emily touched my arm.

  'Good evening,' I gave a curtsey, wondering who this quiz may be.

  'This is Lady Pluscarden.' Emily made the introduct
ion.

  'Most people just call me Pluscarden.' Her Ladyship's smile was warmer than I had expected as she leaned closer to me. 'You will see that I don't venture out of my chariot on wet days. Why should I, when I can sit here and admire two handsome men?' Her laugh could have come from a youth of seventeen rather than a woman who had probably passed her allotted three score years and ten. 'Take your pleasures where you find them, ladies, and don't stint.' She lowered her voice. 'Find a man with a broad chest and a shapely rump, and you are never short of entertainment.'

  We curtsied again, but I could not help but liking Lady Pluscarden.

  'Lady Pluscarden has her fancies,' Emily whispered with a twinkle in her eye. 'That's why the footmen have such tight breeches,'

  'Mrs Napier,' I pretended to be scandalised. 'You are shocking.'

  'I know,' Emily stopped, tipped her parasol to one side and peered around it at Lady Pluscarden's servants. 'I do appreciate her point, though. I prefer the man on the right. He has a delightful shape down there.'

  'Emily!' I shook my head in mock despair. 'Poor James! Does he know what he has married?'

  'That's one reason he married me,' Emily's smile was as smug as anything I had ever seen.

  'Miss Flockhart,' Lady Pluscarden waved me back. 'Where have we met before?' Her eyes were shrewd as she lifted a glass to her lips.

  My heart began to race. 'I don't believe we have, your Ladyship.'

  Lady Pluscarden's eyes narrowed. 'Perhaps I know your mother?'

  'My mother is dead, your Ladyship.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that,' Lady Pluscarden said. 'Nevertheless, I am sure we have met.' She sipped at her drink. 'No matter, I'm sure it will come to me. Have a pleasant drive back.'

  'Thank you, your Ladyship,' I gave another curtsey and hurriedly withdrew.

  'That was strange,' Emily said. 'I said you were a mystery. Now, which carriage is ours? They all look the same to me.'

  I was still shaking from Lady Pluscarden's question. 'You'd better not let James hear you say that, either. He is proud of his carriage.'

  'Oh, one chariot looks much the same as another to me,' Emily tried to shake the mud and water off her left leg. 'Oh, there it is, it's the blue one with the gold trim. Now, where's Peter? Can you see our coachman, Dorothea?'

  By that time an easterly wind had driven in the rain from the sea, and it fairly pelted down. We were sodden from bonnet to boots and would have been quite miserable had we not met Lady Pluscarden with her peculiarities and tight-breeched footmen. Emily opened the coach door, and we piled in, glad of the shelter.

  'Is that you back then, Ma'am?' Peter, the coachman, appeared from somewhere, tucking his pipe inside his cloak. 'Are we set to go to Flotterstone?'

  'Yes, please Peter,' Emily removed her bonnet and shook it to get rid of the worst of the wet. 'Take Miss Flockhart home first. We can't have her walking in this.'

  'Yes, Ma'am.' Peter was a middle-aged man with quiet eyes. 'Will that be Thistle Street, Ma'am?'

  'Yes, please, Peter,' I said. At that minute the prospect of being safely home was most desirable. I could not think why I had adventured so far out of town at all. Yet the memory of Lady Pluscarden's bright eyes was worth remembering, and I wished that I could be as lively and interested at her age.

  'It might take some time for all this to clear, Ma'am.' Peter indicated the queues of carriages and carts.

  'Oh, just get us home, Peter!' Emily was beginning to get a little testy.

  'Yes, Ma'am.' Peter touched a hand to his hat and climbed onto the driver's seat.

  Driving through congested traffic is never easy. Driving through congested traffic in what was now a torrential downpour must have been a nightmare for poor Peter. To judge by the snarls and outbursts of colourful language, the other drivers thought the same. We jolted away from Portobello in a confusion of horses and grinding wheels, with the occasional bump as one coachman jostled past another, although fortunately, Peter was efficiently skilled or sufficiently fortunate, to avoid scraping James's prize coach.

  'Will we never get out of this?' Emily said, and then, 'Oh, here we are now,' as Peter eased us past the worst of the crowd and cracked his whip. The horses responded with a will, stretching their legs to pull us along at a much more suitable pace.

  As you may know, the road from Portobello to Edinburgh passes through some bleak and unpopulated countryside before it reaches Jock's Lodge and the cavalry barracks at Piershill. At one time this area had been the haunt of footpads and sorners and such like undesirables so when Peter began to slow down we were naturally perturbed.

  'Peter!' Emily rapped on the ceiling of the carriage. 'What are you doing now? Why are we slowing?'

  'Sorry, Ma'am. There is a problem with the wheel.'

  'Oh, dear God! Will you get us home today, Peter?'

  'I can try, Ma'am.' Peter sounded doubtful.

  'Get as far as you can.' Emily said. 'We might be able to hire a post-chaise from a stable somewhere.' She looked out of the window at the drear countryside and said quietly, 'if they have such a thing in this forlorn place.'

  However, it was only five minutes later that the coach gave a tremendous lurch to the side. Emily screamed and grabbed me for support as we slewed to a grinding halt. We ended up pressed against the door in a clutching tangle of cloaks and bonnets and dresses. I heard the horses neighing and Peter swearing as he quietened them down.

  'Are you all right?' I took hold of Emily.

  'Yes, thank you.' She looked up, straightening her clothes, 'what's happened?'

  I looked out of the window. 'We've lost a wheel,' I said. 'We won't be going any further until it's fixed.'

  'How are the horses? How is Peter? Is anybody hurt?' That was Emily at her best, and I warmed to her anew.

  Peter had left his perch to tend to the horses. 'No,' I said. 'Everybody's fine.'

  I raised my voice. 'Peter! Is there a stable nearby?'

  'There's one at Jock's Lodge,' Peter said at once. 'About two miles ahead. Shall I go and find a wheelwright?'

  'Yes, Peter. You do that.' Emily sighed. 'And be as quick as you can, mind.'

  'Yes, Ma'am.' Peter looked in on us for a moment. 'You ladies sit tight here, and I'll be back soon.'

  I saw Peter tramp head down into the driving rain. 'We can do nothing but wait,' I said to Emily, 'so we may as well make ourselves as comfortable as possible.'

  I looked around. Dusk was already falling and together with the rain made the countryside even more dismal and lonely. I sighed; this was not how I had expected the day would go.

  'I hope there are no footpads around,' Emily nearly voiced my thoughts. 'It's getting dark.'

  Putting my hand within my travelling cloak, I touched the smooth walnut butt of the pistol. I knew it would not let me down, for Joseph Manton, the best gunsmith of the age, had made it for me. I was not scared of footpads, although I carried the pistol for quite another man. A man I hoped never to meet again. I closed my eyes, imagining the bark and kick of the piece under my hand, the orange spurt of flame and the cloud of acrid white smoke. His unhealthy white face haunted my thoughts.

  'It will be all right, Emily,' I said.

  'It's very dark.'

  'It will be all right. I promise you.' I gripped the butt of my Joseph Manton again. Part of me desperately hoped that some footpad would come so I could shoot him. I pushed that thought away. I would not descend to that level; I could not for I might never crawl back up again.

  We were in a dip of the road with a couple of wind-tortured hawthorn trees sagging under the rain and potholes rapidly filling with water. What I could see of the surroundings appeared monotonous, a dreary wasteland with scattered sad bushes.

  Emily cleared a circle of condensation from the window and peered outside. 'How horrid,' she said. 'There could even be dragons out there.' She forced a smile. 'Marie would keep as amused if she were here. She has such a sweet peculiarity of manner.'

  'She's getting married ne
xt week,' I reminded. 'Distract yourself by thinking of that.'

  'It feels as if we will never get away from here.' Emily smeared the condensation from another section of the window. 'I swear that rain is getting heavier. Maybe James will come looking for us.'

  'We have his chariot,' I reminded. 'He will find it hard to come this distance on foot.'

  'He's got Jessica, his horse.'

  I nodded, and we relapsed into silence, listening to the drum-beat of the rain on the carriage roof and the whine of wind through the coarse grass. I do not know how much time passed before I heard the soft clop of hooves in the mud. I curled my hand around the pistol butt as my heart-beat increased.

  'Halloa!' The voice echoed hollowly in the dark.

  I looked at Emily. 'That's not Peter.' I placed my thumb on the hammer of the pistol.

  'Halloa! In the coach there!'

  Keeping my hand on the pistol, I opened the door and peered outside. A lone horseman was negotiating the slope to the carriage. Surely a highwayman would not announce himself?

  'Halloa yourself,' I called. 'Who are you?'

  'George Rogers' the reply was quick and clear. 'Do you need help?'

  'Yes,' Emily replied for me as she thrust her head out of the open door. 'Yes, we do.'

  The horseman reined up beside us. He sat tall in the saddle, with a dark cloak covering him from neck to heels yet there was no disguising his military bearing.

  George Rogers dismounted and nodded to the broken wheel. 'Has your driver gone for help?'

  'He's gone to Jock's Lodge to find a stable.' I confirmed.

  'How long ago?' George Rogers was pleasingly direct.

  'He's been about two hours as far as I can judge.' I resolved to buy a watch as soon as I could.

  Rogers nodded. 'He'll have arrived long ago. He should be back within an hour unless you wish me to ride ahead and hurry him up?'

  'Oh, no, please stay with us,' Emily spoke quickly. 'There may be footpads around.'

  Rogers examined the wheel and grunted. 'There may be,' he said, 'and a stranded coach with a broken wheel and two wet lady passengers would be a tempting target indeed.' He glanced at us. 'Two very wet lady passengers.' Unfastening his cloak, he revealed the splendid uniform of a captain in the Volunteers. 'You are both shivering, but I only have one cloak.'