A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3)

by Helen Susan Swift

  'Warfare is not all glory and bravery,' Captain Rogers spoke quietly, as though from very far away. 'Oh, there is plenty of that as the men stand under the flapping Colours and the white powder-smoke drifts past, now revealing, now concealing. Then you hear the French with their pas-de-charge, the most sinister drumbeat in the world, and their shouts 'Vive la France' and our boys respond with three barking cheers. The Highland pipes scream out then, thin and high, raising the hairs on the back of your head.'

  I was there with him, holding my sword as I stood at Captain Rogers' side, facing the French. Perhaps I had drunk more claret than I realised, or maybe my nerves were reacting from their earlier strain by pushing me in the opposite direction. I do not know. I only know how I responded to Captain Rogers' words.

  'The cannon fire increases, sending their iron balls bounding toward us and then we see the French advancing, huge blue columns backed by artillery and cavalry. Our men shiver, stamp their feet and spit tobacco juice onto the ground. And we wait for orders, and we wait, and wait as they come closer.'

  'Oh, give the order,' I could nearly smell the Frenchmen as they marched towards the British lines. I gripped the captain's arm until my knuckles were white and my fingers ached. 'Give the order, do.'

  'We can see the moustaches on the infantry's faces; we see the braided hair and shining breastplates of the cuirassiers. Our men are falling as the enemy artillery plays among us, blood and death and pain and raw courage. And still, we wait the order to fire.'

  I gripped ever tighter, trying to lend my strength to my captain. 'Oh, give the order, please, before the French overrun us.'

  The scene was plain in my mind, the thin red British lines and the dense blue columns of the French, the men falling in agony and the steady hands gripping the Brown Bess muskets.

  'They are eighty paces away with the skirmishers in front, lithe, active little fellows aiming and firing at our men, picking off the officers. And still, we wait for the order.'

  By now I was in an agony of suspense. 'Oh, order us to fire.'

  'Present!' Captain Rogers' bark made me jump. 'Aim! Fire!'

  'Hurrah!' I cheered at the order as if I had been there. Luckily there was so much noise in that room that nobody heard me, or if they did they were too polite to take notice. It must have been ten years since I had experienced that level of excitement.

  'The muskets crack in a long volley, and the first three ranks of the French column disappear, shot flat. But still they come on, brave Frenchmen who expect another victory.'

  'Oh, no.' Captain Rogers' forearm was like iron. I leaned closer across the table.

  'Load!' Captain Rogers snapped. 'Ram! Present! Aim!'

  'Fire!' I shouted for him.

  'Not yet, damn it!' Captain Rogers said. 'Let them anticipate first; let them feel the fear, so they shiver and quake. Let them come closer so we can fell more of them with every shot.'

  'Yes indeed,' I said, quite carried away by his words. 'Let them come close, the scoundrels, the Republican blackguards, the French devils!'

  'Fire!'

  'Fire,' I repeated.

  'See? They are running!' Captain Rogers was on his feet, pointing to the window. With one movement he drew his sabre, 'bayonets, lads and after them!'

  I was also standing, visualising the scene as we charged at the French in that upper room where Marie was celebrating her marriage, and the prancing, happy ladies were displaying all their splendour despite the battle the captain and I fought around them.

  'So that's what it's like,' Captain Rogers replaced his sword where it belonged after putting the chandelier in grave danger. 'Fear and gore and blood.'

  'And glory,' I said, momentarily all eager to be part of the captain's life. 'And bravery.'

  Captain Rogers screwed up his face. 'You don't feel brave, Miss Flockhart. You only feel that you have your duty to do and you don't wish to let down your men.'

  We were silent for a few moments. A coal slipped in the grate, and a quiet servant picked up the tongs and added more fuel to the fire. The music continued, and the dancing. Captain Rogers massaged his arm. 'You have a strong grip' he said, smiling.

  'Not as strong as yours, I think,' I said.

  The music stopped, and the flushed dancers returned to their seats. For one moment the noise dipped, just as there was a sharp rapping at the door. I watched as a servant slid silently away, and a few moments later a travel-dishevelled ensign stepped into the room. He approached the senior major, saluted and whispered a few words. The major called over Captain Rogers, and within minutes all the Volunteer and Militia officers were slipping away.

  'Captain Rogers,' I stopped him before he reached the door. 'Pray tell me what's to do?'

  'Now don't you fret,' Captain Rogers spoke calmly. 'This is just a precaution. There has been a report that the warning beacons were seen alight on the coast, so we are mustering to ensure Boney does not land.'

  'The French?' I looked at the officers as they filed from the room; a few moments before they had been smiling with their dance-partners, now they were grim-faced and professional.

  'I think not, but we must muster and see.' He lowered his voice. 'I'll send you a message when this is over, Miss Flockhart; I have taken quite a liking to your company.' He held my gaze. 'Unless you have an objection?'

  I curtseyed, 'Captain.' I was not sure I wished to see my gallant captain again. The notion was not completely unpleasant. If nothing else, Captain Rogers was a passable dancer and an entertaining raconteur. I had to agree that I did not dislike the man, and that was a major admission. 'Thank you, Captain Rogers. I have no objection.'

  'Enjoy the rest of the evening, ladies and gentlemen,' Captain Rogers's roar completely drowned any other sound in the room. 'If Boney is here, the Edinburgh Volunteers will soon send him packing back to France with his tail between his frogs' legs.'

  'Oh!' Elizabeth Campbell covered her mouth. 'Oh, Colin!'

  Colin put his arms around her. 'It's only a precaution, as the captain said. It'll be a false alarm.'

  I stepped back as Lady Pluscarden stood up, her face furrowed into a frown. 'Take care, gentlemen,' she called.

  'Oh, gentlemen and ladies,' the senior major paused at the door. 'Given the possible urgency of the situation, I have decided to requisition your carriages and coaches. I have sent an express to raise the local Volunteers, and we shall travel with them to their rendezvous point. I know that you will understand. I trust you will all make your way home in safety.' Lifting his shako, he departed, leaving the room a-buzz with speculation and alarm.

  Only then did I recall that the Volunteers did not serve abroad. My gallant Captain's war story could not have happened unless he had been in a regular regiment, and if so, why had he left?

  I shook my head. I was not the only person present who was hiding the past.

  False alarm or a mass invasion by the French, either way, the ensign's arrival effectively ended Marie's wedding ceremony. When the officers left, the heart went out of the night. Although the orchestra tried their best to reinstall some joviality, the men and women preferred to congregate in anxious little groups to discuss what they should do.

  I heard McAra voice his thoughts. 'If it is Boney,' he said, standing at the head of the table, 'then we had better hope the regulars come quickly. These Volunteers won't stand for a single volley.'

  'That is surely great nonsense, sir.' Lady Pluscarden had to lean backwards to face McAra. 'These men will fight. If you had the courage to don a uniform, I would think better of you.'

  Giving a high-pitched laugh, McAra stalked away. I watched with the hatred strong inside me. I had never met the man, but he was too similar to another with the same surname and the same appearance.

  Unable to stop myself, I curtseyed to Lady Pluscarden, who inclined her head in return and beckoned me forward.

  'Miss Flockhart,' she said, 'I have been watching you.'

  'Yes, your ladyship.'

  'I do know y
ou, I am sure.' She peered closer at me. 'Were you at the Great Northern Ball in Inverness last year?'

  'No, your Ladyship,' I said. 'I have been overseas for some time.'

  'I'll work it out,' Lady Pluscarden said. 'Now our host is talking.'

  'You'll all stay the night here,' Gibbie insisted loudly. 'There are sufficient rooms for everybody and stabling for any horses and servants that the army may not require.'

  With neither the desire nor intention to remain the night in Tynebridge Hall, I felt something flutter inside me and recognised the beginning of panic. 'Excuse me,' I sought a chair and took deep breaths, hoping that Emily or Elizabeth would happen along. Not Marie; she would be too flustered with this sudden influx of guests into her new house on the first night of married life. Poor woman; life could be so unfair sometimes.

  'Miss Flockhart?' The voice was soft. 'Miss Dorothea Flockhart is it not?'

  The man's smile stretched his thin face as he dragged a chair across the floor to my side. 'I thought I heard Lady Pluscarden call you that.'

  I gave my coldest of nods. 'You may have done so.'

  'That is interesting,' the thin-faced man sat beside me without by-your-leave or introduction. 'I also heard Lady Pluscarden say she had met you before.'

  'Indeed?' I raised my eyebrows, wishing this odious fellow would leave me in peace.

  'I am sure I have also met you before.'

  I felt the suddenly increased hammering of my heart. I tried to edge further away. 'I do not believe I know you, sir.'

  'William Turnbull.' My thin-faced companion gave a half bow that was more mockery than politeness.

  'Mr Turnbull,' I acknowledged his presence with another nod.

  'And you are Miss Dorothea Flockhart,' Turnbull mused, 'or so you say.'

  I looked around in vain for somebody to rescue me from this man. A French invasion would have been welcome at that moment. 'I am not sure I understand you, sir.'

  'Oh, I think you do,' Turnbull said. 'I think you understand me very well indeed.' Turnbull's smile contained as much humour as a cat at a mouse-hole. 'You are no stranger to this district at all, Miss Flockhart. I wonder why you wish to be known by that cognomen.' He continued to smile, stretching his legs out in front of him as he sat at my side. 'I really do.'

  'If you'll excuse me, sir,' I said, 'I find this discussion most tiresome.'

  'I do believe that you do,' Turnbull said. 'Yet others in this room may be extremely interested to hear that the shy Miss Flockhart is not all she appears. You do have a reason for your reticence.'

  'I am sure my affairs would be of little interest to anybody.' I prepared to stand up and leave this unpleasant fellow to his own devices, yet he held me fast.

  Turnbull's smile did not falter one whit. 'In which case, Miss Flockhart, you will have no objections to me announcing my knowledge to others in this room? The garrulous Mrs Elliot will certainly be interested in hearing about her new friend, or Mr Colin Campbell, perhaps? Even Mrs Emily Napier, your most particular companion who accompanied you to the Field Day so recently, will be delighted to learn you have deceived her.'

  I stared at Turnbull. 'Have you been spying on me, sir?'

  He laughed. 'Spying is such an ugly word, Miss Flockhart. Let us say I was ensuring that I knew you better before approaching.'

  'And is there a purpose to your approach, sir?' Again I looked around in desperate hope for somebody to come along and interrupt this most unpleasant conversation.

  'You have a secret you don't wish to be known,' Turnbull said, 'and I have a slight problem with finances.'

  'Money?' I stared at this obnoxious fellow. 'You want me to give you money?'

  'That's the ticket,' Turnbull faced me openly. 'That way I keep my silence and you keep your little secret, and we are both happy.'

  'The devil!' I stared at Turnbull, revolted at the audacity of the man. 'How dare you, sir!' Yet I knew there was little I could do to retaliate. I did have a secret, and it seemed that Turnbull knew what it was. His next words confirmed my fears.

  Turnbull's smile was unwavering. 'You are not quite who you appear, Miss Flockhart, and I am sure you have an excellent reason for keeping that to yourself. I would have no reason for disclosing my intelligence if my financial affairs were more comfortable.'

  'Damn you, sir!' I hissed, searching frantically for some way out. 'You are no gentleman!'

  'Perhaps not,' Turnbull said, 'but that is not the question. My reputation is beyond repair, you see, Miss Flockhart and can hardly be further damaged. Yours, on the other hand, is barely known.'

  I stood up, seeking some air and space in which to think.

  'Yes, you think about it,' Turnbull uncoiled at my side, tall and sinewy and basilisk-eyed. 'Think about the consequences and the small price that is all you have to pay to avoid them.'

  'The small price?' I felt dirty even talking to this man.

  'Oh, yes Miss Flockhart. I am not asking for a great deal. Shall we say £100?' He gave another little bow, turned on his heel and stalked away, the very picture of sordid elegance. After three steps he turned around. 'Don't concern yourself with finding me, Miss Flockhart, I am well aware of your Thistle Street address, and I will call round by-and-by to make the arrangements.'

  I felt sick. The trepidation with which I had returned to this house had been well founded, and in a way that even I could not have expected. I could not stay here. I must get away and seek fresh air. Making my stumbling excuses to poor Marie, who appeared flustered enough with all the coming-and-going on her wedding day, I grabbed my cloak and rushed out of the house into the damp coolness of the November night.

  Chapter Three

  A Scottish winter is not kind to a woman in distress, and within ten minutes I was shivering like as aspen leaf. The night closed around me, damp and chill. It penetrated my light cloak and the thin material of my gown and reminded me that it was only comparatively recently that I had returned from a much more welcoming climate. I halted my heedless rush into the policies and looked around, listening to the wind roaring through the stark branches and the surge of the nearby River Tyne.

  I used to be very familiar with the grounds of Tynebridge Hall and recalled an old Summer House where I could find a modicum of shelter. It was less than five hundred yards from the Hall, yet in the decade since I had last been here the paths had become overgrown and the trees more tangled. Even the undergrowth had grown denser so I tripped and stumbled as I moved across the once familiar ground. The memories returned, bitter and savage with the passage of years and onset of my maturity. I stopped in the partial shelter of a rowan tree.

  'Beware the horned beast,' Mother Faa had warned me, and sure enough, a horned beast had appeared. Turnbull. What better name could there be for such a man? A bull was a horned beast, and he had shown himself to be dangerous and thoroughly unpleasant. If that part of Mother Faa's prediction had come true, were her words about a man in uniform equally accurate?

  I took a deep breath and knew I needed space and time to think. I would generally return to my sanctuary of Thistle Street, but Turnbull had polluted that by his knowledge. I had nowhere else except the windy spaces of the hills. They would have to wait. At present I needed the shelter of the summer house or I would catch my death of cold out here. I had to concentrate on tonight and leave the future to look after itself.

  My feet found the path despite the dark, and I saw the structure ahead. In keeping with the main building, it was neo-classical, with Doric columns around the walls and a dominant pediment cutting into the stars above. Thankful that the door was open, I nearly fell inside and lay on the stone-flagged floor, gasping in relief. The place may have been stark, but the walls kept out the wind and the roof provided shelter from the rain.

  I do not know how long I lay there. It may have been minutes; it could have been hours. I only moved when the cold was numbing, and my teeth were chattering a tempo faster than any of the dances that already seemed so long ago. I dragged
myself to my feet and stumbled in the dark, knowing there was a stone seat along the wall, with a beautiful summer view over the estate and the castle of Crichton. That night there was no view, and the unglazed windows allowed the rain to chill my face.

  The door creaked, and somebody entered, with the soft glow of a lantern casting a pool of yellow light. Was there no peace in this world? I sat still, hoping to be left alone.

  'Who's there? I know somebody's there.' The voice was Doctor Hetherington's, pleasant and familiar. 'Come now, there's no need to hide from me, whoever you are. I won't hurt you.'

  The light eased in my direction and settled on my face.

  'Why, Miss Flockhart! Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?' Doctor Hetherington lifted his lantern higher. 'And you're soaked to the skin, woman. Get you back inside now, before you catch a pneumonic infection.'

  The sound of his concerned voice was just too much for me after Turnbull's threats, and I began to cry.

  'Oh, now, whatever is the matter,' Doctor Hetherington was at my side in seconds with one arm around my cringing shoulders and his voice comforting in my ear. 'Shall I take you back to the Hall?'

  I shook my head, unwilling and unable to speak.

  'All right then.' Removing his cloak, he placed it on me. The extra layer of warmth was welcome against the chill. 'We will sit here together a while, and I will talk to you.'

  I took deep whooping breaths of the damp air and said nothing.

  'I often come to this spot,' Dr Hetherington spoke conversationally, as if to an old friend or the family dog. 'It is where I think things out. It's better in daylight when I can see half of Midlothian spread out before me and listen to the birds singing. Nothing eases the heart like birdsong.'

  I nodded through my tears, for in all the long years of my exile abroad the one thing that I missed most was the song of the blackbird. Overseas birds are all very colourful and exotic, but not one of them comes close to the melancholic beauty of a blackbird in the evening. People may talk about the sound of bagpipes, but the call of a blackbird is the authentic music of Scotland.