'You're shivering,' Doctor Hetherington said. 'Come on. If you don't wish to return to the Hall, you can come home with me. I don't have a grand house but God knows it's warmer than out here and we can get you out of these wet clothes.'
I followed him like the proverbial sacrificial lamb as he picked his way along a half-seen path to the southern edge of the policies. I heard the rush of the River Tyne and a tiny part of me thought about stepping in and allowing the cold water to usher me to a more peaceful place.
'It's all right.' Misunderstanding the reason for my shudder, Doctor Hetherington comforted me. 'We don't have to ford the river. There an ancient bridge over the Tyne, the Royal Union Bridge they call it because it dates from 1603, the same year as the Union of the Crowns.' His arm was firm around my shoulder. 'There's no danger, Miss Flockhart.'
It was not the danger that concerned me. Doctor Hetherington talked me over that hump-backed bridge where there was no parapet to prevent the unwary from falling into the foaming brown water below. 'If it were daylight I would show you the coat of arms with the lion of England and the unicorn of Scotland. It's worn now with age yet still clear, and that's us over, and there's the main road ahead and my home on the left. We've only hundred yards to walk and we're safe and in the warmth.'
'This is an old road.' My mind was wandering after the tribulations of the day. 'Did Jeremiah not say that?'
Doctor Hetherington nodded and quoted from the Bible. 'Thus saith the Lord. Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way.'
I completed the quote. 'And walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls.'
We exchanged looks, and he smiled, and I did not. Even so, I felt we had made some contact although I was unsure if it was for better or for worse or not for anything at all. I did not matter; I would not find rest for my soul on this path or any other.
Before I knew it, we were outside the doctor's dwelling, a modest two-storey building with a red pantiled roof, all set within a small vegetable garden of perhaps a fifth of an acre.
'In you come, Miss Flockhart and don't be concerned about your reputation. I am known as an eccentric, and I often bring my patients home with me.' Doctor Hetherington smiled, 'just not often in the middle of the night.' He used the flame in the lantern to light a couple of candles and led me in.
'Come into my parlour, said the spider to the miserably wet lady.' The doctor's parlour was a dishevelled room warmed by the dying embers of a fire and furnished with worn but serviceable furniture.
'Sit down, sit down,' he ushered me into the only armed chair while he fussed over the fire until the flames revived and threw light and warmth into the room. 'Now you sit there while I find you something to eat. There's nothing like warm broth to set you to rights on a night like this.'
I did as the doctor ordered and allowed him to take my cloak off and rub the circulation back into my hands. His broth was reheated from the day before if I was any judge but nourishing and restored life to me.
'You've been crying,' Dr Hetherington said.
'Yes.' I agreed.
'Heavens, woman!' The doctor put a hand on my arm, and then on my shoulder. 'You're soaked through and through. Quickly now, get out of these wet things, or it's pneumonic fever for you. Now no arguments! Off with them.'
I hesitated. 'I can't,' I said.
'Oh, stuff and nonsense,' Dr Hetherington said. 'I'm a doctor.' He sighed as he tried to understand my fears. 'It's all right, Miss Flockhart, I'll leave the room.' He rummaged in a battered sea- chest that squatted under the small window. 'Here; put these on until we get your clothes dry. They're not stylish, but they'll cover you, and they're warmer than what you're wearing now.' The white duck trousers and canvas shirt that he handed me were worn but spotlessly clean. I thanked him as he left the room.
Despite Doctor Hetherington's reassurances, I stood with my back to the door as I hurriedly changed and slipped on the dry clothes, folding up the shirt sleeves and trouser legs so they at least approximately fitted. Unsure what to do, I sat back down, closed my eyes and allowed the warmth from the fire to seep into my body as a hundred images crowded through my mind.
Past and present combined in a confusion of memories, where Captain Rogers fought the French while Lady Pluscarden fixed me with her gimlet gaze and William Turnbull proffered a grasping hand. I wriggled and writhed to escape as other, older and worse horrors surfaced, with terror coming to the fore and always an underlying knowledge of sickening loss.
When I woke up, I was tucked into a bed in an unfamiliar room with grey light struggling through a tiny square window. The wall opposite me was decorated with three slightly faded prints of wild birds and an incongruous whaling harpoon.
'Welcome back,' Doctor Hetherington must have heard me stir. He peered through the open door. 'You must have needed that sleep. You've been out for hours.'
I quickly checked to make sure I was still dressed and then the memory of Turnbull's blackmail threat returned. 'I have to get home.'
'I'll get you home,' Doctor Hetherington said. 'Calm yourself, and don't worry about the French. The invasion was a fudge so there's no danger. Some overzealous look-out thought he saw a signal that was not there.' He shrugged, 'oh, well. Better safe than sorry and if he had seen a signal and ignored it we would be under the heels of Boney in no time.'
I did not admit that I had forgotten all about the invasion scare. Sliding sideways out of bed, I remained sitting as my head cleared of the nightmares. 'How can I thank you for your hospitality, Doctor?'
Doctor Hetherington smiled. 'You can allow me the pleasure of your company for the journey into Edinburgh.'
'You are too kind,' I glanced down at my current state of dress. 'I had better wear my own clothes first, Doctor. I would raise a few eyebrows leaving Edinburgh in a gown and returning in a pair of sailor's trousers.'
'I think they are very fetching,' Doctor Hetherington said, 'yet they would invoke comments.'
'They are hardly fetching,' I caught a glimpse of myself in the pier-glass, saw how tightly the breeches hugged my hips and felt the colour rise to my face. 'Could you fetch my own clothes please, Doctor?'
'They are on the chair opposite the bed.'
'And all washed and ironed,' I noted. 'You would make some woman a fine wife, Doctor, except for the décor.' I nodded toward the harpoon. 'She might ask you to remove that.'
'A souvenir of my one-and-only sea voyage,' Doctor Hetherington touched the shaft of the harpoon. 'I was a student raising funds to continue my studies.' He stepped to the door. 'I'll leave you to get changed.'
Doctor Hetherington's finances did not stretch as far as a coach and pair, so it was in an open dog-cart that we trotted out of the village, over the Royal Union Bridge and onto the Edinburgh road. I held my travelling cloak close to my shoulders against the chill and allowed my mind to drift.
'If ever I had a secret to tell,' Doctor Hetherington said as we rolled past the ploughed fields and tiny collier villages of Midlothian, 'I would confide in you. You are the most close-mouthed woman I have ever met. No, you are the most close-mouthed person, woman or man, I have ever met.'
'Thank you.' My mind was set on William Turnbull, so I fear I quite neglected poor Doctor Hetherington despite all his kindness. What did that man Turnbull know and how had he obtained the intelligence?
'I am not sure I deserve to be thanked for that particular observation,' Doctor Hetherington negotiated the steep descent of Toll Brae, paid with good humour at the barrier and turned to the right, where the ancient settlement of Newbattle soon clustered before us. The one-time abbey rose above the trees, serene and lovely despite the dull skies.
'The truth should always come out, welcome or not,' I said.
Doctor Hetherington looked over his shoulder at me. 'You were scared last night,' he said, 'and it looked very much as if you had been running from someone or something.'
'Was that how it looked?' I tried to close that con
versation.
'One can only run so far,' Dr Hetherington slowed down as a group of round-shouldered miners crossed the road in front of us, men and women and children all bowed with weariness and unremitting labour. One looked around, her eyes sunk deep in a face seamed with coal dust and scars. Compared to these collier's everyday lives, I had no worries at all. 'And then it is time to make a stand.'
I was silent as we rattled through Newbattle and into Eskbank. 'Thank you,' I could not think of anything else to say.
'It can be hard to stand alone,' Doctor Hetherington continued the second I spoke. 'If you find yourself in that position, a sympathetic doctor could be helpful, a shoulder to lean on.'
I nodded, wondering if I could trust this man. My life's experience suggested that whatever his promises just now, he would be notably lacking when I needed him most. I thanked him yet again and allowed him to prattle on the remainder of the weary road to my home.
It was strange that after years when I avoided the company of single men, I had spoken to three in two days. One was a gallant captain with a twinkling eye and a storyteller's skill at entertaining. One was a serious-minded doctor with compassionate eyes and a battered face, and the third was the gaunt-faced Turnbull, who planned to rob me. Of the three, Turnbull was the man who I believed most typical of the sex.
It was a relief to have Doctor Hetherington pull up in front of my little house in Thistle Street, one of the lesser streets in Edinburgh's New Town. I climbed out, easing cramped limbs and wishing desperately to rub parts of me that one ought not to even think about, let alone touch in a public place. Hard dog-cart seats tend to do unpleasant things to the more ample portions of the female anatomy.
I tried not to notice the man who lounged in a doorway on the opposite side of the street. I could not cope with Doctor Hetherington and Turnbull at the same time. I could feel Turnbull's gaze following me into the house and hoped he did not come to the door while Dr Hetherington was inside. Somehow I knew he would not; creatures such as Turnbull often avoided the company of real men. All the same, I spent an uncomfortable hour entertaining the good doctor and worrying about Turnbull outside. I noticed Mrs Macfarlane, my housekeeper, watching me and knew she was harbouring a hundred questions.
When at last Doctor Hetherington said he had better be making his way back to Crichton I could have sobbed with relief.
'Thank you again,' Doctor I said. 'I don't know how I would have coped if you had not happened along.'
Doctor Hetherington bowed. 'It was my pleasure, Miss Flockhart.'
'Now he was a gentleman,' Mrs Macfarlane said as Doctor Hetherington cracked his whip for the long drive back to Crichton. 'Not like the last person who called.' Mrs Macfarlane was a middle-aged, efficient woman with the burr of the Highlands in her throat and wisdom in her eyes.
'Yes, Doctor Hetherington seems like a gentleman. Was the last person tall and thin?'
'That he was,' Mrs Macfarlane said. 'Tall and thin and with Satan's smile on his face.'
As we spoke, there was a knock at the door. 'Please see this man in, Mrs Macfarlane, and best leave us alone.'
Mrs Macfarlane frowned. 'If that's the same person that last called, Miss Flockhart, I'd prefer you're not alone with him.'
'Do as I say, please, Mrs Macfarlane.' I tried to sound commanding.
'Yes, Miss Flockhart,' Mrs Macfarlane put just sufficient inflexion in her words to show her displeasure. 'You be careful now.'
'Show him in.'
Turnbull had retained his insincere smile as Mrs Macfarlane ushered him into the withdrawing room. 'Your maid does not like me,' he sat down without an invitation.
'She has good taste,' I said. 'I don't like you either.'
'Oh, come now, Miss Flockhart, I could have revealed your secret and given you real cause for dislike.' Turnbull leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs. 'Aren't you going to offer your guest a drink?'
I sat opposite him, taking care there was space between us. 'No. Speak.'
'One hundred guineas, a mere hundred golden boys and your secret is safe.' Turnbull's smile did not waver.
'I will never see you again,' I tried to control my rising anger.
Turnbull spread his hands in a gesture more French than Scottish. 'I cannot say. I may have a desire for your company, Miss Flockhart. It would depend on my financial situation.'
'You have gambling debts,' I wanted to hurt this odious man.
'I may soon have gambling profits,' Turnbull said. 'Do you have the money with you?'
'I do not,' I said. 'I don't keep that sort of sum in the house in case of burglars, house-breakers or visits by unpleasant blackguards.'
'Will you have my funds tomorrow, then?' Turnbull's smile wavered slightly.
'A week today,' I had decided that, although I had no choice but to pay the piper, I would not rush to put my money into his avaricious hands.
'I can't wait that long.' Turnbull said.
'Then do your damndest,' I tapped my fingers on my knee. 'And not one brass farthing will you see from me.' As Doctor Hetherington had said, the time for running was finished, yet I was not quite ready to make a stand.
'One week today,' Turnbull rose and clapped his tall hat on his head. 'And you'd better have my money.'
'Show yourself out,' I said, 'for I'm sure I won't.' I heard the door slam as he left.
Chapter Four
'I said he was no gentleman, Miss Flockhart.' Mrs Macfarlane entered the room before the echoes of the slammed door had time to fade. 'Blackmail is it?'
'Were you listening at the door?'
'Yes,' Mrs Macfarlane nodded without a trace of shame. 'I don't know what hold he has on you, Miss Flockhart, and it's not my business.' She paused, obviously waiting for enlightenment that I was not inclined to give. 'I can help you.'
'There's nothing you can do,' I said.
'Macfarlane can help,' Mrs Macfarlane folded her arms and stood beside me in my drawing room. About fifty years old, not much over five foot tall, she looked as immobile as the granite of Ben Lomond, the mountain that overlooked her birthplace.
'Macfarlane?' I queried the name.
'My husband, Macfarlane.' Mrs Macfarlane had not budged a fraction of an inch.
'How can your husband possibly help?'
'Macfarlane knows people,' Mrs Macfarlane could be as obscure as Highland peat when it suited her. 'And he has his unique methods.'
'Thank you, Mrs Macfarlane, but I must pay the man Turnbull and hope he goes away.'
'Men like Turnbull never go away,' Mrs Macfarlane said. 'They crawl into your life and suck you dry. Macfarlane can help.'
'You seem to know a lot about this sort of business.' I tried to dominate the conversation while nausea rose within me.
'The moon is Macfarlane's lantern,' Mrs Macfarlane's reply was even more cryptic.
Ignoring Mrs Macfarlane's protests, I dismissed her to the kitchen, stood up and began to pace up and down the drawing room, trying to work out a way out of my dilemma. The only one that I could think of was to disappear again, book passage back to India and vanish in that immense place. No. I had decided to stop running. Doctor Hetherington was correct; it was time to make a stand.
What sort of stand? What could I do? I sighed; I would pay Turnbull and hope he was successful with the cards so that I would never see him again. It was a slender hope, yet any hope was better than none.
Moving to the window, I stared into the narrow gulley that was Thistle Street, where the ashlar buildings blocked the light and tradesmen's carts were more common than stylish carriages. I could afford better but had no intention of drawing more attention to myself. Why had I not remained in India? And then I remembered Captain Rogers open smile. There was some hope in this world. Now I had to see my solicitor about money.
That was tomorrow. Tonight I would eat, go to bed and hope the nightmares did not return. Tomorrow I would visit Mr Pryde.
The clerk looked me up and down as if I had no b
usiness to trouble him. 'May I have your name, Madam?'
'Please tell your master that Miss Dorothea Flockhart is here,' I said.
The clerk was a young man with hair as long as his nose and a high, ill-fitting collar. 'Is Mr Pryde expecting you?'
'Mr Pryde knows I am coming,' I said and waited while the clerk stamped away. I inhaled the smell of dust and age in this room that I had only visited twice before.
Mr Charles Pryde looked the same as he had the previous year, if a little bit greyer and with the lines around his eyes and mouth a little more defined. He bowed as he approached and ushered me past the counter and into his inner sanctum. 'Have a seat, do, Miss Flockhart.'
Mr Pryde's desk was piled high with ledgers and buff-coloured files, with his inkwell brimming full and his goose-wing quills standing to attention at the side. A pen-knife lay beside his blotter.
I glanced around the room. Glass-fronted bookcases covered two walls, with a deep-set window allowing in a modicum of grey light in the third. All was ordered and safe. Mr Pryde was not a man to take chances.
'Is it a year since you were last here?' Mr Pryde waited until I sat down before he slid down onto his hard chair. 'Time passes so quickly now. Why, it seems no time at all since your father sat on that very chair.' He shook his head. 'Well, well.'
When Mr Pryde rang the brass bell that stood beside his inkwell the clerk appeared at once.
'Bring me Miss Flockhart's file,' Mr Pryde said.
'Yes, sir.' The clerk bowed and disappeared.
'Do you wish some refreshment, Miss Flockhart?' Mr Pryde fussed with his ledgers. 'It does not seem correct to call you that.'
'Miss Flockhart is the name I use, Mr Pryde,' I said. 'Or Dorothea, if you wish. After all, you have known me since before I was born.'
'And your father and mother before you,' Mr Pryde said with a smile. 'Miss Flockhart it shall be.' He looked up as the clerk returned with a buff folder tied with linen thread and sealed with a blue wafer. 'Now, Miss Flockhart, to business.'
A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3) Page 6
