'Seven, eight.'
The voices droned on, monotonously counting the steps that could end in the death of them both. Even if one man killed the other and survived, he was then legally a murderer and could be pursued, arrested, tried for murder and hanged.
'Oh, Gibbie, take care, please take care,' Marie said.
I thought the same for George although I did not speak the words. One has to try and control one's emotions in public. I felt sick.
'Nine, ten.'
The protagonists were twenty paces apart now and still striding on, their boots splashing on the muddy ground, their faces set, white and determined. The sparrow-hawk hovered overhead, careless of the drama unfolding beneath.
'Bloody fools,' Doctor Hetherington shook his head. 'Bloody, pig-headed fools.'
I had not expected Gibbie to show such courage and despite the situation, I knew I was experiencing a thrill of admiration for both men, willing to put their lives at risk in such a manner.
'Eleven, twelve.'
Nearly there. In a few seconds, both men would turn and could face the final few seconds of their lives.
'Gibbie!' Marie's scream penetrated the tension. 'Please be careful!'
'Hush, Marie,' I gave her a little shake. 'You will distract them.'
'Thirteen, fourteen.'
Both men seemed to hesitate before the final step, and then they continued. 'Fifteen.'
They turned, both holding their pistol barrel-up in their right hand. There was no hesitation as the duellers stood still, right leg slightly in front, right arm extended and the pistol pointing straight at their target. Although they were only in that situation for a second or less, they seemed to stand for eternity. I saw that Gibbie had taken note of the words in Marie's book for his stomach was sucked well in to give as small a target as possible. Both men were slim; with the curve of hip and buttocks the most prominent part of them.
'Oh, God, George,' I prayed, 'take care.'
Both men fired simultaneously, with the slight puff of smoke from the lock followed by the orange muzzle flare and the longer smoke jet from the barrels. The sound was strangely muted rather than the sharp crack I had expected. It echoed from the slopes of Arthur's Seat, and the smoke hung white and acrid for a few seconds before it began to drift slowly away. Neither man stirred. They remained standing, arms extended, staring towards their opponent and then slowly, slowly, George slid to his right side as a scarlet patch spread across his right hip.
'That's it over,' Doctor Hetherington ran forward, speaking loudly. 'There, honour is even, you have both taken a shot, and nobody is dead.' I followed a few steps behind as the doctor relieved each man of his pistol. 'Now shake hands like gentlemen and forget this whole business. For God's sake, it's like something out of the Middle Ages, this duelling and fighting over empty words.'
I took the pistols from the doctor's hand. 'Captain Roger is wounded,' I said.
'It's nothing,' George lay prone on the ground with one hand over his hip. 'Elliot's bullet only nicked me.'
'Come, sir, over to my chariot and we'll have a look. Miss Flockhart, dispose of these instruments of death at once in case these gentlemen wish another gamble with them. Come, sir.' Doctor Hetherington put an arm around the captain's shoulder. 'Lean on me, sir, and we'll soon attend to that. 'Elliot, go to your wife and explain your position. Seconds, make peace with each other.'
I could only admire Doctor Hetherington as he took control of the situation and gave orders to these gentlemen, who were of far higher social standing than a country surgeon could ever attain.
Propping George up on the back of his dog-cart, Doctor Hetherington sliced open his breeches at the hip. 'I may need your help here, Miss Flockhart. I take it you are not offended by the sight of a male leg? Of course, you are not; it was a damned stupid question. After all, a leg is only a leg, and the Good Lord provided most of us with two of them.' He looked at the wound. 'Right, off with them, sir. Miss Flockhart, your help here, please. Take the captain's boots off.'
I did as the doctor asked and within seconds George was lying on his side in the dog-cart with his boots and breeches at his feet.
'I said I might need your help, Miss Flockhart.' Doctor Hetherington frowned. 'Damn this pretence of shyness. A man is just a man. Come here, madam, and help your friend.'
I crouched at Captain Roger's side as the doctor examined the wound. The Captain's leg was muscular, covered with fine dark hairs and surprisingly shapely as it swelled into the bulge of his hip and buttocks.
'Hold that,' Doctor Hetherington cleaned the wound that stretched across the hip and handed me the bloody sponge. 'It's clean, Captain, a simple flesh wound that a few stitches will cure.'
Captain Rogers grinned at me. 'I'm afraid you are seeing more of me than we both expected, Dorothea.' He looked down at himself. 'Good shooting from Gibbie Elliot,' he approved. 'I have no idea where my shot went.'
'It does not matter where your shot went, so long as it was not inside Mr Elliot.' Doctor Hetherington lifted George's shirt tail. 'Hold that Miss Flockhart and keep it away from the wound.' He tutted. 'Come closer woman! Captain Rogers won't bite you for God's sake.'
So close to the half-naked captain, I could not help but look and admire. It was not conscious or intentional, but some animal instinct that I was not aware I still possessed. I was a woman, and George was a man. Indeed, George was very much a man.
'Now this will sting a little, Captain. Squeeze Miss Flockhart's hand if it helps.'
George's hand sought mine, but whether it was for comfort or some other reason I could not tell. 'On you go, Doctor,' he said. 'Do your worst.'
His hand was firm and warm around mine, and he was remarkably cheerful for a man who had just been shot. He seemed to be savouring the attention, and I wondered, with some shock, if he enjoyed me seeing him so exposed. I watched as the doctor pressed the two sides of George's wound together and sewed them with stitches of which I would have been proud. With three minutes Doctor Hetherington was finished. He bent to examine his work and patted George's backside.
'There now, Captain, that will leave a scar to fascinate the ladies, should you chose to allow them access to that portion of you.'
'Admirable,' Captain Rogers twisted to examine his wound. 'Although there will be few women indeed who will see it.'
'One already has,' Doctor Hetherington winked at me.
'You have a neat hand with the needle, Doctor.' I thought it best not to comment on what else I had seen.
'There was another lady present.' Covering himself, George wriggled around to sit on the hard seat.
'Mrs Elliot is long gone, Captain,' Doctor Hetherington said. 'The Elliot party departed as soon as you fools fired at each other. Lieutenant Hepburn is still here.'
I had forgotten about Hepburn and looked up. The three of us were alone in Hunter's Bog with the sheep and that questing sparrow-hawk.
'Thank you, Lieutenant,' George said, and I wondered if it was normal for Volunteer captains to give orders when they were naked from the waist down. Perhaps it was, in the military world. 'You better get back to the castle now.'
'Yes, sir.' Hepburn hesitated. 'Will you be all right? I can wait and help you.'
'If the authorities arrive, we'll all be in trouble,' George said, 'and I don't wish to be responsible for you. Get back to barracks, Hepburn. That's an order.'
'Yes, sir.'
We watched Hepburn march down the centre of Hunter's Bog toward Edinburgh. 'Could you cobble my trousers together please Doctor?' George touched his new wound. 'I don't wish to have them flapping around my hips.'
Dr Hetherington grunted. 'I'm not your blasted tailor, Captain, maybe Miss Flockhart would be better,' but he stitched the trousers back with as much skill as he had the captain's skin. 'Now don't use that leg too much for the next few days, Captain Rogers or the stitches could burst, and you could be in all sorts of bother. Let your regimental surgeon see it as well, and follow his advice.'
<
br /> For a moment I watched these two men. They had come into my life very recently and yet I already liked both, for vastly different reasons. The doctor was compassionate, gentle even, and would be a man to approach for any medical or personal problem. He would be a dependable family doctor, I believed. However, Captain Rogers was a man of action with that intriguing scar on his chin and his swaggering walk. With all that, he was not arrogant and he lacked the cruelty that so many veteran soldiers seemed to possess. There was also something else, a seeming desire for danger or attention, I was not sure yet, and thought it would be at least amusing to investigate further.
I had proof of his bravery for he had stood up to a pistol at thirty paces without a single flinch. Now I saw that he retained his good humour even after an inexperienced civilian had bested him in a duel. Some men I had known would have cursed and shouted at such ill-fortune, while George merely accepted his defeat and the wound across his hip. I liked him rather more for both. I looked tactfully away as he struggled into his tight breeches, for he would undoubtedly reveal more than he intended. I smiled inwardly at my memories of his shapely leg with the gentle swell of his buttock so white and clean. Yes, I thought, I undoubtedly liked George Rogers, and for more than one reason. When I turned back he was fully dressed and with only the stitches in his white breeches as a reminder of recent events, that and the blood-stain already turning a rusty brown.
'I'll drive you up to the Castle,' Doctor Hetherington offered, 'if you can both squeeze into my cart.'
I also liked the doctor, I realised.
Chapter Eleven
Thistle Street seemed once more like a haven from the complications of the world. I listened to the slow ticking of the clock, looked around my drawing room and walked to the bookcase, where my books were old friends. Some were travel-worn, with stains from salt-water and spilt coffee, others I had bought since returning to Scotland. As well as Burns and various religious books, there was Wordsworth and Fielding, Homer and Tacitus, Smollet, Voltaire and Gilpin. Running my fingers across the spines, I selected a long-time favourite and retreated to my seat.
Opening Homer, I sat near the fire, trying to forget the outside world in the adventures of Odysseus. The familiar old words in the book blurred and merged as I attempted to concentrate. At that moment I did not care about romantic imagery or the wine-dark sea. I was seriously contemplating packing everything back up and returning to India. Despite the heat and the flies and the alien lifestyle, I had found peace there of a sort. I could lease a small bungalow and hire half a dozen servants whose company I would have preferred to these arrogant men whose pride was so much more important to them than their wives.
India. I closed my eyes and wondered what had made me return to Scotland. Since my return, I had experienced only trouble, except for the friendship of George and, to an extent, Doctor Hetherington. And Emily. Recalling my recent experiences in Hunters Bog, I shook my head at my thoughts and firmly pushed the images from my mind. Or most of them, for some, insisted on sliding back as a reminder.
'Oh, Captain Rogers,' I said, 'what have you done to me?' Knowing that there could be no future with George, I tried again to concentrate on Homer.
The knock on the door sounded like a harbinger of doom, and I felt suddenly sick.
'I hope that's not that Turnbull fellow,' Mrs Macfarlane bustled into the room. 'I'll give him a piece of my mind if it is.'
'I hope it's not,' I agreed as Mrs Macfarlane made her way to the door. I heard the light tones of a woman, and then Marie exploded into the room with her face crumpled and her hair an explosion under her loosely tied hat.
'Dorothea! You have to help me! They've arrested Gibbie.'
I stood up, hands outstretched. 'Oh, dear God. Sit down.' I ushered Marie into a chair. 'Now take a deep breath and tell me everything.'
It took me a good five minutes to get Marie calmed down and then she told me what had happened. The Elliot party had returned to Tynebridge Hall after the duel and Marie was asking searching questions about Gibbie's gambling habits when they heard a hammering at the door. Within a few moments, three sturdy men entered the house.
'What sort of men?' I asked.
'King's messengers,' Marie said. 'Sent by the court to arrest Gibbie for attempted murder and taking part in a duel.'
I nodded. 'I see. That was remarkably quick work. Who gave Gibbie away?'
'That's just it,' Marie said. 'It was Mr Turnbull who told the King's Messenger, Mr Turnbull who is Gibbie's friend.'
I was not as surprised as Marie was. 'Mr Turnbull is a most unpleasant individual. My Mrs Macfarlane has no time for him at all.' I knew that Mrs Macfarlane would be listening behind the door.
'I don't care what Mrs Macfarlane thinks,' Marie howled. 'I only want Gibbie back.'
I thought what best to do. Unfortunately, there was no doubt that Gibbie and George had broken the law, so the King's Messengers were well within their rights. 'I'll go and visit him,' I said. 'You stay home.' I could not imagine how Marie would act if she saw her husband in jail. Nature had not blessed her with the strongest of nerves, and the sight of Gibbie in chains could possibly unhinge her completely.
'No,' Marie shook her head. 'I'm not staying in Tynebridge Hall without Gibbie.'
'Where will you go?' I asked.
'The Campbells live at Flotterstone Manor,' Marie said. 'I will be safe there.'
'I'll take you there,' I steeled myself for yet another winter journey across Midlothian. Honestly, I did more travelling that season than I ever did in India. 'And tomorrow morning I will visit Gibbie.'
It was late when I returned, and I lay in bed a long time before I found sleep. Even then I tossed and turned in the throes of nightmares, and woke with a sore head and out of temper.
With Mrs Macfarlane out of the house on some mysterious message of her own, there was nobody to help me struggle with my boots, and dark green cloak and only the pier-glass witnessed me adjust my hat. I was less fashion-conscious than most women, but still, I preferred to look at least presentable when I ventured abroad. Sighing, I studied my appearance, decided it would do and waited for my hired chaise-and- driver to roll up to the door.
You may be aware of Edinburgh's ancient prison some called the Heart of Midlothian, and the locals knew as the Tolbooth. It is long gone now, and yet it is famous because Sir Walter Scott wrote about it in one of his interminable romances. In my day he was plain Walter Scott, you will recall that I saw him slicing turnips on Portobello beach the day I first met George. I never took to his books, however much money he made from them. There was always too much of the tartan about them, and praise for the outlaws and cattle thieves. To me, there is nothing romantic about thievery and law-breaking, while tartans and kilts belong in the Highlands, not all over the country. Anyway, somebody must suffer for a thief to gain, and despite what novelists claim, it is the poor folk at the bottom of the pyramid who are the most at risk. There is no honour among thieves and no gentleman outlaw who robs the rich to feed the poor. More importantly, the Tolbooth was in the High Street, and that was where Gibbie was locked up.
I could have walked from our house in Thistle Street to the Old Town, but I had no desire to struggle up the Earthen Mound or chance the stares and uncouth comments of the mob. At that period, remember, the Old Town was still in a state of transition, shared between the native people and the incoming Irish labourers. Most of the elite had flitted to the grander properties of the New Town although a few of the older gentry clung to the traditional ways and the houses in which their families had lived for generations. Year by year the respectable people were seeping away, and the ancient streets and buildings were becoming more rundown and no-doubt more picturesque. To me, picturesque means ruinous and although they may have been suitable for Sir Walter's novels or Wordsworth's poems they were not decent accommodation for any human being.
In the centre of the High Street was the Tolbooth, the infamous Heart of Midlothian and as I said, somewh
ere inside was Gibbie Elliot. A large part of me agreed that he deserved to be there, not because of his foolish duelling but because of the way he gambled with Marie. The Tolbooth was a dark building, tall, with the corners, nailed down with turrets and aeons of dirt griming the barred windows. It sat cheek-by-jowl with St Giles, the High Kirk that had once been a cathedral, and nearly blocked the roadway. It was not a place near which to linger, and it exuded an aura of evil from the wicked deeds that it had witnessed and the terrible people who the Law had locked inside the filthy walls. Murderers and rapists, assassins and torturers, body snatchers and habitual thieves had spent time here, and now naïve Gibbie Elliot was a guest, forlorn and foolish.
I halted the chaise fifty yards from the ugly building, paid the driver and asked him to wait.
'How long will you be, miss?' The driver was squat and unshaven, with sharp blue eyes.
'I do not know,' I said.
'In that case, I will move on,' the driver whipped up. 'I won't make a living waiting here.' He rolled away before I could protest, leaving me alone outside the city jail with two hard-faced City Guards watching me over their long-stemmed pipes.
'Good morning,' I decided that politeness was the best weapon to use with these old soldiers. Dressed in red uniforms and carrying lethal Leith axes, these men had been soldiers before they retired to the City Guard. They nodded in silent unison. I wondered how many years of service they had seen between them, how many battles and how much human suffering.
'I am looking for Gilbert Elliot.' I gave a little curtsey. 'The Honourable Gilbert Elliot.'
'He's inside.' The younger of the two guards said. I guessed he had passed his allotted three-score years and ten some time ago.
'May I speak to him?'
A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3) Page 13
