“Look,” I had suggested to my escorting gaoler, “plainly Colonel Campbell is not going to have time or inclination to talk to me, and there’s nothing I could tell him in any case. Why don’t I just find lodging in the town here, until I can make some arrangement for continuing my journey to Edinburgh?” For lacking any better idea, I had given the English basically the same story I had given to Colum MacKenzie, two years earlier; that I was a widowed lady from Oxford, traveling to visit a relative in Scotland, when I had been set upon and abducted by Highland brigands.
Private Dobbs shook his head, flushing stubbornly. He couldn’t be more than twenty, and he wasn’t very bright, but once he got an idea in his head, he hung on to it.
“I can’t let you do that, Mrs. Beauchamp,” he said—for I had used my own maiden name as an alias—“Captain Bledsoe’ll have my liver for it, an’ I don’t bring you safe to the Colonel.”
So to Livingston we had gone, mounted on two of the sorriest-looking nags I had ever seen. I was finally relieved of the attentions of my escort, but with no improvement in my circumstances. Instead, I found myself immured in an upper room in a house in Livingston, telling the story once again, to one Colonel Gordon MacLeish Campbell, a Lowland Scot in command of one of the Elector’s regiments.
“Aye, I see,” he said, in the sort of tone that suggested that he didn’t see at all. He was a small, foxy-faced man, with balding reddish hair brushed back from his temples. He narrowed his eyes still further, glancing down at the crumpled letter on his blotter.
“This says,” he said, placing a pair of half-spectacles on his nose in order to peer more closely at the sheet of paper, “that one of your captors, Mistress, was a Fraser clansman, very large, and with red hair. Is this information correct?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what he was getting at.
He tilted his head so the spectacles slid down his nose, the better to fix me with a piercing stare over the tops.
“The men who rescued you near Falkirk gave it as their impression that one of your captors was none other than the notorious Highland chief known as ‘Red Jamie.’ Now, I am aware, Mrs. Beauchamp, that you were…distressed, shall we say?”—his lips pulled back from the word, but it wasn’t a smile—“during the period of your captivity, and perhaps in no fit frame of mind to make close observations, but did you notice at any time whether the other men present referred to this man by name?”
“They did. They called him Jamie.” I couldn’t imagine any harm that could be done by telling him this; the broadsheets I had seen made it abundantly clear that Jamie was a supporter of the Stuart cause. The placing of Jamie at the battle of Falkirk was possibly of interest to the English, but could hardly incriminate him further.
“They canna very well hang me more than once,” he’d said. Once would be more than enough. I glanced at the window. Night had fallen half an hour ago, and lanterns glowed in the street below, carried by soldiers passing to and fro. Jamie would be at Callendar House, searching for the window where I should be waiting.
I had the absurd certainty, all of a sudden, that he had followed me, had known somehow where I was going, and would be waiting in the street below, for me to show myself.
I rose abruptly and went to the window. The street below was empty, save for a seller of pickled herrings, seated on a stool with his lantern at his feet, waiting for the possibility of customers. It wasn’t Jamie, of course. There was no way for him to find me. No one in the Stuart camp knew where I was; I was entirely alone. I pressed my hands hard against the glass in sudden panic, not caring that I might shatter it.
“Mistress Beauchamp! Are ye well?” The Colonel’s voice behind me was sharp with alarm.
I clamped my lips tight together to stop them shaking and took several deep breaths, clouding the glass so the street below vanished in mist. Outwardly calm, I turned back to face the Colonel.
“I’m quite well,” I said. “If you’ve finished asking questions, I’d like to go now.”
“Would ye? Mmm.” He looked me over with something like doubt, then shook his head decidedly.
“Ye’ll stay the night here,” he declared. “In the morning, I shall be sendin’ ye southward.”
I felt a spasm of shock clench my insides. “South! What the hell for?” I blurted.
His fox-fur eyebrows rose in astonishment and his mouth fell open. Then he shook himself slightly, and clamped it shut, opening it only a slit to deliver himself of his next words.
“I have orders to send on any information pertaining to the Highland criminal known as Red Jamie Fraser,” he said. “Or any person associated with him.”
“I’m not associated with him!” I said. Unless you wanted to count marriage, of course.
Colonel Campbell was oblivious. He turned to his desk and shuffled through a stack of dispatches.
“Aye, here it is. Captain Mainwaring will be the officer who escorts you. He will come to fetch ye here at dawn.” He rang a small silver bell shaped like a goblin, and the door opened to reveal the inquiring face of his private orderly. “Garvie, ye’ll see the lady to her quarters. Lock the door.” He turned to me and bowed perfunctorily. “I think we shall not meet again, Mrs. Beauchamp; I wish ye good rest and God-speed.” And that was that.
* * *
I didn’t know quite how fast God-speed was, but it was likely faster than Captain Mainwaring’s detachment had ridden. The Captain was in charge of a supply train of wagons, bound for Lanark. After delivery of these and their drivers, he was then to proceed south with the rest of his detachment, delivering nonvital dispatches as he went. I was apparently in the category of nonurgent intelligence, for we had been more than a week on the road, and no sign of reaching whatever place I was bound for.
“South.” Did that mean London? I wondered, for the thousandth time. Captain Mainwaring had not told me my final destination, but I could think of no other possibility.
Lifting my head, I caught one of the dragoons across the fire staring at me. I stared flatly back at him, until he flushed and dropped his eyes to the bowl in his hands. I was accustomed to such looks, though most were less bold about it.
It had started from the beginning, with a certain reserved embarrassment on the part of the young idiot who had taken me to Livingston. It had taken some little time for me to realize that what caused the attitude of distant reserve on the part of the English officers was not suspicion, but a mixture of contempt and horror, mingled with a trace of pity and a sense of official responsibility that kept their true feelings from showing openly.
I had not merely been rescued from a band of the rapacious, marauding Scots. I had been delivered from a captivity during which I had spent an entire night in a single room with a number of men who were, to the certain knowledge of all right-thinking Englishmen, “Little more than Savage Beasts, guilty of Rapine, Robbery, and countless other such Hideous Crimes.” Not thinkable, therefore, that a young Englishwoman had passed a night in the company of such beasts and emerged unscathed.
I reflected grimly that Jamie’s carrying me out in an apparent swoon might have eased matters originally, but had undoubtedly contributed to the overall impression that he—and the other assorted Scots—had been having their forcible way with me. And thanks to the detailed letter written by the captain of my original band of rescuers, everyone to whom I had later been passed on—and everyone to whom they talked, I imagined—knew about it. Schooled in Paris, I understood the mechanics of gossip very well.
Corporal Rowbotham had certainly heard the stories, but continued to treat me kindly, with none of the smirking speculation I occasionally surprised on the faces of the other soldiers. If I had been inclined to offer up bedtime prayers, I would have included his name therein.
I rose, dusted off my cloak, and went to my tent. Seeing me go, Corporal Rowbotham also rose, and circling the fire discreetly, sat down by his comrades again, his back in direct line with the entrance to my tent. When the soldiers retired to
their beds, I knew he would seek a spot at a respectful distance, but still within call of my resting place. He had done this for the past three nights, whether we slept in inn or field.
Three nights earlier I had tried yet another escape. Captain Mainwaring was well aware that I traveled with him under compulsion, and while he didn’t like being burdened with me, he was too conscientious a soldier to shirk the responsibility. I had two guards, who watched me closely, riding on each side by day.
At night, the guard was relaxed, the Captain evidently thinking it unlikely that I would strike out on foot over deserted moors in the dead of winter. The Captain was correct. I had no interest in committing suicide.
On the night in question, however, we had passed through a small village about two hours before we stopped for the night. Even on foot, I was sure I could backtrack and reach the village before dawn. The village boasted a small distillery, from which wagons bearing loads of barrels departed for several towns in the surrounding region. I had seen the distiller’s yard, piled high with barrels, and thought I had a decent chance of hiding there, and leaving with the first wagon.
So after the camp was quiet, and the soldiers lumped and snoring in their blankets round the fire, I had crept out of my own blanket, carefully laid near the edge of a willow grove, and made my way through the trailing fronds, with no more sound than the rustle of the wind.
Leaving the grove, I had thought it was the rustle of the wind behind me, too, until a hand clamped down on my shoulder.
“Don’t scream. Y’ don’t want the Capting to know yer out wi’out leave.” I didn’t scream, only because all the breath had been startled out of me. The soldier, a tallish man called “Jessie” by his mates, because of the trouble he took in combing out his yellow curls, smiled at me, and I smiled a little uncertainly back at him.
His eyes dropped to my bosom. He sighed, raised his eyes to mine, and took a step toward me. I took three steps back, fast.
“It doesn’t matter, really, does it, sweet’art?” he said, still smiling lazily. “Not after what’s ’appened already. What’s once more, eh? And I’m an Englishman, too,” he coaxed. “Not a filthy Scot.”
“Leave the poor woman alone, Jess,” Corporal Rowbotham said, emerging silently from the screen of willows behind him. “She’s had enough trouble, poor lady.” He spoke softly enough, but Jessie glared at him, then, thinking better of whatever he’d had in mind, turned without another word and disappeared under the willow leaves.
The Corporal had waited, unspeaking, for me to gather up my fallen cloak, and then had followed me back to the camp. He had gone to pick up his own blanket, motioned to me to lie down, and placed himself six feet away, sitting up with his blanket about his shoulders Indian-style. Whenever I woke during the night, I had seen him still sitting there, staring shortsightedly into the fire.
* * *
Tavistock did have an inn. I didn’t have much time to enjoy its amenities, though. We arrived in the village at midday, and Captain Mainwaring set off at once to deliver his current crop of dispatches. He returned within the hour, though, and told me to fetch my cloak.
“Why?” I said, bewildered. “Where are we going?”
He glanced at me indifferently and said “To Bellhurst Manor.”
“Right,” I said. It sounded a trifle more impressive than my current surroundings, which featured several soldiers playing at chuck-a-luck on the floor, a flea-ridden mongrel asleep by the fire, and a strong smell of hops.
The manor house, without regard to the natural beauty of its site, stubbornly turned its back on the open meadows and huddled inland instead, facing the stark cliffside.
The drive was straight, short, and unadorned, unlike the lovely curving approaches to French manors. But the entrance was equipped with two utilitarian stone pillars, each bearing the heraldic device of the owner. I stared at it as my horse clopped past, trying to place it. A cat—perhaps a leopard?—couchant, with a lily in its paw. It was familiar, I knew. But whose?
There was a stir in the long grass near the gate, and I caught a quick glimpse of pale blue eyes as a hunched bundle of rags scuttled into the shadows, away from the churn of the horses’ hooves. Something about the ragged beggar seemed faintly familiar, too. Perhaps I was merely hallucinating; grasping at anything that didn’t remind me of English soldiers.
The escort waited in the dooryard, not bothering to dismount, while I mounted the steps with Captain Mainwaring, and waited while he hammered at the door, rather wondering what might be on the other side of it.
“Mrs. Beauchamp?” The butler, if that’s what he was, looked rather as though he suspected the worst. No doubt he was right.
“Yes,” I said. “Er, whose house is this?”
But even as I asked, I raised my eyes and looked into the gloom of the inner hall. A face stared back at me, doe-eyes wide and startled.
Mary Hawkins.
* * *
As the girl opened her mouth, I opened mine as well. And screamed as loudly as I could. The butler, taken unprepared, took a step back, tripped on a settee, and fell over sideways like a bowls pin. I could hear the startled noises of the soldiers outside, coming up the steps.
I picked up my skirts, shrieked “A mouse! A mouse!” and fled toward the parlor, yelling like a banshee.
Infected by my apparent hysteria, Mary shrieked as well, and clutched me about the middle as I cannoned into her. I bore her back into the recesses of the parlor with me, and grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Don’t tell anyone who I am,” I breathed into her ear. “No one! My life depends on it!” I had thought I was being melodramatic, but it occurred to me, as I spoke the words, that I could very well be telling the exact truth. Being married to Red Jamie Fraser was likely a dicey proposition.
Mary had time only to nod in a dazed sort of way, when the door at the far side of the room opened, and a man came in.
“Whatever is all this wretched noise, Mary?” he demanded. A plump, contented-looking man, he had also the firm chin and tightly satisfied lips of the man who is contented because he generally gets his own way.
“N-nothing, Papa,” said Mary, stuttering in her nervousness. “Only a m-m-mouse.”
The baronet squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply, seeking patience. Having found a simulacrum of that state, he opened them and gazed at his offspring.
“Say it again, child,” he ordered. “But straight. I’ll not have you mumbling and blithering. Take a deep breath, steady yourself. Now. Again.”
Mary obeyed, inhaling ’til the laces of her bodice strained across the budding chest. Her fingers wound themselves in the silk brocade of her skirt, seeking support.
“It w-was a mouse, Papa. Mrs. Fr…er, this lady was frightened by a mouse.”
Dismissing this attempt as barely satisfactory, the baronet stepped forward, examining me with interest.
“Oh? And who might you be, Madam?”
Captain Mainwaring, arriving belatedly after the search for the mythical mouse, popped up at my elbow and introduced me, handing over the note of introduction from Colonel MacLeish.
“Hum. So, it seems His Grace is to be your host, Madam, at least temporarily.” He handed the note to the waiting butler, and took the hat the latter had taken from the nearby rack.
“I regret that our acquaintance should be so short, Mrs. Beauchamp. I was just leaving myself.” He glanced over his shoulder, to a short stairway that branched off the hall. The butler, dignity restored, was already mounting it, grubby note reposing on a salver held before him. “I see Walmisley has gone to tell His Grace of your arrival. I must go, or I shall miss the post-coach. Adieu, Mrs. Beauchamp.”
He turned to Mary, hanging back against the paneled wainscoting. “Goodbye, daughter. Do try to…well.” The corners of his mouth turned up in what was meant to be a fatherly smile. “Goodbye, Mary.”
“Goodbye, Papa,” she murmured, eyes on the ground. I glanced from one to the other. What on e
arth was Mary Hawkins, of all people, doing here? Plainly she was staying at the house; I supposed the owner must be some connection of her family’s.
“Mrs. Beauchamp?” A small, tubby footman was bowing at my elbow. “His Grace will see you now, Madam.”
Mary’s hands clutched at my sleeve as I turned to follow the footman. “B-b-b-but…” she began. In my keyed-up state, I didn’t think I could manage sufficient patience to hear her out. I smiled vaguely and patted her hand.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “Don’t worry, it will be all right.”
“B-but it’s my…”
The footman bowed and pushed open a door at the end of the corridor. Light within fell on the richness of brocade and polished wood. The chair I could see to one side had a family crest embroidered on its back; a clearer version of the worn stone shield I had seen outside.
A leopard couchant, holding in its paw a bunch of lilies—or were they crocuses? Alarm bells rang in my mind as the chair’s occupant rose, his shadow falling across the polished doorsill as he turned. Mary’s final anguished word made it out, neck and neck with the footman’s announcement.