Once Upon a Christmas Past

by Regan Walker

  Ailie crouched beside Nash, her hand on his shoulder as she handed him a handkerchief. “Press this to the wound while I fetch the physician.”

  Nash nodded. “Oh, Ailie, please hurry.”

  As she ran back toward High Street, Nash took off his coat and made a pillow for Robbie’s head. Then he pressed the cloth to the bloody wound.

  From the deck of the Panmure, Nash heard a cry of orders and turned to see the sails of the big schooner bloom open and stretch taut. A minute later, the ship pulled away from her mooring, heading into the harbor, her spread of canvas rising higher and higher as she caught the wind and picked up speed.

  His heart aching, Nash said a silent prayer for his brother, as he watched the Panmure slant away to the south toward France.

  * * *

  Ailie ran down the street toward Mr. Wilson’s receiving room, her mind filled with images from the horrible scene she had just witnessed.

  She had wandered off as the ladies finished handing out baskets and happened to glimpse Nash and Robbie talking to a group of men. Walking toward them, she heard the pistols fire and saw the smoke as one twin dropped to the ground. Terrified, she had run to them and heard Nash shout his brother’s name.

  That is how she knew the twin who lay bleeding on the ground was not the man she loved. Guilt assailed her for the joy she felt because Nash had been spared.

  Her dreams—both portents of the future and harbingers of danger—had become reality.

  Many questions swirled through her mind, but there had been no time to ask. Why had Robbie been shot? She had heard enough to know it was George Kinloch who stood over Robbie and Nash. Why had he come to Arbroath? Why did Nash urge him to go? And why did Kinloch think Robbie might die on his account? The Powell twins had to be more than mere passersby when the pistol was fired, for there was the matter of Robbie’s pistol lying on the ground beside his open hand.

  She raced up the stairs to the door, the sign above it announcing “W. Wilson, Physician”. The bell on the door jingled as she entered the small waiting room, her chest heaving from exertion.

  The waiting area was empty but the air against her cheek felt almost hot after the cold wind blowing outside. She knew the receiving room as well as she knew her own parlor, for she had been there more than once seeking help for injuries sustained by their workers.

  The nurse opened the inner door and approached. “Why, Miss Stephen, what is it? Trouble at the shipyard?”

  “No,” she said breathlessly, shaking her head. “One of our guests has been shot down by the harbor and lies bleeding. Can Mr. Wilson come?”

  “Aye, I’ll fetch him straight away.”

  The nurse disappeared through the door that led to the examining room and returned almost immediately with the middle-aged Mr. Wilson, his brown leather satchel in hand.

  The nurse held his bag while he slipped on his coat. “Good day, Miss Stephen. I understand we have a patient lying in the street.”

  “We do and I thank you for coming in haste to tend him.”

  Mr. Wilson grabbed his hat and accepted back his satchel. “As we go, you can tell me what happened.”

  She told him the few things she knew as he ventured down Bridge Street and then onto Lady Loan Shore that ran by the harbor.

  “Is the wounded man conscious?”

  Hurrying to keep up with his long stride, she said, “He wasn’t when I left him with his twin brother.” Remembering what she had seen, she added, “There was a lot of blood.”

  “It happens with head wounds.”

  She tried to draw hope from his words but the scene she had left was too terrible for her to believe Robbie wasn’t in grave danger.

  They arrived at the place where Nash hunched over Robbie’s prone form. Mr. Wilson crouched next to them. “I am Walter Wilson, the physician. Let me see the wound, please.”

  Nash lifted the cloth Ailie had given him, his tear-streaked face and dire expression conveying his desperation to know Robbie would live.

  The surgeon opened his case and took out a bottle marked “Spirit of Lavender”. Dousing a fresh cloth with the liquid, he dabbed at the blood flowing from Robbie’s left temple.

  “Lavender?”

  “Aye, oil of lavender is useful for digestive ailments but also good for cleansing wounds and soothing headaches and ’tis kind to the skin. I just want to wipe the blood away to see how deep is the wound.” Lifting the lavender-soaked cloth, now crimson with Robbie’s blood, Mr. Wilson appeared relieved. “He’s fortunate ’tis only a flesh wound, but he’ll have a wicked headache and a nasty scar.”

  Nash let out a sigh. “Thank God he will be all right.”

  Ailie reached her hand to cover Nash’s, trying to comfort him. “Mr. Wilson is an excellent physician, trained at Edinburgh University. You can trust him with Robbie.”

  “I’m thankful to you both.”

  Mr. Wilson stuffed the crimson cloth into his satchel and took out another small bottle. “My own mixture for treating wounds.” Putting some on yet another bit of cloth, he dabbed at the wound. The gash, now clearly visible, went from the end of Robbie’s eyebrow to the edge of his hair and a bit beyond.

  When the surgeon was finished with the small bottle, he took out a roll of white linen. “In addition to a fresh bandage, I’ll wrap his head to protect the wound. The bandages will need to be changed at least once a day.” He handed Ailie another roll. “I know you can do this, Miss Stephen, but remember to first clean the wound with a bit of brandy until it scabs over. A coating of honey will help avoid infection.”

  Ailie had treated wounds before, dutifully following the physician’s instructions.

  Putting all back in his satchel, Mr. Wilson closed it and turned to Nash. “Come, let us get him back to my office. He’ll freeze here. And put your coat back on, young man or you’ll freeze, too.”

  In what appeared to Ailie a mindless manner, Nash shrugged into his bloodstained coat and the two men lifted Robbie to an erect position.

  Ailie picked up the physician’s satchel, heavy with his bottles and instruments. They began to retrace their steps, slowly and in an awkward manner, as Robbie, unable to walk on his own, was dragged between the two men.

  Ailie’s spirits rose when Robbie let out a groan.

  “He is regaining consciousness,” said the physician, “a good sign.”

  Robbie’s eyes were still closed, and there was blood on the side of his face and a red stain on his cravat. Still, Ailie was heartened to see no bright stain of red coming through his bandage.

  They had only gone a short way when Ailie spotted Will driving the wagon with the ladies down the street toward them. Hugh rode alongside.

  Will pulled up next to Ailie and jumped down. “Good Lord, what has happened?”

  “Afternoon, Mr. Stephen, ladies,” said Mr. Wilson. His gaze met Will’s. “It seems one of your guests has been shot.”

  “It’s Robbie,” said Nash in a grave tone.

  “We’re taking him to Mr. Wilson’s office,” explained Ailie.

  Hugh dismounted and joined Will. Emily and the other ladies looked on, their faces lined with worry.

  “Here, let me take him,” said Will. The physician surrendered his hold on Robbie to Ailie’s brother. “How bad is it?”

  The physician reclaimed his satchel. “The ball grazed his temple leaving a nasty gash but, with care, he should recover.”

  Hugh asked, “Can we take him back to the shipyard?”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Wilson. “I can give you some laudanum for the pain. Ailie knows what to do and I have given her more bandages.” Reaching into his satchel, he took out a bottle and handed it to Will. “If you need more, send a footman and you shall have it. I will pay you a call tomorrow to see how he’s doing.”

  “Thank you,” said Will. “We are most grateful.”

  Mr. Wilson tipped his hat to the ladies and wished them a good day as he headed back toward his office.

  As the men m
oved Robbie toward the back of the wagon, the women continued to watch anxiously from the side. Hugh let down the tail of the wagon and Nash and Will lifted Robbie to a horizontal position, carefully sliding him onto the bed of the wagon. Without the baskets, there was sufficient room for him between the benches.

  Ailie climbed in and sat beside Robbie, gently raising his head to her lap. Nash took a seat on the bench across from her, his eyes fixed on his twin.

  “Here, take this,” said Mary, offering her lap blanket to Nash, which he laid over Robbie’s prone form.

  Tara offered her scarf to Ailie. “For under his head.”

  After they’d gone a short way, Robbie opened his eyes. Dazed, he looked up at Ailie and blinked twice. “Where am I? Heaven? Must be Heaven as I’m looking at an angel. But my head hurts like Hell.”

  The other women laughed, shaking their heads at Robbie’s attempt at humor.

  Ailie looked into Robbie’s hazel eyes, so like his brother’s. “As my brother can tell you, I am no angel, but I vow to take good care of you, Robbie Powell.”

  “The rascal recovers,” announced Muriel in a jovial manner but Ailie could see the countess, whose face had been lined with worry moments before, was much relieved to see Robbie awake and feeling well enough to joke.

  Chapter 19

  27 December

  The next morning Nash was keeping vigil at Robbie’s bedside, as he had the night before, when Ailie arrived to change the bandage.

  “The wound looks raw and ugly but ’tis not festering,” she said with a hopeful smile. Robbie winced as she applied some brandy to the gash.

  “Waste of good brandy,” Robbie muttered. He reached for the flask. “At least give me the remains.” She obliged and he drank it down. “Ah, now that’s better.”

  Nash watched as Ailie applied the clean bandage and then circled Robbie’s head with fresh linen and tied it off. Sitting back in her chair, she folded her hands and looked at Nash.

  “Now that we know Robbie will live, I’d have the truth of it. The others are eager to know as well. What happened?”

  Nash exchanged a look with Robbie, who had suddenly gone silent. Letting out a sigh of resignation for the story he must tell, Nash said, “Robbie and I have been working for the government, Ailie. Not just now but before, in Manchester last August.”

  She shot him am incredulous look. “You were in Manchester when the massacre took place?”

  “We were. When the invitation to come to Scotland presented itself, Lord Sidmouth, who fears rebellion above all, asked us to be on the lookout for George Kinloch, the man who stirred all of Dundee with his speech. Things being tense in Scotland, Sidmouth wanted the man back in Edinburgh for trial. It was believed Kinloch might have come to Arbroath.”

  “You are government spies?” She spewed out the last word as if the very notion was repugnant, which, to her, it probably was.

  Nash lowered his gaze. “We are.”

  “So, you thought to capture him and turn him over to his gaolers?” This time, her voice was tinged with anger. Her color was high and her lips pressed together.

  Nash tried to summon a defense even he did not believe in. He met her infuriated gaze, fearing what he saw in her beautiful eyes. “That was the initial plan, yes.”

  She rose from her chair and shot Nash a look of stunned outrage. “All this time! You have heard me defend the man as wanting only good for Scotland. None in our family—your hosts, I might remind you—ever argued for Kinloch’s capture. Yet, behind our backs, you went to town to spy on him, didn’t you? Now that I think of it, there were many times only one of you was around. I can scarce believe you capable of such duplicity, such deceit, even if you are English!”

  She turned on her heels and bolted for the door, slamming it behind her.

  “Well,” said Robbie, “that wraps it up with a bow, doesn’t it? Now the Mistress of the Setters will have neither of us.”

  “We are truly unmasked,” said Nash with a look of deep regret. “I fear our deception has cost me Ailie’s good opinion.” And her love. “I did foresee this happening, you’ll recall, and I argued against the mission.”

  Robbie nodded. “You did. I was a fool to think Kinloch’s guards might behave as the gentleman they protected.”

  “That is not my point. We never should have tried to take Kinloch in the first place. He came back, you know. He didn’t want to leave me alone with you bleeding onto the pavement. Even offered to fetch a physician.”

  “Did he? I seem to recall someone saying the good Mr. Wilson hurried to the scene when summoned.”

  “That was not Kinloch. Ailie arrived and offered to go for the physician, which was fortunate. I urged Kinloch to leave while he could.”

  “It wasn’t he who shot me; it was that hot-headed Lachy character.”

  “I’m sure he is still in Arbroath somewhere with his companions, unless they hail from Dundee. Only two cabins were booked on the Panmure.”

  “Alas, we cannot pursue him, Nash, much as I’d like. The story would expose our work for Sidmouth.”

  “You are right, of course. ’Tis best you accept your scar as the only souvenir you will have from this escapade. At least I still have a twin brother.”

  “I regret my scar will not be under my hair, as is yours. It will, however, serve as a reminder of the day you rescued me, an ironic twist to the many times I have saved you from harm.”

  Nash ran his hand through his hair, feeling the scar left by the yeoman’s saber. “Hadn’t thought of it like that. Anyway, ’tis time you stopped coming to my rescue. Let me design and sail ships and, if you must, use your courage, which you have in spades, to go about the Crown’s business.”

  “I might. Right now, the only thing that appeals is a night of cards in my club.”

  “Sidmouth will have to be told,” said Nash, knowing it would be an unpleasant business at best.

  “Leave that to me. Perhaps my new scar will assist the telling.”

  * * *

  William had been working in his study, trying to get a few things done before they were to sail to Stonehaven, when Ailie arrived. Now that his workers were off for Hogmanay, the shipyard activity had ground to a halt, but the paperwork never ceased.

  Ailie droned on, telling him some Banbury tale of how Robbie Powell had come to be shot the day before. William’s attention was waning, diverted by the numbers on the page before him.

  “They are spies, I tell you!” Ailie shouted, her cheeks red with fury.

  William dropped his quill and looked up. He had assumed Robbie’s misfortune was merely a chance encounter with a ruffian from one of the shorefront taverns, but his sister’s words said different. “Surely that cannot be. Those two are sons of Simon Powell of Powell and Sons Shipping, respectable shipmasters the both of them. Besides, I cannot countenance such behavior on the part of Ormond’s friends.”

  Realizing he would accomplish no more work today, William set aside his ledgers and rose. “I can see there is nothing for it but for me to ask Ormond if he has an inkling of such being true.” He proceeded out of the room, saying over his shoulder. “I will see you at the noon meal.”

  He found Hugh in the stables rubbing down the chestnut gelding he had ridden that morning. Sunlight drifted through the open shutters to fall upon the fresh hay.

  His friend must have sensed his presence, for he glanced up. “Hello, William. What brings you to my favorite haunt?” Hugh returned his attention to the horse, moving to its right flank facing away from William.

  “It’s my sister. Ailie has it in her head that the twin Powell brothers are government spies.”

  Hugh’s dark head popped up from the other side of the horse. “What?”

  “Aye, something to do with that dust up in Arbroath yesterday and Robbie’s getting shot. Ailie says ’tis all bound up with some work the two were doing for Lord Sidmouth. Spying on George Kinloch, to be precise.”

  “The man from Dundee charged with se
dition is here?”

  “Was, according to Ailie. But aye, the very one. Know anything about it?”

  “No.” Hugh put the horse back in its stall and wiped his hands on a cloth. “How about a brandy, old chum?”

  “I’ve some good cognac waiting in my study,” Will offered. They began to walk back to the house together. “I was certain none of your friends would be spying for the Crown,” said Will, feeling much better about the whole thing. After all, he’d given Nash his blessing to court Ailie.

  “Well, now. Speaking generally, William, that ain’t so.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I suppose I have never told you.” Shaking his head, Hugh said, “Truth be told, there was never a reason to do so and, really, we don’t speak much of it.”

  “What exactly are you muttering about?” William demanded, as they approached the front of the house.

  “What I am trying to say, my friend, is that we have all been agents for the Crown at one time or another. I was a spy in Paris stealing the plans meant for Napoleon’s generals; Sir Martin was a spy in France during the war, working with me. And just two years ago, Prinny dispatched him to the Midlands for that rebellion in Pentridge. At the Prince Regent’s request, Nick chased a pirate all over the Caribbean, one I might add who held Tara captive for a time. Why, even their father Simon Powell was a spy for the government in the American War. Did you never know?”

  Will paused, near speechless. “I had no idea.”

  “So,” Hugh continued on, speaking as if it were no large matter, “while I know nothing of this business in Arbroath and, if it’s true, would chide them most soundly for assuming on your good graces, I would not be surprised. Like their older brothers and their father before them, I expect the Crown would feel free to call upon them whenever they are needed. The Powells have served the country well.”

  “Good Lord. Government spies the lot of you and beneath my very roof. Tell me, while I was rotting in a French prison, were you in France?”