Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6)

by Julia Brannan

  Most of the shopkeepers on the street had left their doors open, partly to encourage customers, and partly because it really was a glorious day. The shop which the man was heading for was one of these, which made it easier for him to enter. He ducked his head as he went through the doorway, having to hop a couple of times as one of his crutches slid on the polished floor.

  Sarah, who was occupied with a customer, looked up at his somewhat ungainly entrance. Regaining his balance, he leaned against the wall to the side of the doorway and executed an interesting manoeuvre that was clearly meant to be a bow.

  “Miss Browne?” the man asked in a gravelly voice.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I have heard of you. It is said you have some skill with cosmetics,” he said. “I was hoping that you might be able to assist me.”

  “I will try,” she said. “In what way?”

  By way of answer he removed his hat. His face was in shadow, but she could still see enough to make her step to the side of her customer to shield her from the sight of the man’s horribly disfigured features. The left side of his face was a mass of sores. That, coupled with the missing limb, led her to the conclusion that he was an ex-soldier who had probably been involved in an explosion of some sort. Her professionalism in dealing with clients of all kinds ensured that a widening of the eyes was her only reaction. To her relief, once he had shown her the reason for his being there he replaced the hat and turned the ruined side of his face away.

  “If you would care to wait, Mr…”

  “Featherstone.”

  “…Mr Featherstone, I will see what I can do for you once I’ve finished here,” she said.

  “Thank you. Would you prefer if I waited outside?” he asked politely. She wondered if he had suffered some damage to his vocal cords too; his voice was rasping. Northern English, further north than Manchester, but she couldn’t place his accent any closer than that.

  “No, of course not!” she said. “If you would care to take a seat, I won’t be very long.”

  “I’ll stand, miss, if you don’t mind,” he replied. “I’m but recently wounded, and am not very good with these things yet.” He gestured to the crutches.

  “As you prefer,” she said politely.

  She continued dressing her client’s hair, whilst he leaned against the wall, his head bowed, possibly out of consideration for them, as his position shielded his face completely; or maybe he was just tired. Sarah put him from her mind while she gave her current client her full attention, as was her way.

  Once finished, Sarah said goodbye to her satisfied customer and went behind her counter to put her fee away. As she did so she noticed the man move from his position against the wall, accidentally pushing the door closed with his crutch as he did so.

  Maybe accidentally. She came instantly to full alert, reassessing him. Very tall, heavily built, almost certainly a military man. Had Richard sent him?

  Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself immediately. Richard would come himself. And if he didn’t, he certainly wouldn’t send a cripple to threaten me. I could be out of the back door and down the alley before he got halfway across the room. She relaxed a little, bent down and put the money in her box.

  “Do you have any more appointments today, Miss Browne?” he asked. She looked up. “Only my situation is a…delicate one, you understand, and I’d rather we weren’t interrupted.”

  “I have the time to talk to you, Mr Featherstone, and I will see if I can help you,” she replied formally, not answering the question. “And I will be discreet, but I will not stop other customers coming in with enquiries, as you did. Please be so kind as to open the door again. It is warm in here.”

  Instead of doing as she asked, he leaned back against the wall again, reaching under his coat with his right hand as if to scratch his thigh. Or maybe draw a weapon? Sarah stiffened. There was something not right here. Better to be safe and offend him, than sorry. She reached for her pistol, which she kept next to the money box.

  “Mr Featherstone,” she said, speaking loudly to cover the sound of her cocking the gun, “I—”

  She got no further before the man exploded into action. She registered the movement and that he appeared to have regrown his right leg, but managed no more than to raise the gun a few inches before he crossed the room, leapt the counter, knocked the weapon from her hand with a bone-jarring blow and drove her back against the wall, pinning her there with his weight and covering her mouth with one huge hand. She had never seen anyone move so quickly in her life.

  “Sarah,” her assailant said urgently, the accent the same, although his throat as well as his leg appeared to be miraculously cured, “I’ve no wish to hurt you. I need to ask you a question, that’s all. Once I have your answer I’ll leave, I promise. I wouldn’t have come, but I think…I hope I can trust you.”

  Trust? What was he talking about? She didn’t know him. She’d never seen him before in her life!

  Unable to move, she stared at him, her eyes above his imprisoning hand huge and terrified. Adrenalin flooded her body and her chest heaved as her breathing quickened.

  “Promise me you won’t scream,” he said, “and I’ll let you go. I won’t stay more than a few minutes.”

  She scrutinised his face, her mind racing, trying to identify where she knew him from. At very close quarters the apparent mutilation of his face seemed merely to be a mass of partially healed scratches. She disregarded them, took in instead the high cheekbones, the strong, straight nose, the mouth that curled upward slightly at the edges, the eyes, cold and ruthless, long-lashed, blue, with gold flecks in the irises…her eyes widened even further, and she gave a muffled cry of shock. He sighed.

  “You recognise me,” he said softly, and it wasn’t a question. “I’ve come about Beth…”

  The bell jingled and the door opened behind him.

  “Hello!” came a familiar voice. “I was passing and thought I’d call in to see whether…” The voice trailed off as the woman took in the broad back of the man behind the counter and the apparent absence of Miss Browne.

  Sarah looked at him, saw from his expression a variety of possible options running through his mind, none of them boding well for her, and then she locked eyes with him, trying to convey a complex reassurance with no more than a look and a very slight shake of her head, which was all she could manage due to the vice-like grip on her jaw.

  The man she had known in the past as Sir Anthony Peters leaned away from her slightly, and removed his hand from her mouth. She knew without a shred of doubt, that if she made any attempt to call for help, did anything that would betray him, he would kill both her and her new client in a heartbeat.

  She thought rapidly, all the survival instincts she had learned in her life before meeting Beth coming to the fore, and with an inspiration born of desperation, threw her arms around him, embracing him warmly before looking round him at Lydia Fortesque, whose eyes were sparkling with interest at having caught the prim and proper Miss Browne in what appeared to be a compromising position.

  “Oh! Miss Fortesque!” Sarah cried, her voice trembling. “You have caught me at such an exciting moment! I must introduce you!”

  Releasing him, she squeezed his arm briefly in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture, then moved past him. He did not stop her, which was something. She cleared her throat, tried to calm herself.

  “This is…Adam, my cousin, from…Nantwich in Cheshire. I had no idea he was in London! Imagine, he returned home from working in…Newcastle, and discovered where I was. He’s come all this way to see me!” she improvised, trying to give him as much information to work with as possible. Please let him go along with this, she prayed, knowing that both her life and that of the pretty, vacuous young woman standing looking at them with open curiosity, depended on this man’s whim.

  There was a moment’s silence, during which Sarah was sure Lydia would hear her heart crashing against her ribs in terror, and
then the man moved to her side, took off his hat and bowed deeply.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Fortesque,” he said in a Manchester accent. Close enough, Sarah thought. Lydia wouldn’t know the difference between Manchester and Cheshire anyway. He stood, displaying the mangled side of his face to her scrutiny.

  “Oh!” Lydia cried, recoiling from him.

  “We haven’t seen each other for…oh…it must be five years, at least!” Sarah said, her voice a little shrill. Hopefully Lydia would put it down to excitement at being reunited with her relative.

  “How nice,” Lydia said unenthusiastically.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Fortesque,” Sarah said. “I didn’t mean to bore you with my family issues. How can I help you today?” The feeling was coming back into her hand now, pains shooting from her wrist to her forearm. Holding her hand behind her back, she curled and flexed her fingers, trying to ease the pain. She tried to calm herself, to behave normally. Sir Anthony was kind, caring. He wouldn’t hurt me, she told herself.

  This man was nothing like Sir Anthony. Sir Anthony had never really existed.

  “I believe you have some new scents, just in from Paris?” Lydia said, breaking into her thoughts. “I hoped to try them.”

  “Of course!” Sarah replied. Behind her, her new relative stood observing her carefully.

  I can’t do this, she thought. Not with him watching. I’ll make a mistake, and then we’ll both die. She turned to him, her eyes pleading.

  “Go right through,” she said. “Make some tea. I’ll be finished in a few minutes and then we can have a nice chat.”

  He looked at her, his eyes still cold, calculating. His lips pursed slightly, considering. And then he blinked, and in that moment transformed himself completely and was her cousin Adam, fresh from the country.

  “Tea?” he said, smiling broadly, clearly very impressed. “You have come up in the world, cousin. You’re a proper lady now. I’ve no idea how to make it, though. Have you got one of them fancy pots, and cups and all?”

  She could have fainted on the spot from sheer relief.

  “Yes I have,” she replied lightheartedly. “And saucers too. Put the water on to boil, then. I’ll make it when I’ve served Miss Fortesque,” she said.

  He disappeared through the door which led to her living area, closing it quietly behind him. No sooner had he done so than Sarah remembered that Mary was having her nap in the bedroom. She told herself that whoever, whatever this man really was, Beth loved him, and Beth would never love anyone who could harm a child. And anyway he was certain to be listening at the door, alert for any attempt on her part to raise the alarm.

  Lydia seemed to take forever to try out the different scents, rejecting the Parisian ones and insisting on trying every other perfume Sarah had. Then she prevaricated again, unable to decide if she liked her favourite enough to justify the expense of buying it. Sarah had to resist the urge to give it to her free of charge, anything to get her out of the shop. She might have been able to get away with donating any other perfume to her, as she was a regular client.

  But Sarah knew that if she gave her a bottle of the prodigiously expensive Aqua Melis, the gossipy Lydia would tell absolutely everyone, no doubt adding in an imaginative and amorous account of the so-called ‘cousin’ who Sarah was so desperate to get back to. You did not give away a perfume that cost more than a year’s wages without arousing a lot of suspicion. Which was exactly what she could not afford to do right now.

  By the time she had managed to get rid of the indecisive young woman, shut the blind and lock the door, Sarah was bathed in nervous sweat. She dashed across the shop, noticing that the pistol, which had skittered into the corner when he had knocked it from her grasp, was gone, although she hadn’t seen him pick it up. She opened the door to her living room and went in.

  The tea had been made, the pot, cups and saucers laid out for two on the table, and his hat and coat were neatly hung on a hook near the fire, but her unwelcome guest was not in the room. She closed her eyes for one horrified second, then picking up the nearest object to hand, ran into the bedroom, coming to a halt just inside the entrance.

  He was standing over the baby’s bed, staring into it, preternaturally still. The afternoon sunlight coming through the window clearly outlined his profile and picked up the fiery copper highlights in his tangled hair.

  She walked over to stand next to him, still clutching the cheap vase she had grabbed as a weapon, and looked down into the bed. The little girl was awake, was smiling and staring at the stranger with long-lashed clear grey eyes. Her father’s eyes.

  The man Sarah had only ever known as Sir Anthony Peters took a deep shuddering breath, then lifted his gaze from the bed and looked at her, his slate-blue eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “Jesus Christ, lassie,” he said softly, his Scottish accent breaking through due to his shock. All thoughts Sarah had had of telling him the oft-repeated fiction about her sister and the niece she had adopted flew from her mind.

  “Her name is Màiri,” she said instead. “People think it’s Mary, and I haven’t told them otherwise. I thought he’d like it. He told me about her, you see, his wife, and I thought it would be right. Was it right?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “Aye, it was right.”

  The little girl lifted her arms to him and laughed.

  “Up,” she said.

  He bent over the bed, and with infinite tenderness lifted the child out. She put her chubby arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. Softly he kissed the tousled dark hair, breathed in her sleepy baby scent.

  “Halò, a Mhàiri,” he said, smiling. “Nighean bhrèagha mo bhràthair.” Then he looked at Sarah, the corners of his lips still lifted, and saw the question in her eyes. His smile faded and his eyes misted again. He shook his head, very slightly, but it was enough to give her her answer. She closed her eyes for a moment, struggling for composure, and then she moaned, swaying slightly. He reached out with his free arm and drew her gently into him, and she, who hated physical contact, laid her head against his chest and surrendered to her emotions.

  They stood like that for a long time, the man and woman, clinging to each other, united in their grief for the man they had both loved so deeply, while the child who would never know the man they wept for, but whom she so closely resembled both in looks and character, sighed softly, and with her little fists tangled in her uncle’s hair, her face nestled in the crook of his neck, went back to sleep.

  Later, back in the living room, Alex sat at the table with his niece on his knee, bouncing her gently up and down while Sarah threw away the now cold tea and brewed a fresh pot.

  “I’m sorry about your hand,” he said, retaining his Scottish accent, albeit less broad than he used at home. It was a little late to pretend he was English now. “I didna mean to hurt you, but I wasna expecting you to have a pistol.”

  Sarah poured the hot water into the teapot.

  “It’s not hurting any more,” she said. It was, a little, but the pain in her heart was far, far worse. “I bought the pistol in case Richard came to visit me again. Caroline taught me how to use it so I could be sure to kill him with one shot. I wouldn’t have managed it if he was as fast as you, though.”

  Alex smiled grimly.

  “Ye’ve no need to worry about Richard,” he said. “He’s dead.”

  Sarah sat down suddenly and heavily on the chair opposite.

  “Dead? Are you sure?” she asked.

  He regarded her evenly for a moment, as if making his mind up about something.

  “Aye,” he said. “I killed him myself. That’s why I’m here. I was told by…someone I trust that she was shot and killed after Culloden. But Richard told me that she didna die.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Sarah replied. “The Duke of Cumberland had her brought to London and nursed back to health.” She watched as the colour drained from Alex’s face, and standing, quickly lifted the baby off his knee. He close
d his eyes and swallowed heavily, and when he opened them again she was watching him anxiously.

  “I’m well,” he said. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah answered. “Edwin’s been trying to find out. I haven’t seen Caroline for a couple of weeks though, so I don’t know if he’s discovered anything. Caroline would write to me if he had. She’s at Summer Hill.” She stopped, saw his look of confusion and realised that he hadn’t seen any of them for two years, since the night they’d fled after Lord Daniel found out who Sir Anthony was, or rather who he wasn’t. “Tell me what Richard told you,” she said. “And I’ll tell you the truth, as far as I know it.”

  He told her, briefly, and then she told him the more honest version, that they’d all believed Beth to be dead or escaped to France, until Tom had come to Sarah and told her what Richard had done. Then she told him about her efforts to find Beth, and then Caroline enlisting Prince Frederick to help.

  “Frederick?” Alex said incredulously. “He rescued her? A Jacobite?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, “and he came to see her afterwards.”

  “Maybe there’s hope yet, an we canna succeed,” Alex murmured to himself.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It doesna matter. Go on.”

  She told him, because he deserved to know, that they’d nursed Beth back to health once more, stopped her from killing herself.

  “She said that she knew you were dead, that you’d have come for her otherwise and she wanted to die as well, to be with you. That was when she was very ill, though. When she got stronger she changed her mind, and after that she recovered very quickly. Caroline and Edwin were hoping they’d be allowed to keep her with them until they managed to secure her release, but then she told them that she’d decided to do the right thing and wanted to see the Duke of Newcastle, to talk to him. That was at the beginning of April. We haven’t heard anything about her since.”