So she went to bed and lay for a while, wondering how a man who had just lost his wife for the second time, after having his hopes raised and then destroyed, could still believe in a God that would do such a thing. And then she cried for the loss of the woman she had called her friend, who had changed her life forever, and who she would never see again, and for the father of her child, who was also gone forever. She wondered if they were both in whatever Heaven was, waiting together for the handsome, enigmatic man sitting in the next room to pass from this life and join them. And then she fell asleep.
She woke at some point in the dead of night, and seeing the faint yellow light under the door she got out of bed and padding barefoot across the room, she opened it, intending to check on her daughter and maybe bring her to bed.
He was slumped back in the chair asleep, his long hair tumbling over his shoulders, his injured hand resting on the arm of the chair, his other arm wrapped protectively around the child. At some point Màiri must have moved, dislodging the blanket in the process.
The candle was still burning on the table and Sarah stood watching them, the powerful, heavily muscled man, his face peaceful in repose, long lashes resting gently on his cheeks as he slept, and the tiny fragile body of her daughter cradled tenderly against his chest, her dark hair fanned out across his bicep, her equally long lashes fluttering slightly as she dreamed.
She stood watching them for a long time, burning the memory into her mind, knowing that it would have to last her for the rest of her life. Then finally and with infinite care, she tucked the blanket around them both and went back to bed.
When she woke again it was full daylight. She yawned and stretched and looked automatically to the small bed in the corner, although she already remembered Màiri had slept in the living room. But to her surprise the little girl was in her bed, still asleep.
He must have come in at some point during the night, Sarah realised, and put Màiri back to bed. She lay for a moment, hoping to hear sounds of him moving around in the living room, but apart from the distant noises of the street coming from the front of the building, there was silence. He must still be asleep. That was understandable. He’d had a long ride and a terrible shock the day before. She got up, yawning, and wondering what time it was wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and opening the bedroom door walked into her living room.
It was empty, the fire burnt down to embers and not replenished, the candle snuffed out. Because the living room boasted no window of its own, the only light came from the small barred window of the bedroom, and at first she didn’t see the coat still lying on her chair, a dark shape against the light cushions. When she did, her heart soared. He had not left yet then. Maybe he had stepped out, gone to a bakeshop to buy bread, perhaps.
In the gloom she crouched down by the fire, blowing on the embers until they glowed. Then she added a few small sticks and soon she had enough of a flame going to add some logs. Although August, it was still chilly in the room; and having been cold for so much of her life, a good supply of wood or coal was one of the luxuries she allowed herself. She stood up. She would dress and then get some water from the pump in the street, and make tea to go with whatever Anthony brought back.
It was as she turned that she noticed the two mugs and jug were still on the table from the night before. And that all three vessels were full to overflowing.
With gold.
Her forehead creased and she bent over, picking one of the coins up and looking at it. It was a guinea. Twenty-one shillings. That was more than a week’s earnings for her – a good week’s earnings. She tipped the cup up and gold showered across the table, more than a year’s earnings in one cup. What was going on? It must belong to Anthony, but why had he filled the containers with it like that?
She moved to the chair and lifted the coat, noting how much lighter it was now that it was dry. And then she saw that the hem of the coat had been roughly unpicked, the lining torn in places. That was why it had been so heavy the previous evening, she realised. It was the weight of coins, not rain! So he had unpicked the hems and removed all the gold. But why?
As she lifted the coat off the chair a folded sheet of paper which had been pinned to it fluttered to the ground. She picked it up, realising that it was a page from her account book which had been torn out; one edge of the page was jagged. On it her name had been written in a smooth, flowing hand.
She moved back to the fire and unfolded it, reading it by the light of the flames.
I trust you, it said. Burn this.
The money is for Màiri, and for you. Enjoy her childhood, and your life. Take her to the countryside and pick flowers, and think of Beth from time to time.
Our name is outlawed and she dare not use it, but when she’s older and times have changed, I leave it to you to decide whether or not to tell Màiri MacGregor that her Uncle Alex was proud to have known both her and her mother, and that she has Duncan’s eyes.
A huge lump rose in her throat, and she closed her eyes tightly in a vain attempt to stop the tears from coming. The realisation that he had gone and that she would never see him again hit her like a blow, temporarily rendering the information in the letter meaningless. A wave of loneliness so powerful it made her gasp tore through her, and she sat down heavily on the chair, clutching her stomach and trying not to voice her distress and wake her daughter.
She sat like that for some time, until the worst of the despair passed a little and she could think clearly. Then she picked up the note from the floor and read it again. And again. And again. When she was sure that every word of the note was burned into her brain and her heart, she kissed it and then placed it into the flames, watching until it had burnt completely to ash.
“Duncan MacGregor,” she whispered to the empty room, “I love you. I will always love you. I’ll make you proud of your daughter, and one day I’ll tell her what kind of man you were and what kind of man your brother Alex is, and she will be proud to be Màiri MacGregor.” She waited a moment as though expecting a response to her declaration, then shook her head at her own folly.
Then she leaned across the table and carefully counted the gold coins, stacking them in little piles as she did.
Two hundred guineas. At least five years’ earnings, probably more.
He could not give her what she craved; no one could bring the man she loved back from the dead. But he had given her the next best things. His absolute trust. A name for her daughter and a sense of family. And security. Whatever happened to her business now, she would not starve and her daughter would never have to do what she’d done to survive. If Màiri ever gave herself to a man it would be through love, not necessity. He could not have given her a more precious gift, and he had known that.
It was why he had come to see her last night, what he had been trying to tell her when Màiri had interrupted him. In spite of his grief and despair, he had thought of her and his niece.
“I will take her to the country,” she said aloud. “And I’ll pick flowers, and I’ll think of Beth, and of Duncan, and of you, Alex MacGregor. And if your God is as good as you say, one day we will meet again.”
She put the money away, very carefully, and then she went into the bedroom, to wake Màiri, to dress and to start her day.
* * *
Once back in his lodgings Alex packed a small bag with his spare clothes. He still had a good amount of money about his person. More than enough to get home to Scotland in style. He sat for a while and thought about it.
He could not stay here any longer, had no wish to stay here, had no wish ever to see London again, for as long as he lived. He had only partially fulfilled his oath to Maggie, and he would return home to complete what he had started.
But not yet.
He could not go home yet. He could not bear to see the pity and sorrow in the eyes of his clansmen when he told them that he had lost his wife, again. He could not bear to see them hesitating before they spoke to him, dreading invoking his rage or his gr
ief, or both. He needed to grieve, he knew that. His heart felt like lead in his chest, and at the moment the future opened up like a black tunnel ahead of him, completely devoid of light and hope.
It would pass, he knew that. He had survived knowing she was dead once; he could do it again. But it would take time, and he had already inflicted his despair on his clansmen once; he would not do it again, even though he knew they would want him to. But he needed to be active, and to occupy the time usefully until the ferocity of the sadness in him dulled and he could go home and be Alex MacGregor, chieftain of the clan again, instead of a liability. And extended practice of being the leader would do Angus no harm.
He sat for a while longer, deep in thought. And then he stood, suddenly decided, and moved to the rickety wooden table in the corner of the room. He trimmed a quill, took out paper and ink, and wrote a letter to James Drummond, in Glasgow.
Then he sealed it, put it in his pocket, picked up the bag and left the room. Downstairs he settled with the landlady, answering her queries as to his mashed hand and pallor with a tale about having drunk a little too much on the previous evening, and of having been attacked on his way home by some ruffians. His pugilistic skills (of which, she would remember, he had told her), had stood him in good stead, but unfortunately one of the footpads had ducked, which had resulted in him hitting the wall rather than the face of his opponent.
Yes, of course it would be fine. No bones were broken and he certainly had no wish to stay in this city any longer than was absolutely necessary. He had already hired a horse and intended to ride straight for his home in Cheshire, where a man could walk the streets at night even in his cups, without any fear for his life. But if anyone of his acquaintance were to express a desire to visit London, he would of course direct them to her fair establishment, where he had been made so very welcome. With these promises and a reasonable tip, he managed to extricate himself from the flirtatious invitations of the proprietor without too much difficulty.
He mounted his horse and rode away, stopping briefly at the post office to deposit his letter before riding out of the city, not in a northerly direction, which would take Mr Featherstone to Cheshire, or Mr MacGregor to Scotland, but eastwards, where lay the coast and, he had decided, his immediate future.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Martinique, August 1747
Still caught in the dream, Beth fought to control the panic that surged through her. Her heart hammered in her chest and for a moment she thought she was going to faint. She swung her legs out of bed and leaned forward, putting her head between her knees until the dizziness passed.
“Are you sick, Madame Beth?” Rosalie asked worriedly. “Should I wake Monsieur and ask him to send for the doctor?”
Before Beth could answer, there came a knock on the door.
“What’s happening?” Pierre’s voice sounded from the hall. The door opened an inch, admitting a slice of light from the candle he was holding.
Beth sat up again, ignoring the little white lights sparkling at the edge of her vision that told her the dizziness had not completely passed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaky. “I had a bad dream.” She pulled the sheet around her. “Please, come in.”
He walked into the room but stopped just inside the doorway, obviously torn between the breach of etiquette he was committing by entering a lady’s bedchamber and worry for the welfare of the said lady.
Rosalie picked up a candle from the bedside table and lit it from the one Pierre was carrying. Yellow light filled the room, banishing the shadows.
“You are very pale, Beth,” Pierre remarked. “Are you sure you’re not sick? Do you have a fever?”
“No, really, I am well,” Beth assured him. Although she was sweating, partly from the dream and partly from the temperature in the room, she actually felt cold and clammy rather than hot and feverish. She had still not shaken off the dream; it seemed more real to her than the room she was in and the two people observing her worriedly.
With a great effort she pushed it away and looked up at her employer.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I must have cried out. It was a nightmare, that’s all. I will be fine, really. Rosalie, will you fetch me some lemon water, please?” She swung her legs into bed and sat back against the pillows. She hoped that Pierre would leave with Rosalie, but instead he moved further into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“What manner of dream was it?” he asked. “Did you dream of a snake, or of a black bird?”
“No, not at all,” Beth replied. “Why?”
“One of my friends, his wife dreamt that a snake had come into her husband’s room and was eating him. The slaves said that it was a very bad omen, but my friend of course ignored it, being civilised and a good son of the Church. A few days later he died.”
“He died?” Beth said, aghast. “Did a snake bite him?”
“No, he had a fall from his horse. I’m sorry. This is not helpful. It was just superstition, I’m sure. Don’t worry about it.”
“It wasn’t about anybody in Martinique,” Beth reassured him. “It was about before I came here. I really don’t want to talk about it.”
“No, of course not. I am sorry. You have had some terrible experiences in your life, far too many for such a young woman. It’s hardly surprising if you have a nightmare now and then. And you know that there are some philosophers now who say nightmares are caused by eating rich food. Perhaps that’s what it was.” He patted her hand gently to reassure her. Rosalie came back with the drink, and Pierre stood.
“Well, if you are sure you are not unwell…” he said.
“No, Rosalie is with me and I don’t feel ill at all, just tired,” she assured him. She wanted desperately to be alone, to think about what she had dreamt before it faded from her mind completely, as dreams often do.
After he’d gone Beth put on a clean, dry nightdress, then told Rosalie to go back to sleep. She sat for a while sipping the lemon water, deep in thought, but when she realised that Rosalie was worried about her mistress and was trying to stay awake, Beth blew the candle out and lay down. After a while she heard her maid’s breathing even out and knew she was asleep.
She had lied to Pierre; her dream had not been about her past. In it she had been standing on a lawn, a lawn she had never seen in life. To the right in the distance there was a mound of earth, and in the middle of the lawn was a huge oak tree. She had looked down at her feet and seen that they were bare. The grass was cool and wet and it was raining, not as it did in Martinique, torrentially, but as it often did in Britain, a light, drizzling rain. It had been a pleasant dream. She had wiggled her toes, enjoying the coolness of the soft green grass under her feet.
And then she had heard a roar of despair and anguish so loud and so heartrending that it had shocked her out of sleep immediately. There had been nobody else in her dream; the landscape had been empty, apart from the tree and the mound of earth. But the cry was indisputably human.
Indisputably Alex.
She had not dreamt of him since she had set sail on the Veteran, five months ago. At first she had missed the dreams of him, which had always been pleasant, reliving times they had spent together; sitting on a log by the side of Loch Lomond, dancing at Versailles while the whole court watched them, lying in the heather snuggled together under his plaid. When the dreams stopped she had missed them terribly, but after a while she had told herself it was better so. She had to move on, start a new life. But this dream had not been a reliving of anything they had been through together, good or bad.
She lay awake for a long time, trying to convince herself that it was nothing. As Pierre had said, it was the workings of a piece of almond cake she had eaten at supper. It was nothing. Alex was dead. It was her imagination, that was all.
Beth had the same dream the next night and the one after that, with the consequence that on the third day she was exhausted and quite happy to sit on the porch with A
ntoinette playing cards for the whole morning, letting the mundane gossip that so interested her companion wash over her instead of fidgeting and trying to find excuses to do something active to break the monotony.
It was very hot during the days now, and even the constant waving of fans by the slave children brought no relief, merely wafting hot humid air around them, while the poor children were bathed in sweat from the effort of moving the huge woven palm fans for hours at a time.
But this is better than working in the boiling house or the fields, Beth told herself. They are fortunate.
She had hoped that this was as hot as it got in Martinique and that, like in Britain, September would see some relief from the high temperatures and heavy rainstorms that left the air so humid it was difficult to breathe sometimes. But when she had asked Raymond, he told her that September would be even hotter than August and there was a higher risk of hurricanes too.
Antoinette chatted away about the disgraceful behaviour of Monsieur Bernard, who not only acknowledged his mulatto bastards, but insisted that they live in his house with his legitimate children. She had been complaining about her neighbour’s behaviour for days now, so Beth no longer had to pay attention to be sure of making a suitable response. Instead she let the monologue become background noise and thought about her dream instead.
Three nights. Exactly the same dream, with no variation. This had never happened to her before. Rosalie had told her that dreams could mean someone was trying to snare her with witchcraft, but it would depend on the dream. Was it about someone who had died? Beth had said that it was, although she was reluctant to give details, for no good reason that she could think of. She just felt instinctively that she should keep it to herself. Rosalie said that perhaps the dead person was trying to communicate with her, to pass on an important message. Sometimes to dream of the dead meant there would be news of the living, but whether that was good or bad news she couldn’t say. Other people said that if you dreamt the dead person had come back to life, it meant that something important that you had lost would come back to you.
Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6) Page 26