“What of the dog?” asks Effie, as Patch tries to settle, with a limp and a whimper, by the fire.
“The Laird’s mood is dreadful tonight,” says Ishbel, quickly pouring water from the big black kettle into a cup for Mr Samuel. “He took out his rage on the pup with a well-placed kick of his boot, as he would. Here, give Mr Samuel this – if you are able.”
Ishbel has been so rushed that she has only now seen my strapped-up arm, which Father must have told her of.
“Of course,” I say, taking the tin cup from her with my good hand and carrying it over to Mr Samuel. I switch from Gaelic to English as I address him. “Sir, whatever can be the matter?”
“The Laird,” says Mr Samuel, after pausing to take a deep breath and gather himself, “has refused his permission for Caroline and I to marry.”
“You thought to wed Miss Tulliver?” Ishbel gasps, unaware of another of today’s life-changing events.
“I did indeed, and Caroline was very happy to be my bride.”
“It’s true,” Effie assures our incredulous older sister.
“What was the Laird’s objection?” I ask Mr Samuel.
“He says the match is completely unsuitable,” replies Mr Samuel, shaking his head as if he cannot believe what he must say next, “and that Caroline is not in her right mind to even consider it. In fact, he confidently and conveniently announced that he is so sure that she is not in her right mind, that he has decided to send her away … to the lunatic asylum in Glasgow.”
Mr Samuel’s despairing eyes meet mine, and I understand his pain. He had hoped his proposal would lessen the possibility of this threat. Instead he has played into Mr Palmer-Reeves’ hands – it has given the Laird a solid reason to follow through with his lawyer’s suggestion of ridding himself of his ward and gaining her fortune.
“Oh, my Lord, the poor girl,” says a deeply concerned Ishbel, clutching at her chest. “What is to become of her?”
“What is to become of her indeed?” says Mr Samuel with an anguished shrug. “And what can I do to save her? As we speak, my things are being packed up. I am to be sent away tomorrow on a boat, before the Queen’s arrival. I would insist Caroline comes with me, but no manservant of the Laird’s is going to let that happen. Oh, my dear, sweet girl!”
He looks from one to the other of us beseechingly, but my sisters and I have no comforting words for him, though each one of us wishes she did, I am certain.
“Is your father here?” Mr Samuel says, sounding desperate and hopeful at the same time. “I know him to be an elder of the community and well respected, so perhaps he can somehow…”
Mr Samuel trails off, acutely aware that Father cannot, in truth, help in the situation – without realising what the truth of our desperate situation is.
Maybe it is because my senses are raw and my body is sore, but I suddenly find myself yearning for someone whose soothing words and gentle hand could always ease the stings and hurts of childhood…
And then I wonder if my sisters are of that same mind in that moment too. The three of us; we look at each other in slow and steady understanding. An understanding of what our mother would say, what she would want us to do. Our luck has run out, and so has Miss Tulliver’s. If we are to flee, then so must she.
“Mother would not want a girl left alone to such a wolf,” says Ishbel in Gaelic. “We have to do something.”
Mr Samuel, understanding nothing of what’s just been said, watches as Effie and I nod in reply to Ishbel’s words.
And I feel comforted to know that while we must leave Mother behind, Mother will never truly leave my sisters and I.
CHAPTER 13
It is near time.
I stand statue-still in the watching crowd as the royal steamship chugs ever closer.
“I cannot see Her Majesty yet!” says Lachlan, standing on his toes and peering at the faint dark dots of heads looking our way from the ship’s deck. Which one of them will become the grave face of the small Queen it is hard to tell, and I don’t suppose Lachlan, Effie and I will find out.
Our purpose was to be seen to be here, among the folk gathered by the harbour – just as Ishbel is at her post in the kitchen at the Big House – so that Mr Palmer-Reeves would not anticipate Father’s plans for our family to flee.
Everyone in the crowd knows it, of course.
Our fellow islanders might be listening and nodding along as Father plays the bagpipes – stepping in for the departed George – but they are all ready to shuffle together and close the circle when the fiddlers take over and we quietly slip away, one by one.
“Do you think the Queen passed by Mr Samuel out on the water?” Lachlan asks now.
“Shush,” hisses Effie, as if the mention of the painter will bring us bad luck.
“Perhaps,” I answer more steadily. And perhaps Mr Samuel, laden with his equipment, will indeed have caught sight of the royals as he was ushered away from Tornish in disgrace earlier this morning, sailed to the town on the mainland in the Laird’s own boat.
At that thought, I turn from the view of the ship to the sight of Mr Palmer-Reeves. He stands nearby, along with his wife, haughty daughter and the loathsome Mr Jenkins, all preening like proud peacocks.
But wait – something appears to be amiss with Miss Kitty; her cheeks are flushed a fierce pink in her pale-powdered face and her bosom heaves in her cream lace dress.
“What is wrong with her?” I whisper to Effie, with a slight nod to indicate who it is I speak of. “It looks as if she cannot catch her breath…”
“Vanity, I would guess,” Effie says with disdain in her voice. “She must have got her maid to tie her corset too tight!”
I think my sister must be right. Miss Kitty’s waist this day is so very tiny – it looks as if a pair of hands might encircle it with ease. It is so very small in fact that if a brisk wind blew up off the sea and bent her backwards she might snap clean in half.
A tug at my arm pulls me from that pleasant thought.
“Should I go now?” Lachlan whispers to myself and Effie.
I glance over at Father, at the other side of the harbour from us, where he stands with his pipes, ringed by the other musicians.
My glance is a question – the nod he gives me as he plays is my answer.
“Yes,” I tell our brother. “See you in a few minutes. Go!”
“Bless him,” I hear Mistress Beaton say beside me, as she moves aside to let Lachlan slip away, then steps back into her place.
If it would not draw attention, I would hug her, for the pain and worry she must suffer over the disappearance of her George, and for allowing her remaining son to help us. Will is somewhere in another part of the waiting crowd now, but he too will move off soon; our pony and cart is tied up not far away – a tarpaulin covering the sacks packed with our few things – and Will is set to take us all to the bay by his township, where John Mackay’s fishing boat is moored, waiting for this day’s strange cargo.
“I’m away now,” Effie murmurs in my ear, and I dare not look around at her, but hope my sister sees my nod as she lets herself be swallowed into the background.
A moment more, and I shall do the same.
And in that moment, I allow myself a small smile; Mr Palmer-Reeves does not know it, but he has done us a good service – by demanding nearly all his staff as well as tenants to be here, and by confining Miss Tulliver to her room for the duration of the Queen’s visit, he has unwittingly allowed her escape!
While we stand here, Ishbel will have slipped out of the kitchens of the Big House, with Miss Tulliver by her side, smuggled out from under the noses of the one or two London staff left behind to ready the dining room for the royal visit. But they would not recognise the Black Crow anyway, not in the ordinary bundle of Mother’s clothes that Ishbel brought for her to wear. If they glanced up from their polishing and perfecting, they would surely think her a washerwoman or at least some other person of no consequence.
A small, sparkling, chi
nking sound and a murmur of voices interrupts my reverie.
The children in front of me step aside as a fine-cut glass vial rolls by their bare feet, gently clunking to a stop by my own uncomfortable, Sunday-best black boots.
“Quick, grab it up! Bring it here!” Mistress Palmer-Reeves urges me, and I see that Miss Kitty is swaying, eyes fluttering, propped up by the sullen maid Maude, who is currently all aflap at the swoon the young lady finds herself in.
And so what am I to do but pick up the stoppered bottle, uncertain what it might contain, and take it over as I am bid?
“Open it up, girl, and let Kitty breathe in the smelling salts!” the Mistress demands of me.
I do not know what smelling salts are, but as soon as I take the stopper out, I am quite overcome by the stench – like days’-old pee in a chamberpot! And once I steady myself, it gives me the greatest of pleasure to waft the bottle and its sharp, foul odour under Miss Kitty’s prim nose.
It is no surprise that the Laird’s daughter rallies, squirming in Maude’s grasp, her yellow-lashed eyes fluttering.
“What? Who?” she babbles, as she takes gulps of air, and tries to push the bottle away with her soft-gloved hand.
“You had a little turn, darling,” her mother says distractedly, as she waves at one of the London servants, who quickly scurries over, unfolding a small wooden folding chair as he runs. “You will be quite well again shortly.”
In fact, Miss Kitty is well enough to open her eyes now and see who is before her.
“Argh! Get that ugly thing away from me!” she yelps, suddenly smacking my weaker hand away, as if it were some creature’s claw that she has beheld. A kick from her pretty pointed shoe cracks my shin at the same time. “Get out of my sight!”
Perhaps the jarring pain in both my shoulder and leg get the better of me.
Whatever the cause, I look that spoiled, nasty girl in the face and whisper, “I go with pleasure, miss. And I will be glad never to be in your company again.”
Miss Kitty’s pale eyes narrow, as I thrust the splashing vial of stinking stuff into her maid’s chubby hand.
Hurrying back to the crowd, I risk a glance at Father, and see the frown of worry on his face; worry at what I may have just said, worry that I should be gone by now.
Slipping by Mistress Beaton, I am glad my sisters and I have spared Father one more worry … for he has no clue that my sisters and I have decided to help Miss Tulliver escape with us.
The truth is, last night we decided not to tell Father, lest he forbade it. We had no doubt of his railing against the terrible injustice that was to be done to Miss Tulliver, but we also knew he would fret that helping her escape from the island would put all of us in danger. When Father finally returned home last night, he was troubled enough on seeing the Laird’s injured dog settled by our fire. All he knew of that was the creature had followed Ishbel home from work, as she had told it, missing out the fact that Mr Samuel had been here. So yes, we understood the worries Father would have concerning the possible rescue of Miss Tulliver, but we chose to … to think like Mother, I suppose.
A girl was in trouble and that just could not be overlooked.
“Take care, Bridie,” whispers Mistress Beaton, before giving a cheer, which is taken up by all the people. And the rousing cries for the approaching Queen, accompanied by the song of the pipes, means I can vanish, quite unnoticed.
Hauling up my skirts, I take flight, hurrying along the dirt track inland, passing Will’s steady horse that is tied to a tree, my heart singing when I see that my friend has beaten me to it and is already at my own father’s pony and cart.
“Does danger make you smile, then?” he teases me, as I leap up beside him.
I cannot tell my friend that now our scheme begins in earnest, my secret self is bursting with the thrill of seeing the world beyond Tornish. I might have always fancied myself travelling west, but south-east – to Glasgow – is adventure enough.
“I smile at the sight of you, Will Beaton!” I jest with him instead – then see that he is not giving me his gap-toothed grin in reply.
“Well, you won’t smile when you hear what I have to say,” he says, shaking the reins to speed the pony on.
“What is it?” I ask, as I spy the yawning arms of the churchyard yew tree up ahead, and the figures of my two sisters, Miss Tulliver and my brother sheltering in its safe shadow. In Lachlan’s arms, there is a wriggling bundle: on our way to the harbour, Lachlan stopped and tied Patch up at the back of the church, till we could come fetch him.
“I had quick words with John Mackay’s wife back at the harbour,” Will says, “and she tells me John is very vexed. Only an hour since, he talked to her of the risks of being caught with you three girls and Lachlan.”
“But he will still take us?” I ask, flutters of fear in my stomach as I study the four nervously hopeful faces of the group we approach.
“I am sure that he is so very close to abandoning this plan that you must get on board as quick as you can, before he changes his mind. And I tell you now, he will not take the Laird’s dog, never mind a lass he is guardian to!”
Chilled by Will’s words, I shakily hold tight as he draws the cart to a shuddering halt.
“Quick!” he says, holding a hand out to help Miss Tulliver up, as my sisters and brother confidently clamber on to the flat bed of the cart.
“I must thank you and your sisters so much for helping me, Little Bird!” Miss Tulliver says, smiling sweetly at me as the cart lurches off, and she struggles to hold on to a large bag she has brought with her, and the rough shawl that is slipping from around her head.
The flutters in my stomach are replaced by a curdling in the pit of it as I look at Miss Tulliver’s trusting face. I had meant to stop awhile at Mother’s grave, but now I think she would agree there is no time to spend on the dead – only the living.
But how can I bear to tell Miss Tulliver that she will not be reunited with her beloved Mr Samuel at the harbour on the mainland soon enough?
How can I be so close to saving Miss Tulliver from the asylum in Glasgow, and fail now?
The answer is, I cannot.
I must not.
I will not.
Patting Miss Tulliver’s hand, I stay silent, and let a plan come to me while the minutes pass and we jiggle and rattle and speed towards Will’s township.
And as a fork in the track approaches – left heading for the township, right for the little cove where Father’s rowboat sits ready – I have it.
“Stop!” I call out, and pull at the reins in Will’s hands.
“What is it?” asks Ishbel, glancing around to see if something is amiss.
“Will tells me John Mackay expects the three MacKerrie sisters and their wee brother, and no one else,” I say to my frowning sisters and Will. “And that is who will come on board his boat. At least, that is who he will think it is.”
“Bridie! What nonsense are you intending?” Ishbel demands, as Miss Tulliver, Effie and Lachlan look on aghast.
But I am already taking my leave, grabbing Patch from my startled brother as I jump down from the cart.
“It is quite simple – the pup and I will go with Father in the rowboat,” I say, sounding braver than I feel, when I think how far the little boat must travel to reach the safety of the ragged finger of rock Father is aiming for. “Miss Tulliver, when you get to John’s fishing boat, you must hide your face – pretend to cry, perhaps – so he will not know you from me. And stoop in your sadness, so John does not notice that you are taller than I!”
“No, no!” Miss Tulliver says, and goes to clamber from the cart. “It should be me that goes with your father!”
At her words, I see that Ishbel and Effie understand that my plan is the only one that will work; Father will not expect Miss Tulliver to be waiting in the cove for him. And so they gently hold her back as I hurry away.
“No, Bridie is right; she the lightest for the rowboat,” I hear Effie explain to her.
“Beannachd agus deagh fhortan!” I call out my goodbyes and good luck in Gaelic as cheerfully as I can. “See you over on the mainland!”
And with that, I set the dog down on the dusty, stone-scattered track, and holding him by the rope around his neck I begin to run in earnest, which is harder than I imagined, with the ache from my strained shoulder.
“Hey!” I hear Will’s voice call out, and find him running after me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, as he draws level with me.
“Your sister Effie is every bit as good at driving the pony as I am,” says Will, “so I passed her the reins, and will keep you company until your father gets to the cove.”
And his smile, with those bright eyes and the gap where a tooth should be sends the flutters and curdles clean away, replacing them with a feeling like … like sunshine.
So together we run, my oldest friend and I, and soon we are at the cove, where the tethered rowboats of the villagers bob at the shoreline.
I slow down, flopping on to the beach so that I might take my hated boots off. I’ll need my feet bare and my skirts tucked in to push our boat into deeper water. Father will not be long – he is to ride Will’s own waiting pony, and it’s a sprightly young thing.
As I pull at the laces and wriggle the boots off, my secret self begins to sing out again, and I feel like I can hold the voice in no longer.
“Will, can I tell you of a dream I often have?” I ask him, as he begins to untie Father’s boat in readiness.
“Aye,” he says, gazing back at me as his fingers expertly work at the damp rope, though he is hampered more than a little by Patch, who thinks it a game.
“Sometimes I dream that I am on top of the Glas Crags,” I tell him as I stand, putting my boots around my neck with the laces I have tied together.
“With me?” he asks, as I walk towards him, rolling and tucking my skirts in.
“Not with you, no; I am quite alone,” I say, feeling the cold slap of the water on my legs and bending to push the boat, as Will is doing. “And then a wind comes, and carries me clean away from Tornish!”
Little Bird Flies Page 11