“He is a Gordon!” Carson shouted.
“That is enough!” Jack snapped, and strode forward, putting himself between Lizzie and Carson, with her at his back.
But Carson was too intent on Lizzie and moved to see around him. “My brother is but a year in his grave and already you think of giving Thorntree to the Gordons!” he shouted at her.
“That is enough, Beal,” Jack said icily. “Leave her be.”
Carson looked as if he might explode, but he whirled around and punched his fist into the wall. “By the saints, you leave me no choice! I should beat my point into your empty head!”
Lizzie flinched, but Jack’s gaze turned murderous and he clenched his fists at his sides, as if he had to fight to keep himself from hitting Carson. “Now will you stoop to making physical threats, Beal? Do it again, and I’ll put my fist in your gullet.”
His threat was enough to move one of Carson’s men to his side.
“You owe me two thousand pounds, Lizzie, or have you forgotten?” Carson continued heedlessly.
“Come now, sir, that’s no’ very sporting of you, is it? But then again, I should like a reason to shut you up,” Jack snarled.
“You know very well I canna repay you,” Lizzie said, her heart beating so wildly she could scarcely catch her breath.
“Oh no? Perhaps you might sell another cow, aye? For if you donna repay me and you disavow this handfasting, it will be debtor’s prison for you. Or worse—a Glasgow workhouse,” he added menacingly.
“That is enough!” Jack bellowed, and shoved Carson up against the wall with such force that the umbrella stand with Lizzie’s gun fell over. “Say one more word. Just one. Give me a reason to break your neck!” Jack cried as Carson’s men descended on him. One grabbed him from behind, but Jack was too strong for him. He clung to Carson, his arm across his throat, pushing him against the wall and cutting off the air to his lungs.
One of the henchman raised his gun and pointed it at Jack’s head; Lizzie cried out with fear. Newton suddenly moved, pulling Jack off Carson.
Carson faltered, sputtering and gasping for breath. He looked at Jack with hatred as he put his hand to his throat. “You’ll bloody well hang for that,” he said hoarsely.
“If you think that threat will keep me from your throat, you are a fool!” Jack shouted as Newton pushed him aside.
“You’re fortunate I donna have my man put a bullet in you now!”
“You’d no’ do that, laird,” Newton said, holding up his hand to the other Highlanders. “He’s all that stands between you and Gordon now. Gordon is no’ here. I’d have sent word straightaway if he’d come.”
Carson shifted his gaze to Newton, eyeing him suspiciously. Newton stood calmly and stoically, steadily returning his gaze. A moment later, Carson nodded to his men, all four of whom had returned to the foyer. He gestured for them to leave and followed them to the door. But he paused there and glared daggers at Jack. “Mind yourself, Lambourne. I can send for the prince’s men before you can even saddle a horse.”
“Then send for them, by God!” Jack said angrily.
Carson whirled around and stalked out behind his men, slamming the door behind him.
Lizzie sagged, her heart pounding, her palms dampened by her fear. But Jack turned his murderous gaze to Newton. “Where in hell is he?”
Newton pointed down the hall, to the drawing room.
Chapter Thirty
Black, blinding, impotent anger surged through Jack like a poison. He could not bear to see a man treat a woman so abominably—he’d witnessed his father doing it enough to last an eternity. His father had a penchant for making Jack’s mother cower like a child when he was displeased, and he’d been displeased quite a lot.
Jack marched into the drawing room and glared at Gordon, who had appeared from the adjoining door. His shoulders were dusty—he’d obviously hidden in some small cranny. Lizzie rushed to Charlotte, who, astoundingly, did not look the least bit ruffled.
“Do you see what your presence has caused here?” Jack said.
“One might argue your presence is what has caused it,” Gordon said curtly.
“Think of them,” Jack said, sweeping his arm in the direction of Lizzie and Charlotte.
“Really, milord, what did you expect he’d do?” Charlotte asked.
Surprised, Jack looked at Charlotte.
But Gordon shook his head. “He’s right,” he said, surprising everyone.
Jack swung his startled gaze to Gordon. “I’m right?”
“He’s mad, Lambourne. Whatever it is about this paltry estate that he wants, it must be something grand indeed, for I can think of nothing that would move a man to behave so abominably.”
“Aye, but as we’ve discussed, precisely what is the mystery,” Jack said angrily, and looked again at Newton. “Unless there is one among us who might have an answer?”
Gordon also twisted around to face Newton. “What do you know?” he demanded of Newton.
Newton laughed derisively. “Do ye honestly think he entrusts such information to me? No, sirs, he does no’.”
“Will you stand there and deny you know what Carson Beal wants with Thorntree?” Gordon demanded.
“Aye.” Newton said. “But if I wanted to know, I’d have a look at the parish land rolls.”
Four pairs of eyes turned toward him, and Newton shrugged. “If there is anything to be learned about the land, it would be there,” he said.
“The parish rolls!” Lizzie exclaimed. “Where would they be? In Crieff?”
“I’d suspect that whatever is in the parish rolls concerning Thorntree is surely in your father’s study,” Newton said. “In fact,” he added as he strolled to Charlotte’s side, “I’d wager yer father might very well have had an inkling of what it is Carson wants.”
Jack, Lizzie, and Gordon looked at one another as the realization dawned. “I never thought…”
“But of course,” Jack responded to Lizzie’s unfinished thought.
“Let us have a look,” Lizzie said to Jack and Gordon.
The three of them moved without hesitation, leaving Charlotte and Newton in the drawing room.
At the door of her father’s study, Lizzie withdrew a ring of household keys she carried in her pocket and unlocked the door. She pushed it open and a cold sweep of air met them.
Lizzie marched across the room to one precarious stack of papers and began to look at them, discarding them one by one. Gordon stepped in behind Jack and looked around, wearing an expression of incredulity. Jack knew what Gordon was thinking, for he was thinking the very same thing: it would be an impossible task to go through all the papers and ledgers and books and God knew what else. But what else could they do? The three of them spread out and began to search in the sea of paper.
Gordon found what it was Carson wanted at the bottom of a stack of old bills of services and goods. He almost missed it, tossing the bills aside one after the other, convinced he’d never find anything worth the effort in this chaos. But this document had seemed different and out of place, and he’d paused before tossing it aside and had looked at it.
“Mi Diah,” he muttered as he reviewed the paper. This was it—he was slightly abashed he’d not thought of something like this earlier, given the conversations he’d had with his father about profitable ventures in which they might engage. “This is it,” he said.
“What?” Lizzie asked, and hurried forward to have a look at the paper he held.
Gordon looked at Jack over her head. “’Tis slate.”
“Slate?” Lizzie repeated.
“Slate,” he said. “Slate.”
“I donna understand,” Lizzie said, turning away from Gordon to hold the paper to the light.
“That is a property survey,” he said, pointing to the paper she held. “It references the slate mine on this very land.”
At Jack’s blank look, Gordon said, “Do you no’ understand, then? The slate is at the core of this matter. Slate has bec
ome quite profitable for many Highlanders, as it is being used in construction all across England. If one can transport it, one stands to profit handsomely.”
“Seven miles,” Lizzie muttered.
At Gordon’s look, she quickly explained: “We—Jack and I,” she said, looking at Lambourne, “heard some men talking. They said seven miles. But when we looked at the atlas, we could find nothing within of Thorntree but Loch Tay. Of course!” she exclaimed, her face brightening with understanding. “That is how they would transport it!”
“How profitable is slate?” Lambourne asked, taking the paper from Lizzie.
“If Lizzie were to use Thorntree as a dowry, she would give my family a substantial income for generations to come,” Gavin said. He knew this was true, for his father had told him as much. Not about Lizzie’s mine specifically, but Gavin was beginning to understand that somehow his father knew of the slate mine at Thorntree. He knew his father was interested in expanding their estate into new ventures but Gavin had been so caught up in the wool export he’d not really thought of anything else. Was it possible his father had looked at the parish land rolls and knew what was at Thorntree? That was the only thing that made sense, the only reason he would have overlooked the handfasting and urged Gavin to come for her. It wasn’t for any particular fondness of Lizzie—his father hardly knew her.
“And if the Beals of Glenalmond face dwindling profits as the land their cattle graze are giving way to sheep,” Lizzie said, “it must be the only thing that will save them. That is why Carson must have it.”
“Aye, it is that precisely,” Gavin said. “And as a Beal man can no’ own the property, he has no choice but to keep you on the land to keep the profit.”
“But why the handfasting?” Jack asked. “Why would he no’ just explain to Lizzie that the lands must stay in Beal hands?”
“And dictate whom I should marry, then?” Lizzie asked defiantly. “To choose among the Beals of Glenalmond? Ach,” she said, throwing up a hand.
“You may have your answer there,” Gordon said with a smile for Lizzie. “Only women may inherit land in the Beal family by royal decree, aye? If she were to marry outside of the clan, then the land would go with her.”
“That does no’ explain why he was happy to handfast her to me,” Jack said.
“Because he assumed, rightly so, that you’d never consent to marry her and would cry off, and even if by some miracle you did marry her, you are partly a Beal. I rather imagine he thought he might strike a deal with you if it came to that.”
“Or if I discovered his scheme,” Jack said.
“Precisely,” Gordon agreed.
“Be that as it may,” Lizzie said, her face curiously flushed now, “we are no closer to a resolution now than we were moments ago.”
“Aye, but perhaps we are,” Gavin said. “First, we must determine that there is indeed a slate mine at Thorntree.”
“How can we possibly do that without a map?” Lizzie asked.
“I have an idea how,” Jack said, and looked at Gordon. “There is a man who lives deep in the glen and sells slate and other odds and ends. McIntosh is his name. I’d wager he knows precisely where the mine is. Shall we have a look about on the morrow, Mr. Gordon?”
As much as Gavin wished Lambourne would disappear, he was the only real ally he had. “Aye,” he said, reluctantly.
“And me!” Lizzie exclaimed excitedly. “You’ll no’ go off without me!”
Chapter Thirty-one
They went off without her.
Lizzie was furious when she discovered it, and let loose a string of Gaelic that would have made her father cringe. Newton, however, did not seem the least bit disturbed by it when she encountered him in the barn. She’d gone to milk the cow, having fed the old pig they couldn’t bring themselves to slaughter and the few remaining chickens.
In fact, Newton had the audacity to tell her it wasn’t proper for her to go along.
“Proper? And what would you know of proper?” she’d scoffed.
“Only that a lass is no’ welcome among men when trouble is brewing,” Newton said. “She’ll do naugh’ but talk when she ought no’ and slow things down.”
Lizzie gasped with outrage, but Newton handed her a bucket for the milking. Lizzie snapped up the bucket as she stomped away, hitting her leg with it in her haste.
She’d stewed all day, for the two men did not return until late afternoon, their boots covered in mud, and the shoulder of Mr. Gordon’s greatcoat torn.
Lizzie could scarcely contain her anxiety as they removed their coats, gloves, and hats. “Well?” she blurted. “Did you find it, then?”
“Aye, we did,” Mr. Gordon said solemnly. “Just as Lambourne suspected, McIntosh knew precisely where the mine was.”
“Slate?” she asked excitedly as Mr. Gordon began to walk toward the drawing room. “It’s true, then? Thorntree has a slate mine?”
“It is true,” Jack said, and caught her elbow, wheeling her about and propelling her to walk behind Mr. Gordon to the drawing room.
Inside the drawing room, Charlotte and Newton were playing a game of backgammon. Charlotte scarcely looked up as they entered. “Look here, Mr. Newton,” she asked cheerfully. “The merry men have returned from their trek.”
“What news?” Newton asked as Charlotte moved her pieces around the board.
“Aye, there is slate,” Jack said curtly, his gaze narrowing on Newton. “But I suspect you know it.”
Newton did not deny it.
“It was difficult to find the opening, but once we found it, it seemed as if some preparation to mine has already begun,” Mr. Gordon said.
“Impossible!” Lizzie cried angrily. “What right has he? It is ours!”
“Aye, but who will stop him, lass?” Jack asked. “Even if you went before a magistrate, it would be spring before you might have an inquest, aye?” he said angrily as he moved to the fire to warm his hands.
“Nevertheless, he canna mine. The land belongs to us!”
Jack and Mr. Gordon exchanged a look.
“What? What are you no’ saying?” Lizzie demanded.
“That Carson will never let it go,” Charlotte sighed, as if they’d been around this topic before. “He’ll find a way to have it.”
“She’s right, Lizzie,” Jack said at Lizzie’s frown. “He could ask for an injunction until the matter could be brought to a higher court. He might even take it to Parliament if pressed, as it was a royal decree that forbids him from land that should be his by all rights. With the current sentiment against the monarchy, he might be successful. Leaving land to women and disallowing men to inherit goes against every primogeniture law ever penned.”
“He has the power to make things very difficult for us, Lizzie,” Mr. Gordon said.
“We shall call a constable if he persists.”
“I’d no’ call the constable when he answers to the laird,” Newton mentioned as he took his turn at the board.
Mr. Gordon took Lizzie’s hands in his and dipped down to look her in the eyes. “I will think of something, lass. You must trust that I will.”
She wanted to trust that he would, but she did not believe that he could. She wanted to look at Jack, to see the reassurance in his eyes. She stole a quick look at Jack; he was standing with his arm propped on the mantel, staring into the fire. He did not offer her any reassurance.
Nor did he later, when the five of them debated the situation over leek soup. Lizzie posed the possibility of finding someone to mine the slate on their behalf, but Mr. Gordon assured them that would not succeed. No one, he said, would do business with them, not with Carson working against them.
So Lizzie posed the unthinkable: Could Jack, by virtue of being handfasted to her, seek redress on her behalf?
The question was met with stunned silence.
“I believe,” Jack said, “that law does no’ exist in Scotland as it does in England. I think Carson would see me dead first. Or at least in the hands
of the prince’s men. He’d see to it that the handfasting was voided by abandonment or death before he’d face me in a court of law.”
Lizzie knew he was right. Carson wouldn’t allow honor or decency to stop him. That meant, she thought silently, that she and Charlotte would never leave Thorntree if Carson had his way, and would only be more and more indebted to him.
The absence of any easy solution left Lizzie feeling exhausted.
Jack saw things the same way as Lizzie, but he saw a solution she did not see. The only problem was that it would cost him his freedom and possibly his life. Quite simply, Jack knew the king. He could ask the king to settle the matter, to ensure that Carson could not circumvent the decree in any way. But it was not something he could simply write and hope would reach the king in the time Lizzie needed it to occur. No, making that request of King George would necessitate putting himself in the king’s presence. And if he did that, the king would have no alternative but to hand Jack over to his son, Prince George. What else could His Majesty do? Anything less would only add to a growing scandal.
Naturally, Jack was far more interested in finding another solution, one that did not include stretching his neck, and he spent the better part of the meal mulling it over. He was so preoccupied by the growing thought that he excused himself after supper, retiring in a sour mood.
He was seated in a chair at the hearth of Lizzie’s room with his feet propped before a weak fire, Red curled up on the rug beside him—the dog had become quite attached—and nursing a stout dram of whisky courtesy of Mrs. Kincade. He’d mulled over the options until his head hurt.
His eyes closed, he was attempting to will away the pain in his head away when he heard a strange thumping noise behind the wall at his back.
Jack sat up and peered at the wall that separated the sitting room from the bedroom. He heard nothing but silence and assumed he’d imagined it. He turned round and settled in his chair again to sip the last of his whisky.
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