Once Dishonored

by Mary Jo Putney

  Then it was time for the journey.

  * * *

  “Are we there yet?” Christopher was peering out the carriage window, bouncing with excitement. “I can’t wait!”

  “You won’t have to wait much longer.” Kendra couldn’t resist brushing a fond hand over his hair that was so much like hers. With her other hand, she had a firm grip on Lucas. They’d only been married for three days, and she didn’t want to let him get too far away.

  She gave him a mischievous sidelong glance. She was definitely glad they no longer had to stay in separate bedrooms. He grinned at her, and she suspected he was reading her mind. She certainly hoped so!

  The carriage turned into the driveway and rumbled to a stop. By the time Lucas had climbed out and lowered the step for Kendra and Christopher, the inhabitants of the house were pouring out into the yard. Mary Lowell, her daughter Maggie, her sister Jane.

  In the lead was Caitlin, auburn haired and energetic and looking ridiculously like her brother. She slowed down and approached Christopher slowly, her wide-eyed gaze fixed on him in wonder.

  Kit returned her gaze, briefly speechless now that the moment had arrived. They reminded Kendra of two cats meeting for the first time, but instead of touching noses, Christopher shyly offered his hand. “I’ve always wanted a sister.”

  Not shy at all, Katie seized his hand in both of hers. “And I’ve always wanted a brother!” Her absurdly colored cat had followed her out with typical feline curiosity, so she made the introductions. “This is my cat, Patches. Aunt Kendra said you have a pony with the same name?”

  “Yes, he’s at school with me.” He laughed. “That proves we’re twins, doesn’t it?”

  “It does! Would you like to meet my pony, Silver? I just got her. Maybe you can help teach me how to ride?”

  “I’d love to!”

  She caught his hand and they scampered off toward the stables. All the adults had been watching this first meeting, but now it was time for them to exchange greetings. Kendra introduced Lucas as her very new husband, then hugged Jane before moving to Maggie and Mrs. Lowell. Caitlin’s family was now Kendra and Lucas’s family.

  And there was love enough for all.

  Author’s Note

  Divorce in this time period was indeed as rare and draconian as depicted in Once Dishonored. Only a handful were granted a year and because of the cost, only the very rich could even attempt it. I didn’t go into too much detail about divorce in the book because it’s complicated, and boring if too detailed.

  The few divorces granted were almost invariably on the grounds of adultery by the wife and there were two phases, the civil and religious. The civil issue was a “CrimCon” trial, that is, the crime of adultery, usually meaning a lengthy, flagrant affair. It was considered a matter of property; that is, the wife was the property of her husband and having an affair diminished her property value. (Pause to insert an eye roll here.)

  The wife was not allowed to attend the trial nor to testify because under Anglo-Saxon common law, the husband and wife are one, and the one is the husband. If the CrimCon suit was successful, the lover generally had to pay a large fine to the husband for alienation of affection.

  Then the husband sued the wife for adultery and the trial was held in an ecclesiastical court. If successful, the result would be divortium a mensa et thoro, that is, a separation of bed and board, and neither party could remarry. For remarriage, a Parliamentary Private Bill of Divorcement had to be filed and a third trial was held. A successful result would be a divorce a vinculo matrimonii.

  As I said—complicated! So divorces were very rare, very expensive, and very scandalous. I don’t know of any divorce cases like the one I created for Kendra, but I think it could have happened—English law has its share of gray areas. The bottom line is that Regency divorce was particularly hard on women.

  It may seem strange these days to read of men who were disdained and despised for taking the opportunity to escape imprisonment, but the code of honor was vitally important to Regency gentlemen. To give one’s word was a sacred promise; to break that promise was proof of dishonesty and bad character. No wonder oath breakers were despised and considered beneath contempt!

  For a prisoner to give his parole was a pledge of his sacred honor that he wouldn’t escape if released from his cell and given the freedom of the local town. In return, his captors would try to exchange him for a prisoner of the same rank. A British captain could be exchanged for a French captain and so forth.

  Lucas’s situation was inspired by the real life Lieutenant Colonel Colquhoun Grant, Wellington’s most valued intelligence officer. During the Peninsular War, Grant was captured and held prisoner by the French marshal Marmont, then sent to Paris for interrogation. When Grant saw a copy of Marmont’s correspondence that made it clear the marshal would never exchange him, he decided that his parole had been invalidated so he escaped and made his way back to England. If that reasoning was good enough for Colquhoun Grant, it was good enough for Lucas!

  I have no evidence that the gin soaked raisins remedy for arthritis existed then, but folk remedies weren’t always well documented, and genever, the ancestor of gin, was indeed a traditional tonic in the Low Countries. So why not? The apothecary appreciated it!

  Please read on for an excerpt from the next

  Rogues Redeemed novel,

  Once a Laird!

  British Embassy

  Constantinople

  The letter was dirty and folded, not surprising considering how far it had come. Ramsay was reluctant to break the seal because he had a strong suspicion of what it would say. He was right.

  The letter was addressed to Kai Douglas Ramsay and said tersely:

  Kai,

  Time to stop playing around and come home, laddie boy. Your grandfather is dying. He may be swilling ale in Valhalla by the time you get this. You know the price you promised to pay for your footloose wandering. Now the note has come due.

  Signy Matheson

  Skellig House

  Mainland, Thorsay

  Of course it would be Signy who had written him. Only islanders he’d known as a boy would call him Kai. Signy had become his grandfather’s deputy as well as being the head schoolmistress in the islands. Ramsay smiled a little, remembering her as a knobby little girl with a tongue that could flay a whale when she was in a critical mood. She was the younger sister of Gisela, his first and only love.

  His smile faded. Laying the letter on his desk, he moved to the window and gazed out at the domes and minarets of Constantinople, visible above the walls that surrounded the British Embassy compound. He’d been here five years, the longest time he’d spent in any one place during his wandering years.

  His official position was Under Secretary for Special Projects, a vague enough title to cover his various nefarious activities. With all the layers of history in Constantinople, he could spend a lifetime here and barely scratch the wonders of this city and this land.

  It was hard to imagine a place more different from the far northern islands of his homeland. But Ramsay had always known his time here was limited. He might have stayed in Thorsay if Gisela hadn’t died suddenly of a fever when he was finishing his studies at the University of Edinburgh. The pain was so numbing that he’d been unable to bear the thought of returning to the islands.

  His grandfather, the wily old devil, had known how Ramsay would feel. After giving him the news of Gisela’s death, the laird had said that Ramsay could feed his wanderlust until his grandfather died or was near death. Then he must come home to assume his responsibilities as Laird of Thorsay.

  Ramsay had seized on the proffered bargain, both because he couldn’t imagine returning to Thorsay with Gisela gone, and because he’d yearned to visit distant lands and study ancient ruins. He’d had a dozen years of that freedom and had managed not to get himself killed, though it had been a near run thing more than once.

  That thought led him to recollections of a certain cellar in Por
tugal where he’d been held captive with four other men as they drank bad brandy and waited to be executed at dawn. But the five of them had worked together to escape and made a pact to meet up again after the war, if they survived. Now Napoleon was gone for good, exiled to a bleak rock in the South Atlantic to rule over the seabirds.

  How many of his fellow captives had survived? They’d all been living risky lives. When Ramsay traveled through London on his way home, he could check for letters at Hatchard’s bookshop, which had been their chosen locale for information exchange.

  Ramsay forced his wandering mind back to practical matters. Though he’d wished this day would never come, he’d been mentally preparing for it. Over the years he’d shipped his finest archeological finds home. He hoped they’d safely made the long journey through the Mediterranean, west around the Iberian Peninsula, then north through the English Channel and North Sea to Thorsay.

  The three island groups north of Scotland were closer to Norway than to London. Orkney was visible, barely, from the northernmost coast of mainland Scotland. Thorsay lay beyond and far flung Shetland lay west of Norway. All three archipelagos were inhabited by tough, stubborn islanders whose first language was Norn, a Scandinavian dialect. Over the centuries, Gaelic speaking Celts had settled on the islands, and even a few English. No wonder the Thorseach, the people of his islands, were good with languages.

  Ramsay turned to his painting of the Egyptian pyramids set against a blazing sunset sky. The picture was hinged on one side and he swung it away from the wall to reveal the mirror mounted on the back.

  He concealed the mirror to avoid being accused of vanity. Its real purpose was so he could check his appearance when he was dressing up in local clothing in order to travel through the teeming city without being recognized as a foreigner.

  He studied his appearance. Years spent in the sun had tanned and weathered his complexion so he looked more like a native of this part of the world than Scotland. He had also dyed his hair dark brown so he wouldn’t stand out as a Northern European. He’d stop the dyeing so that by the time he reached the British Isles, his natural light hair would have grown out.

  His gaze moved around his office and the many shelves holding his favorite archeological treasures. Constantinople had been a trading center for centuries, and goods of all nations could be found here. He’d shipped many objects back to London and had made a good deal of money in the process, but these items were the ones he loved. They’d have to be carefully packed for the journey home.

  He lifted a richly decorated silver mirror from Renaissance Italy. Gisela would have loved it. If she’d lived, the shape of his life would be completely different, yet he could barely remember her face. She’d been sweet and funny and very, very pretty. He would have returned from Edinburgh and married her and they’d likely have children by now.

  Ramsay would never have seen the sun set behind the pyramids, but he wouldn’t have known the loneliness of his solitary years. Would his life have been better or worse if she hadn’t died? Impossible to say. Certainly it would have been very different.

  Face set, he left his office and headed down a floor to see the ambassador. There was no reason to delay handing in his resignation. Once he did that, his life here would be officially over.

  He thought he’d have to make an appointment, but the secretary said, “Sir Robert is available so you can go right in.”

  No reprieve here. Ramsay knocked on the door, then entered. Sir Robert Liston glanced up from his desk. A Scot, he’d studied languages at the University of Edinburgh as Ramsay had done several decades later. Ramsay had used their common history to persuade the ambassador to create this unusual position as part of the British delegation.

  Sir Robert started to rise, then settled back into his chair with a frown. “The evil day has arrived?”

  Sir Robert was a perceptive fellow. Ramsay replied, “I’ve just received a message summoning me back to Thorsay.”

  The ambassador’s frown deepened. “Have you considered refusing the summons? Surely there are others who would leap at the chance to become the next laird, but there is no one who can do the work you do here. Your skills are unique.”

  “My deviousness and affinity for disreputable rogues, you mean,” Ramsay said dryly.

  Sir Robert smiled. “Exactly. Most of the young gentlemen who join Britain’s diplomatic corps are entirely too conventional. Good for many things, but not for what you do so well.”

  For a moment Ramsay allowed himself to consider the older man’s suggestion. If he refused the call, another laird would be found and he’d be free to continue learning and exploring and quite possibly dying in some savage place.

  No. He’d promised to return and take up his responsibilities not once but twice. First to his grandfather, and then again seven years ago in that damp cellar in Portugal. He and his fellow captives had spent a long night drinking and discussing what they would do with their lives if by some miracle they survived.

  All had spoken of becoming better men and redeeming past sins. Ramsay had privately renewed his vow to answer the call to Thorsay when the time came. Though he’d made no wondrous discoveries during his travels, he’d gathered enough material to spend the rest of his life writing scholarly articles about what he’d observed in his wandering years.

  The thought was not exciting, but at least his conscience would be clear. “This is one call I can’t refuse, Sir Robert.”

  The ambassador nodded regretfully. “The trouble with honorable men is that they’re honorable. When will you be leaving?”

  “As soon as possible. The letter I received was written when my grandfather was still alive. Perhaps he still is.” Ramsay would like to say good-bye if possible. He and the old laird had fought like two cats in a sack, but there had been real affection under the fireworks.

  “You islanders are a tough lot. I hope he’ll be there to swear at you one last time.” Sir Robert unlocked a lower desk drawer and produced a bottle of good Scots whisky and two glass tumblers. “A toast to the old laird, and thanks to you for all the nefarious and useful things you’ve done for Britain.”

  He poured a couple of fingers of whisky in the glasses, handed one to Ramsay, and lifted his in a toast. “To auld lang syne.”

  “To auld lang syne,” Ramsay repeated before downing the whisky in one long burning swallow. “Next Hogmanay I’ll be in Scotland.”

  “I envy you.” The ambassador leaned forward and poured more whisky into Ramsay’s glass. “Lift a glass for me, lad.”

  “I will,” Ramsay promised. But by God, he’d miss this part of the world!

  * * *

  His voyage home benefited from fair winds and was swifter than expected. The light grew bluer and the winds more chill. By the time he reached London, Constantinople was only a distant sunburned memory.

  He spent several days in town attending to business and staying at Thorsay House, which was owned by the Laird of Thorsay. The Browns, the couple who maintained the house hadn’t heard that the Old Laird was dead, so perhaps Ramsay’s grandfather was still holding on.

  Thorsay House, though owned by the Lairds of Thorsay, served as a way station for traveling Thorsayians. Ramsay found that he’d just missed a favorite cousin, Kendra Douglas, who’d taken refuge in the house after a disastrous scandal. She’d been a lively little thing. He’d taught her and Signy Matheson and several other younger children the basics of fencing.

  He stopped at Hatchard’s and found a trove of letters from the Rogues Redeemed of the Portuguese cellar. Impressively, they all had survived the wars and he managed to dine with one of the men while he was in London. Then he set sail again, first to Edinburgh and finally on a small coastal trading vessel that took him the last stretch to Thorsay.

  Ramsay spent much of this last leg of his long journey in the bow of the boat, feeling a reluctant sense of homecoming. The silvery seas and austere scattered islands seemed to be bred into his bones.

  When the v
essel finally moored at the dock below Skellig House, Ramsay left the deckhands to unload his crates of antiquities. Impatiently he climbed the hill to the family home. Skellig House was a compact stone structure designed to stand against the fiercest winds off the North Sea. Behind it towered a massive stone monolith erected by the ancient inhabitants of these islands.

  Nothing seemed to have changed in the dozen years since he’d left. His pace quickened as he wondered if his grandfather still lived.

  As he approached the entrance to the house, the door swung open and someone stepped out, his gaze turned toward Ramsay. No, not a man but a tall woman, that was clear from the way the wind shaped her gray gown around an undeniably female figure. The same wind rippled her blazing red-gold hair like a banner of war.

  When he was a dozen feet away, she brushed back her hair and said in a voice colder than an Arctic gale, “What took you so long, Kai?”

  He stopped dead in his tracks and stared. In the years he’d been gone, bony little Signy Matheson had become a damned Nordic goddess!