by Sarah Maine
‘Was it about me? Your papa disapproves of me, I think.’
She gave a slight smile. ‘Because you’re a Bad Man?’
‘Exactly. Frivolous. Feckless. Pointless. It’s what my own father says.’ His expression had changed, and his eyes grew distant. She was torn between sympathy and irritation.
‘Then why not strive to change people’s opinion, if you think they regard you so little,’ she said.
He edged closer again. ‘Perhaps I need the guidance of a good woman.’ She turned her shoulder to him, and he laughed. ‘So, it was about me, then? The tiff.’
‘There was no tiff.’
‘Fibber.’
‘You weren’t even mentioned.’
‘So there was a tiff.’
She got to her feet but he caught at her hand, pulling her back. ‘No, don’t go! Just when it gets interesting—’ James and Marcel appeared at the end of the trail, and James looked across at them, then came over and dumped the plate of filleted fish on the table.
‘Did the gypsies give you a good price for Melrose?’ Ballantyre asked as James paddled him out across the river later that afternoon. The sun was hidden behind a cloud and they made for the shadows on the opposite shore where it was dark and cool.
How the devil did Ballantyre know about the gypsies? ‘No,’ he said.
Larsen had gone out with Louis, in the other canoe, which was well downstream of them, out of earshot. ‘I thought not. They tried to sell her at Kelso fair a few weeks later, you see, having dyed her white patch. Selkirk spotted her straight away, and so we got her back. I have her still, my daughter rides her sometimes.’
James nodded briefly. Parting with the mare had been a wrench, but necessary; it was good to think of her back in her old stable. ‘They knew she was stolen,’ he said and brought the canoe to a place where there were riffles amongst the rocks, places where trout might hide.
‘So where did you go? You covered your tracks very well.’
‘Glasgow.’
‘Good God!’ Ballantyre swivelled round to stare at him. ‘And I told the constables to look for you there, knowing you to be a country boy. Never dreaming—’
James remembered the men with shifty eyes who had been asking questions in the taverns and hostelries of the Gorbals where he had gone seeking work. So Ballantyre had sent them, had he, expecting him to be skulking in hedgerows.
‘And from there to Canada?’
‘With the last of your sovereigns.’
Ballantyre gave a short dry laugh. ‘Then you used them well.’ He assembled his rod, checked the gut and the fly, and then cast. ‘One thing has always puzzled me, James,’ he continued after a moment. ‘Tell me, if you will. What were you doing by the river that day? With Jacko.’
The question was unexpected and James let it hang in the air, remembering the look on Ballantyre’s face that day when their eyes had locked across the river. ‘You thought I’d thrown in with him again,’ he said.
‘I thought it unlikely. But I’d like to know.’
James dug his paddle in deep and the canoe jerked forward. Anger rose and stuck in his throat. First McAllister’s killing and now this. ‘You thought that; even after the other time and the fire—’
‘And had you?’
Ballantyre House, 1888
James had been just six months under Ballantyre’s benevolent roof when Jacko was released. He had waited anxiously for the old poacher to come for him, as he had promised he would, and when he failed to appear, James had experienced the first bitter pain of betrayal. Weeks later, though, he learned from the stable master that the old reprobate had reoffended and been sent down again, for longer this time, and then James had worried about him, and ached for the sight of him. Even then, though, he had to admit to a guilty relief that he would not be forced to choose—
Months had passed, then years, and he heard no more of Jacko, and gradually the memories of those wild times had faded. Life at Ballantyre House was tame in comparison with his old existence, but it was easy. At first he had balked at the regulations imposed on him, but he was well fed and was filling out and growing, he slept each night in a warm bed, and he soon found ways around the rules that did not suit him— And nothing could beat the joy of those crisp mornings when he went out with the other grooms exercising the horses, pounding the fields, intoxicated by the scent of spring. The day he first rode out on Zeus he had felt like a god.
And he was aware of Ballantyre observing him from a distance, always with a word or a nod when they met, and he sensed, and soon sought, his new master’s approval.
Then, after almost five years under Ballantyre’s roof, one late summer afternoon, when the woodland was in full leaf and alive with birdsong, the old poacher had simply stepped out from behind a tree beside the track as James rode past. Miss Evie was on her pony, out in front, and had not seen him, but Melrose shied.
Jacko glanced after her then dodged back into the shadows. ‘Nursemaid now, is it?’ he said, smirking. ‘Tonight, when you’ve tucked her into bed come and find me, if you can remember where to look.’ And he had vanished, leaving James staring at where the dappled undergrowth had swallowed him.
And so he went to him that night, slipping away after the evening meal, using the old ways, the secret ways, across the river and through the darkening forest, his mind sharp and alert, praying that McAllister’s men were not abroad.
Jacko greeted him like a son, and engulfed him in one of his great hugs just as always, except that now his clasp reached only to James’s chest. ‘By God. Look at you, the size of you! A heart-breaker too, I don’t doubt. By God— You’ll be what … twenty … is it?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘I lose track of the years—’ James stared back at him, thinking that wherever Jacko had spent those years, they had not been good to him. The old man clutched at James’s jacket, his rheumy eyes beseeching. ‘I came back before, lad, like I promised, but I heard you’d been taken in, and were being treated well so I left you. Ballantyre’s conscience, they call you. Did you know that?’ Jacko hawked and spat. ‘His guilt offering, more like, to stave off the hell and damnation he deserves. His conscience. Pah!’ He pulled a bottle from his pocket and took a drink, not offering it to James. ‘But seeing you all set up and cared for, I went away again. You’d a better chance here, see? Until you were grown.’
James looked back at the ragged figure in front of him and felt a keen sorrow. Jacko’s clothes were torn and filthy, a front tooth was missing, and there were scars, old and new, across his face – and a deadness in his eyes. He had been doing fine, he told James, not meeting his gaze, just fine, but recently his luck had run out, and so he had come back to find him. ‘Because you’re a good lad and won’t let me down—’ James’s heart sank. Jacko must have sensed this for he pulled the bottle hastily from his pocket again, and passed it to James. ‘Drink! Have a drink, lad. Let’s celebrate our reunion! Sit you down, boy.’
They finished the bottle between them, stretched out under the rocks and roots of the overhang, hidden among bracken and brambles like the old days, and Jacko grew garrulous. His life had taken a steady downturn, he admitted, and he lay all his misfortunes at Ballantyre’s door. The man had conducted a personal vendetta against him, he claimed, poisoning the world against him. He and his land-owning cronies had sent him down time and again for petty offences, relentless in their persecution, harsh in their judgement, no clemency, no understanding – and Jacko was looking to settle the score.
He ran his tongue over yellowed teeth and drained the bottle, then brought his face close to James, his breath foul, eyes bleary. ‘I’ve got a plan, see? It’s a simple plan and a good one. Simple is best. And it’ll set me up— There’ll be a little fire, see, near the stables.’ James stiffened and Jacko put out his hand. ‘No, no. Not you, lad. I won’t ask that of you. All you do is raise the alarm, see? And we do the rest.’
‘Who is we?’ James demanded. ‘And what’s the rest?�
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Jacko cracked a smile. ‘My associates. Let’s call them that, shall we? They’ll wait until everyone’s rushing round with buckets and then pop in and explore the house, see? Ballantyre won’t care, so long as his horses don’t roast.’
James went cold at the thought. Melrose, and Bella. Zeus—
He refused and they quarrelled, hard words were exchanged, and but for James’s refusal to be drawn they would have come to blows. He left the overhang with Jacko’s curses ringing round his ears, and returned to the stable block to lie sleepless through the night, sickened by the encounter.
In the morning he went to Ballantyre.
And so he stood once more in front of the great desk in Ballantyre’s study, and the master sat and listened to him without comment; the slow tick of the clock on the mantel measured the ensuing silence. James glanced up at the painting of the exotic bird above the fireplace, the source of feathers for Ballantyre’s fishing flies, and remembered that other time.
Then: ‘He’s back, is he? I hoped we’d seen the last of him.’ Ballantyre leant back in his chair, contemplating James. ‘And you’ve been meeting him.’
‘I came across him in the woods.’ Not for anything would he reveal that secret overhang.
Ballantyre said nothing, no doubt scenting an evasion. ‘And he told you all this,’ he said, at last, ‘at a chance meeting on a forest path?’
James’s eyes slid away. ‘He expected me to join him, you see—’
Ballantyre remained silent, making a pyramid of his fingers, bouncing the tips together as he looked back at him, considering. ‘So what will he do now?’
‘I told him he was mad. We argued. He’ll know I’ve told you …’
And that seemed to be the end of it. Nothing happened, and despite the keepers and the constables searching for him, there were no further sightings of Jacko, or of strangers on the estate who might be his associates. But three nights later, when James was leading Maud, an accommodating laundry maid, behind the stables to where a ladder reached up to a hayloft, he smelled burning and saw flames leaping inside an empty cottage beside the stables, and cursed Jacko. ‘Quick! Go back!’ He pushed Maud towards the house and then tore round into the courtyard to ring the stable bell, yelling for assistance— And what a night they had of it. The horses had been led out through the smoke, wild-eyed and balking, and Ballantyre had worked beside them, giving orders and encouragement, passing buckets until the fire was contained – while the keepers patrolled the lawns and shrubberies and the household prepared for trouble.
None came. But in the morning the farms and villages were buzzing with the news that a gang of poachers had set nets across the river and hauled out dozens of the salmon which had been making their way upriver to spawn. So many salmon, it was said, that households for miles around were satiated, and fish were found rotting in the hedgerows.
It did not take long for this news to reach Ballantyre House, nor did it take long for McAllister to remark that it was James Douglas who had first seen the fire, who had raised the alarm, and who had given a false warning—
And that afternoon James found himself brought before a coldly furious Ballantyre.
‘Did you know this was planned?’
James looked back at him, stunned that he would think so. ‘No.’
‘The old cottage isn’t visible from the courtyard. How did you come to see it was alight?’
There was Maud to protect so his excuse was weak. Under relentless questioning he admitted to an assignation, but refused to give a name. Ballantyre rose from behind his desk and leant forward, his weight resting on his knuckles.
‘Then why should I believe you?’
James gave him look for look.
‘Because it’s the truth.’
Ballantyre continued to glare at him, eyes narrowed. ‘You can save this girl’s dubious reputation, or yourself. Your choice.’
‘I knew nothing of what was planned. You have my word,’ he said, and he refused to say more. Ballantyre considered him a moment longer then called for McAllister and ordered him to lock James in the tack room until he came to his senses. The keeper led him away, threw him to the floor, and administered his own brand of justice with his boot.
James had picked himself up and sat there, staring at the wall, incensed that Ballantyre thought him capable of such betrayal. He could have easily escaped through the roof light but scorned to do so. And where would he go? To find Jacko? A wreck of a man sustained by hatred and dreams of revenge—
Less than an hour later, he heard the sound of the door being unlocked and looked up to see Ballantyre himself standing at the threshold. The master came in and shut the door, then leant against the wall.
‘All these years, you’ve never given me cause to regret taking you in, James, or to mistrust you. You gave me your word, and I refused it, and that’s the worst part of this wretched business— I can only ask your pardon.’ He put out his hand, and James took it. Someone had seen him that evening with Maud, Ballantyre said, had seen him on other occasions too, with other girls— Amusement flickered in his eyes and was gone. Maud had been questioned, and in a terrified flood of tears had substantiated James’s story.
‘You’ll not dismiss her, will you, sir?’ James had asked as they left the tack room together a moment later. ‘She’s innocent—’
Ballantyre had raised a quizzical eyebrow but agreed that she would stay, recommending that James left the maids alone in the future, or there would be a reckoning.
And so the household had settled down again, while the keepers on neighbouring estates spread out to beat the bracken and join in the search for Jacko.
It was only later, as James went about his chores around the stables, that he had looked up to see a small face at the schoolroom window, and realised that it was the only window which directly overlooked that corner of the hayloft. The face had disappeared but a crown of curls suggested that he was still being watched so he bowed in the direction of the window and blew his saviour a kiss.
‘I misjudged you then.’ Ballantyre’s voice recalled him to the moment. ‘I was reluctant to do so again.’
‘But you did. When you looked across the river that day and saw me with Jacko.’ And in that moment, when Jacko lay dying, his fingers clawing at James’s arm, urging him to run, Ballantyre had doubted him. And it was that hesitation which had brought them to this place.
Ballantyre made no reply. Then his rod bent and his attention was diverted. James brought the head of the canoe round to assist him and Ballantyre began to play his fish, but as he began to reel it in the line slackened, and the rod straightened. ‘Gone. Another misjudgement—’ He took in the rest of the line and set his rod aside. ‘Yes, I doubted you, to my eternal shame. So, tell me, whatever was the old rogue up to that day, setting a net in broad daylight—?’
Jacko had vanished after the night of the fire, but he had returned that autumn, and James had glimpsed him at the inn where, years back, he had spent that lonely winter, but the old poacher had melted away into the shadows. Later James had gone again to the overhang and seen signs of recent occupation, and had returned several times, never seeing him but suspecting that he was close by, maybe even watching from amongst the bracken and brambles – and he had left him food, money from his scant savings, notes urging him to go. And James was torn again by conflicting loyalties— He had seen more of Ballantyre since the fire; there had been talk of him working with his racing bloodstock, taking more responsibilities to relieve the ageing Selkirk. And then the master had very publicly demonstrated his support that time when McAllister had accused him of neglect – or worse – regarding Miss Evelyn. Ballantyre had ridden out with them, noting but ignoring the bruises left by the keeper’s fists, bidding his daughter to ride ahead. ‘Is there any truth in what McAllister says?’ he had asked. ‘None at all,’ James had replied. ‘And she’ll never come to harm through me, sir.’ Ballantyre had given him a twisted smile. ‘No. I’m quite certain
of that.’
But even as his regard for Ballantyre grew, concern for Jacko quickened. Fire-raising was an altogether more serious matter than poaching. If he was caught he would hang—
He redoubled his attempts to find the man, and then one day, James spotted a net, stowed deep in the mossy overhang, and realised, with despair, that Jacko was planning another haul. This time he said nothing to Ballantyre but left a note telling Jacko he was a fool, and begging him to go. ‘Take the purse and leave. Go now, while you still can.’ And he had left him all the money he had, and food wrapped in a cloth stolen from the kitchen, something for the journey. They were anxious times. Next day the net was gone but the purse, still full, had been tucked into a crack in the rocks, half-hidden by a threadbare blanket. Had Jacko left, scorning the idea of taking James’s money? A crust of hard bread and some cheese were still wrapped in the cloth where the ants had found it, and the charred remains of his notes were scattered amongst the ashes of a tiny fire. James had stood outside the overhang, thinking hard, watching the low sun filtering through the trees, smelling the acid trace of burning from the disturbed ashes, and been overwhelmed with grief. That Jacko, the fearless champion of his childhood, had come to this—
And then he had remembered the place where the river narrowed, where the branches dipped low, where once they had speared fish in the moonlight, a place where a net could be slung across, even by one man working alone. And he had set off at a run.
Ballantyre’s voice again reeled him back into the moment. ‘The dogs tracked your scent to a rocky crevice where it seemed the man had been living. A purse of money was identified as yours, a dishcloth from the kitchen, and scraps of paper with your writing on it. Selkirk recognised it, having taught you your letters. You’d been stealing food for Jacko—’ He paused, and waited. ‘You were innocent of his death, I knew that, but I had reasons to doubt you, you see.’ The paddle made a splash as James moved the canoe forward, saying nothing, and a duck flew low along the river, followed a moment later by its mate. The pair landed a little way downstream and settled onto the current. ‘For God’s sake, man, it makes no difference now,’ Ballantyre added, in exasperation. ‘I simply want to know.’ And James, swamped by a sudden weariness with the whole wretched business, told him, no longer caring whether he was believed or not.