by Sarah Maine
By giving him that letter Ballantyre must be covering his back, which meant that there was something going on, and that he had reasons to be concerned. Ballantyre clearly wished to keep the matter to himself, but playing a lone hand could sometimes be unwise. During half a lifetime spent in banking, Larsen had learned that it was only with full knowledge that one could act with prudence and purpose, and Ballantyre, for all his caution, might yet need help.
‘I think perhaps Lady Melton has the right idea,’ he said to James, his mind made up. ‘I too shall retire to my tent for a while. Perhaps you would be good enough to go and see if Miss Ballantyre is alright, and tell her that I will join her shortly.’
James stopped at the end of the trail where he was shielded by the low maples, and looked down to where Evelyn sat amongst the rocks, her book open on her lap. She was not reading, though, but sat motionless, watching the river flowing past her, her skirt tucked under her legs and her hair alight with sunshine. A scarf, the colours of the autumn, was wound loosely around her neck, and her hat was on the rocks beside her. She was so still that she had become part of the scene, and he stood there a moment. This morning he had seen the child in her again, enchanted by the jays, but when the bird had landed on her palm and she had turned to him, her face had been that of a woman grown.
She looked up again now and saw him standing there, and her expression lightened with a smile. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I hoped you’d come.’
‘Mr Larsen sent me to see that you were alright,’ he said, more brusquely than he intended. ‘He says he’ll join you in a moment.’
‘Not too soon, I hope. Come and talk to me until he does,’ she said, straightening her skirt. ‘And I won’t torment you with questions.’
‘You won’t,’ he agreed, but the smile drew him down to the river’s edge where he stood a little bit away from her, looking out across the water, his hands thrust into his jacket pockets, watching the light playing on the surface. And found he had nothing to say.
‘You ask me questions instead,’ she said.
He turned and went to sit on a fallen log near the rocks. ‘Alright then,’ he said, adopting an easy tone. ‘Fill me in. What’s been happening?’ Five years – a lifetime. ‘Mr Sinclair’s still with you, I gather. I’ve never forgotten his kindness.’ He scooped up some pebbles, distracted for a moment by a large white quartz stone interleaved with dark threads, and wondered what Ballantyre had learned from Achak. He tossed it into the current and forced his mind back to Sinclair. With his belt and his Bible, the old stable master tried to drag him to a state of righteousness, and had protected him from the keepers’ abuse with the ferocity of a lioness.
‘Yes, he’s still there, older and more gaunt, perhaps, but still with his special way with the horses. He … he was distraught when you left.’
James tossed another pebble, looked down through the clear water. Stealing Melrose and the man’s coat had been a poor reward for all his efforts. Perhaps one day he would be able to explain— He forced a smile, and took the conversation away from dangerous territory. ‘And is Maria still with you? And Kirsty?’
‘Maria left to marry the blacksmith’s son, and has a son of her own. Kirsty is still with us.’
‘And Fiona?’
‘Why Fiona?’
‘Why not?’ He answered the gleam in her eye with a bland smile.
‘Why not Maud?’
‘Alright then, Maud.’
‘She got herself in trouble. Papa wouldn’t let her stay in the house, but she has a cottage in the village, and takes in sewing.’
‘Hardly a surprise. What about Fiona?’
‘She ran off with one of the keepers.’
Dear God! Fair Fiona. ‘What a waste.’
‘She had better taste once.’ Her eyes were dancing now, and a smile twitched at her lips.
‘They should have bricked up that schoolroom window.’
A pair of ducks flew low along the river and landed, feet splayed, just in front of them, waggling their tail feathers as they settled to drift downstream. Just as their counterparts would be doing on a different river three thousand miles away. He glanced back at her and the shadow behind her eyes told him that their thoughts had brought them to the same place.
‘So you never told him?’ he spoke softly, driven to ask against his better judgement. ‘About that night, in the study—’
‘No.’
He weighed another pebble in his hand, then tossed it out into the current. He had forgotten the ducks, and they rose, protesting, scattering droplets which caught the sun. ‘It was a hard thing for a child to see.’ They circled a couple of times and then came back to the river, settling again on the far side. Then: ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’
‘I was frightened—’ Her voice was small and thin, and he did not press her.
They were silent for a while.
‘What did you do, James, after you left?’ she asked, and her voice was a woman’s voice again.
He started aiming smaller stones at a branch that was floating downstream with the current. She might ask, but he would never tell her— How could he? That day, and that night, still haunted him, the fear as he saddled Melrose in the dark stable, willing her to silence as he lifted Sinclair’s coat from a hook behind the door, before leading her across the cobbles in dread of discovery. Then riding through the night, clinging to her neck, tearing up the miles until dawn came. A half-ruined barn had hidden him during the daylight hours, offering little shelter against torrential rain, with only water to kill the hunger. Poor Melrose had had to make do with a handful of old hay until dusk when he had let her graze, his ears alert for sounds of pursuit.
‘I made for Glasgow,’ he said briefly. And in Glasgow he had paid for his soaking with a fever, just managing to hide his money before delirium overtook him, and he had lain for days sweating, certain that if he lived he would find it gone.
‘And then?’
He looked across at her, sitting there in her warm woollen skirt with her neat black boots, her eyes shining with kindly concern, and felt a spurt of the old resentment. Pretty Miss Ballantyre who had never known a moment’s deprivation; even the wilderness had been tamed for her. ‘I got papers made and bought a passage for Montreal.’
‘And then came here.’
He grunted and stared down between his knees at the pebbled ground. By that time he had lost half of Ballantyre’s money in a fight, his boots and Sinclair’s coat had been taken from him by a pretty whore whose protector had thrown him downstairs with a kick and a curse. He raised his head and watched the ducks gliding serenely with the flow on the far side of the river, remembering that night, when he had been so desperate for comfort, even the sort that had to be paid for. Should he tell her that, perhaps?
‘When they found Mr McAllister dead, they said that you’d killed him too – but Papa says you didn’t.’
He raised his head at that and frowned at her. ‘But you thought I had?’ Then he cursed himself for letting her draw him in.
‘You had a knife—’
‘What else did your father tell you?’
‘He wouldn’t speak of it to me,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘Not then, nor ever since.’
‘But why didn’t you tell him you’d seen me?’
‘I couldn’t. Not after what you said.’ He scowled, unable to remember what he had said; that moment in the study was lost in a red mist of fear and fury. ‘And afterwards he was so changed, James, so distant. I couldn’t—’ He watched a blotchy stain creep up her neck, flushing her face as she struggled to find the words. ‘And everyone said it was because of you – after all he’d done for you.’ He swore silently, feeling the anger in his gut again. ‘I believed what you told me that night, James, about Jacko, but I’d seen a knife in your hand, and so when Mr McAllister was found—’ She faltered. ‘And then you said Papa had Jacko’s blood on his conscience. I had to stay quiet, because I was so frightened, and I became convinced that
if I said anything, one of you would hang—’ The sun again lit the gold in her hair, but her face was pinched with fear and he saw that she was trembling, her arms crossed in front of her.
He would have liked to have gone to her then—
But he didn’t.
So all these years she had been living in a little hell of her own, had she? – with those two maggots lodged in her brain. But it had been a hell of her father’s making, not his.
And then there was no time for more. They heard voices and a moment later Larsen appeared, carrying his rod and fishing basket, with Lady Melton following behind.
Chapter 23
A thin veil of grey cloud spread across the sky as the afternoon wore on, it thickened slowly at first and then more rapidly as the sun disappeared behind the cliffs, and the breeze began to lift the pages of Evelyn’s book. She was not reading anyway but staring at the pages, going over her conversation with James— A blue dragonfly looped above the surface of the water and she remembered how once they had stood together watching the damsel flies submerge, then rise again from the surface, their wings heavy with moisture.
‘That breeze is getting sharp,’ Clementina said, putting away her sketch pad. ‘I think I’ll go back.’ She pulled her jacket close, twisting the toggles to fasten it. ‘What about you, Mr Larsen?’
‘Just one more cast, perhaps. My reel is performing well now—’ He looked up to where the clouds were moving quickly across a darkening sky. ‘But the fish are anticipating the weather, I think, and have gone deep.’
‘Will it rain?’
‘Almost certainly, I’m afraid.’
Evelyn thought of the flimsy tents and wondered what protection the canvas would offer.
By the time she and Clementina reached the camp they found that the guides too were preparing for rain: equipment was being stowed, wood was being wrapped in tarpaulins and placed under the canoes, while guy ropes and tent pegs were being checked and adjusted. ‘Don’t touch the tent sides once it starts, ‘ James broke off to explain to them. ‘And take a tarpaulin to pull over the blankets. Tala, another rope front and back, I think, just to be sure.’ And even as he spoke there was a distant low rumble of thunder and the trees at the edge of the camp bucked in the wind. Evelyn saw him glance up at the skies. ‘We should eat at once,’ he said. ‘Is Mr Larsen still fishing?’ Tala went to get him while food was hastily prepared, and by the time they finished eating the temperature was dropping fast and the wind blowing in fitful bursts.
‘Kershaw won’t head back in this,’ Mr Skinner said, taking Evelyn’s plate from her. ‘We shouldn’t look for your pa tonight, missee.’
‘But he’ll be alright?’ she asked. The forest had darkened alarmingly and seemed to be closing in around them, the branches above them swaying wildly. She wished very much that he was here.
‘The worst he’ll suffer is a wetting, my dear,’ Mr Larsen reassured her, but he too was looking up at the treetops.
‘But what about George, and Rupert?’ asked Clementina.
‘Same with them. Eh, Mr Skinner?’
‘Storms come fast and furious round here, ma’am, but they soon pass. The boys’ll know what to do.’
Another rumble sounded and was echoed back from the cliffs across the river. It was closer now, low and deep with a latent strength, and a moment later a dash of rain set the embers hissing. James rose and gathered the remaining tin plates and forks.
‘You should go into your tents. Now. Before it gets going. And expect to stay there until morning. Have you ladies all you need?’ This last question was shouted above the wind as it unleashed its force on the little clearing. Above them branches began knocking together and the leaves fell in a deluge along with the rain. They rushed for the tents as James began turning the iron cooking pots upside down, and the thunder sounded again, closer now, and threatening. He followed them, his collar turned up, shoulders hunched and his hair already plastered to his head as he fastened the tent flaps behind them.
Evelyn turned at the entrance and bent down to him. Their faces were on a level as he crouched to secure the last tie.
‘How long will it last?’ Her heart was jumping foolishly inside her.
‘You’ll be alright, you know,’ he said, and he smiled. ‘It’s only rain.’
‘Where will you sleep?’ she whispered.
‘In one of the Indian shelters.’ And he reached out suddenly to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘Dry as a bone.’
It was two hours later that the tree fell. It was not one of those at the edge of the clearing but a tall jack pine which had stood for half a century a little way into the forest, dying slowly, its dangerous condition hidden by the spread of two larches. The withered roots had withstood many storms but had finally succumbed to this onslaught, and it came crashing through the darkness, cleaving the lower canopy to fall its full length across the campsite, the upper nest of dead branches crushing the ladies’ tent which lay in its path.
The camp awoke at the crash of its falling. James was first out, and the others followed, blundering in the dark until a flickering sheet of lightning revealed the trunk sprawled across the flattened canvas.
‘Dear God …’ breathed Larsen, beside him.
Somehow a hurricane lantern was lit.
Skinner appeared. ‘Get them out. Move …!’
By the next jag of lightning, James saw that one of the larger branches had broken the tree’s fall and it now held the trunk a foot or so off the ground. It was a miracle but beneath it the tent lay flattened, a torn tangle of broken twigs and canvas. He bent over the appalling heap and yelled above the wind. ‘Can you hear me?’
A small voice came back. ‘I can’t move …’
It was Evelyn. ‘Don’t try. Stay still.’
Mr Larsen had grabbed at one of the branches and was pulling ineffectually at it, but James moved him firmly aside. ‘Leave it, sir. Tala, get an axe.’ He called for a lantern and began chopping desperately at the mass of branches while the others used smaller axes and large knives, staying clear of the long sweep of his blows. Restraint was needed, and caution, as somewhere beneath the chaos lay Evelyn—
Larsen stood by, holding the lantern high, oblivious to the slanting rain, and they worked in silence as the storm passed over them. At length James stopped to draw breath. ‘Are you still alright, Evie?’ he called out.
‘I think so,’ came the small, tight reply, ‘but I’m pinned down.’
‘Any bones broken?’
‘No.’
‘Can you reach Lady Melton?’
‘No. Something’s holding the tent down between us. But she’s not moving or speaking …’ Her voice was shot through with fear.
‘Just hold on.’
Larsen moved closer. ‘We’ll have you free in no time, my dear,’ and then added in a quiet aside, ‘You’ll never raise that tree—’
‘We won’t even try.’ James wiped the rain from across his brow. ‘We’ll go in through the sides when we’ve cleared a way in. But I think it fell between the cots—’
Or right on top of Lady Melton.
It took them almost an hour to free Evelyn. They pulled her out, soaked and trembling, and James handed her to Larsen, who wrapped her in a blanket and held her close. It then took almost as long for him to make a space large enough to crawl under the canvas to reach Lady Melton. By then the rain was easing, and Tala stood holding the lantern above the wreckage to give James light to work by. The weight of the trunk was still being held off them by the broken branch which, it seemed, had also caught the side of Lady Melton’s cot and tipped it, pinioning her against the trunk – and done God knows what damage.
‘Get me a knife, Tala.’ James spoke from under the canvas. ‘I’ll slit the base of the cot and get her out that way. Quick, man!’
‘But is she alright?’ Evelyn clung to Larsen, her hair plastered to her head, shivering beneath the blanket, and refusing to take shelter.
‘I have h
er arm now …’ James replied, groping in the dark amongst the tangle and finding her. ‘… And there’s a good strong pulse. Come on, Tala, give me a hand, and we’ll have her free.’
After what seemed like a lifetime they managed to cut away the tent and cot, and between them he and Tala carried her, drenched and unconscious, to where a bed had been made for her in Larsen’s tent. Her arm hung limp, and he saw blood congealed on her forehead and matted through her hair.
God, she was pale. And so still.
Evelyn peered through the door of the tent. ‘Is she alright?’
‘She’s alive. And that’s what matters,’ James replied. She came farther in, there was barely room to move, and he saw that she was shuddering now with delayed shock, and there was an ugly bruise on her temple. Silently, he passed her a flask of Louis’s spirit. ‘Drink some.’
Her hand shook as she obeyed.
‘I’ll sit up with Lady Melton,’ Larsen said to him.
‘Miss Ballantyre can have my tent,’ said Skinner. ‘It’s pretty dry in there. Get yourself wrapped up in those blankets and furs, missee, and you’ll be just fine. Storm’s passing. I’ll bed down with the boys.’
Larsen looked down at Evelyn. ‘That’s a good idea. Off you go, my dear.’
‘No. I must stay with Clemmy …’
He shook his head and pushed her towards the door. ‘I’ll wake you if I need you.’
James propelled her out into the darkness, tucking the trailing blanket around her shoulders and steering her across to Skinner’s tent. ‘Once you’re inside, take off your wet things, and get between the blankets. Go on! Don’t just stand there.’ He opened the flap and steered her in.
‘Come back, though? And tell me how Clemmy is— You will? You must? Promise?’
‘I promise. Now get warm.’
He tied the tent flaps behind her and went back to Larsen’s tent. Tala was gone but Skinner remained. ‘What do you think?’ Larsen was asking him, and James looked down at the still figure and thought of the alabaster effigies of Ballantyre’s forebears in the church back home.