Beyond the Wild River

by Sarah Maine

  ‘Pulse’s still strong, but we’ll see in the morning. It jest looks bad with all that blood on her face.’ Skinner shook his head. ‘But if it’d fallen jest a few inches either way—’

  ‘I know.’ Larsen’s face was pale in the lantern light. ‘Will they be alright upriver?’ he asked.

  Skinner nodded. ‘Louis and Marcel know what they’re doing.’ Tala appeared at the door of the tent and Skinner went out to him.

  ‘And Kershaw seemed to be a man of good sense,’ Larsen muttered, accepting an offer of James’s flask. Then: ‘You did well tonight, James.’

  ‘We did what we had to.’ He banged the stopper back in the flask, and picked up the other lantern. ‘Just keep her warm, and call me if you need help. I’ll be in one of the shelters.’

  James left Larsen’s tent and held the lantern high, and for the first time he was able to take in the utter devastation that the storm had wrought upon the camp. It was as if a tornado had passed through— The tree lay like a felled giant across the campsite, littering it with torn branches, and rain dripped from the surrounding trees onto the sorry mess. If it had fallen the night before it would have flattened the gentlemen’s tent too, he thought, and so denied him any hope of settling scores with Dalston. But as it was, having destroyed the ladies’ tent, it had fallen across the fireplace, crushing the table and chairs, but left Skinner’s tent and the shelters miraculously untouched. And it had also fallen well short of the canoes, which were pulled up on the rocks; their loss would have been a blow indeed— They would have to wait until morning to see the full extent of the damage, and for now he should try to get some sleep.

  Holding the lantern before him he crossed the campsite, stepping over the debris and headed for the shelters. Then he remembered his promise and veered off towards Skinner’s tent.

  ‘You alright now?’ he asked in a low voice, through the canvas.

  There was no reply other than a scuffling sound like that of a desperate animal, then a pale arm stretched out of the tent to him. ‘James? Come in to me. Please …’ He looked back across the dark campsite towards Larsen’s tent where he could see the diffused light of the other lantern glowing through the canvas, but all was quiet. Evelyn’s voice held a rising note of hysteria. ‘Please.’

  He crouched down and quickly untied the flaps. ‘Take the lantern then and move back.’ Skinner’s tent was not designed for two. ‘It’s alright. Storm’s passed.’ He crawled in beside her, put out a hand and found her shoulder, and felt her whole frame shaking beneath his touch, icy cold, still in shock— He gathered up an almost dry blanket and draped it around her shoulders, pulling her to him, chafing her shoulders. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Will she die?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He could hear her teeth chattering. ‘It was terrible …’

  ‘Yes. But it’s over—’

  ‘… and I was pinned down. Clemmy wasn’t moving …’ He held her head against his chest. ‘We could both have been killed …’

  ‘But you weren’t.’ His hand found the thick plait of her hair which felt like cold rope so he slid his palm beneath it, lifting it away from her neck, and pulled the blanket up between them to shield her from his own wet shirt. Then he held her again— She felt no bigger than a child, but so cold, and still shaking uncontrollably, so he laid her down and held her tight, pressing his full length against hers.

  Gradually he felt her grow calmer. ‘Get the blanket right round you. Good. Now roll yourself in those furs. You’ll soon warm up and then you can sleep.’ He released her and began pulling away, but she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and held on.

  ‘No. Don’t go, James. Stay with me …’ The shaking started again, just as violently. He saw her eyes, wide and glittering in the lantern light. ‘Sleep here, with me. I don’t care … Please don’t leave me.’ She refused to release his shirt, and the blankets fell away again and he saw she was wearing only a thin shift. ‘And hold me again.’

  There was an animal fear in her eyes.

  He hesitated. Good God—! Then he reached out and extinguished the lantern, and pulled the wet shirt over his head. ‘Come on then.’ And he took her in his arms again, and pulled the stinking furs back over the two of them. Her arms went round him like icy bands, and they lay there, fused together, and silent.

  Slowly, as warmth spread between them, he felt her shivering subside and he began chafing her back, feeling the delicate wing bones of her shoulders, the ladder of her spine – and then down to the hollow of her back. He found himself loosening the plait of her hair and spreading it to dry, then later sweeping it aside to feel the smoothness of her neck in his palm. Then his hand slid down her back to the hollow again, and only by sheer force of will did he venture no farther. And he felt her relax and grow still.

  And then his holding of her was no longer what it had been, and the stillness became expectant.

  He had never intended to kiss her, but he could not stop himself. And once begun— With an effort he forced himself to pull away and he lay on his back, still holding her, her head now tucked beneath his chin, her hair spread across his chest. God, what a fool. Half-child she was, but she had responded to him as a woman would, although she had no understanding of where it might lead. But he did— And there was only a thin layer of cotton between the two of them. He rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket over them, turning her so that her back was against his chest, her body fitted into the curve of his. His arms encircled her again. How small she was! And lovely— He would leave just as soon as he could, and he bid her to go to sleep. She gave a soft, muffled response, and he threaded his fingers with hers and crossed both their arms over her breast. This way he could still hold her, and by locking his fingers with hers, his hands could no longer explore. ‘Sleep,’ he ordered, and buried his face deep in the smell of her.

  She was still asleep three hours later when dawn awoke him. He lay there a moment then carefully extracted himself from the skins and blankets and looked down at her. She slept like a child, her hair all a-tumble and her lips parted – and he felt an ache deep inside as he recalled the night. Carefully he pulled on his shirt, and its icy wetness brought him rapidly to his senses. Fool! He tucked the blankets round her so that the cold would not waken her when he moved, and slid to the entrance of Skinner’s tent.

  He was untying the flaps when she awoke.

  ‘No. Don’t go. Or wait and I’ll come too—’ She sat up, clutching the blanket with one hand, and reached the other out to him. Then she seemed to remember. ‘But I can’t. All my clothes are in our tent. And they’ll be ruined—’ She pulled the blankets up under her armpits and ran a hand through her hair. And smiled at him—

  He frowned in response. ‘I’ll go and light the fire, then see what I can find.’

  ‘James—’

  He continued to frown, distancing himself. ‘What?’

  ‘If you hadn’t stayed with me last night I would have died.’ He snorted, and turned back to the ties. ‘I know I would. I was terrified once I was alone.’ She reached out to him again and then recoiled from his wet shirt. ‘It’s soaking! You can’t possibly wear it. Take it off.’

  ‘Leave it be—’

  But she laughed at him, and tugged at it.

  And then his shirt was off again and he came back to her, back to where he had been before, except they were both awake now. And warm—

  But as reasoning began to desert them both she twisted in his arms, and looked up at him: ‘Clementina. I’d forgotten! How could I have done—’

  This time she let him pull away, and he wrapped the blankets tight around her, pinning her arms to her sides. ‘I’ll go and see.’

  ‘Then come back—’

  Chapter 24

  The shirt was even more unpleasant to put on a second time, and the cool air seemed to freeze it to him as he stood up outside the tent, and he shivered. A pale light was filtering through the trees and its shafts revealed
the destroyed campsite. Dear God, what a mess! He stretched to get the kink out of his back, pulled his shirt down, stretched again, and inhaled deeply.

  Then stopped. Tobacco.

  He turned, and saw Larsen had emerged from his tent and was looking steadily back at him, his pipe in his hand. They stared at each other, then James went over to him. What else could he do?

  ‘How is Lady Melton?’ he asked.

  Larsen drew slowly on his pipe. ‘She stirred, spoke a few words, and now she’s sleeping.’ He regarded James with a thoughtful expression but made no further remark.

  ‘That’s good.’

  Larsen nodded slightly, still considering him. It was a grave expression but not hostile. ‘And Evelyn?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  Larsen nodded again. ‘That’s good too—’ And they stood in silence, looking out over the camp.

  ‘Did you get some sleep, sir?’

  ‘A little. Enough. Any chance of getting a fire lit? We could all do with a hot drink.’

  Half an hour later the party, with the exception of Lady Melton, were sat around a listless fire, huddled close to absorb what little heat it offered, eyes smarting in the smoke. Water had been heated and Larsen felt warmth from the thin coffee coursing through him. He was cold and he was tired and he was cramped – and he was also very alarmed.

  He looked across at Evelyn with deep misgivings. James had found her a dry pair of Louis’s trousers, a spare shirt of his own, and a belt which somehow managed to hold the whole ensemble together. Her own boots had been salvaged from the crushed tent, and she had a blanket draped around her shoulders. Overnight her hair had dried into wild curls which she had tied back with a piece of twine, and there was dirt down the side of her face where she had swiped at a horsefly, a dark bruise on her forehead – and an expression in her eyes which would have chilled her father’s heart.

  For the young man had become her lodestone and her eyes followed his every move. And James, hide it as he might try, was very well aware of the fact.

  Oh God!

  Skinner had looked in on Lady Melton and had come out much relieved, having exchanged a few words with her. He had summoned Tala who, he informed Larsen, had medicinal skills, and the Indian had cleaned the wound on her head and then disappeared into the forest, returning with a plant whose leaves he pressed to the broken skin on her brow. It was, after all, only a superficial wound and, despite concerns last night, nothing was broken. But the poor lady was still as white as a sheet and tearful, complaining of a pain in her chest, perhaps a cracked rib or two, and needed no persuading to stay where she was.

  He and Evelyn had then gone in to see her, and Evelyn’s appearance had raised a wan smile. ‘You look like a brigand too now—’

  ‘I’ve wanted breeches since I was a child. These are Louis’s, and rather large. The shirt,’ she said, with heightened colour, ‘belongs to James.’

  Larsen had not let her stay long, seeing that Clementina was dropping back to sleep, and had led her back to the fire. It was smoking rather less now and beginning to put out more heat. Dry logs had been recovered from beneath one of the canoes and James was preparing breakfast. The oats had got wet too, he explained, but lumpy porridge never harmed anyone.

  Larsen glanced around and saw that no one was in earshot.

  ‘So—’ he said, knowing he had to speak now while he could but this was not a task he relished. ‘You two …’ And there he stalled.

  Evelyn flushed crimson and James stopped stirring the porridge and looked across at her. ‘She was cold, sir, and frightened. Nothing more.’

  Larsen looked back at him, liking his directness. It made things easier. ‘And you are, after all, well acquainted.’

  Evelyn froze, but the young man held his look. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Dead bird’s feathers.’ He watched James’s face. ‘Only a member of Ballantyre’s household would know that raven or jackdaw feathers might substitute for those of a long-dead macaw.’ And he saw the young man’s expression change as he remembered.

  Evelyn looked from one to the other. ‘You mustn’t say anything, Mr Larsen …’

  ‘I know, and I won’t.’

  ‘James is innocent—’ Evelyn had sat forward, urgently, letting the blanket slip from her shoulders.

  Larsen put up a hand. ‘I know that too.’

  ‘What do you know?’ James asked.

  ‘Enough.’ Larsen turned to Evelyn. ‘Your father seemed to anticipate some sort of trouble so he left me a letter. I read it yesterday when you were down by the river.’

  ‘A letter?’ Evelyn grabbed at Larsen’s sleeve. ‘Why would he give you a letter when he’s coming back today? In fact, he’ll be back at any moment—’

  ‘I know he will, and there’s no cause for concern—’

  ‘But why a letter? Let me see it!’

  James handed Larsen a plate of food and called the others over, thus sparing him the need to respond. But Evelyn continued to frown. ‘When will my father be back?’ she demanded of Skinner as he came over and took his plate.

  ‘Why, jest as soon as he can, missee,’ he replied. ‘The river’ll be fast now, after the rain, so don’t you worry.’

  ‘And the others?’ enquired Larsen.

  ‘Same applies.’

  They huddled around the smoking fire and discussed what now needed to be done. Skinner agreed with Larsen that as soon as the others returned, they would pack up and start back, but he was phlegmatic about having been washed out. It had happened before. ‘Couldn’t have guessed about that tree, though, but jest so long as everyone’s alright … And that monster’ll still be up at Astra’s Pool waiting for you next time, mister,’ he added, nodding towards Larsen.

  ‘If it lives another summer.’

  And if he did. This trip was taking years off him—

  Skinner got to his feet and went over to the crumpled mass of tent and broken branches, picked up the axe again, and handed it to James. ‘Jest salvage what you can,’ he said. ‘It won’t be much, and I think the washstand is done for.’

  ‘Good, it made us ridiculous,’ Evelyn said as Skinner walked out of earshot.

  James grinned briefly. ‘Now that the fire’s got going we can spread out your clothes and get them drying.’

  Evelyn gave him a look which made Larsen belch again with anxiety, and they watched him start chopping away at the smaller branches where the entrance of the tent had been, and lift up the sodden canvas.

  They would be lucky to retrieve anything from there, and the sooner they got back to civilisation, the better.

  ‘I’ll check on Clementina again—’ he began but Evelyn put a hand on his sleeve.

  ‘I want to see this letter.’ James had pulled out a pile of damp furs and clothing and was now slinging a rope between two trees. Larsen wished that he would come back over. The young man was displaying an unexpected competence in dealing with matters. ‘It’s addressed just to me, my dear, and I’m not sure—’

  ‘Yes, he wrote to you, not to me, as he should have done.’ Her words were clipped and angry. ‘He’s told you things that he has never told me, which he should have done, years ago.’

  Her tone must have carried because Larsen saw James pause in spreading one of the blankets, and look across at them, and then he ducked under the rope and came quickly to them. ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘I want to see this letter.’ She let go of Larsen’s sleeve and stood up to face James.

  James’s eyes met Larsen’s over her head.

  ‘Let us both see it.’

  Larsen looked from one to the other, and then aside to where the two whisky jacks had found the open oatmeal tin. They had tipped it over and were busy raiding the contents, their eyes darting left and right. He felt old suddenly and quite uncertain what he ought to do. Nothing in his life had equipped him for dealing with matters such as these. He drew the letter from his pocket and handed it silently to James, abdicating responsi
bility. ‘But then we must talk. Decide what to do—’

  James pulled Evelyn down onto the fallen trunk, sat beside her, and handed her the letter. It began with a bald account of who James was, his innocence regarding the charges against him, and then moved swiftly on to an account of Jacko’s killing. He felt Evelyn stiffen as she read a name, and her hand flew to her mouth.

  I witnessed this myself, as did my head keeper Robbie McAllister, who was found dead next morning. I had dismissed him that evening and it is my belief that he was attempting to blackmail Dalston, and that Dalston killed him too. I have, however, no proof.

  Do you believe in destiny, my friend? I think perhaps I do. Nemesis, perhaps, has had a hand in this for which I am glad, the matter has festered too long, poisoning lives, and I have a chance to resolve it here. Should anything happen to me I wrote out a full account while I was at Skinner’s, and this will explain the whole, and it awaits you in Boston. My advocate in Edinburgh already has a sealed document which I lodged with him five years ago. If I am not granted the opportunity to see the matter through, then I ask that you will do so, old friend. And I hope, when you understand what I have done, that you will forgive me … Show this to Melton if you must, he is a sound man, but don’t let James Douglas take matters into his own hands or he will undo all I have striven to put in place. Look after Evelyn, and believe me, you can trust James with your life, and hers. CB.

  Evelyn lowered the letter and stared at James. ‘Rupert!’ But he was looking fixedly ahead. Evelyn shook his arm. ‘It was Rupert—’ she repeated. Her father had known this all along and done nothing! Whatever must James be thinking? But he was still staring into the fire, not shocked or surprised even, and Mr Larsen was watching him with an odd expression. Then understanding dawned, and she drew back. ‘You knew it was Rupert—’ Her breath came in short gasps and her head spun. ‘You knew all along!’

  ‘Yes. I knew.’

  She blinked rapidly. ‘But—? How long have you known?’

  ‘Since the killing, and then I recognised him at the station—’