by Sarah Maine
‘You mean you always knew?’
‘I didn’t know his name.’
She stared at him in astonishment and swung round wildly to face Mr Larsen. ‘And you knew! You brought him here—’
‘No, my dear, I didn’t know. Now listen to me—’ He raised a calming hand.
But she turned back to James, gulping in anger. ‘You knew and Papa knew, all these years, while I—’ She clenched her hands into fists and pressed them to her temples.
‘Wait—’
But she was no longer prepared to listen. All these years she had lived under the shadow of an event she had been unable to comprehend, and now, to be treated in such a manner— ‘It was unforgivable! You knew. And yet Rupert Dalston sat with us, and ate with us, and you sat there knowing it was him, while for five years I’d believed it was Papa and you—!’
James took hold of her wrists and held them. ‘Wait—’
Her cries had brought Skinner running. ‘What’s going on? Fer Christsake, let her go—!’
‘It’s alright, Mr Skinner,’ Mr Larsen spoke with sudden authority. ‘Evelyn, calm yourself. Your father must have had his reasons.’
She barely heard him, for another thought had struck her. What did he mean, if he can’t see the matter through? ‘Is Papa in danger? To have written you such a letter—’
Skinner was looking bewildered. ‘He ain’t in danger, missee, jest from a passing storm—’
‘Dalston doesn’t know who I am so nothing’s changed—’ James held on to her wrists.
She pulled back, resisting, and he released her. ‘He was sitting right next to you that night when you talked about fishing flies—! And if Mr Larsen began to guess, then Rupert might have done so too.’ She saw James exchange glances with Mr Larsen.
‘Will someone tell me what the hell’s going on?’ Skinner was becoming angry now, and poked a bony finger at James. ‘And jest who is it yer supposd to be?’
‘Later, Skinner. Mr Larsen will explain. We need to be ready for trouble—’
Evelyn could take no more. She rose and strode across the camp towards the trailhead which led to the landing above the falls. James called out to Tala who stepped into her path, his arms outstretched to stop her, and she turned back: ‘I’m going to meet Papa. I can’t just wait here and let things happen.’
‘And jest what’re you going to do, missee?’ Skinner was looking from one to another, completely at a loss. ‘With the river this high Kershaw might shoot ’em through the first set of rapids and land jest upstream from here. Louis might try the same— So whoever it is you want to meet, you could miss ’em.’
Mr Larsen nodded. ‘He’s right. You must stay here, my dear.’
‘And Clementina might need you,’ James added. ‘I’ll go on to the far landing. Machk and Tala can wait at the near one.’
‘And what they got to do when they get there?’ Skinner asked, throwing wide his arms.
But while James started to explain, Evelyn slipped past Tala and started down the trail.
She could hear James calling her but she did not stop. She had known that he would come after her, or Mr Larsen would send Tala, and she had no idea how far it was to the landing or whether the trail led directly to it, but anger, and hurt, drove her forward and Louis’s trousers gave her a long, unfettered stride— The terror of last night had been followed by an extraordinary sweetness but she was now overcome by fury at the utterly unacceptable revelation of what her father had kept from her. All those years—! And for the last week he had allowed Rupert Dalston to come amongst them as a friend.
And the fact that he had always known that James was innocent defied comprehension. She heard James call again and quickened her step to a run, determined to reach the landing. For James was culpable too – whatever else, he and her father had agreed to some pact this last week, and kept her in ignorance. A moment later he was behind her on the trail, and caught at her arm.
‘Not so fast,’ James said. ‘Be sensible.’
She shook him off. ‘How far to the landing?’
‘Not far. Half a mile, maybe less.’ And he manoeuvred round her, barring the trail ahead. ‘Go back to Mr Larsen.’
‘No. Let me past.’
‘Dalston might get to the landing first. He might be there now—’
‘So might Papa.’
‘And what will you do?’
She bit her lip, and looked aside. She only knew that she must find him. ‘How could you not tell me it was Dalston?’ she said. ‘You just stood by and watched him.’
‘You think it was easy?’
‘But you did, even so—’
‘Go back now, Evie.’
‘And why has Papa said nothing? All these years—’
‘We’ll ask him. Now go back to Mr Larsen.’
‘No.’
Deadlock.
They stood on the trail, facing each other. Then he shrugged, released her arm and stood aside. ‘So be it. But be prepared for anything—’
The path was wide enough for them to have walked beside each other, but he let her walk ahead, and they continued in silence. Through breaks in the trees, she could see steam lifting from the damp forest, and as the sun rose it warmed the foliage, releasing a warm smell of balsam and spruce. Above them the clouds thinned to reveal a stark blueness, and she felt the anger drain from her and slackened her pace, allowing James to come alongside.
‘I just don’t understand—’ she said.
‘Nor do I.’
They walked on. It felt as if the very foundations of her life had cracked apart and all her certainties hand drained away. How could her father have abandoned every principle of justice and integrity, everything that he held dear? It had almost been easier to believe him a killer.
She paused and turned to James. ‘What has Papa said to you?’
‘Only that it was always his word against theirs, and that he has no proof.’ She had a fleeting vision of the moment when she had flung open the study door and seen the man sitting in the armchair, smoking calmly, while her father stood at the fireplace, his face like thunder. It must have been Rupert’s father.
‘But why has he never spoken out?’
James looked across at her, but said nothing. The reason, he believed, was quite simple, but it pained him to tell her. At the bottom of it all, somehow, Ballantyre had been defending his own, just as Jacko had always said he would. They’ll do anything, him and his cronies, to preserve their own interests, and safeguard their right to rule … But under Ballantyre’s roof James had forgotten that essential truth. He’ll send me down time after time, when he catches me, because if he freed me he’d have to free the next man, and where would that lead? For all his charities and largesse he’ll always uphold the system which secures his position – the rest is just a sop for his conscience—
His conscience.
And so Ballantyre, despite everything, had kept silent about Dalston. Behind the façade of philanthropy, self-interest flowed through his veins as strongly as any man of his rank and wealth. But his daughter still believed in him, or wanted to, and the anxiety which now puckered her bruised brow told him just how very much she wanted it. But he could not help her.
‘He was always so pleased with you, so proud.’ Evelyn’s words broke into his thoughts, and he scowled; she could have been talking of one of the race horses. ‘And yet he let everyone believe that it was you …’ He made no comment. ‘How much you must hate him for it.’
Hate was too simple a word, but it stood beside bitterness and anger. And betrayal— And it had been Larsen’s forgiveness Ballantyre had asked for in the letter, not his.
Then he heard something and he went on the alert. Voices— He pulled her off the trail but then realised that the sound came not from ahead of them but from downslope towards the river. The sound came again – raised voices, shouts above the river’s roar, and then a familiar whoop. Louis and Marcel were taking them through, and with the river in full spat
e! He sprinted forward, knowing where he might get a glimpse of the river. ‘Wait here!’ he said and ran on, leaving the trail to cross a treeless shoulder of bedrock and scramble down the decline. He had no fear of being seen, every eye would be fixed on the boiling river, every nerve drawn tight, and the noise of the rapids would mask any sound. He slithered to a halt on the wet earth and lay on his stomach, watching the river glinting through the trees, and was just in time to see the canoe charging forward as Louis guided it through the rocks, incapable of resisting a challenge. James saw him, standing there at the stern, shouting instructions to Marcel in the bow and the Ojibway men on either side with their paddles raised at the ready. He stayed to watch, seeing the light craft bucking and dipping, throwing spray up from its sides, and heard Louis’s irrepressible whoops as they cleared the rocks.
And in the middle of the canoe sat Melton, beside Dalston.
He went back to Evelyn. ‘Tala and Machk will be waiting for them,’ he said. ‘Your father won’t be far behind, so if Kershaw does intend to try that same trick, we need to be up there at the landing to signal to him. So, quick now, press on.’
Chapter 25
Larsen told Skinner as much as he felt he needed to hear, and from the look on the old man’s face this left him just about as bewildered as before. All that seemed to concern him was that although James Douglas was a wanted man, he had not been harbouring a criminal, and would not come under the scrutiny of the law. Having established that fact, and that it was Dalston, and only Dalston, that he had to watch out for, he was content to follow Larsen’s suggestion that they await developments and do nothing until they had to.
‘But be at the ready, Mr Skinner.’ He explained matters to Tala too, enough to enable him to warn Louis, and to put him on the alert. He then went and looked in on Clementina, brought her some tea and helped her to drink it, answering tearful enquiries about when she might expect her husband’s return. ‘And then can we go home?’ she pleaded, and he reassured her then left her to sleep. At least she was speaking coherently, he thought as he stepped out of the tent, and her face was no longer quite so ashen.
He went back to sit beside Skinner at the fire, just the two of them, two old men who had only come to fish. Skinner looked more shrunken than he had a week ago. ‘Did you ever hook that monster up in Astra’s Pool yourself?’ he asked, steering the old man onto familiar territory, and he had the satisfaction of seeing his wrinkled face lighten.
‘More’n once! And he’s got a mouthful of hooks and trailing line, must have jaws of steel. But no one’s hooked him this season, far as I know, so either he’s got too wily or he’s dead. But I like to think he’s still down there. And I tell you another thing …’ and he was away, and all Larsen had to do was sit there and nod, and be impressed – and suppress the anxiety of waiting.
It did not seem very long before his wandering thoughts were brought sharply back to attention. He heard voices down towards the river, and then suddenly they were there. Melton appeared first, moving fast. Tala must have told him what had happened, but he was brought up short by the sight of the campsite and the torn shreds of tent trapped below the tree trunk, and his face drained of colour.
‘Oh God,’ he said.
Larsen rose quickly. ‘She’s fine, George. In my tent. Sleeping now but fine …’ Melton gave him a brief nod and headed for the tent. Dalston was next, and he too stood and stared about him, whistling softly. The others followed, arms full of fishing tackle and sodden gear which they dumped down beside the fire, and began talking to Skinner. Larsen watched Louis cast an appraising glance across the camp and mutter something to Marcel, then he looked across at Larsen. They held the look between them for a moment, and Louis gave a quick nod. So Tala had passed on the message.
It was only then that Larsen noticed Dalston’s face. An ugly bruise stood out red and angry on his cheek and his eye was swollen and rimmed with black. ‘I thought we had it bad,’ he said, coming across to join Larsen, throwing himself into a salvaged chair beside him. ‘Tent came down in the middle of the night so we had to crawl under the canoe. God, what a night. Is there coffee in that can?’
‘Let me get you some.’ Larsen got to his feet and found a mug, watching as Dalston continued to survey the camp.
‘And so the ladies had a narrow escape. Poor Clem,’ he continued, lighting a cigarette. ‘But Evelyn’s alright, is she? I don’t see her—’
‘They were born under a lucky star, those two,’ said Larsen, handing him the drink, and a bottle. ‘The tree fell between the two cots and the trunk was held above them by some branches. A few inches either way and—’ He described in some detail how they had managed to get the two women out while Dalston continued his survey.
‘Evelyn’s in with Clem, I s’pose,’ Dalston interrupted, taking a swig, and it occurred to Larsen that it was not the first recourse to brandy he had taken. So early in the day—?
‘Will you eat something? There’s some porridge, I believe—’
‘God, not that pap again! Anyone who offers me porridge— Ah, George!’ Melton emerged from Larsen’s tent. ‘How is she? She’s a sport, is old Clem. Have some coffee.’
Melton stood a moment looking down at the flattened tent, the canvas filthy now and torn, covered with twigs and pine needles, and he made no reply. Then he raised his head, his expression sober. ‘My dear Larsen, what a night you must have had of it. Clementina says she can’t remember a thing, and I can only imagine what you went through. But Evelyn’s quite unhurt, I gather?’
‘She was trapped for a while, and frightened, of course, but just got a slight blow on the forehead.’
‘Where is Evelyn?’ persisted Dalston. ‘I thought she was in with you and Clem.’
Larsen could prevaricate no longer. ‘She’s gone down to the portage landing to wait for her father.’
‘Not on her own, surely—’ said Melton, then he broke off, and all heads turned.
‘Good God!’
Ballantyre had appeared as if from nowhere and stood at the edge of the campsite, not at the end of the portage trail where he might have been expected, but at the spot where the other trail led up to Astra’s Pool. He stood, rigid with horror, with two unknown Indians flanking him, and stared at the remains of the razed tent, with the tree trunk still lying across it, and then across to Larsen.
‘Niels! Where’s Evelyn?’
Larsen went quickly to him. ‘She’s fine, Charles. Everyone’s fine. A narrow escape but everyone’s fine …’
Ballantyre closed his eyes and put a hand on Larsen’s shoulder, as if to steady himself. ‘And Clementina?’ He looked across to Melton.
‘Took a bang on the head. Nothing more. They were lucky.’
Ballantyre surveyed the scene. ‘So where are they?’
‘Clementina’s in my tent,’ said Larsen. ‘Evelyn went down to the portage landing to wait for you to get back. She was anxious—’
Ballantyre frowned slightly. ‘She’s alone there?’ His eyes flickered around the campsite and came to rest on Larsen’s.
‘No.’
Ballantyre held his look and gave a slight nod. Then Skinner came over and pulled him towards the fire, and gave him a blow-by-blow account of the events of the night, sparing him no details, and Larsen watched the horror spread across his face—
‘Sweet Lord!’ Ballantyre said when Skinner paused to draw breath, and he gave Melton a hawkish look. ‘But Clementina really is alright?’ Melton responded with a quick nod. ‘And what about you? You had a time of it upriver, I imagine.’ He glanced at the ugly bruise that was discolouring Dalston’s cheekbone, the swelling which half-closed one eye. ‘How long have you been back?’
And then everyone was talking at once. Everyone except Dalston who, Larsen noticed, was still looking around the camp, but his expression was unreadable, distorted as it was by his bruising.
The portage landing was empty when James and Evelyn reached it, as was the river for as far as they cou
ld see. A virgin forest crept halfway up the cliffs while, below it, were the rocks and then the dark water itself, swirling as it flowed over submerged rocks and fallen trees. Clouds, spent vestiges of last night’s storm, moved swiftly across the sky.
Evelyn stood a moment then sat down on a log beside the water and fixed her eye on the bend in the river.
James stood a little apart, watching her. There was nothing to do but wait. Then he too sat, his elbows resting on bent knees. And he thought of that very first day when he had seen her, on the terrace at Ballantyre House skipping beside her father, a little scrap of thing – and then the next day when McAllister had dragged him through the house, and she had half-raised her small hand in greeting from the gallery. He thought of the riding lessons too, and of the rides which had come to sweeten his days – until all had been shattered on that unforgettable night, when her eyes had fixed with fear on the blade of his knife.
She had been there, part of his life, throughout it all—
And now she was here, sitting just a yard away from him in Louis’s trousers and his shirt, looking like a gypsy with her dirty face and wild hair, more boy than girl. What if she was right, though, and Dalston had begun to suspect? What would he do? But Dalston was marooned here just as they all were. And any show of violence would be a declaration of guilt. If he only knew what Ballantyre had been planning—
‘What will you do, when all this is over?’ Evelyn knew that he was watching her. ‘Will you be able to come home?’
‘I am home.’ It was an answer she might have expected, but not the one she wanted to hear. Since last night, there had been no time to think, and the thought was unbearable. But he was his own man here, and he would never give that up.
So what other answer could he give?
She hugged her knees to her, crossing her ankles, head averted so that he could not see her expression. And what other answer could there be? If he returned home, the distance between them would be unbridgeable, defined by class and prejudice. He would be slotted firmly back into his place, held there, and the rest would follow. But while here – he could determine his own future. There was an awful irony, she thought, resting her cheek on her knees, that it was the injustice he had suffered at her father’s hands which had allowed him to escape, and he was free now in a way she could never be, hobbled by wealth and class – and by her sex.