by Sarah Maine
She looked back up the river, towards the bend, beyond which she could not see. For her, there was no choice. She would return home to the sanctioned spheres of womanhood, back to Ballantyre House to a life which Clementina had promised to take in hand. No man would ever put her name on a newly charted map; there would be no Lake Evelyn.
‘I don’t want to return home either,’ she said, turning back to him. ‘I’d rather stay here.’
He looked up but said nothing.
How could she ever hope to break away and become part of the affairs of the world? It would be better to be poor, with nothing to lose, and then she could be like the smart shop girls in New York, or the women striding down the boardwalks in Port Arthur, with their skirts a-swinging as they confronted the challenges of life. But her father would not be able to comprehend such desires.
‘Mr Larsen says that there are women running businesses in Port Arthur—’ she said after a moment.
‘Aye. Bars and brothels.’
She frowned at him. ‘He said one woman is running a lumber yard—’
‘A lumber yard?’ He smiled but the smile did not reach his eyes. ‘Ask your father to set you up with one.’
She lifted her chin and deepened her frown. ‘When I come into my mother’s money I can do what I like.’ Perhaps—
‘Is that so?’ He stretched out on his back on the smooth rock, his hands folded behind his head, and gazed up at the sky. ‘And you plan to go into the lumber business. I’d no idea …’
His tone, detached and scornful, provoked her. ‘Running a lumber yard must be better than what’s awaiting me at home. If I stayed here, in Port Arthur, maybe I could find work to do.’
She wanted to gain his attention, to make him listen, but he only rolled his head to look at her. ‘Work.’
‘Why not?’
He returned his gaze to the sky. ‘Do I need to answer that?’
He was deliberately distancing himself from her, and she recognised the tone. It was the one he used when she asked him things he did not want to answer, about Jacko and his old life. But that would no longer do, not after last night. ‘Or I could stay here, with you,’ she said. He made no response. ‘Last night—’
‘Last night you were cold and you were frightened,’ he said. ‘And, like I told Larsen, that was all—’
Then the only sound was of the current of the water flowing rapidly away from them.
‘No,’ she said. ‘There was more.’
He rolled onto his side and propped his head on his crooked elbow, and looked back at her.
‘I want to stay here,’ she repeated.
‘Evie—’
‘Papa cannot force me to go back.’
‘He can.’
‘I won’t go.’
He rolled onto his back again, lifting an arm to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘So what would you do, Miss Ballantyre? Bed down between Louis and me in some cheap boardinghouse over the winter, cook our food and take in washing? Or should we put you out onto the streets so you can earn your keep?’ She was not sure what he meant, or why he was suddenly so angry. ‘Poverty isn’t a game, you know, like sleeping outdoors on a summer night. It means endless cold, hunger, and humiliation. Begging for work, and begging for food when there is none, and then stealing it when you can. Believe me, I know. And hunger and cold here are killers—’
‘And is that what you’ll face this winter?’ she asked. ‘Not if Papa—’
‘You think I want to take his help, or his money?’
‘But you must! You must demand it, and then take it. It is the only thing he has left to give—’
‘I’ve plans of my own.’
Yes! James could make his plans, but she could not make plans for herself, in a world where she could no more decide her own destiny than fly. ‘So I must return with Papa, and then go and stay with Clemmy and hope I’m lucky enough to find another Rupert Dalston, who isn’t a murderer— That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’
He did not reply but the thought brought her abruptly back to the moment, and she looked back up the river. It remained empty. ‘What do you think Papa plans to do?’ she asked as the fierceness left her. ‘About Rupert—?’
‘He says he needs a confession from him.’
‘He’ll never make one—’
‘He will.’
She looked up at his tone. ‘But surely if it’s forced from him, he can retract it later, in court.’
James sat up slowly, and he too looked up the empty river. ‘I don’t see him going to court.’ The edge to his voice made her stomach lurch. ‘No court will hang an earl’s son, however much he deserves it.’
… don’t let James Douglas take matters into his own hands …
‘But if charges are dropped and a settlement made – would that not be enough?’ He threw her a scornful look. ‘If you do anything outside the law … it would have made you into what you are not.’
‘If I kill him, you mean?’
Something clutched at her heart— ‘You aren’t a killer, James.’
He gave her a narrow slanting look, squinting into the sun. ‘But you thought I was, Miss Ballantyre. For five years you thought it—’
She looked back at him, and spoke slowly. ‘But now, after all that has happened, if you told me that you were, I don’t think I would care.’
Chapter 26
‘So who’s with Evelyn?’ Dalston asked, when all that needed to be said about fallen trees and flattened tents had been said. ‘The Scot?’
‘Yes,’ Larsen replied, glancing across at Ballantyre.
The young man began to get to his feet. ‘Then I’ll go and tell her that you’re back.’
‘Thank you, Dalston, but I shall go myself.’ Ballantyre rose but had only taken a few paces before he was stopped by Melton, who stepped into his path.
‘Charles—’ he said, quietly. ‘I’d like a word. I’ll walk with you a way, if I might?’
His face bore a strange expression, and Dalston turned in his seat. ‘George!’ he said, his eyes glinting. ‘This is not …’
But Larsen saw that Melton’s expression had changed to one of stubbornness. ‘You must allow me to deal with the matter as I see fit, Rupert—’ And Larsen saw that he was looking deeply unhappy.
‘But, dammit, man, I spoke to you in confidence—!’ Dalston spluttered, half-rising from his seat.
‘Nevertheless.’
‘Ah.’ Ballantyre paused, then looked slowly from one to the other. ‘I see—’ He turned back to the fire and sat again, his hands folded calmly on his lap. ‘My dear Melton, please proceed—’
‘George, for God’s sake!’
But Melton shook his head again. ‘You made some very serious allegations—!’
Larsen had not seen Louis and Marcel move, but somehow they were there, right behind Dalston, and the atmosphere had become charged. Too late now to remember that the little pistol he carried everywhere was in his pack beside Lady Melton in the tent.
‘Charles, in private, I think,’ Melton said.
But Ballantyre remained seated, quite still, and he gave Dalston a twisted smile. ‘I’ll admit that you’ve astonished me again, young man,’ he said. ‘But for once I believe we are in accord! It is indeed time to finish the matter.’ Dalston flushed as Ballantyre gestured Melton back to his seat. ‘And there’s no need for privacy, George, because I know what you’re going to say to me. You’re going to ask me whether it’s true that I’m sheltering a man wanted on two charges of murder. And the answer, my friend, is yes, I am.’
Melton looked astonished, and unsure of his next step. Ballantyre, however, slowly lit one of his cigars, flicked the match into the fire and gestured again to the seat. ‘Please, George, do sit, as this might take a little time.’ Then he addressed Dalston again. ‘I’d give a lot to hear what else you felt compelled to confide.’ Dalston flushed deeper, and a nerve in his bruised eyelid began to twitch. Larsen guessed that this was not playing out a
s he had intended.
Then Ballantyre looked across at him. ‘And something tells me that you, my friend, felt the need to read the letter I left you?’
‘I did.’
‘Good. Very percipient of you, as always. And now I wonder if I can trouble you to show it to Melton. It will save time in explanation, and if accusations are being bandied about then perhaps we should have them all on the table.’
Larsen went quickly back into his tent, retrieved the letter, and took a moment to check that his pistol was loaded, and to slip it into his pocket. Clementina, thank goodness, was breathing deeply, still fast asleep. He paused at the entrance of the tent and listened as Ballantyre continued. ‘But I believe you intended that George keep your little confidence to himself until we were back in Nipigon, did you not? Then you could arrange for James’s arrest— Rash of you to tell him now, perhaps, but then you prefer action to reaction, do you not, and you’d no idea what I might be planning.’
Larsen heard Dalston’s cool reply as he rejoined the group. ‘No. Nor how you intend to explain yourself.’ He had crossed his long legs, as if in mimicry of Ballantyre, and adopted the same air of studied calm. ‘I have no idea why you and your daughter have been playing this game of pretence. It took me a while to puzzle out who the man was, but I knew something odd was going on—’
‘Very astute of you,’ said Ballantyre.
Larsen handed Ballantyre’s letter to Melton. Dalston frowned and watched him closely as he read it while Ballantyre drew on his cigar, narrowing his eyes against the smoke. Larsen saw Melton’s expression change as he reached the critical point in the letter.
Dalston sat forward. ‘I don’t know what’s written there, George, but it’ll be a pack of lies. Here, let me see—’ Ballantyre gave a wave of consent and Dalston snatched the letter, skimmed the contents, and his face suffused with colour. ‘Good God! So that’s it, is it?’ he snorted. ‘Do you imagine anyone is going to believe this, Ballantyre? It’s quite absurd! Laughable, in fact— You use me to cover up your filthy behaviour and protect your …’ He broke off and his lip curled in disdain.
It was a good performance and Larsen saw Melton’s frown deepen.
‘Aha!’ Ballantyre raised his eyebrows. ‘So you were party to that element of the plot, were you? I often wondered – but I was unsure whether that bit of embroidery was something just between your father and myself. How very interesting! And you’ve enlightened George, have you?’
It was now Larsen’s turn to be perplexed, but Melton’s growing discomfiture was all too evident, and he raised a hand. ‘Wait. Stop there. Before we go any further. If we are to have this matter out, then James Douglas should be here so that he might account for himself.’
‘I’ll go and get him,’ said Louis, who had been watching the proceedings without expression.
Dalston scoffed. ‘And give him the tip-off to run again— I think not—’
Melton looked about the camp, mentally dismissing each individual in turn. Then: ‘Mr Skinner, could we trouble you to go? And I ask you to say nothing, except that everyone is now safely back in the camp. But—’ He turned back to Ballantyre. ‘Charles, consider! You won’t want your daughter to hear—’
‘Evelyn will hear only the truth from me,’ Ballantyre replied. ‘And she shall hear it— Bring them both back here, please, Mr Skinner.’
By the time Skinner arrived at the landing they had moved off the rocks to a softer place, where low plants and fallen leaves made a cushioned spread beneath them. If asked, James would not have been able to say how they got there, but it was enough that he was holding her again, her hair a sweet blend of woodsmoke and balsam, her skin smooth beneath the shirt—
Skinner hawked noisily and then spat.
‘There’s no time fer that.’
James spun round and sat up. ‘Skinner! Christ—’ He turned back to Evelyn, shielding her while she buttoned her shirt, her head averted and her hair falling forward.
‘Yer pa’s back, missee,’ Skinner said, looking pointedly the other way. ‘Came back overland. The others ’re back too.’
James’s mind came swiftly back from the sweet place it had been. ‘They sent you to fetch us?’
‘That’s right.’ Skinner did not meet his eyes.
‘So everyone is there? And Dalston. He’s there?’ he asked, glancing at Evelyn.
‘He’s there. One eye closed.’ Skinner chuckled. ‘Got into a fight with Marcel upriver. Not seeing things so clearly now.’
James got to his feet, pulling Evelyn up beside him, keeping her close. ‘Why were they fighting?’
Skinner could never resist a story. ‘They saw a bear with cubs across the river, see, and Marcel told him not to shoot it but Dalston did anyways. So then Marcel had to shoot the cubs, and that made him mad, and he wouldn’t cross the river for the skins, which made Dalston madder. Louis said he threw the first punch.’
‘Idiot—’
Skinner nodded sagely. ‘Maybe Louis shouldn’t have pulled Marcel off him, and then things would be simpler—’
James stopped and looked at him. ‘Skinner. What’s happening back at camp?’ Evelyn stood close, her hand gripping James’s arm. She had attempted to tie back her hair, but it was coming down again, and there were pine needles down the length of her.
Skinner shook his head but his jaw was working anxiously. ‘Jes’ come back with me now. You too, missee. That’s what yer pa said. Jes come back. Both of you.’
Chapter 27
At first glance the group at the campsite appeared quite normal. They were gathered around the fire as if it were any other day when they might be discussing their catches, the strikes and losses, or the speed of the river.
Evelyn looked for her father and saw him sitting there, relaxed, a cigar in one hand, a tin mug in the other, and he was talking to Larsen, who sat beside him. Rupert was with George, as was usual, and he was talking intently to him, though George was half-turned away. Louis and Marcel stood just behind the two of them, and then she saw that their stance was anything but relaxed; they were like pointers, straining at the leash— Machk, Tala, and two strangers sat a little way off, but their attention too was fixed on the group by the fire.
Louis was the first to see them emerge from the trail. His expression lightened at her appearance, and he gave a grin, then her father looked up and rose to his feet.
‘Evelyn, my dear—’ He bent to kiss her on the forehead, lightly touched the bruise there, then scrutinised her apparel, eyebrows raised. ‘How very practical,’ he said. ‘You’ve had quite a night, I hear, and must tell me about it.’ Then he looked across to James. ‘And I understand that I’m in your debt, young man, for expediting matters.’ He searched James’s face. ‘But now we must deal with a storm of a different sort – matters have come suddenly to a head, you see.’ Evelyn felt her stomach turn over and she looked across at Rupert, who muttered something in an aside to Melton. ‘So sit down, will you, and Evie, take my seat beside Niels.’ Mr Larsen stood, reached out to take her hand and squeeze it as she sat down beside him. And he held on to it.
Her father remained standing and James’s face was wooden as Ballantyre addressed him again. ‘Having worked out your identity it appears that Dalston has endeavoured to win support by giving Melton a version of events—’
‘Not a version, Ballantyre,’ Dalston interjected.
‘— a version that differs from mine,’ her father continued. ‘And while we don’t have twelve good men and true, we have men of sound judgement here, who can perhaps consider the matter for themselves.’
‘This is absurd!’ Dalston gave a credible appearance of bored indignation. ‘George, for God’s sake! Tell the man he ain’t in some Kelso courthouse. Skinner, how soon can we be back down to civilisation where this man can be put under guard and the matter dealt with by the proper authorities?’
‘There is no authority here today, Dalston, other than mine’ – the words, spoken softly, charged the at
mosphere – ‘and you will hear me out.’
The words sent a shiver through Evelyn, and suddenly she was afraid. She had known her father remote, she had known him sardonic, and she had known him angry, but she had never seen the expression he now bestowed on Rupert. He was in deadly earnest, and all heads turned to him—
A flame leapt in the hearth, and then subsided, and it seemed that the trees began to close in around them to form walls, a wilderness courtroom. A raven flew overhead and gave a guttural cry, as if to start the proceedings.
From his position at the edge of the circle, James watched Dalston’s face grow rigid as Ballantyre accused him first of Jacko’s murder, and then of McAllister’s. His tone was cold, factual, and precise. ‘I know he shot the old poacher, because I was there and saw him do it,’ he said, ‘and so did James Douglas. I believe Dalston killed McAllister, my head keeper, too, although there are no witnesses.’ Dalston made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sneer. ‘I had dismissed the man an hour before he was found dead. When his clumsy attempts to blackmail me failed, I imagine he tried his luck with Dalston; he was fool enough, and came by his just deserts.’
Dalston rallied and came back at him. ‘No witnesses, eh? Awkward for you, that.’ He gestured to the letter which had fallen on the ground. ‘And no proof either, you say so yourself.’
Ballantyre gave him a grim smile. ‘But nonetheless it is the truth.’
Dalston’s good eye slid around the gathering. ‘One shooting, four witnesses, of which three give the same account, one differs. Then one slit throat, no witnesses. Very awkward, in fact.’
‘A slit throat, you say?’ interjected his adversary.