Scoundrel's Daughter

by Margo Maguire

  Alastair looked skeptical. Dorothea could see him mentally weighing his options as he gazed out at the sea.

  “And what about Temple?” he asked.

  “He believes…it’s here…Clyfton Castle,” Dorothea said, still struggling for air. Once she told her father what she’d discovered, perhaps she could persuade him to take her to a physician. “Jack…doesn’t know…song was from the house…not the castle.”

  “Let’s go,” Alastair finally said.

  “But, Father…”

  There was an overgrown track that led past the castle ruins she had visited the day before with Jack. Alastair ignored her plea and drove the wagon several more miles until they reached a much smaller pile of stone walls. Dorothea continued to struggle for breath, and now that she was resting, she improved marginally. Perhaps she did not need a physician after all.

  “Is this it?”

  Dorothea shrugged. “I think it must be,” she said.

  Alastair jumped down and walked around the broken-down walls. He spoke quietly to Neville and Paco, who both followed. From her place in the wagon, Dorothea could hear him analyzing the site aloud.

  Her mother had been right about him. Alastair really was a learned man. He talked about the stone and mortar and the style of house it had been, based on the configuration of the walls. He walked the length of the building, testing the soil beneath his feet, looking for remaining traces of the structure.

  After a word about support beams, he pointed toward the spot that would have been the center of the house. The wind shifted suddenly, carrying his voice away, so Dorothea could no longer hear what he said to the men. She closed her eyes and lay back against the side of the wagon and willed her heart to slow.

  She wished she did not feel like such a traitor to Jack. This had to be the right thing to do. Jack would move on to his next expedition and Dorothea had to live with her father. Or, at least, in her father’s house.

  She’d been right to leave Jack. Even if there had been no Mandylion, no betrayal, Dorothea had no doubt that Jack would begin to resent her when she proved incapable of the most basic physical exertion. She would never be able to hike into the ruins of anything more challenging than the few castles they’d visited in York.

  Maybe not even that, she thought, remembering how she’d felt after walking all over Rievaulx and then climbing the hill that overlooked it. Sadly, she admitted she would never be able to keep up with Jack. She was doomed to a dull and sedentary life in that dismal house of her father’s.

  When she looked up again, there were short posts in the ground, and the men had strung twine between them, forming a grid. They were digging now, all three of them, in separate squares. Dorothea did not know how Alastair had decided where to dig or if he thought he would actually find the Mandylion this way. She had to assume, however, that her father had the knowledge and experience to follow the right course.

  And then it occurred to her that he did not have permission to dig on Mrs. Browning’s property.

  Dorothea frowned. Jack had made quite an issue of the Brownings’ permission, to the point of having them sign a document stating their consent. Shouldn’t Alastair do the same?

  She tried to call out to him, but her voice was weak and he did not hear her. Or he chose not to hear.

  Since she could do nothing about it now, Dorothea leaned back and closed her eyes again. She was breathing more easily now, and her racing heart seemed to have settled down. With luck, she would feel fine after resting awhile.

  Rain woke her. Judging by the amount of digging that had occurred, Dorothea estimated that she must have slept for hours. The afternoon had turned cool, and there was a brisk wind coming off the ocean.

  She shivered and watched as dirt continued to fly out of deep holes. Wouldn’t the men climb out and look for shelter from the rain?

  Dorothea looked up at the sky. The last time she had been caught in the rain, she’d been with Jack. And he had found them a warm and dry place to stay.

  Deciding that perhaps her father hadn’t noticed the rain, Dorothea managed to climb out of the wagon. She walked to the place where the old house once stood and stepped over some broken rock. Mindful of her footing, she went to the first mound of dirt and looked in.

  Paco stood in a hole that was just slightly deeper than his height. He was intent upon his digging, so Dorothea moved on to the next mound.

  She discovered Neville, tapping at what appeared to be a solid stone wall beneath ground level. Curious, she remained standing in the light rain, shivering, looking down at him as he worked.

  The wall seemed to be solid. Dorothea readily admitted that she knew nothing about it, but wondered if perhaps it was so well preserved because it had been under the ground. Was it a section of one of the main rooms or part of a cellar?

  She moved on and found her father digging just opposite Neville. Facing the other man’s site, Alastair had cleared the other side of the wall, and was prodding at it with a small pick.

  “Father?” she called.

  Alastair did not respond.

  Dorothea called louder and got him to look up at her.

  “What is it?” he asked, giving her only a moment’s attention. He turned quickly back to his work.

  “You probably haven’t noticed, but it’s raining.”

  He kept on tapping.

  “Father?” she said again. “I’m getting soaked.”

  She thought she heard grumbling, but he eventually looked up at her. “There’s a tarpaulin in the back of the wagon. Get back in there, pull it over you and you’ll stay dry enough.”

  Dorothea stood there for a moment longer, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. Perhaps her earlier exertion had made her more light-headed than she thought. She could not imagine that her father wanted her to stay out in the cold and rain, with a filthy old canvas tarpaulin pulled over her.

  “Father?” she called down to him again.

  He squinted up at her and spoke sharply. “Look, girl. I haven’t the time for your troubles. Go on and leave me to my work.”

  Stunned by his words and the rudeness with which they were delivered, Dorothea retreated. She backed away from the deep holes dug by the three men and tripped over a tool, sprawling on her bottom in the mud.

  Somehow, she managed to get back on her feet. She held her hands out in the rain to rinse them, then hobbled back to the wagon in her ruined clothes and her mud-caked shoes. This was not at all what she had envisioned when she placed her note in the carriage the night before.

  Thoughts of Jack crossed her mind, but Dorothea forced her attention to the situation at hand. She could not afford to think of him now. She had to get out of the rain, or she would suffer a chill, and there would be no Jack Temple to warm her in a cozy bed.

  The tarpaulin was neatly folded and rested on the wagon floor, under a heavy wooden box. Luckily, it was mostly dry. Dorothea climbed into the soggy wagon bed and pushed the box off it. The canvas was heavy and unwieldy, but she managed to open it and tent it over herself while she waited for her father and the men to finish for the day.

  Surely they would not continue much longer in this rain. Besides, it would be dark soon, and they would not be able to see what they were doing.

  By midafternoon, Jack was worried.

  Dorrie had not come back to her room, unless she was purposely not answering. He picked the lock on the door that adjoined their rooms and glanced in to assure himself that she truly was not there.

  At least she hadn’t left for London. He knew she had only a few coins with her. Her bag remained in its place on the stand in the corner, and her spare dress was hanging in the small closet.

  But where had she gone?

  There were plenty of places she might be, and Jack decided he would check them all. He went down to the beach and visited all the little shops nearby, then headed back into town to see if she had taken herself off on a long walk.

  When it started to rain and Dorrie was sti
ll missing, Jack figured she must have gone to visit the Brownings. They were the only people in town that she knew, and it was obvious she would stay there until the rain stopped.

  He quit worrying for a while and went down to the hotel desk to see if a wire had arrived from O’Neill or any of his other men.

  The message had been succinct. They would arrive on Wednesday or Thursday. There was no word about O’Neill’s condition or whether he would be joining the group, but at least Jack knew they would come ready to excavate.

  The rain continued and Jack remained in the lobby, waiting for it to pass. He managed to refrain from pacing but kept an eye on the main entrance of the hotel. He also watched the ocean through the front windows and refused to entertain any thoughts about Dorrie and the sea.

  Hadn’t she told him she did not swim? If he remembered correctly, Dorrie had not been allowed to swim, and the thought gave him some measure of calm. She was sensible enough to stay away from the water.

  One hour passed, then another. The rain did not let up, and Dorrie did not appear. Jack could wait no longer.

  He made his way to the stable and hired a horse. Impatiently waiting for the groom to saddle the same mare he’d ridden with Dorrie the day before, he finally mounted and was off, riding through the streets of Hornsea until he reached St. Nicholas’s Church.

  He encountered Reverend Browning, staying reasonably dry under a large black umbrella.

  “Why, Mr. Temple!” Browning called out. “What are you doing out in this?”

  “I was on my way to the vicarage,” Jack replied.

  “Come with me to the church,” the minister said. “Dry off a bit. Maybe I can scare up a cup of tea for you.”

  Jack dismounted and walked alongside the man. “Sorry, Reverend, I’ve only come to ask if Miss Bright is at the vicarage.”

  “Why, no,” Browning replied. “Nasty day to be out and about, don’t you think?”

  Jack nodded, though he barely noticed the rain. His thoughts were too intent upon finding Dorrie. “I thought she might have gotten out of the rain at your place.”

  “Not today,” the reverend said. “Perhaps in one of the cabanas alongside the hotel?”

  “I’ll check,” Jack said. “Thanks, Reverend.”

  “Let me know if there’s anything—”

  “No, I’m sure she’ll turn up soon, nice and dry in some corner of the hotel where I haven’t looked.”

  He’d spoken with a lot more confidence than he felt. She’d been upset with him when she’d gone off, and she was clearly not anxious to be found. He’d tried to force her affections, and he wasn’t proud of that. Still, he hadn’t believed he’d need too much force.

  Turned out he was wrong.

  A short while later, Jack returned to the stable soaked and in a foul temper. He hadn’t been able to find Dorrie anywhere.

  “Do you have a private parlor in the hotel?” he asked the clerk. If Dorrie had been sitting in a nice cozy spot while he scoured the town….

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied. “On the third floor, opposite ends of the hall. Both rooms have lovely seaside views.”

  Jack bounded up the stairs and heard the sound of a piano playing in the distance. He bypassed the young couple with the pregnant wife and their two children and headed for the third floor, toward the music. Moving quickly down the hall, he went all the way to the end and entered the room.

  A young lady was playing the piano, while several hotel guests passed the time playing cards and listening to the music. Dorothea was not among them.

  A quick visit to the other parlor and Jack was certain she was not in the hotel. Puzzled, he returned to his room and wondered for the hundredth time where she would have gone.

  He let himself into her room again and stood by the window with his hands on his hips, looking out. He had to assume that Dorrie had not checked out and returned to London, unless she’d left without her belongings. Crossing to the other side of the room, Jack opened her bag and lifted out the few items inside.

  Her nightgown, drawers and stockings…something enclosed in paper at the bottom. Carefully pulling it out, he set it on the bed and peeled the paper away.

  The package contained the flowers he’d given her.

  Jack sat down on the edge of the bed. He knew he hadn’t been wrong about her feelings for him. He had sisters. He knew there was only one reason that a beautiful woman made a keepsake out of a bunch of lousy weeds.

  She was in love with him.

  He stood abruptly and started pacing. Then where the hell was she!

  The rain gave no sign of slowing, and Jack knew it was time to involve the local magistrate. For some reason, Dorrie was not able to get back to him. He doubted there was reason to suspect that anything was wrong, other than that she was stranded somewhere and could not get back, but he would not risk her safety.

  He gathered up the flowers and put them back in the paper, then set them carefully in Dorrie’s bag. Then he brushed the few torn leaves into his hand and dropped them into the wicker basket next to the desk.

  One sheet of paper was in the basket, and Jack had no qualms about picking it up. Perhaps she’d started a note to him but changed her mind.

  His stomach burned when he unfolded it and read the message to her father.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It had been hours since Dorothea had huddled herself under the heavy canvas. She was wet and covered with mud. She was so cold she could not feel her feet and shivering so badly she could hardly catch her breath.

  She hovered between a drowsy wakefulness and unconsciousness, continuously struggling with every breath to draw air into her lungs. At times, she thought she heard Jack’s voice, and she tried to call out to him, to tell him she was there, in the wagon.

  If he ever heard her, he didn’t come and get her out from under the tarpaulin.

  Dorothea should have felt better after the rain stopped, but it got no warmer, and she could feel the wind as it blew over the canvas. There were times when she thought she would suffocate under there.

  When she heard voices again, they were accompanied by the clang of tools being thrown in the back of the wagon. Something hit her leg, and she cried out. There were quiet mutterings, and Dorothea cringed when she heard a curse or two. Someone pulled at the tarpaulin, and she was suddenly fully exposed to the cold night air.

  The three men looked like coal miners in the light of their lanterns. They were covered in black mud, but Alastair and Neville were grinning in spite of it. The man called Paco wore no expression at all, as usual.

  “You were right, missy,” Alastair said, raising a long metal tube into the air. In Dorothea’s dazed state, he looked like a victorious warrior, holding the spoils of battle. “You figured out the puzzle, and now we have it!”

  “You…?”

  “What did I tell you, eh?” he jabbed Neville with an elbow. “Didn’t I say she’d be useful?”

  “The Mandylion?” she asked, feeling faint, confused. She thought the Mandylion was a cloth—not an ornately etched shaft of silver. “May I…”

  “Why not?” Alastair asked rhetorically. “You were the one who told us where to look—you may do the honors.”

  Alastair handed it to her.

  The silver sheath felt strangely warm in her hands. Reverently, she ran her fingers across the scrollwork and energy pulsed through her.

  Alastair scowled and grabbed the end of the silver rod. He worked at it, twisting and pulling, but was unable to do whatever it was that he intended.

  “Paco,” he said impatiently, “do what you can.”

  Dorothea did not let go while Paco worked on the end. She held it steady for him, every bit of her strength centered on her hands. When finally a cap of some sort came off with a harsh squeak, she jerked back and landed on the wagon bed with the silver scroll in her hands.

  “It’s inside,” Alastair said, paying no heed to his daughter’s fall.

  With two fingers, she
reached into the tube and felt heat. Warmth spread through her fingers and into her hand, then down her arm. The chill suddenly left her bones, and she stopped shivering.

  Pulling at the cloth rolled within, Dorothea slipped it out of the beautiful tube. She closed her eyes and pressed it to her breast before opening it. There were voices—angry, impatient voices—clamoring at her to unroll the cloth, but Dorothea barely heard them. She was filled with a peace and sense of well-being that she had not had since she was a child. Since before the illness that had damaged her heart.

  After several moments, she knelt and took a deep breath. She held the cloth by the edge and gently unrolled it, keeping it close to her body.

  “That’s it, by God!” Neville asserted. “Look at that face! Just like y’said, Al.”

  Alastair did not comment but trained his gaze on the cloth that draped his daughter from bosom to knee. It was made of heavy linen and was yellow with age, frayed at the edges. A hazy brown imprint covered the center of the cloth, giving the impression of a man’s face.

  Dorothea knew it was the true Mandylion. Jack had been right.

  Paco grabbed the cloth from Dorothea’s hands and rolled it up. Quickly, he shoved it into the silver rod. “You not put eyes on dat. Very powerful. Very dangerous.”

  Neville’s eyes widened as Paco thrust the tube with the cloth under the tarp beside Dorothea.

  “We go now. Turk comes in morning,” Paco said. “We trade cloth for pounds.”

  Dorothea was not sure she understood the man. His English was heavily accented, and he spoke rapidly, making it difficult to decipher his speech. But she was sure he said they would receive pounds for the cloth. Pounds of what? And who was Turk? One of Queen Victoria’s men?

  She was breathing much easier now, and when Neville finished hitching the horse to the wagon and they all jumped on, she realized she felt comfortably warm, too. She was still wet and covered with mud, but it didn’t seem so bothersome now. Glancing at the sky, Dorothea realized the storm must have passed. That was surely the reason she felt so much better.

  “Where exactly will Zengui be?” Neville asked. “And will he have the money wi—”