Her Heart for a Compass

by Sarah Ferguson

  But as she made to step around him, a hand grasped at her skirts. “Here, just a minute, miss.”

  In the act of trying to free herself she stopped, surprised by his accent. “You’re Scottish.”

  “Aye, but you’re safe enough—it’s not infectious.” She caught a glimmer of a crooked smile. “You’re no Sassenach either, by the sounds of it.”

  He hadn’t got up. Was he drunk? He didn’t sound drunk. Knowing she ought to make her way homewards post-haste, she remained where she was, irrationally reassured by his accent. “No,” Margaret said, “my home is near Edinburgh.”

  “Then what on earth are you doing here?”

  A very good question. Her breathing was slowing, her panic subsiding. “I have come to London to—to visit family and friends.” An answer very far from the truth, but at least it was believable.

  The man chuckled softly. “I meant what are you doing here. This is no place for young ladies, especially not bonny ones in silk gowns.”

  He wasn’t sitting on the cobbles, Margaret realised, but perched on some sort of makeshift wooden trolley. Oh dear lord, and his tattered trousers were pinned just above the knee. He hadn’t got up because he had no legs. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise—is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “Help me?”

  “Your legs, I mean . . .” She stuttered to a halt, blushing furiously. Should she have pretended not to notice? But that was preposterous.

  “Lord bless you, miss, no. It might not look it to you, but I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”

  “I did not mean to offend, I . . .”

  “Ach, you didn’t, don’t fret. Sure, don’t us Scotsmen have a reputation for being legless six nights out of seven? I just take it a day further. That’s my wee joke, you understand. So what happened to you? Had a tiff with your beau did you, run off and got lost?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, I did run off.” Dismayed, Margaret felt tears start in her eyes. “It’s a long story.”

  “And you’re in a bit of a state, too. Here, why don’t you sit down before you fall down, and tell me all about it while you calm yourself. I’m not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere.”

  He stretched his hand towards her. It was grimy, but she took it gladly, sinking down beside him, touched by the simple gesture.

  “You are very kind. May I ask your name?”

  “It’s Scott, Fraser Scott.”

  “Scott! What a coincidence. That is my family name.”

  He gave a snort of laughter. “I very much doubt we’re related. My kin are from a wee village called Lochgoilhead in Argyll.”

  “You are very far from home, Mr. Scott.”

  “I’ve been much further afield than London. I was a soldier, Miss Scott. I lost both legs in the Crimea.”

  “Oh no! How dreadful. You poor man.”

  But Mr. Scott shook his head, patting her hand with his other filthy paw before letting her go. “It was almost ten years ago now.”

  The Crimean War. She dredged her mind and came up with a blank. Her sister Victoria, needless to say, had made an album about the war, including maps and clippings from the Times, but Margaret hadn’t been in the least bit interested. “I’m so sorry,” she said, with real regret. “I know next to nothing about it. Save, there is a poem, isn’t there? I remember now: ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’”

  “Stupidity and needless slaughter dressed up as heroism. Lucky for me, I was a mere foot soldier, and not fit to ride with Cardigan’s Cherrybum’s—begging your pardon for being so vulgar, miss.”

  Margaret giggled. “Cherry what?”

  “Bums. Their jackets were too short and their breeches were too tight, you see. They were all guts and glory. The first part, at least, was true enough.”

  “Mr. Scott, how is it that—forgive me for being blunt—how is it that you came to be sitting on a wooden trolley in the middle of the night?”

  “As it happens I’m working. I’ve been keeping an eye on Percy Wharf, which you’ve just passed through. If you look over, you’ll see this is a fine vantage point, and no-one expects a cripple to be a lookout. I can’t give chase, unless the pilferer is a tortoise with an injured foot, but I can blow my whistle if I see anything, and get the nightwatchman’s attention.”

  “Even so, it sounds like dangerous work.”

  “It has its moments, but most of the would-be thieves are no more than bairns. Mudlarks, they’re called, urchins who come down to the water at low tide to scavenge.”

  “What on earth can they possibly find in the mud?”

  “Coal, mostly, lumps that have fallen overboard. They sell it on the street for a few pennies. As far as I’m concerned, that’s not stealing. Though some of them are bold pieces, clambering up onto each other’s shoulders to reach the decks of the barges. I’ve no option but to blow the whistle on them, though it pains me to do it.”

  “And if they are caught?”

  The Scotsmen shrugged. “Get off with a caution, if they’re lucky enough to get a magistrate with a soft heart. At worst, a few weeks locked up, then they’re straight back to work again.”

  “Good God, they put children in gaol?”

  “Well, they have to make an example of some of them. It stops the others going to bad, so they say.”

  “You don’t believe that?”

  “It’s not for me to say, but God helps those as helps themselves. Which is why I’m here trying to earn a crust.”

  “I’m sorry, but I think that a very poor fate for a hero who bravely served queen and country.”

  “It wasn’t the Russkis that did for me— it was my poor eyesight.” Mr. Scott snorted. “Didn’t see the cannonball coming, did I? The next thing I knew, I woke up in a field hospital with two bloody stumps.”

  Margaret was moved to press his hand. “Oh, that’s awful.”

  “Ach, I was so bad with the fever for a while, I didn’t know my own name. That’s what did for most of us that made it as far as the field hospitals, you know, the fever. No beds, no clean linen, water so foul it made you gag. I’m surprised any of us survived.”

  “But Miss Nightingale, didn’t she put an end to such dreadful conditions?”

  “Whatever she did, her good works never reached the place they laid me down to die, Miss Scott.”

  “Please call me Margaret. Unless you are a ghost, and frankly after all that’s happened tonight, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised, you clearly didn’t die.”

  “For a while I wished I had. People said I was lucky. Do I look lucky to you? I was crippled. I’d not only lost my legs, I’d lost my livelihood, for I’d served in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders since I was a laddie of fourteen. Soldiering was all I knew.”

  “You must surely be entitled to a pension?” Margaret said indignantly.

  “There are ways to claim such a thing, but—” Mr. Scott broke off, looking sheepish. “Truth is, I’ve never been good with my alphabet—can’t write more than my name, in fact. Any road, I’d rather make my own way in life. I don’t need charity. Don’t shed any tears on my behalf, miss. I’ve a wife and three bairns waiting for me when I get home in the morning.” The veteran winked. “They took my legs, but that was all.”

  “Oh!” Margaret blushed as she took his meaning, but she met his gaze boldly. “That must be a great comfort for you.”

  She was rewarded with a bark of laughter. “Oh, indeed! There now, I’m glad to see you’ve got your smile back, and a right bonny one it is. That’s enough about me, though. Tell me, for I’m fair dying to know, what scrape have you got yourself into?”

  Margaret’s smile faded. “Not so much a scrape as a big black hole. I’ve run away from a party held to celebrate my betrothal.”

  Saying it aloud made her feel rather sick, but it made the army veteran laugh. “If you’d given me a hundred goes, I’d never have guessed that. What was wrong with your intended? If he had both his pins, he’s already a better bet than
me.”

  “There is nothing wrong with him,” Margaret replied. “He has a castle in the Highlands. What could be more romantic? I’d have my horses and my dogs, and I wouldn’t have to put up with my husband too often, for his business interests keep him in London for much of the year. You see, Mr. Scott, he is perfect husband material.”

  “Save you canny abide him, I’m guessing. Am I right?”

  She shuddered. “That is it in a nutshell. I cannot abide him at all, though I promise you, I’ve tried. He disapproves of me. He thinks I talk too much, too, and that I need to learn to guard my tongue. What he really means is that I ought to say only what he thinks. He makes my skin crawl. I can’t explain it any other way.”

  “Are they forcing you into it, lass?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I agreed. Well, I didn’t disagree,” Margaret said, shifting on the cobbles, for her legs had gone quite numb. “I assumed that Mama was right, that I would grow to like him.” She twisted her hands together miserably. “I knew from the moment Papa named him that I wouldn’t, but I allowed myself be persuaded otherwise. If only I had spoken up, I wouldn’t be in this dreadful mess. And now I must face the consequences. I almost fell in the Thames back there, you know. It might have been better if I had.”

  “Ach, away, you don’t mean that. You’ve your whole life ahead of you.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not usually such a pathetic creature. My troubles are nothing compared to what you have endured.”

  “It seems to me that what you need to do is go back and face the music. We Scots have a reputation for fearlessness, and you’re no different, you hear me.”

  Margaret mimicked a shaky salute. “I shall take inspiration from you and show courage under enemy fire.”

  “Your father’s not your enemy, lass, no matter what you think. He’ll likely be worried sick about you, and not without reason. There’s gonophs—child pickpockets—who would risk their necks to cut the lace from your petticoats, never mind the jewels you’re wearing,” Mr. Scott said. “London’s awash with rogues and vagabonds. For all you know, I could be one of them, playing the old soldier when the truth of it is that I lost my legs—ach, I don’t know, in a fall from a house I was robbing.”

  “You could have robbed me anytime while we’ve been sitting talking. I knew from the moment you spoke to me—I sensed I could trust you.”

  “Well, trust me on this, too. We need to get you safe home, and double-quick before your parents think you’ve been abducted or worse by some ne’er-do-well. Am I right?”

  Though Margaret’s heart sank, she could not argue with him. “Mama will be furious with me, and as for Papa—oh God, I can’t begin to imagine what my father will say.”

  “He’ll be too relieved to have you back safe to be angry with you.”

  “You don’t understand. He has always thought me utterly selfish and rather pointless. This betrothal is the only worthwhile thing I have ever done in his eyes. He’ll never forgive me.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think, but any road there’s no point procrastinating. Chin up, Miss Scott! Courage, lass.”

  His kind, heartfelt words stiffened her resolve. Margaret was struggling resolutely to her feet when Fraser Scott grabbed her arm roughly. “Run!” he hissed.

  “I don’t understand. . . .”

  “Run as if your life depends on it, miss,” he urged, looking over her shoulder in alarm and grabbing a club that had been concealed behind his trolley. “Harm a hair on that lassie’s head and so help me . . .” he roared.

  In a blind panic Margaret picked up her skirts and prepared to flee.

  “Not so fast,” a male voice rasped in her ear as a pair of powerful arms enveloped her.

  Chapter Six

  Donald Cameron of Lochiel retained his firm hold on Lady Margaret’s arm as they proceeded past Charing Cross and on to Whitehall, determined not to let her escape his clutches again. The shock of seeing her, her damp hair straggling down her back, her face streaked with mud, her gown torn and filthy, and in such dubious company, too, had made him leap to the worst of conclusions. In the confusion which followed before Lady Margaret recognised him, she had kicked him on the shin and her companion had rapped his other leg with his club. She had been quite unrepentant about both, informing him pointedly that the only person who had assaulted her was him.

  Reluctantly accepting his evening cloak, she had lapsed into silence as they walked, while he did his best to keep her in the shadows, as hidden as possible from curious passers-by. “What on earth were you thinking,” Donald demanded, “running off into the night like that?”

  “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “No, you most certainly were not. Good heavens, Lady Margaret, for a young woman of your station to merely venture out alone in daylight would be enough to set tongues wagging. To run off as you did, into the deserted docks in the middle of the night—you do realise your reputation would be in tatters if that became common knowledge?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about my reputation. In any case I suspect I no longer have one to lose. I am sure my father will have plenty to say on the subject when I get home, so I’d be obliged if you would spare me a lecture. To be honest, I don’t know why you felt the need to intervene in the first place.”

  “Intervene!” Donald took a calming breath before speaking. “Did you expect me to stand idly by and wait for your lifeless body to be brought back on a handcart? Just how did you manage to give me the slip, by the way?”

  “I hid. My point is that Mr. Scott was about to escort me back, safe and well.”

  “Lady Margaret, have you any idea of how naive—how dangerous—blast it, how downright stupid you have been? That man—”

  “Mr. Scott is a veteran of the Crimean War.”

  “We only have his word for that. I hope you didn’t give him any money.”

  “I don’t have any money, and anyway I am certain Mr. Scott would not have accepted it if I had offered.”

  “That’s as may be,” Donald conceded reluctantly, “but to sit on the ground conversing with him as if you were having a picnic in Hyde Park, while your parents are likely going out of their minds with worry, it beggars belief.”

  “How long have I been gone?”

  “An hour? No more. I was on the verge of returning to Montagu House to raise the alarm when I finally spotted you.”

  At this, she stopped in her tracks. “You mean you haven’t actually told my parents that you saw me run off?”

  “No.” Donald urged her once more into motion. “I thought if I could find you and bring you back, the damage could be minimised.”

  “The damage could be minimised,” she repeated morosely. “If by that you mean that my betrothal will go ahead, then I devoutly hope you are wrong.”

  “Everyone in the ballroom was expecting it. There has been speculation in the press for weeks about the announcement.”

  “I am heartily sick of being the subject of press speculation. You would do well to have a care, Lochiel; there is probably a reporter hiding behind that lamp-post eager to speculate about what we are doing out together.”

  “You are the daughter of the Duke of Buccleuch and the best friend of Her Majesty’s most popular and, if I may say so, attractive daughter. What’s more, you are perceived to be somewhat unconventional.”

  “‘A breath of fresh Scotch air.’ Hardly original or even rare, if one would but cross the border.”

  “Lady Margaret, the fact is that your betrothal is perceived to be a fait accompli. I cannot believe that the duke and duchess would have permitted it to have been so widely reported if there had been any doubt that you were amenable.”

  “Then don’t believe it,” Lady Margaret snapped. “Do what everyone else does, and ignore my feelings entirely.”

  Her manner unsettled him. He had assumed, when she ran off, that she had been overwhelmed by the occasion. It was an extremely foolish thing to do, and his only thoughts, at firs
t, had been for her reputation and for her parents’ dignity. Fear for her well-being had then taken priority, and relief had given way to anger once he had ascertained she was unharmed. Her lack of repentance puzzled him, forcing him to reconsider the situation. This was a case not of mere nerves but of genuinely heartfelt distress, which was even more of a puzzle.

  “Are you seriously saying that you do not wish this marriage to go ahead? The Earl of Killin is a most respected gentleman.”

  “I beg you not to recite his many qualities. I am perfectly well aware of them.”

  “If that is the case,” Donald said, struggling to keep pace with her volatile emotions, “then why humiliate the man in such a way?”

  “I didn’t humiliate him.”

  “You left him standing high and dry between your parents in front of an audience of his peers in anticipation of the announcement of his betrothal. Short of jilting him at the altar I can think of nothing more humiliating.”

  “Really? How about being used as the makeweight in a deal to supply sheep for wool making?”

  “Oh, come now—it’s the kind of arrangement families such as yours have been making for centuries. It’s the reason you are here in London, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I know that!”

  Donald looked at her helplessly. “Then why did you run away? I cannot believe your parents were forcing you into a union which was distasteful to you.”

  “And to Killin. He can scarcely bring himself to touch me.”

  “You are very young,” Donald said, at a loss as to what to make of this revelation. “He probably doesn’t want to alarm you by being overzealous.”

  Lady Margaret gave a most unladylike snort. “When I tried to explain to Mr. Scott what had happened—”

  “You confided in a complete stranger!”

  “And even more astonishing, he actually listened,” she retorted. “You will be pleased to know that he agreed with you, Lochiel, that I should not have humiliated Killin. But he didn’t try to persuade me to marry him.”

  “I do find Killin at times a little humourless,” Donald confessed, deciding she deserved more than mere platitudes. “If he is passionate about anything, I would say it is about having his own way. He is a fiercely ambitious man—not that there’s anything wrong with that.”