This could not be good news. She set aside the schedule of draperies to be taken down for thorough shaking and airing in the little back garden. It was a chore which gave some trouble every year, as it must be done in good weather, and without inconveniencing the family: the drawing room must be done on a day when no one was expected to call, the dining room when the family was invited to dine elsewhere, and the project depended on the weather being dry.
When she arrived in her papa’s lair, his compressed lips and livid face suggested that even such present treats as artichoke pie and sweetbreads, and the future prospect of cured beef, would not soothe his temper.
This is become a thought tiresome. Jane was beginning to yearn for the days—years!—when her father had paid her little attention. “Yes, Papa?”
“There is a letter,” he began without preface, picking up a folded newspaper and slapping it down smartly on the desk, “demanding to know why Markham’s slayer has not been arrested. It asserts there is an obvious suspect, but that Mistress J—S—, a ‘young lady of good family,’ has been ignored by the authorities. The writer, some poxy meddler who styles himself ‘A Friend of Justice,’ writes ‘while few enjoy the idea of a gentlewoman being hanged, justice must be done, whosoever the murderer’s friends may be.’ ”
Did the rest of the paragraph imply that, however reluctant the authorities were to prosecute a lady, justice should be the same for a gently-bred female as for a laundress? If so, she wondered at its being published, for many would consider that a radical notion.
“Anyone who reads it will assume you are being overlooked as a suspect because of bribery or some other favor. I hardly knew how to hold up my head. God knows what we can expect next.”
“But Sir Thomas de Veil—”
“Will he produce the letter he told us he had received? As I recall, he said the murder of your uncle touched upon secret affairs of the government. If that is the case, will he be permitted to make it public? I fear His Majesty’s government will consider its secrets take precedence over our reputation.”
“And my life?”
“We will hope it does not come to that,” he said, with an obvious effort to be reassuring. “If it does, de Veil may be able to arrange a pardon. If de Veil has such a letter, that is.”
“He said he did and showed it to the coroner, too. Why would he lie?”
Her father fiddled with his pen stand. “Do you swear you have never met Sir Thomas before he visited us that evening?”
“I never saw him before in my life.”
“I hope you are not lying, Jane. This is a serious matter.”
“Why would I lie, sir?”
“If you had a close acquaintance with Sir Thomas, it might explain why he would exert himself to deflect suspicion from you.”
The statement took her breath away. “Sir, are you suggesting some improper relationship between Sir Thomas de Veil and myself? And that he lied about there being a more likely suspect to oblige me?”
He still did not look at her. “You often go out unaccompanied, I am told. Perhaps you only go shopping, but you do not always buy anything. You went out every week, supposedly to visit your uncle, also unaccompanied. Who’s to say where you went or what you do? Or who you see? I consider your mother to blame for failing to chaperon you adequately.”
Stepmother, Jane thought. Her heart thumped, and her face felt warm. With an effort, she suppressed the flood of anger, finding it more difficult than usual. What it would be like to let it go? She drew in a steadying breath.
“And how she will endure this business I do not know,” her father continued.
“I swear I never met Sir Thomas de Veil before he called upon us.” The answer felt evasive. If she had not slipped out to—to tryst with the magistrate (as if she would! Why, he was older than Papa!), she had certainly done so to meet Mr. Gordon and Mr. Lattimer, too, but not for any immoral purpose in either case. Though she did enjoy talking with Mr. Gordon: sensible men of wit seemed to be in short supply. She certainly did not intend to confess those lapses of propriety, when they had nothing to do with this matter.
…Except that they were related. Should she tell her father what she knew? She could not well explain about her uncle’s death and its probable connection to smuggled arms without mentioning Rupert. Her father would be shocked, less perhaps by the plot than by the potential humiliation of having his son arrested for involvement in it. He would be angry that Jane had alerted Mr. Gordon to the existence of the muskets; if he himself had discovered what Rupert was about, he would have forbidden him to continue, and perhaps have shipped him off to the Colonies to ensure his obedience.
She could understand his first concern would be to protect his son. On the other hand, that would not have prevented the muskets from falling into Jacobite hands, potentially to kill who knew how many? Although no one but Mr. Gordon (and perhaps Mr. Lattimer) seemed to take the unrest in the north very seriously.
“Is there some other man? One who could influence de Veil?”
“To the best of my knowledge, he was acting under no influence but that of the government, as he said, sir.”
“Well, that’s something to be thankful for. It’s bad enough you are suspected of murder. To have it thought you were immoral as well would be insupportable. Then, too, perhaps nothing will come of this curst letter. It’s not as if we had nothing else to worry about, with Rupert off on some madcap jaunt in the north. He should have sent me a message. He could have visited Ireland or stayed with friends of mine in the country.”
Chapter 21
The ground was chilly. Damp, too. Silly place to nap. The lack of a pillow made his head hurt. Alex opened his eyes and found he had a worm’s-eye view of last year’s fallen leaves. It was dim under the trees…no, by Jove, it was dusky everywhere. He sat up and explored the back of his head with a cautious hand. It was tender, but he didn’t feel the stickiness of blood. He didn’t feel sick, either, and his memory seemed to be intact. Fortunate! His brother Gilbert had cracked his skull falling out of a tree and had forgotten the previous several days.
His wig must have protected him from the worst of the blow—curse Stowe, anyway! He peered around and spotted something that was either his fallen wig or a dozing woodland creature and patted it tentatively. Eureka. Shaking leaf mold from it, he set it upon his head. His hat was nearby.
He fished in his pocket for his handkerchief to wipe his face and hands and found his pockets had been rifled while he was unconscious. His handkerchief was there, but the purse containing a few shillings and pence and two guineas was gone. There had been nothing in his left pocket but the flint and steel he’d taken from the barn, together with a little tinder, and they were still present.
He stood up. He felt odd and off-balance, and it was not the dizziness alone. His coat was hanging askew. The left side felt heavier than the right, and—were those shreds of cloth? Alex cursed Stowe again, with a richness and fluency which would have appalled most of his acquaintance. Stowe! That Jacobite, idiot, traitor, thief! Stowe must have pushed back the coat’s skirt to reach his breeches pocket and noted the weight of its front facing. He’d torn it open and removed the remaining guineas.
Stowe had had no money with him, bar a shilling or two, so he’d helped himself to Gordon’s, leaving Alex with none. Damn! It would make his return to London a hundred times more difficult.
No, he was being foolish, more shaken by the blow to his head than he’d realized. The left side of the coat was intact—probably because Stowe had been in too much of a hurry or was too squeamish to roll him over. Alex tugged a few threads loose and transferred several guineas and some smaller coins to his pocket. It would have been awkward to be literally penniless when he needed to return to England quickly.
Although the light was failing and the air seemed misty, he thought he recognized the dimming landscape to his right as the direction in which they’d been travelling. No, not mist. Fog was rolling in.
&n
bsp; He dared not try to wait it out and risk being captured by a patrol if any were out. Alex wished he knew more about the state of military affairs. Wouldn’t whatever troops were available be on their way to intercept the Young Pretender’s army? There was no point in wondering when he should be making use of his time.
He gazed around the copse until he spied a fallen branch almost four feet long and broke off its smaller branches, then stepped out as briskly as he could, given his aching head, which throbbed at every step. He wanted to get as far as possible before the fog was too thick. He would like to find a road or a track before it was too dark, or too foggy, to see his way.
The fog thickened to impenetrability even before full dark, and it became necessary to use his stick to feel his way. Going cross-country, there was no knowing what might lie in his path. A quick sweep of the ground before each step assured him he was not about to run into a wall or tree or fall into a ditch. He could not go fast, but on the other hand, no British patrol or Jacobite detachment would be able to move faster, assuming any were out in this gray nothingness. No sensible person would be abroad. He continued to feel his way. And every yard he traveled was one step farther from pursuit. He hoped. Unless I’m going in circles.
The tip of the branch dragged through stubble, as it had for the last hundreds of steps. At the next sweep, it met no resistance. Alex did not move for a moment. He prodded downward with the end. It met resistance, and he moved it back and forth. He squatted and felt with his hand, discovering a bare, packed, slightly concave surface. He edged forward and groped. The stubble resumed. It must be a footpath, exactly what he wanted. He would still need to feel his way with the stick, for while a well-worn path was not likely to end suddenly at a cliff or river, it might run into a gate or door, or turn suddenly at a tree or wall. But it would lead somewhere.
****
He had been walking for half his life. His head pounded, he was cold and hungry, and his shoes were not as comfortable as he might have wished. At least, being on a path, he couldn’t be going in circles. Probably.
The faint odor of a stable or byre alerted him. The damp, chilly air muffled sounds as well as blinding eyes, but it did not deaden the nose. Where horses and cattle are kept, there is certain to be a heap of used straw and manure. Or vice versa. Further, where horses and cattle are kept, there is human habitation. His tutor had been very fond of logick. Alex congratulated himself on having made good use of what Mr. Thorpe had called “the logickal faculty.” In the midst of admiring his deductions, it occurred to him that this was not the schoolroom nor yet university, and the presence of livestock and people bore greater significance than a tutor’s praise. His aching head, lack of food since—when?—and weariness were as dangerous in their way as actual pursuit.
He listened, trying to get a feeling for how close he was to the midden and outbuildings. Now that he was not moving, he heard faint rustlings and the whuffle of cows or horses breathing a little ahead and to his right. A cottage must be near, but where? He would not expect to find it too close to the stable, but he would bet his eyes it would be on the path. He couldn’t have passed without sensing it. Odds were it lay ahead. If anyone were awake within, there would be a glimmer of light to guide him. If anyone were awake. They might all have gone to bed, as folk kept early hours in the country and he must have been trudging along for half the night, if not half his life.
The stable was behind him when he saw a faint glowing line, like candlelight through a gap in curtains or shutters, a little way ahead. He was moving toward it when a little farther on, a brighter, longer line appeared and grew as a door opened. The gates of Heaven could not be more welcome. Warmth, light, something to eat, a place to sit or lie down beckoned. With a sigh, he felt around with his stick, found bare, solid ground, and took a step to the side. Then several more careful steps. He was now around the corner of the house from the door and a little beyond the window he had seen first. Alex dropped to the ground, bending his knees so that the skirt of his coat would conceal his stockings and buried his face in his crossed arms. His clothing was dark. It was only his hands, face, and white stockings that could betray him if a glint of light penetrated the fog.
“…private must fetch it if there’s yet more water to be drawn tonight. This is no inn, and you’re no paying guests,” a woman said. A deeper voice sounded from inside, the words indistinguishable.
The door closed, and an English voice said, “I’m that sorry for the work we’ve made you, mistress, but you’d not turn the Devil out on such a night, would you?”
He stole a peek. There was a faint, diffuse glow from the lantern one of them must be carrying. It grew fainter. They were walking away from him along the path.
“Yon lieutenant should have had more sense than to bring you all out with fog rising, for a burning barn.”
“They say the fire was set deliberate-like. Our captain was hot to get the one as done it, and there was no fog when we set out.”
The woman spoke, but Alex could not make out her answer as voices and light receded to vanishing. The well was a good distance away from the stable.
Alex waited. After a time, he heard them return. The door opened and closed. After an eternity—but mayhap it was only an hour or so—the glow between the crack in the shutters disappeared. A faint light appeared in the gable end window above him. He waited a little longer, and it disappeared. He finally risked getting to his feet. If he could get past the house and avoid falling into the well…it was going to be a long night.
****
The footpath led, eventually, to a road. Having found it, Alex waited nearby for morning, chafing to be on his way in spite of weariness and sore feet. There was no use going on until the sun rose. Even if the fog lasted, it should be possible to determine where the sun was. He did not want to find himself walking north or west. In the gray murk, with neither sun nor stars to guide him, there had been no hope of keeping his bearings.
He was walking again before the last of the fog lifted, though he paralleled the road, keeping as much to the cover of trees, rises, and the occasional wall as he could. His head had given up aching, though now he had blisters on both feet and probably holes in the heels of his stockings. He was hungry, in damp garments, his stockings filthy, and his coat not much better. But he forgot all his discomforts when he reached the outskirts of a village and saw a small inn.
It was not a posting inn, or “change house” as such things were called in Scotland, or a place that well-to-do travelers would stop. Good.
“A room and a meal, and hot water to wash with,” Alex drawled. His best aristocratic manner had often entertained his college friends in their amateur theatricals. He had no reason to suppose he was being sought, but also no reason to assume he wasn’t. The talk he’d overhead last night—that the army was hunting for the arsonist—caused him some alarm. How had they come to suppose the fire had been set? Barns did burn unassisted. But likely it was only suspicion. If he were guarding a barn full of muskets, with a rebel army on the march, he’d suspect sabotage, too.
The innkeep ran a knowledgeable eye over Gordon, no doubt noting his days-unshaven face, dishevelment, and his middling suit. “And will you be needing stabling for your horse, sir?”
Alex laughed sourly. “No, blast it. A ruffian hit me on the head, robbed me, and stole my nag yesterday evening. I came to myself in the dark and lost my way. Ah…he did not get quite all my money, fortunately.” He displayed a guinea.
“Och, these are terrible lawless times. You’ll want your shirt washed. And your stockings as well?”
“If you’d be so good. But first a meal.”
“It will be ready as quick as a cat can blink her eye. There is minced pie of beef, soup, and a dish of egg and onion, simple for an English gentleman’s taste, but my gudewife is a braw cook. There’s only the taproom for a dining salon, unless you’d be served in your chamber, Mr.…?”
“Thomas Elphinstone. The tap will do well enough.�
� Elphinstone, his old college friend, would not mind the appropriation of his family name. He’d a peck of brothers, cousins, uncles, and nephews, after all. Better to be someone else until he was safe back in England.
He sat in the taproom again after his meal and a few hours’ sleep and listened to the locals’ gossip. No one mentioned the barn fire, so he must have come far enough to be outside the area the soldiers had been searching. His first impulse had been to find transportation away as soon as he’d woken. On reflection, it seemed better to behave like an innocent traveler, rather than a fleeing felon. By the time he’d eaten and slept and eaten again, the afternoon was too advanced to be setting out. He would have visited a barber to be shaved, had there been such a convenience. Failing that, he thought he would wait.
The publican asked whether he wished to report the robbery.
“Is there a justice of the peace or magistrate here to whom I can report it?”
“Och, well, no. The nearest is in Kirkaldy, I’m thinking. We’re decent, law-abiding folk here.”
Alex sighed. “And where is Kirkaldy from this place?”
“South, sir. It may be three or four Scots miles or a wee bit more in English miles.”
“Then I will go to Kirkaldy in the morning, though I misdoubt it will do me any good to report the matter, and I do not want to linger long, waiting to hear of the rogue’s apprehension. I have already been delayed and am expected at home.”
“But to be robbed of a horse and money and not report it will only hearten such rascals. My father used to say, ‘If you hang a thief when he’s young, he will not steal when he’s old.’ ”
“Will I get my horse and my money back if the fellow’s taken? Hardly!”
“The horse, mayhap. Money aye goes fast.”
“The horse was no great loss. It was an evil-tempered brute I bought at Tayport. An excellent bargain, I thought, until I found he would not go faster than a trot, which is how I fell prey to that villain. On the whole, he’s welcome to the beast. I hope it throws him and breaks his neck. ’Twould save the cost of hanging. I chiefly regret the loss of my valise.”
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