The Freemason's Daughter

by Shelley Sackier

  “I have come here for no other gain than solitude.” She pulled her woolen cloak tighter about her shoulders.

  “Privacy you seek? Another clandestine encounter?” He smiled scornfully, the finely drawn bones of his face conveying true hostility. “Lord Pembroke is above your station, and it has become evident you are upsetting Lady Lucia.”

  She swallowed the tight lump forming in her throat and felt a wave of cold panic creep through her body.

  Mr. Finch continued, eyebrows forming a high arc. “I could imagine the duke and duchess becoming most displeased if anything—or anyone—could be found damaging the conjugal bond they are trying to create for their son. One that required years of preparation on their part. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Her stomach somersaulted mercilessly. She found herself incapable of speech, and moreover, he might take her silence for an admittance of guilt. Why wouldn’t words come to her mouth?

  He frowned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d ask the offending party to leave, and that would be a terrible embarrassment for your family, wouldn’t it?”

  She felt his eyes scrutinize her face, which she presumed was effortless to read.

  “Let me give you a word of advice,” he went on. “Leave him alone. Stop putting ideas in his head that are interfering with his well-planned future. That way, your father can finish his work on the garrison and you will remain in his good graces.” He swept up the stone staircase and out of sight behind the old kirk.

  Jenna slumped against the stone wall, her muscles paralyzed and slack. Mr. Finch, clearly rattled, made it seem like she’d been throwing herself at Lord Pembroke, flaunting an infatuation that was ruinous to his future. How could he accuse her of such a thing?

  But then, part of his criticism was true. She had encouraged him to see beyond the box he lived within. But these were not revolutionary thoughts—and certainly she had not tried to tempt him inappropriately. The butterflies in her stomach, at the remembered feeling of his finger tracing her palm, carried with them an uncertainty that she stuffed to the back of her mind. She needed time to think, to calm the chaotic thoughts in her head. But no amount of time could erase the wretched conversation with Mr. Finch.

  Determined to resurface from her woolgathering stupor, she brushed bits of dried grass from her skirt, as if the physical act could dislodge her anchored, disturbing reflections. She climbed the stone stairs, her boots grazing the lichen with her slow, deliberate steps. A faint whirring sound rushed by her ear as she reached the last one.

  She heard a sharp thwack, and then saw the quivering stem of an arrow in one of the broad oak trees, and the flash of white in the woods beside her as a red stag leapt away in an explosion of soundless movement. Stunned, she whirled in the direction of the arrow’s path, her heart pounding. With the sun setting, she could just make out the silhouetted figures of a band of hunters farther down by the water’s edge. Someone ran toward her out of the gathering, almost as quickly as the arrow had. Jenna assumed it was the arrow’s owner. She turned to wrestle it out of its missed target, intending to give the hunter a piece of her mind. She heard his hurried footsteps crushing the fallen oak leaves as she struggled with the shaft.

  “Do you know how close that was?” Jenna said through gritted teeth. A strong hand grabbed her shoulder.

  “Yes,” a voice panted, laboring for breath, “I do.”

  The arrow suddenly gave way and Jenna turned, squinting into the sun to see the anxiety-ridden face of Lord Pembroke looking down at her.

  “Mo chreach!” She took a step backward.

  “Good God, did I hurt you?” He grabbed her arms.

  “What are you doing here?” Jenna looked around wildly, wondering where Mr. Finch was, and handling the skittering, fractured thought that perhaps he’d set up a trap to snare them together.

  “I might ask you the same question.” His eyes searched her for signs of injury.

  “Did you not check the public grounds before hunting?”

  “I did. Or, rather, Julian did.” His gaze moved back to the group of men.

  “I see.” She swallowed that familiar lump. “He told you it was clear, did he?” Her voice sounded hollow as she imagined the probable conversation.

  His eyes clouded with bewilderment. “He did. Wait here. I shall speak with him,” he said, holding up a hand. He turned and hurried toward the men again.

  The last thing Jenna wanted was another encounter with Mr. Finch. She looked around, frantic for an escape, and decided on the same path as the frightened red stag. She ran, clutching the arrow in one hand. The other seized the cloak around her neck as it fluttered about like an expanding wing. She tore through the forest, branches snatching at her as if they were the fingers of some ominous spirits, trying to hinder her way.

  NINETEEN

  THE SNOW RETURNED, AND WITH IT THE PERCEPTION of safety. Perhaps it was because Jenna could make out the sounds of approaching feet as they crunched their way through freshly fallen snow. Or because she could see the tracks of unrecognizable footprints as they patterned around the exterior of the cottage. Yet the urge to hide was constant.

  It had been three days since the incident in the woods, and Jenna noticed the men growing suspicious of her behavior. Choosing to stay buried indoors was not her usual manner. Still, after finishing each day’s lessons, she attempted to find things to do inside. She couldn’t bear to tell anyone what had happened. They might pick apart every moment she’d shared with Lord Pembroke, maybe tell her she was actually at fault.

  More than once, Angus tried to persuade her to run an errand up to Mrs. Wigginton at the main house, or to collect something from the stables. Jenna always found an excuse not to go. She maintained the need to study further on her Greek or Latin lessons, argued the necessity of finishing a sewing repair, or feigned exhaustion from a bad night’s sleep and put off the request. She was running out of reasons.

  “If ye want me to tell him you’re not interested, I shall do so, lass, but ye needn’t keep to the cottage just to avoid seein’ him, aye?” her father had said at one point.

  Her eyes had gone wildly round. “What?” she’d whispered.

  “Mr. Wicken. I heard from Jeb that he’s been actively pursuin’ the hunt for a wife, and I thought that perhaps it was the reason we’ve seen so much of him down at the garrison lately. That maybe he was going to ask about your level of interest, aye?”

  “Of course,” Jenna breathed out. “Mr. Wicken. Yes. I mean, no. I’m definitely not interested. I shall address him eventually, Da. Soon. I promise.” But she had kept to the cottage a little longer.

  The ruse was over when she came down the stairs and saw the men, who were finishing their predawn breakfasts look up from their bowls and exchange nonverbal messages.

  “Good morn to ye, Jenna,” her father said. “Have ye slept well?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, aware of the many eyes upon her.

  “I’ve never slept better before coming here,” Tavish interjected. “I’m beginning to think maybe Angus is putting something in my food at night. For the second my head goes down, I canna keep my mind awake—even to the end of my prayers.”

  Malcolm leaned in to tousle the boy’s hair. “I think perhaps it has more to do wi’ your mind and muscles working all day, aye?”

  Tavish smiled. “Mama used to say, Idle hands will make for mischief, an’ I havena gotten cuffed once since coming here.”

  Ian snorted. “If ye want to keep it that way, I suggest ye get yourself ready. I’ve found that when your hands are idle, your mouth isn’t, and I for one prefer it the other way round.” He rose from the table, grabbed his coat by the door, and left.

  Tavish, unaffected by Ian’s gruff remarks, grinned and said, “Angus, whatever it is ye might be putting in my food at night, I think ye might want to put a double dose into Mr. Ross’s. For if ever there was someone in need of a better night’s rest, I’d guess it’s him.” A general agreement was the response aro
und the table as everyone got up to clear.

  Jenna sat on the empty bench and her father came to stand behind her. Malcolm settled his muscular hands on her shoulders. “Do ye think ye might feel up to going to town for me today, lass? I’ve Ian’s printed plans all finished and coded, and I need them taken to the smithy. They mark precisely where we’ll be hiding. . . .” He stopped, and Jenna looked up at him.

  “Hiding what, Da?”

  He sat next to her on the bench and looked at her, grim-faced. “Arms. And ammunitions. The blacksmith will ken what to do wi’ them, but you’re the only one I’d trust to get them there.”

  “I was planning to help Angus finish the beeswax candles today. We haven’t made the wicks, and they really should be done.”

  “Nay, lass,” Angus said, his face turned to the task of washing the breakfast bowls. “I need to visit the brewhouse with Mrs. Wigginton for a spell. We’re nearly finished wi’ the ale for the winter and it’s got to be casked straightaway. The wicks can wait another day, aye?”

  She knew this most likely had been rehearsed with her father earlier, and was resigned to accept without creating any more raised eyebrows.

  “All right, then,” she said. “I’ll go.”

  “Fine. Just after your lessons, then. The papers are on the table by the window. Roll them up nice and tight like, aye? For anyone capable of readin’ these plans would find they point in one direction. Understand, lass?” Malcolm put a kiss on her forehead. “Tavish? Are ye ready, ye wee fiend?” He lifted the boy and threw him over his shoulder.

  Tavish giggled and waved to Angus and Jenna as they left the cottage and made their way out into the snowy landscape.

  After everyone had left the cottage, Jenna sat at the kitchen table eyeing the pages in front of her. She tried to concentrate on the long string of math problems, but her mind wandered as she traced the numbers printed in clean script. The paper smelled faintly of berries and walnuts and something metallic, since Angus was forever concocting new tinctures to be used in place of ink. It was an expense they could not afford to squander away on her calculations.

  She scribbled a few halfhearted attempts, numbly processing the figures. A solid knock at the door made her jolt in her seat, and she marred the paper in front of her with a smear of bright color.

  Her stomach lurched. She dropped the quill and ran to the side of the door to peek through the window from behind its rough curtain. The glass was covered in a thick layer of frost and hindered her inspection. It might be Mr. Finch coming to finish the job without the drawbacks of a group of witnesses. She searched for a place to hide in the little cottage. A stifled sound of fear escaped her throat as the caller knocked again, more forcefully.

  “Miss MacDuff!” a muffled voice called out. “Open the door. I know you’re there because I just saw Angus.”

  Lord Pembroke.

  Without thinking, she raced back to the door and flung it open. Biting wind swept across her face. “What are you doing here?” she blurted out, ignoring the sting at her cheeks and looking beyond him for followers. “Come inside, hurry!”

  He wiped the dusting of snow upon the shoulders of his coat before moving his tall frame through the doorway. He pushed the door closed and turned.

  “Are you ill?” He peered at her. “Angus said you haven’t left the house for days.”

  She shook her head in answer.

  He appeared unconvinced. “Listen,” he said, scanning her features as if he were searching for symptoms of poor health, “I wanted to talk to you about what happened the other day. I meant to speak with you right away, but when I returned, you’d gone. I was mortified when I discovered I’d almost shot someone . . . and then finding out it was you, I . . .” He stopped.

  She watched his eyes leave her face and take in the room, a quick look at its contents.

  He rubbed the cold from his arms. “It’s been years since I’ve stepped into this cottage. It hasn’t changed a bit. I spent much of my youth here, slaying dragons and fighting great battles. I’ve always claimed this cottage as a castle in my mind’s eye, my own private fortress.” He chortled at the memories.

  “Slaying dragons? Yes, your imagination is well developed,” Jenna said, astonished anyone could envision this hut as enchanting. She busied herself, arranging the meager woodpile at the hearth.

  “Well”—he hesitated—“actually, it’s your imagination I’m worried about.”

  “Mine? Whatever for?”

  He rubbed the tendons at the back of his neck. “I know you haven’t had the most gratifying encounters with my friends. More than likely they deserve the unflattering opinion you may have developed. I’m not making excuses for them, but I wanted to let you know how awful Mr. Finch felt about the other day.”

  I’ll bet he did.

  “He said he’d made a sweep of the area, had found you, and mentioned where it was we were hunting. Mr. Finch said he advised you to reverse your direction. He blames himself for the error. He’s plagued me for three days straight, not letting me out of his sight, certain I’m still furious with him.”

  Jenna pulled back. She was convinced her mouth must be hanging open. She stayed her features, determined not to draw undue curiosity from him. How in the world could she explain it all now?

  “He’s begged me not to mention anything to you, fearing your likely embarrassment for not heeding his warning. I told him you probably had good reason for continuing on, and he needn’t feel inappropriate guilt on your behalf.” Lord Pembroke looked at her, his eyebrows raised in anticipation.

  She shut her eyes and thought carefully before speaking. “No,” she said, letting her breath out. “I’m certain Mr. Finch will not suffer long from my errors. Please rest assured my feelings toward him have not worsened.”

  They could not grow any more negative.

  Lord Pembroke looked at her sideways and then smiled. “I think I’m pleased to hear that. Although I’d be infinitely more pleased to hear you accept my invitation to a wedding. Not mine,” he added quickly, “but Garrick Wicken’s, the horse handler. He’s marrying one of the kitchen maids, Elizabeth. You might know her?”

  Jenna shook her head but felt a sliver of relief.

  “Regardless, everyone is invited, and my father has insisted I and all my friends attend. Typically, once a year he feels it necessary to show the servants and staff just how . . . generous a man he is and has decided to show his charity by paying for the wedding and excusing the staff from work.”

  “You needn’t have invited us yourself. Surely you’ve more important matters to attend to.”

  “Yes, there is another important matter.” He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a slim, leather-bound book and offered it to her. “I meant what I said when inviting you to avail yourself of our library. If you wish, I’ll show you how everything is arranged.”

  “Shakespeare’s sonnets,” she read aloud. A smile crept at the corners of her mouth. “Gavin used to have a copy, and would read to us after dinner.”

  “Well, then, don’t feel obligated.”

  “No—thank you. We lost his copy long ago, plus the book was secondhand and missing the last twenty or so poems. I think they were torn out, so I’ve never read them.”

  “Really?” he said, amused and watchful. “Well, that would be the poetry supposedly written about his married mistress. It speaks of pain and love. And longing.”

  Her face bypassed the usual ruddy hue caused by embarrassment, and went straight to scarlet. She swallowed and felt her mouth had gone most uncooperative.

  “I hope you’ll find them intriguing. I wasn’t sure what type of literature you’re drawn to, so I chose one of my favorites.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be captivating.” She glanced down and went to work busily picking bits of lint off the folds of her skirt, desperate to change the subject. “You mentioned Mr. Finch has been at your side these last few days. How was it you managed to get past him this morning?”r />
  He gave a low, rueful chuckle. “I made sure he was offered our best port last night. Julian cannot refuse unparalleled quality.” Lord Pembroke smiled. “In other words, he drank his fill, and I expect he’s feeling the effects of it this morning. My whereabouts will be his least concern.”

  “When is the wedding?” Jenna asked, glancing toward the window.

  “Twelfth Night. Will you come?” He followed her gaze and wandered to the casement, leaning on the spindly table beneath the glass to examine the snowy world outside. He bent over the garrison’s plans and looked down to the drawings, to the sketches written in the same coded puzzle language Jenna had revealed to him just three days ago.

  Jenna’s breath came short and fast. “I don’t think . . .”

  “Ha!” he cried out. “I recognize this little brain-twisting riddle.” He turned to look at Jenna, pointing to the plans. “More of the same, is it not?”

  She nodded lamely.

  He picked up the plans and held them out. “And would this be the final shape of the garrison?”

  She reached out to take them from him and swiftly rolled them up. “Oh dear. Someone must have forgotten to bring these with today. I must deliver them straightaway.”

  “Why don’t I do it and save you the journey?”

  No! It was one thing to trust him with the knowledge of her education, but she unquestionably could not afford the risk of the duke’s son, the heir to a seat in the Parliament in King George’s court, studying the plans he’d glanced at. The very composition meant to help unhinge the current king and replace him with another.

  Think! What do I do? “Wholly unnecessary, but I do have something for you nevertheless.”

  She placed the rolled-up plans back at the entrance to the door, scurried to the mantel, and plucked the arrow that had narrowly missed eliminating Mr. Finch’s problem. “Your fletchings are damaged. I’d say you have a poor spine, so it’s not surprising you missed the stag, but I thought you might want this back anyway.” She attempted to show amusement on her face. She held the arrow out and hoped to entice him away from the table, but fate intervened. Someone hammered on the door.