Malcolm dusted off his hands and wiped his face with a handkerchief. “Jenna!” he bellowed with gruff gaiety. “You’re back early. I thought we’d nay see hide nor hair of ye till Mrs. Wigginton had the whole of the pantry spotless. Was she none so short-handed after all?” He hugged her roughly.
“No, we’ve just finished. I’ve been sent down with warm bannocks and butter as . . . thanks for my help.” She felt a niggling pang of guilt writhe in her stomach. Although she’d begun to make a practice of withholding information about her interactions with Lord Pembroke, this was the first time she’d purposefully lied to her father. It made it impossible to look him in the eye.
“I smell food!” Tavish shouted, running to them.
“Ye do not, ye wee fiend. But your eyes ken it normally comes in the form of one of Mrs. Wigginton’s bonny baskets, aye?” Malcolm grabbed the child and tucked him under one arm as he tried to run past, and held back the laughing, squirming figure as he reached for the container.
“Wash your hands of the dust, Tavish.” Jenna laughed at him. “I promise there’ll be plenty, but only if you’re clean.” She’d also promised him that if he did not breathe a word of last night’s activities, she would reward him with a small bag of sweets next time she went to the village. She impressed upon him that it was nothing more than a minor tumble that would unnecessarily alarm the men, who had no time for extra worry.
“Thanks for bringing it down, Jenna,” her father said, releasing the boy. “Are ye heading back to the cottage, then?”
She handed him the basket with a nod.
“Tell Angus we’ll be a bit late tonight, but this’ll help to keep the bellies from rumbling.”
She wanted to ask him about the meeting last night, but knew he’d not answer here. When she neared the cottage, she felt for the kerchief, making sure it was still in place.
Angus was seated at the long table in front of the fireplace, which popped and crackled with fresh wood. Next to him, head bent low over something, was Daniel. Both men looked up in surprise as she came in.
“Jenna, love, what brings ye back so soon? I thought Mrs. Wigginton would have ye counting dried apples and piles of onions for days. Have ye finished, then?”
“I’m finished for now,” she answered, coming in and removing her mud-caked boots. “It’s cold out there,” she added, moving closer to the fire and keeping her cloak on.
The initial look she’d received from Daniel was briefly unguarded, but had been replaced by a faint acknowledgment of her presence. Jenna thought how different things were with him now. Four years ago, life was much easier, as she loved him simply: a child’s hungering fascination with someone enticingly unusual to the everyday.
But now she was forced to read faces and judge body language whilst coming to the discomforting realization that others did the very same with her. Growing up, it felt like one was thrust onto a stage and under a bright light. Every curve of brow, curl of lip, or narrowing of eye could be picked apart and refashioned together in some keen new interpretation.
It was exhausting.
“Come and sit down by the fire. It’ll warm your wee bones.” Angus patted the bench.
Jenna sank down and peered across the table at the writings spread before them on scraps of parchment. “What are you looking at?”
“Daniel here’s showing me the workings of a new machine for pumping water out of mines. What’s it called again, then?” Angus scratched his beard in question.
Daniel moved his quill across the paper to sketch the diagram. “An atmospheric engine.”
“Oh, do you mean the one Thomas Newcomen configured?” Jenna said.
Daniel looked up at her. “How do you know of it?”
“Ian explained it to me during a math lesson. Apparently, he met Newcomen’s partner before joining us and was able to see it operate. And if you’ve spent any amount of time with Ian, you’ll know he found fault with it,” Jenna said dismissively. She watched Angus sneak away to stir the pot over the fire.
Daniel’s interest seemed piqued. “What was his criticism?”
Jenna tried recalling the details of the conversation. “Something about wasting too much coal. Ian told me about it purely to figure out a mathematical computation. But it was difficult to calculate without the aid of an image.” She peered down at the illustration. “Have you drawn a scale of it here?”
Daniel put a hand over the drawing. “Before you look, pull the image into your mind.”
Her mouth tightened briefly, about to refuse, but then she saw Angus put a finger to his smiling lips behind Daniel and shuffle toward the bedrooms. She knew he wanted them to talk and rolled her eyes at him before he disappeared. Jenna closed her eyes and tried to conjure an imaginary form.
She heard Daniel rubbing his bristled chin with the knuckles of his hand. “The practice of recall is a skill one should put to use every day, as it can serve you in matters of both academic need . . . and of a lonely heart. Envision the details here first . . . en tu imaginacion. . . . See it in your mind’s eye.
“I used to make a picture of what all of you looked like after each one of my visits, and at night, before sleep, I would remember the fine points. It was never difficult to recall your hair—always on fire. Don’t wear a kerchief to hide it all.” Jenna felt the cotton scarf slip from her head.
Her eyes flashed open, wide with panic. She wasn’t quick enough to grab the scarf before Daniel had it in his hands, concern flashing across his face. “Qué pasó?”
Her hand flew to the bandage still secured to her head. She reached out toward the scarf. “It’s nothing, just a trifling mishap. May I have it back, please?”
His eyes narrowed into miniature black pearls, rimmed with gold. “Jenna, you forget I’ve known you all your life. I could see through your colorful stories when you were little, and plainly, you have not yet learned the skill of deception.”
She remained silent and attempted to keep an indecipherable face.
“Fine. Shall I go to your father? Do you think he would be so dismissive?” Daniel made to rise from the bench.
“Don’t,” she said, casting a hand out to stay him. “All right. I’ll tell you, but”—she lowered her voice—“you must agree not to go running to him afterward.”
“Why would I make a foolish promise if it meant keeping you in danger? Tell me now, or you give me no other choice than to take you to the garrison, where your father will force an explanation from you.” He glared at her.
“Why must you always be so pigheaded?” she hissed.
“I would prefer to define my actions as choosing right over wrong.”
“You may think—” she began.
“Don’t tell me what I think,” he interrupted, “tell me what happened.”
She pulled back, surprised by the authority in his voice. “I was confronted and attacked.”
His eyes widened.
“Assaulted, with the intent to do harm.”
“By whom?”
“By another pigheaded individual.”
Daniel took a long time inhaling, and Jenna counted the seconds it took for him to release it. He shook his head. “Who? Who did this to you?”
“The telltale—Mr. Finch. The one who came to your side a few weeks ago, impressing upon you my apparent need for assistance.”
“If I recall correctly, you were in need of assistance.” His voice regained its silken cadence, but his lilting accent still held the intonation of warning.
“I beg to differ,” she mumbled.
Daniel’s eyes simmered darkly as he studied Jenna’s face and stared at the bandage. “Por qué? For what reason?”
“He didn’t provide one,” she said sourly. She held back. Determined not to give away too much information. There was no way of gauging his reaction if he found out who’d come to assist in her struggle with Mr. Finch. Nor did she want to reveal that Lord Pembroke had stayed at her bedside for the hours thereafter.
Daniel leaned in closer, and she heard the snap of the quill in his hand. “I don’t believe you. Now tell me why.”
“Mr. Finch doesn’t like me,” she began with difficulty. “Apparently, he believes”—she paused—“that I put myself above my appropriate station.”
“He’s right.”
Jenna’s eyes flashed with surprise. “It’s only that he’s afraid of a woman with knowledge. I’m beginning to think men simply want women stupid. Senseless enough that they can exert their brute will on us as they please.”
“And when you find yourself with one of these barbaric individuals”—he emphasized the one word—“it seems you cannot hold your tongue, but must speak on behalf of all wronged women; is that so?”
Jenna rose to the bait. “I don’t know why I’m surprised at your judgment of the situation. You’re no different from him.”
“I would not assault a woman.”
“Maybe not, but you are agreeable to suppressing one.” She stood from the bench, her face glowing.
Daniel shook his head. “Can you not see the scope of contrast between the two? They are wholly different methods for . . .” He paused.
“For what?” Jenna interrupted. “Go ahead. Say it. Compelling obedience. Isn’t that it?” She backed up.
Daniel rose and came toward her, his eyes glittering. “I was going to say maintaining order. But is the first word so distasteful to you, Jenna? Is there no one you would abide by?”
She glared at him, an unfamiliar energy crackling through her body. “I have done nothing but obey people my entire life. You will live here—and therefore I do, we will now move—and consequently I pack. Study these verbs, compute this equation, review these lectures. Show me, Daniel, where it is I have been rebellious?”
She breathed heavily and tried swallowing the heat that burned brightly within her. “I live with a band of traitors to the crown who follow their hearts without the least bit of hesitation in acknowledgment of their own defiance, and yet I am to remain meek in the face of this constant demonstration?”
“You are wrong to think they act blindly,” Daniel said, in level tones. “These men are wholly aware of the risk that accompanies their mutiny. If they are caught, they are killed.” He came to stand before her and took her hand in his. “And you, mi amor,” he said, “cannot change the injustices of the world with a sweep of your hand. History has many examples of those who were ill-content, but the ones who succeeded in their endeavor for change were perhaps less headstrong than you.”
He stood back, holding Jenna’s gaze. Her eyes, moments ago blazing, were now searching his, taking in his words. He went on. “I think if you insist upon traveling such a difficult path, then you should prepare for many more encounters such as this one.” Then the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “And perhaps I should brace myself for future conversations with you—a young woman whose internal flame of candor grows brighter each day.” He paused.
“Suppress you?” He chuckled and kissed the top of her head above the bandage. “I pity the man who tries.”
TWENTY-SIX
“HIGH TREASON!” THE DUKE SHOUTED TO THE gathered crowd in front of the garrison. “The worst of felonies!” His voice bellowed justified anger across the heads of those assembled. “Two men levied war against our monarch, and for those actions they were punished to the highest extent of the law.”
Jenna’s extremities went numb with fright as she listened to the duke address the people. She stood behind Jeb and another stable lad, who kept leaping up to see above the heads in front of him. The press of people consisted of not only those who worked upon the estate, but also those who lived within it.
“Those two Englishmen were hanged for their crimes of rebellion in the hamlet of Hawkshead—in the middle of the square—as a deterrent to others who may be entertaining similar ideas, but mostly as a reminder to the rest of us, illustrating the cold fact that we are in the midst of trying times. We must stand strong against the surge of baseless rebellion.”
Jenna looked about the crowd, scanning it hungrily, and she threaded her way quietly through the crush. Her eyes remained fixed on the tall head of Mr. Finch and on Lady Lucia, who stood next to him. They were insiders. Perhaps words about this situation were passing between them, words Jenna could use to her clan’s advantage. She pulled the hood of her cloak tighter around her face and came to stand silently behind them.
“. . . he was granted special dispensation . . . ,” she heard Mr. Finch say. “To administer discipline as he saw fit.”
The words filled Jenna with a cold dread.
The duke clamored on. “Lest anyone need a sign of our strength, glance to your right to see the rising fortress of our preparation. This garrison is a symbol of the times to come, and represents our backbone of protection against the rebellion.”
Jenna watched the duchess, who stood beside her husband, close her eyes and press her lips inward. A terrible pang of guilt sliced through Jenna’s stomach. Nearly everyone here believed the garrison would be a pillar of preservation, but her clan had other plans.
Mr. Finch turned again to Lady Lucia. “And you and I must work in tandem to ensure Alex’s personal rebellion is quashed. We must strive to erase any wayward notions he still possesses about leaving this life. He is needed here, milady. By you. And me.” Julian fanned his hand across the crowd in front of him. “And everyone here who is dependent upon his future.”
Jenna turned her head so as not to be seen, and Lady Lucia replied, “I am worried still. I believe he will cast us all aside, and we shall have nothing.”
“Rest assured, milady, I have had words with him of recent, and now, more than ever, I feel confident that he sees the threat upon his home is real, and that he is obligated to remain here to confront it.”
Jenna stifled a gasp and fell back into the crowd behind her. She needed to understand more about what was to unfold when the garrison was complete. Raising her head, she found Mr. Wicken watching the men of her clan. They stood close to the building, listening to the duke finish his address to his estate’s constituents. Their faces were unreadable, but their stances strong.
A ripple of fear bloomed within her as she stared at her family. Regardless of the strength of one’s stance, once the floor was pulled from beneath you, it was impossible to get a foothold on air.
“I’m begging you, Daniel. Please.”
He looked at her, his eyes busy with quiet assessment.
Jenna put a hand on his arm and felt the hard-strung tension beneath the white of his fine linen shirt. “The barest of details—that’s all I’m asking for,” she pleaded. They sat in front of the slumbering fire, a late-night book on Daniel’s lap, Shakespeare’s sonnets on hers.
Following the duke’s announcement, Jenna had found a moment to question her father, hoping for further details on how exactly their family was building support for James Stuart. His answer had left her less than satisfied.
We, the garrison, and soldiers are part of a lengthy chain of folk collecting money and such like.
It was like asking about the details of a book only to be told there is a beginning, a middle, and an end. She repeated her father’s answer to Daniel and asked for clarification.
“When will the garrison be complete? Where will the smuggled arms come from? Who are the soldiers? And what did he mean by such like?” She puffed a little with discontent. “Answer any of these queries, as I’m tired of being in the dark.”
“You’ve been kept uninformed for a good reason, Jenna. No one wants to give you enough information to put a noose around your neck.”
Jenna looked at him, incredulous. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? I’ve read the laws, and as I am related to a man who could easily be found guilty of high treason, the smallest punishment I would find cast upon myself is the forfeiture of all property and the right to any livelihood. I would surely perish, but it would be a long and painful death of slow starvation. Better the
courts would find me guilty as well so that at least I would find a quicker end.”
Daniel looked away and stared into the fire.
“So the garrison has a hidden chamber?”
He took a slow breath and then raised two fingers.
“And it’s here that money will be stored?”
“Among other things,” he pointed out. “Weapons and ammunition, which have been shipped from France.”
“And the soldiers?”
“Some hold positions in the king’s army, but actually support James Stuart.”
“But how? When they’ve pledged fealty to the king?”
He chewed on his lip, thinking. “When you ask about these soldiers and how they could deceive in their position, you must think first about their prior pledges. To serve one monarch and provide unwavering loyalty is a great thing. But when that individual is replaced with another, not of your choosing—whose ideas contradict all you stood for previously, how could you switch allegiance? Especially if you believe in the Divine Right of Kings. If God gave these individuals their monarchy, and you believed in this God, how could you cast aside your faith to support a ruler who took another’s place by force?”
Jenna nodded with understanding. “And those soldiers will be here—in the garrison?”
“The duke is preparing himself for the possibility of rebellion, but he will not know that most of those he’ll soon employ to protect him will in fact be there to take up arms against King George.”
Jenna leaned back in her chair. She thought about Lord Pembroke. About Mrs. Wigginton and Jeb, and all the innocent people here who have no forewarning as to the danger they are in. But mostly, her mind filled with the painful thoughts that her family was responsible for what could be tantamount to their devastation.
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