The Freemason's Daughter

by Shelley Sackier

  Jenna came around the side of the cot. She would not show further bad manners in front of the couple. “Milady, are you well?” She almost choked at the sweetness in her own voice.

  Lady Lucia moaned in answer and rolled her eyes. “How could anyone be well in a place like this? I am being tortured for my sins and only the Holy Mother of Christ could know how it is I suffer. I expect I will die from this snowstorm, won’t I?”

  Jenna smiled at the old woman, embarrassed, and perched on the edge of the cot. She leaned closer to the girl. “I understand this is far from what you are accustomed to, milady, but these people are doing their level best. Could you kindly sit up?” Jenna looked into her coal-black eyes and saw them shift from self-inflicted despair to a dark fury.

  “You think I do not feel true anguish?” She sat up on her elbows. “You have no idea what a lady must feel like in a situation such as this.”

  Jenna leaned in and whispered, “Perhaps you’re right. I may not know how you feel”—because I would never allow myself to wallow in such self-pity!—“but these are only the temporary symptoms of being wet and cold, and probably hungry. It will pass.”

  The old man approached Jenna and announced, “We’ve got naught but stew—will it sit right with her?”

  Jenna glanced at him, summoned a face of gratitude, and nodded yes. He dragged a low stool from the corner of the room to the rickety table, and tipped a wooden crate onto its side and close to the other chairs. He sat on the crate and motioned for them to join him while the old woman brought bowl after bowl from the fireplace. Finally, she set a glass jar and something round, covered in a linen cloth, in front of the man.

  Jenna rose from the bed and waved at Lady Lucia to come. The young woman cast a suspicious eye at the table’s contents, moved slowly toward them, and edged into one of the chairs. Her presence in the cottage, with her elegant clothing and jewelry dangling from neck and wrists, conflicted with the rest of her surroundings.

  The furnishings were sparse and antiquated, the only luxury being a few tattered quilts on a rickety chest, by the bed. The fireplace sputtered feebly, unable to compete with the freezing temperatures. Jenna noted everything else was likely made by hand, or gathered from outside. Dried herbs and flowers hung from the smoky ceiling beams, a number of hand-carved household tools resided in the corner, and a few bits of scarred pottery stood on a sideboard.

  The old man uncovered the mound in front of him and revealed a loaf of bread. He tore off chunks, doling it out, and then slid the glass jar of warm molasses to the center of the table. Jenna’s mouth watered at the sight of the steaming bread and smiled in thanks to the old woman.

  “The name’s Samuel Banks, and that’s Celia,” the man nodded while pouring ale from a stone jug. “She’s not got a tongue, which suits fine, for I’ve ears that hear poorly anyways.”

  Lady Lucia looked at the woman, wincing. “She has no tongue?”

  “Her father thought her too wordy a lass and fitted her with a scold’s bridle when she were young.”

  Lady Lucia reeled back and looked to Jenna for an explanation.

  “A scold’s bridle. A torture device made for women who were found outspoken or who liked to gossip.” She turned to Celia. “I’m so sorry.”

  Samuel continued, “After a few days, her tongue swoll up and they needed to cut it off.”

  Celia shrugged and sipped her stew.

  Lady Lucia stippled the sweet molasses onto her bread. “If any person tried to do that to me, I would tear out their heart first.”

  She probably would, and spread it on toast for breakfast, Jenna thought.

  They ate the food in relative silence, pieces of bread sopping up the thin stew. The pot held few vegetables, as it was the end of winter, but the onions and sparse chunks of bacon, mixed with the venison, made for a delicious meal. When they had finished, Jenna cleaned the bowls and spoons with Celia, and placed them back onto the dilapidated sideboard.

  Lady Lucia balanced on the edge of the bed, gazing into the fireplace, sighing with boredom. Jenna fetched the whisky and set it before Samuel, who was filling his clay pipe with a few pinches of tobacco. “Thank you,” she said, but Samuel shook his head.

  “No need, lass.” Samuel lit the pipe. “I’ve got no stomach for it any longer, and Celia never took with drink. Thanks all the same.”

  The withered old woman picked up the pile of quilts and motioned for Jenna to follow. With a candle for guidance, they scaled a narrow ladder to the cramped, frosty loft. Celia laid the blankets on a tattered straw tick mattress and, turning to Jenna, raised her eyebrows in question.

  “Of course it will be all right. Thank you again.”

  Jenna prodded Lady Lucia up the ladder, ignoring her complaints.

  “This is most ridiculous,” she said, watching Jenna lay out the quilts. “I should not be expected to sleep in a pigsty.” She sighed crossly, her breath a white fog. “Is there no way to make this place warmer? I will freeze before morning comes.”

  Jenna glared at the girl, who stood with her hands on her tiny hips. Do you ever stop complaining? She retrieved the whisky from her bag. “Here,” she said, thrusting the bottle at her.

  Lady Lucia took a step back and eyed Jenna suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “This is the cure to all that ails us at the moment. If you drink enough of it, you will become warm, the room will seem more than sufficient, and I will become appealing company.”

  Lady Lucia’s distrustful gaze never wavered. “What is this magic potion, then?”

  “Just whisky, and I can tell you right now you’re not going to like it, but . . . ,” Jenna said, putting a hand up to defer any objections. “If you can get past the taste, then I promise you, all of this”—she gestured with a wave—“will no longer be an issue.”

  Lady Lucia shrewdly assessed the truthfulness of the pledge and the element of risk involved. Then, sweeping her eyes around the tiny loft, she grabbed the bottle from Jenna’s outstretched hands and uncorked it. She took a long slow breath in, as if she were about to go underwater, and bringing the bottle to her lips, squeezed her eyes shut, and tilted it toward the ceiling.

  After the fourth swallow, she brought the bottle down quickly, and her watering eyes popped open, wide and hysterical. She clutched her throat and tried to breathe in, but couldn’t manage the effort. She coughed and spluttered, fell to her knees, and crawled to the quilt-covered mattress, where she collapsed. Her breath came raggedly, interspersed with Sicilian curses.

  After a few moments of reestablishing her intake of air, she rolled onto an elbow, put a hand to her chest, and murmured, “It’s like a tiny fire. I thought it had ripped open my throat, but now something glows from on the inside of me.” She lay still for another moment, and turned again to Jenna. “It will not kill me?”

  I wish, Jenna thought, but shook her head and knelt beside the mattress.

  Lady Lucia lay back onto the quilts. Her gaze focused on the mellow candlelight flickering on the ceiling. “You are right. It tastes horrible, but I am finally warm. I could probably walk home now.”

  “Feel free to try,” Jenna murmured.

  Lady Lucia looked glazedly at Jenna. “Aren’t you going to have any?”

  “No, I’m still full from last night.”

  Lady Lucia hiccupped quietly. “Where were you last night?”

  “In Preston. I went to the market.”

  “There is no place to shop here. Nothing to do . . .” She paused in quiet contemplation. “I hate this place. It is nothing like the kingdom of Sicily, with everyplace beautiful—everyone beautiful.” Her eyes watched the shadows dancing above the mattress, and she sighed deeply. She turned and peered hard at Jenna. “I have seen you dancing with that dark man . . . at the wedding.” Her words were softened with liquor, but Jenna was wary.

  “A family friend.”

  “I knew someone like him once,” she said, a shock of glossy black hair falling across her face. She gr
ew quiet, lost in her reverie. “We belonged to each other. I suppose we still do.”

  Jenna looked at her, confused. “But you’re a woman about to be married.”

  Lady Lucia sniffed. “What difference does marriage make? It is for influence. For money. A title.” She shook her head at Jenna. “You do not know how it is. I am property to be bought.”

  “But what about the duke’s son? Don’t you have feelings for him?”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter if I did. He’ll not be faithful to me. Already his eyes wander.”

  Jenna’s stomach twisted uneasily. “Then why don’t you do something about it?” She couldn’t believe she was giving this advice.

  “No. All I must do is marry this man, and then I am free to find”—her eyes searched the rafters—“how do you say . . . distractions. Although nothing will ever compare to my . . . friend.” She sighed heavily. “I am lonely. I miss him so.”

  Jenna looked at Lady Lucia and saw a fragile, young woman, unhappy and terribly out of place. “It must be difficult. To be told who you’ll marry.”

  Lady Lucia sat up and frowned. “Money is who I marry. The face of it matters little.” She lay back down, her hands across her stomach, and closed her eyes. “My mother forces me. My family forces me, as our fortune is depleted, and I am their only hope.”

  Lady Lucia puffed out a hot breath of air. “For the longest time I was able to foil their plans—to break each engagement by making myself as unimaginable a prospective wife as possible. I wanted to go home, to be with . . .” She sighed. “But Mamma tells me this is my last chance. If I do not marry, we will be destitute.” She laughed ruefully. “And now I am faced with someone who does not want to marry me.”

  Jenna’s eyes widened with shock. “What?”

  Lady Lucia waved a hand in the air and let it fall beside her head, her words beginning to slur with sleep. “He promises he will. But I feel sorry for him.”

  “Why?” Jenna whispered.

  Lady Lucia was silent, and Jenna feared she may have fallen asleep without answering, but she took a big breath in and shook her head as she pulled the quilt up to her chin. “Because I have forgotten how to be kind. And I know I will never love anyone else . . . again.”

  Spools of pity unfurled in Jenna’s heart as she studied the sleeping girl. But as easily as the fragile facade poured out of her, beneath those silk gowns was a core of rock. Lady Lucia, Jenna realized, was more dauntless than half the clan in her cottage.

  The next morning, Jenna rose early and had Henry loaded and ready to go before Lady Lucia had risen. Once up, she was cantankerous and petulant, leaving Jenna to wonder where the pitiable and touching young woman from last night had gone. Jenna wished she could just leave and be rid of the returning, unlikeable version of the Sicilian girl. But she couldn’t do that to the Bankses. They didn’t deserve it.

  Jenna managed to assuage Henry’s fears long enough to allow Lady Lucia to ride, and although the trek was somewhat rough, Jenna led him carefully.

  After an hour, and perhaps no more than four or five miles from Withinghall, Jenna heard the distant sound of men’s voices calling. She stopped at one point and tried to make out the words. Suddenly, a man stepped from behind a screen of trees. It was one of the duke’s men of arms, who Jenna regularly saw parading around the grounds of the great house.

  “I’ve found one of them!” he shouted, cupping a hand to his mouth. He blew a piercing whistle through his fingers and turned to Jenna. “Have you seen Lady Lucia?”

  She pointed at the mound on top of her horse. “Probably sleeping . . . still.”

  There was a great deal of commotion, with the echoing shouts of men, and the thudding of approaching hooves. Lord Pembroke appeared on horseback, accompanied by several other men following close behind. Each of them looked as if they’d not seen their beds last night.

  Lady Lucia, who recognized the precise moment for squeezing the most out of the scene, carefully came to, lifted her head, and moaned in discomfort.

  “Where am I?” she whimpered, looking around dizzily. “I . . . I’m so cold,” she cried, sliding out of the saddle and into the arms of the brawny guard.

  “Bring her to the carriage!” another guard ordered.

  Lord Pembroke dismounted and stepped closer to Jenna, aware of the many people around them. “Miss MacDuff, are you all right?” he said quietly, relief apparent in his eyes.

  Jenna nodded and smiled, tight-lipped. She looked around at the gathering crowd of men and murmured, “Delightful girl. We’ve so much in common.” Jenna brushed the snow off the front of her cloak and raised her eyes to see Lord Pembroke biting his lower lip, trying desperately not to smile.

  “Yes, well . . . thank you,” he mumbled roughly, sweeping his hand across his chin. He turned to peer into the woods. “Last night, when the lady’s carriage had not returned, we dispatched a group of men. As we were preparing the horses, your father came in to saddle up in search for you. We’ve been working together all night. It was near impossible with the storm.” He hesitated, “Of course, finding the two of you together was the last thing I’d pictured.”

  “That would make two of us.” Jenna frowned. “But I’m sure she’ll fill you in on all the captivating details, once she’s had a chance to be deloused.”

  “Jenna!” Angus’s voice boomed from across the woods. His husky frame made surprisingly good speed through the thick snow. She had just enough time to see Lady Lucia being carried to the coach, covered in blankets, before Angus grabbed her with both arms and engulfed her in his bearlike hug. He muffled something into her thick hair, growling in Gaelic.

  “I thought ye might have finally decided to run away wi’ Daniel. Canna say we’d be at all surprised.”

  She pushed back from the folds of his plaid and glanced at Lord Pembroke, who made a polite bow and excused himself from the circle. He headed toward the carriage and the distressed damsel.

  THIRTY

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS PROVED BUSY, AS ALL OF THE things Jenna had brought from Preston were put to good use. Small bits to repair the masonry apparatus, new chisels, trowels, hammers, and plumb bobs, and a few household goods, cheaper to buy at the larger markets than local ones, were gratefully accepted as they were unpacked from the saddlebags. There was only so much Henry could carry, but Jenna made sure to bring home a gift for each of the men, as they had done over the years for her whenever they had traveled.

  For Angus, Jenna had found a riddleboard and a ridged rolling pin, so he could make oatcakes the way Mrs. Wigginton had shown him in the estate’s kitchens, delicate and wafer fine. Duncan was easy to please. Jenna had found a great number of herb packets, picked and pounded for ready use, from a well-known medicine woman who, according to Daniel, regularly held a stall at the market and could be trusted.

  Colin was aghast when Jenna gave him a merino wool scarf. “You should have seen Daniel when we came upon the stall,” Jenna began. “One of his countrymen was selling woolen goods. They started rattling on in Spanish and then got very quiet. Lucky Daniel was introduced to the hidden inventory of goods that came from the peddler’s one merino sheep.” Jenna’s eyes widened. “Here’s where it gets interesting. After the quick exchange of money, we zipped away, and Daniel told me that Spain is extraordinarily protective of this breed, and the export of merinos is a crime punishable by death—hence the reason for haste and secrecy.” She smiled and pointed to Colin. “Tell no one, and the peddler lives.”

  She gave her father pipe tobacco but guessed knowing she was back with them, no worse for the wear, was what he cherished most about her return.

  Gavin’s rough, calloused hands unwrapped a soft leather-bound edition of Giovanni Boccaccio’s On Famous Women; a collection of one hundred and six biographies, written about either historical or mythological females. It was a book Gavin had been referencing to Jenna for years, trying to recall the details of many stories without success. The gleam of delight in his eyes was unmistaka
ble. “Queens, wives, daughters, and prostitutes shall be your teachers for weeks to come!”

  Deciding upon a gift for Tavish was the easiest task. Anything that contained sugar was sure to please his wide grinning mouth. She had filled a cloth sack with comfits of every description: sugarplums, aniseed balls, and candied citrus peel—their sweet perfumes gushing from the open bag. The little boy bounced off the walls with excitement, trying to decide which to taste first.

  Finally, Ian. Jenna had no clue if anything would bring even a nominal amount of pleasure to this sour man. She almost bought him a miniature Chinese abacus, hoping its colorful red wooden beads might at least provoke a pleasant reaction, but instead, settled on an intricately hand-carved sgian dubh, its pointed tip and razor-sharp edge indicative of their recent exchanges. It was received with a fair amount of indifference.

  A week after the excitement of Preston, the clan lingered round the breakfast table, attempting to put off the cold drizzle outside for one last moment of warmth before work.

  Jenna’s father came in from outside, his eyes bloodshot from a predawn meeting on the outskirts of Hawkshead where a Stuart informant came to deliver him news. He leaned against the door and stared down at everyone around the table. “The first of March. The rooms must be ready by then. The shipments will come in each day thereafter, in the wee hours.”

  The room crackled with nervous energy as all the men nodded silently.

  “And on the night of the seventeenth, the men. Clan leaders will show up somewhere after midnight and the soldiers by dawn.” He looked to Jenna. “Your birthday will act as cover. We shall throw a cèilidh to celebrate. No one questions extra guests at a party.”