She refused to take notice of the little voice that told her she was behaving like a woman possessed.
NINE
Geoffrey Hollick was younger than she’d anticipated — probably early forties — and attractive in a neatly-parted-hair and clean-shaven way. She suspected he had grown old before his time, and had never done anything that could have been termed overly youthful, or that might have disappointed his parents. He wore a loudly striped tie, which he’d loosened in a weak attempt to show he was not at all starchy. Yet he seemed to possess a genuine smile that had enough of a glow to warm not only him, but the person on the receiving end too.
He invited her to sit down and offered her a cup of tea, which she declined with a smile to his secretary, followed by a glass of iced water, which she accepted. He poured it for her himself from a jug on the sideboard behind him. It gave her the opportunity to strip off the clutter of outdoor clothes, while she listened to the ice rattle into the thick tumbler with satisfying clunking sounds.
They were seated in deep club chairs, facing each other across a small table. He had no pad or pen, which was reassuring. She could see he was resisting the urge to steeple his fingers, although she sensed that was his default position. Introductions and the obligatory twenty seconds of small talk about the weather were now behind them.
‘Your mother explained what has occurred, Jane, and I’m glad you felt open to coming along today. Talking is a great release valve, obviously.’
He waited.
‘Sometimes there can be too much talking, Dr Hollick.’
‘Oh, please, call me Geoffrey,’ he said, then decided even that wasn’t quite hitting the right demographic for her. ‘Actually, Geoff is fine.’
She smiled at his smile. It really was his key weapon, but she wasn’t sure he knew it.
‘I’ve done nothing but talk … and think, Geoff. If anything, I want to shut my mind down. Will’s coma is all-consuming and there are times when I can barely breathe for the unfairness of it. “If only” is the phrase that I turn over and over in my head.’
He nodded gravely. ‘I want to see if I can have you leave here today a little better equipped to handle that crushing emotion. I fully appreciate how it must feel … like the walls are just closing in.’
It was her turn to nod. ‘Everyone means well. Everyone’s pulling in the same direction, but my parents’ sadness for me is suffocating. I love them, Dr Hollick … er, Geoffrey … Geoff …’ She blinked, smiled, gathered her thoughts. ‘But they can’t help. I feel I can only seek the cure on my own.’
‘Cure?’
‘For how insecure I’m feeling.’
‘Which is why you’re permitting Will to return to America with his parents for cutting-edge treatment.’ At her surprised gawp, he nodded. ‘Your mother mentioned it when she called me.’
‘But what she didn’t tell you — because she doesn’t even know yet — is that I don’t plan to accompany Will. I have my own thoughts on how to kill my pain.’
He had been regarding her almost blithely, but at this point his gaze intensified. ‘Jane, this is why you’re here today,’ he said with a note of urgency. ‘It’s important you accept that your mind, and every aspect of your emotional self, have taken perhaps the greatest shock that could be inflicted on them. And —’
‘Surely no one’s more aware of that than I am.’ She cut across whatever he had planned to say next. ‘I can’t do anything but accept. It doesn’t make the grief any easier to deal with, though. I need to distance myself from the pain.’
He cleared his throat. ‘And how do you plan to do that?’
And it was then, seeing the concern turn his pleasant face into a mask of anticipation, that Jane realised how her words must sound.
‘Dr Hollick, I’m not suicidal.’
He blinked. ‘Well, no one’s suggesting —’
It made sense now. Why hadn’t she realised her parents were worried about this? ‘Yes, I think they are. I suspect my parents are anxious I may be so unbalanced that I’ll do something reckless. I think they thought my way to kill the pain might be to kill myself. This is why they’ve sent me here,’ she said, her tone filled with dawning comprehension. She gave him a look of reassurance. ‘I am going to see Will open his eyes and say hello to me again. But in the meantime, I’m distancing myself and trying to be proactive by going to a place we had planned to visit together. It’s a sort of pilgrimage for Will.’
‘Oh, I see … um, may I ask where?’
She explained patiently. The plan seemed to enliven him.
‘That’s actually rather marvellous,’ he admitted, as she finished with a shrug. His words surprised her. She’d expected professional disdain, but now his gaze was full of sparkle and admiration. ‘I wouldn’t call myself a believer, but the older I get, the harder I find it to discount the power of faith. And faith in anything — each other, for instance — can achieve remarkable results.’ He shook his head. Jane liked him all the more for revealing something of himself. ‘And you feel strong enough — I mean emotionally — to make this journey?’
She sighed. ‘I refuse to sit by his bed here, or there, and watch him sleep while doctors poke him with needles and measure his brain activity. I also refuse to accept that Will is done with this life … and I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone switch off his life support without a fight. I share your faith in others, Geoff. I believe the mind is far more powerful than we know, and I’m going to test mine and push its barriers. I’m going to a place I know Will’s soul yearns for and I suspect has fled to. I know that sounds crazy. But I’m going to find him and wake him up.’
Now Geoff did steeple his fingers and looked comfortable at last. ‘You know that big question you’ve been casting out into the universe … the one about “If only”?’ She nodded. ‘I admire your plan because you’re turning “If only” into “What if”. There’s a very positive response from the body and the mind, and a change in a person’s whole attitude, when they refuse to be a victim and start taking action.’ She smiled, wanting to hug him in that moment. ‘I am all for people taking action, taking responsibility for their emotions — staring at the beast in front of them and roaring loudly straight back at it.’ At this point he even shook his fist. Jane wanted to grin but restrained herself. ‘And that’s what you’re planning to do, Jane. You’re roaring back at the monster. Listening to you and your passion for Will’s special place, and hearing about his desire to see it, I think your plan is the perfect fuel for the fire of your love for him. If you feel healthy, if you feel strong, if the motivation doesn’t wane and you keep the trip brief and perhaps agree to being contactable, I can’t think of a single reason to discourage you.’
‘Thank you.’ She didn’t know what else to say. She reached for the tumbler and swallowed some of the chilled water — flavoured with a squeeze of lemon, she realised.
He shook his head. ‘I wish more people would fight back like you’re doing. It’s very hard, though, to have this attitude when you’re feeling battered and drowning in grief. I suspect you’ll return from Australia changed, in a good way.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve read about the old straight tracks,’ he admitted.
‘You have? What’s your opinion of them?’
He shrugged. ‘Only that they have to mean something, and the fact that we haven’t discovered what that could be is our failing, not a reason to sneer at any theories. Personally and very privately, I rather like the notion of magic. Never quite lost my fascination with European fairytales, I’m afraid.’ He chuckled as he momentarily lost himself in childhood memories. ‘But, I’m a psychologist, Jane. I counsel a number of prominent people who would likely curl a lip at any suggestion of the ethereal. My role is simply to be your guide in your decision making, to help and be sure you are seeing clearly.’
‘To show me the pathway?’ she asked, deliberately echoing Robin.
‘Precisely.’
‘Do you think I am seeing clearly?’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes. I don’t think self-harm or even self-pity is a factor here. I sense fury and courage instead … and a desire to right the wrong. I don’t even hear a note of revenge. You haven’t once referred to the men who did this to Will.’
‘They were cruel and stupid, and most of all drunk. I have nothing to say to them. I have no desire to waste a moment of my life thinking about them.’
‘You’re marvellous. An inspiration.’ He stood. ‘Promise me you will take very good care of yourself while you’re away.’
‘I promise,’ she replied, standing and shaking his hand. ‘Thank you for believing in me.’
‘When will you leave?’
‘As soon as I can after Christmas. Maybe in a week’s time. I can’t see my mother allowing me to leave before then.’
‘Good luck, then,’ he said.
‘I’ll need it when I explain this to my parents,’ she said with a sigh.
TEN
Lancashire, November 1715
The Preston parish church had become the Jacobite force’s headquarters and the spire was used as the main lookout point. Lord Derwentwater and his reserve of mounted gentlemen volunteers set themselves up in the churchyard. A flat-roofed mansion belonging to Sir Henry Houghton was taken over by threescore highlanders from Mar’s regiment, affording them a clear view down the narrow lane to the bridge. At other strategic barrier points, different groups of Jacobites answered to different commanders, and each had his own opinion of how to fight the battle before them. Old Borlum was now openly defying General Forster’s orders.
William knew this fragmented command spelled disaster, but found himself with no choice other than to join the fragmentation. With a small group of a dozen of his own men, all well armed, he took over one of the big houses on Church Street, the main thoroughfare, where the first assault from the English Army began.
Yelling above the sound of nearby shooting from cellars and windows, William urged his men to hold their fire.
‘On my mark!’ he bellowed. ‘Wait for a target, then line up your man.’
Anxious fingers desperate to pull triggers were stayed by Maxwell’s command, but finally, as red-coated men poured through the barricade, he ordered them to unleash the fusillade. Unable to get a clean shot, he soon led his men out of the house in a noisy charge, not dissimilar to the berserk yells of their highland cousins, and into the streets for hand-to-hand fighting.
In the midst of battle he felt, for one rare moment, in control, as the fighting began in earnest and the Jacobites started to inflict heavy losses. His sword could do no wrong and his men fought bravely alongside him, riding high on his inspiring confidence.
The English attempted to burn the town, but the winds would not conspire against the Jacobites, although the smoke of the fires gave the redcoats much-needed cover. General Wills’s troops were then able to infiltrate the alleys that led behind the bigger houses and gradually more and more of the stately homes were captured by the English, including Patten House, which had commanded the best view for William’s men.
Dusk was falling and William ordered two scouts, one of them Pollock, to bring back information on what the English were planning for this night.
‘Should we not wait —’
‘I’m not waiting for anyone, Mr Pollock. Thanks to the smoke we have no communication any more, so we must make our own decisions.’
Pollock disappeared into the smokescreen and returned at nightfall, dodging muzzle flashes that briefly illuminated the town in ghostly red.
‘The English have been told to light a candle in the front window of every property now held by government troops,’ he explained.
‘Then let’s confuse them and light some of our own,’ William said.
Pollock looked dubious, but William, preferring action, personally took charge of stealing from house to house, dodging intermittent fire and crouching behind anything that afforded him cover when explosions of light threatened to show him to the enemy, to light a candle in any location where he knew Jacobites held firm.
‘Capture any redcoat who trespasses,’ he counselled them with a wink.
While William risked his life to baffle an increasingly confident enemy, his commander, Forster, retired to bed.
William spent his night congratulating the pockets of Jacobites on their few casualties. He dealt with the smell of blood on his clothes and its metallic taste clinging to his throat by washing them away with wine, and dozed sporadically propped in the corner of some poor Preston noble’s drawing room.
Sunday, 13th November brought a new scenario, however, as General Carpenter arrived in the town with his three units of dragoons to bolster General Wills’s numbers, and the tide started to quickly turn against the wearied Scots. The English soldiers began to encircle them, barricading them in the besieged town.
No one dared call William anything but a hero when he urged his leaders to plot their army’s escape. ‘Live — fight tomorrow and the day after. Do not give our freedom cheaply,’ he pleaded, at the risk of appearing cowardly.
But it was already too late. Carpenter’s mounted infantry had blocked the road to Liverpool, effectively surrounding the plucky Scots completely. A council of war was held and, in a toxic atmosphere of accusations and threats, Forster and Mackintosh slugged it out until a murky dawn broke over Preston, the weather matching William’s dismay as Forster capitulated on behalf of the mostly furious Jacobites. He sent out their surrender, caving in to the English Army’s demands.
‘Why?’ William growled to his elder.
Old Borlum sighed. ‘Because the redcoats have it over us, son. I was one of the hostages they demanded while brokering terms. Wills told me if I broke faith he would raze the town and spare not a single one of the rebels. This way we follow your logic: perhaps we live to fight another battle.’
William didn’t believe this, but it was a moot point now.
By the following day, more than fifteen hundred of William’s compatriots were lined up, heads hung low in defeat, to be paraded before General Wills and his men in the Preston market square and required to yield their weapons. William could hear the redcoats laughing, exchanging jokes at the pitiful pile of pikes, swords, bayonets and muskets alongside pitchforks and axes.
‘The farming tools certainly kept you cowardly dogs at bay for long enough!’ he yelled, knowing it was pointless and would only bode badly for his future.
‘My Lord!’ Pollock begged, pale with fear for his superior. ‘Your family, sir!’
‘If I should die, let my son know I spat in the face of the Protestant whoresons,’ he cried, filled with righteous defiance.
A shot rang out so close that William looked down at his body to be sure it wasn’t he who had taken the wound. He was whole. Pollock was no longer standing beside him, though; he was on the cobbles, blood pooling beneath him as his eyes stared upward with a glazed expression.
Shocked, William crouched by his side, taking the dying youngster into his lap. ‘Pollock …’ he groaned.
‘I’m sorry, My —’ Pollock’s head fell to the side as his life slipped away and William felt empty rage grip his insides.
‘I didn’t want to shoot you, my Lord Earl,’ an English officer said smoothly. His voice was slightly effeminate, his tone taunting. ‘General Wills assured me you are too valuable. Even so, such blatant insubordination will not be tolerated, even from a prisoner of noble rank. It required punishment as an example to the Jacobite peasants.’ He spat for emphasis, near to where William kneeled. ‘So I let your man — like a good and loyal vassal — bear the punishment for you. I’m sure you will explain to his family … make good with them.’
William stood up, trembling with rage. The General walked his horse over. ‘Don’t be an ass, Nithsdale. For every action you take that offends my men, I’ll have them kill ten of the peasants who follow you.’ William locked gazes with the General, who stared at him coldly, unblinking. The Englishman shrugged. ‘I can assure you the good people
of Preston would prefer to have ten fewer mouths to feed.’ He grimaced and turned to his men. ‘Take the nobles away.’
Cowed and helpless, William allowed himself to be shoved along, feeling sickened as he witnessed the Jacobite officers handing over their swords in the churchyard. William and his fellow peers were directed to the Mitre Inn, overlooking the city square.
‘So you can endure your humiliation in privacy,’ the officer was saying, but William wasn’t paying attention.
He did hear Lord Derwentwater’s mutters, though. ‘Best not to enrage them any further. It’s hopeless now, Maxwell. I suspect they shall send us off to our stately homes shortly, and we will have to comfort ourselves with the knowledge that we risked our lives for our true king.’
They were led into the low-beamed, panelled inn, where the smell of old beer and tobacco gave way to the pungent tang of sweat and despair as General Wills supervised their line-up, a look of deep satisfaction evident in his gaze.
‘Where is Mackintosh?’ William asked, as the dozen or so smug English officers present to witness the surrender of the nobles stilled the clanking of their swords.
‘You’d know if he were here, my Lord Nithsdale, by his smell,’ Wills replied coolly. ‘His ancient cladding — cloak by day and bedding by night, and likely tablecloth and napkin too — makes for a hostile aroma.’ His fellow officers laughed. ‘He’s being sent to Newgate Gaol,’ the General continued conversationally. ‘And you’ll be following his path to prison soon enough, my Lord Earl.’
‘I thought we were to be returned to our homes, sir,’ Derwentwater bristled. ‘My family will pay —’
‘Your family, sir, could not pay even close to the price of treachery to your sworn king. No, Lord Derwentwater, I am under instructions from His Majesty to bring all of you rebel lords to London so he might gaze upon your traitorous faces before judgement is passed.’
‘You jest,’ Derwentwater said, a helpless note in his voice as he threw a worried glance at his fellow lords.
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