“Go on,” Thomas said, his voice rising to meet Uriah’s, “hate your brother if you must, I cannot fault you for it. God knows I hated him myself, but do not take your rage out on me. I did not know what he had done for many years. While you enjoyed a wife and a family, I had nothing.”
“Nothing,” Uriah shot back, “you had all I owned.”
“What I had, Uncle, was an inheritance I could not spend, a father without the good sense to die, and a mother who would have sold her soul to be mistress of your house. In the end, she hung herself.”
Uriah stared at Thomas. Long seconds ticked away before he bowed his head and sat back down. “I am sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you.”
Emiline leaned closer to Rose. “Are they truly related? They don’t look a thing alike.”
“Aye, but they are equally forceful, don’t you agree?”
Emiline nodded.
“Shall I tell you about the storybook?” Thomas asked, still watching Uriah’s face.
John waited, but his father did not answer. “Well, I’d like to hear it.”
“Very well then, we did not live in the main house. I grew up in the gardener’s cottage at the back of the house. As I grew, I began to notice an old woman who often peeked in our windows and skulked about the grounds. It was not until years later that I learned her name. It was Glenna.”
“My mother’s maid servant?” Uriah asked.
“Aye. From the day she was born, no one loved Mahala, your mother, more than Glenna.”
John studied Thomas’ face. “Was it Glenna who told you about the rock and the cushion Mahala was sewing?”
“It is all in the storybook, every detail. My father was indeed your brother. Glenna wrote it and I believe it.”
Uriah stared at his plate, considering the words Thomas said. “Glenna would have no reason to lie. But how could a real brother send us away, and why don’t I know him?”
“Papa, perhaps we might have tea in the sitting room,” John said.
CHAPTER 13
By the time Thomas Rodes brought the storybook downstairs to the sitting room, tea had been served. Everyone was seated and a place had been saved beside Emiline on the davenport. “Some of the writing is a bit faded, I’m afraid,” he said, handing the storybook to Uriah and then sitting down.
“Glenna began the journal when your mother was small. There’s a right accounting of your grandparents and great-grandparents. In fact, if I were you, I would send MacGreagor back for the entire gallery.”
“Thank you,” Uriah said, gently touching the light brown, leather cover.
“Uriah, you did know my father. You called him Cappy.”
Uriah instantly looked up, a worried look on his face. “Cappy?”
“Aye, he was issue of your father’s first marriage. Sir Jonathan married Nell Keyworth in the year 1727. She died of consumption just months after Cappy’s birth. Nine years later, your father married Mahala. Within that year, you came along and Cappy grew to hate you. His jealousy so consumed him, he crept into your bedchamber intending great harm. Your father discovered it just in time and in his fury, he banished Cappy from the family. Yet, Sir Jonathan loved all his sons, and Cappy was allowed to come around. He attended the balls, albeit under watchful eyes. When Grandfather was executed, Cappy had grown up, fallen madly in love with my mother, and promised to make her mistress of Merewood.”
“Merewood,” Uriah repeated. “I could never recall the name of the place.”
Thomas reached for the cup of tea on the table beside him, took a long sip and turned his attention back to Uriah. “Sending you away was not an impulsive decision, I am sad to say. Cappy had intended it for years. When your mother passed on so conveniently, he could not have been more pleased. He gladly sent the four of you off ... to where, he cared not.”
“Four,” Emiline asked.
“Two brothers and two sisters, friends since birth, who would become my mother and father, my Uncle Caleb and Aunt Elizabeth,” John answered.
“Oh,” Emiline said.
Uriah once more ran his fingers across the binding of the book. “I will never forget the day we were sent away. It was twelve long years before I found the girls again.”
“Aye, and you were not alone in your search,” Thomas said.
“I was not?”
“You see, Cappy cared just enough to send you and Caleb to your mother’s sister in Ireland. But he did not care at all about the girls, giving them to a woman he neglected to get the name of. Seeing this, Glenna went straight away to another relative – a Stuart, the Earl of Bute.”
Uriah was truly shocked. “The Earl of Bute knew of our plight from the beginning? He never said a word of it to me, not in all the years of our acquaintance.”
“Yes, but wasn’t it the Earl who came to Ireland two years later and took you back to England?”
Uriah glanced around the room at all the eyes watching him. “I had forgotten that.”
“When Glenna notified him, the Earl went straight to Merewood. He arrived too late to stop the will completely, but not too late to add a ghastly provision. To receive the full inheritance, Cappy was required to prove you were alive. And he was to restore all four of you to Merewood. Furthermore, everything was to remain precisely as you left it. On the day after her marriage, my mother arrived to find the earl’s men taking an accounting of each and every item, even drawing precise pictures of the placement.”
“But the Earl was like a father to me, he would never have wanted us returned to a man like Cappy. He took me to see the king and...”
“Then you do know the king,” Emiline interrupted.
“Indeed, we played together as boys. But go on, Thomas, why would the Earl want us returned?”
“He did not. He only wanted to find all four of you, and Cappy was afraid to admit he did not know to whom he had given the girls.”
“I see,” Uriah said.
Thomas uncrossed his legs, scooted back in his chair and crossed his legs again. “Cappy needed all four to inherit and soon realized there was no way to find the girls. Unfortunately, those were the very words he said to my mother. You see, Mother had attended only one splendid ball at Merewood, but it was enough to whet her appetite. Cappy promised she would be mistress of it all, but instead, she was the wife of a man who could not inherit and the mistress of a house she could not live in.”
Rose slipped her arm around Adam’s and leaned her head on his shoulder. “How very sad.”
“Indeed,” Thomas said, “and by then, I was the seed of a man she hated. They were in the downstairs foyer arguing. In a fit of rage, Mother hit Cappy in the head with a candlestick. When he sunk to his knees, she hit him again. Certain he was dead, she fled. But through the window, Glenna had seen it all. She chased after Mother and forced her back under threat of arrest.
Together, they carried Cappy up three flights of stairs and laid him in a bed ... the same bed he would not die in for another twenty-nine years.”
“Good heavens,” John muttered.
“Mother was trapped. Many a night I would see her shadow move from window to window, as she strolled the length of Merewood’s ballroom, dreaming of a life she would never have. All she could do was wait for me to grow up, you see. If Cappy died, which surely he would at any moment, I would inherit. Then all we needed do was find the four of you.”
“But Cappy did not die,” Adam said.
“Thoughtless of him, wasn’t it?” Thomas asked. “And before you think me as vile as he, I remind you I never met the man. Rare were the times when any could understand his rambling. Now, I have a question, Uncle. In the storybook, Glenna wrote that she had given the girls new names before they were sent away. She neglected to mention what the names were. How did you find them?”
At last, Uriah smiled, “They had no references when they applied for a position as servants to Lady Phillips, so Mary wrote her own. She used the king as a reference.”
“But Mama never met the king,” John said.
“Nor did she imagine Lady Phillips would check,” Uriah smiled at the memory. “One day, I happened upon Lady Philip’s inquiry and...I cannot believe it.”
“What, Papa?”
“It was the Earl who left her letter on my writing desk, he must have. The girls were listed as Mary Colleen S. Jackson and Elizabeth Rachel S. Jackson. Colleen and Rachel were their true names, and the ‘S’ meant Stuart.”
“It was the girls,” Thomas added. “You had found them and the Earl had found them, but Mother had not. Not until you led me to them.”
Again, Uriah was shocked. “Me? How?”
“You came to Merewood to see my father.”
Uriah closed his eyes and hung his head. “That I did. I went to see Sir William to demand the allowance for Caleb’s schooling.” Uriah abruptly opened his eyes again. “But that was before I found them, long before.”
“And did you get the allowance?”
“How could I? The man was senseless. The woman said she would send...”
Thomas looked smug. “You left directions for her post—directions easily followed, even for a boy of twelve.”
“It was you who followed me,” Uriah said.
“You got quite good at losing me, you know. Irritatingly good on most days, even though a boy can hide where a man cannot,” Thomas admitted. “Then you took a wife and two years later, Caleb married her sister. Though we suspected, there was no way to be certain your wives were the missing little girls.
In the spring, Mother could bear it no more and set about to simply ask. We waited near your house for Mary to leave alone. When she did, Mother confronted her. At hearing the name Sir William Rodes, Mary became enraged. She denied any knowledge of him or Merewood, but her animosity betrayed her.”
Thomas took another sip of tea and set his cup back down. “My mother was delighted. She hoped to trick the four of you into confessing your true identities by promising a considerable portion of the inheritance, even unto the house if need be. Our plans were set. We donned our finest clothing, washed and polished our well-worn carriage, your father’s carriage to be precise, and set out. But when we arrived, you were gone. You had sailed...”
“To America,” Uriah mumbled.
“Aye. She did not say a word, and when we returned home, Mother hung herself in the carriage house.”
“Dear Father in heaven, not the carriage house,” John gasped.
Thomas nodded. “You could not have known, John. But you were right, I’d not set foot in the carriage house since, not even to search for the jewels.”
Emiline instantly perked up. “What jewels?”
“My dear, there were no jewels,” Thomas quickly answered. “Only a story in a book given to me by Glenna on a cold and lonely night. In it, Glenna said two men came to Merewood the eve of the executions and left a satchel filled with jewels.”
“Uncle,” Rose started thoughtfully, “you said you recall that night vividly. Were there any jewels?”
“Hardly,” Uriah answered, careful not to look anyone in the eye except John.
“It was MacGreagor who told me the jewels were a lie,” Thomas continued. “Had the thought occurred to me that Glenna might put more than one curse on me, I might not have torn up the place looking for them. Uncle, be so kind as to find the last page and read aloud.”
Uriah carefully opened the aging book, turned to the last page and began to read, “Therefore, I, Glenna Ulness, do hereby attest to the truth of this writing. And as a Jacobite daughter tried and true, further charge thusly: Woe to the one, be it man or woman, who washes away the tears of a beloved Stuart child.”
“So that’s why you did not disturb the girls’ bedchamber,” John said.
“As your father will attest, the days of death and separation were days of many tears for Colleen and Rachel Stuart,” Thomas answered.
“But why did you not ever marry?” Emiline asked.
When Thomas turned to look at her, Emiline blushed. “My mother’s death introduced me to the bottom of my first bottle. I had no interest in women, no time, no money, and a father to care for. A father, who could not love me and would not die. And worse, the thought of finding the four of them, and later the jewels, consumed me. I truly believed that someday all of it would be mine.”
“Now, I have a question,” said Rose. “How did you find us in America?”
“At the inn in Shrewsbury, I happened upon four redcoats back from the war. They talked of buying fine horses at a place called Mahala. When I questioned them further, they remembered the name Carson.”
“And MacGreagor’s ship?” John asked. “How could you know it was a Carson ship?”
This time it was Thomas who grinned. “He’ll have my head if he hears I told, but there’s not a sailor alive who hasn’t wanted to sail with MacGreagor. He’s the trickiest, boldest, most cunning privateer on the high seas. And when he has taken a prize, what does the entire crew shout?”
“What?” John asked.
“Mahala!” Thomas laughed.
“Oh, no,” Uriah moaned.
“But how did you free up the inheritance?” John asked.
Uriah slumped his shoulders and shook his head. “He did not... I did. When I paid the taxes on the property, I wanted Thomas to know precisely who we were. I signed our true names, all four of them.”
“Indeed you did,” Thomas said, “and within the month, I had it all. All the money a man could ever hope for and the world was at last mine. I restored the house, bought everything imaginable and planned lavish holidays. Then MacGreagor came. He was the first guest Merewood had seen in forty years. When I showed him the ballroom, I was taken aback by his countenance. He truly glowed as he beheld the paintings of Scotland, and I envied the man. I’d never loved anything that much. I had riches beyond compare, but I had nothing still. I suddenly realized MacGreagor would walk out my door, and sail away into the arms of a family I had never met – my family.”
“Your life was bloody awful,” Uriah said. “At least I had Mary’s love and a good son.”
Emiline winced. “And to think, I’ve only an Indian raid or two in my past.”
“My dear, I think you’re very brave to live in the wilderness all alone,” Thomas said.
Again, Emiline blushed and shyly lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”
Thomas enjoyed her for a moment more before he turned back to Uriah. “There is one more thing. Before he died, Cappy called out a name I could not find in the storybook. It was Drewnard, do you know it?”
For a split second, there was a flicker of recognition in Uriah’s eyes. “Drewnard,” he repeated thoughtfully. “No, I don’t believe I do.”
WITH THE DOOR TO EVERY bedchamber closed and the hearths long since put out, John slipped quietly down the stairs and crept into the sitting room. As he suspected, he found Uriah standing in front of the mantel, staring at the clock. “Papa, what are you doing?”
“He knows,” Uriah whispered.
“He suspects, perhaps. No doubt they all do.”
“I do not trust the man. I might have, had he not mentioned Drewnard.”
“Then you do know what it means? Tell me.”
“Later, son, later. We must move the jewels before Emiline remembers.”
“Remembers what?” John asked.
Uriah rubbed his brow. “She once lifted the clock and remarked on its weight.” Suddenly, he stopped, “I’ve got it, we’ll put rocks in the clock. Then if she asks, we’ll show her we’ve nothing to hide.”
“And how are we to explain two grown men putting rocks in a clock?”
Suddenly, Polly was standing right behind them. “Is something amiss?”
“Good heavens, you startled me,” Uriah gasped.
“I don’t wonder. Thou art sneaking around in the dark,” Polly wrapped her arms around her husband.
“Might as well tell her,” Uriah said. “I have found it unwise to keep su
ch as this from a wife.”
“The jewels, you mean?” Polly asked.
“And how did you know?”
“Thou gaveth me some, remember?”
“When?” John asked.
From the foyer, Rose peeked in, saw who it was and joined them. “Why is everyone up?”
“We forgot to wind the clock,” Uriah said, going to her. “Come along, we are in need of a good rest.” With that, he ushered her back upstairs.
“Do not move,” John whispered. First, he closed both sitting room doors, walked to the mantel and lifted the clock. He handed it to her, careful not to let go until she felt the full weight. When her mouth dropped, he grinned, put the clock back and took her in his arms. “And these are but a sampling. Tomorrow, we will take a very long walk where none can hear us.”
“WHAT IS IT, PARSON?” John asked, stepping out the front door onto the verandah. “You look a fright.”
“Mrs. La Rue asked me to come,” Parson Sax answered, his hat in his hand. “Her husband has not come home in three days.”
“I don’t wonder, he was here three days ago quite drunk. He’s probably off somewhere...”
Parson Sax bowed his head, “No, Mister Carson. Mister La Rue’s horse came home without him and there’s blood on the saddle.”
HE’D SEEN THE SMOKE for miles, rising through the thick trees, then drifting eastward in the fall breeze. But getting there required that John leave his horse and hike up a steep incline of the Allegheny foothills. Finally, he found a small clearing, a haphazardly built campfire, five empty whisky jugs, and a man sprawled face down on the ground.
Cautiously, John bent down to feel the warmth of the man’s skin. He was alive. Next to him lay two pistols, a musket, and three pieces of eight. He moved the weapons out of reach, gently turned the man over and removed a long hunting knife. Then he tossed it away and sat down on the ground.
Jacque La Rue had begun to snore.
John grinned and tossed a pebble, hitting La Rue on the foot. When that did not wake him, John tossed another, and then another until La Rue opened an eye. “Good day to you, Mister La Rue,”
Broken Pledge Page 29