by Nina Mason
She just hoped Mrs. Crosse knew what she was doing—and bore her no ill-will. Was the apothecary still in love with Robert? Probably. It seemed unlikely one night of depravity would extinguish a torch that had burned for five long years.
Maggie took another breath, climbed out of the box, and started toward the door of the apothecary shop. The hired carriers already knew to wait for her. She had paid them double their usual fare in advance to transport her here and back to St. James’s Palace. She wished to remain unseen, and a sedan chair provided a vast deal more privacy than a carriage displaying the royal seal. Chairs also were more expedient on London’s narrow and congested lanes. It helped that the chairmen considered the pavement their exclusive domain. They were merciless, truth be told, and thought nothing of running down any pedestrians who failed to get out of their way. Luckily, no one had been trampled on the mile-and-a-half trip to Poland Street.
A peek through the wavy glass of the mullioned front window revealed to Maggie the familiar cluttered and dimly lit interior. Abutting cabinets outfitted with shelves over drawers lined the three rear walls. Row upon row of ceramic canisters, jars, and bottles—all bearing labels—stood upon the shelves in tidy groups of like containers. A copper still occupied the far right-hand corner. A wooden butter churn stood in the left. From the ceiling beams hung dried and drying bundles of flowers and herbs.
At the center of this organized chaos was the shop’s proprietress, bent over a sturdy-looking trestle table. Tall and voluptuous, she wore an apron over a fitted lace-up bodice and mustard-colored skirt.
Even as Maggie watched the handsome widow grind her powders, she pictured her as she’d been the last time they met: tied to the bed in Robert’s room at Whitehall Palace with her lovely milk-white bottom in the air. Maggie had been seeing to her with the tie-on glass godemiché Robert had purchased for her the day before in Covent Garden.
In her mind’s eye, Maggie saw the thick, transparent shaft pounding the pretty apothecary’s cunny. How much more satisfying the experience would have been if her phallus were real, and she’d felt that succulent flesh gripping hers as she moved in and out. But alas, her only sensation was that of mounting desire.
In addition to fucking Mrs. Crosse with the glass tarse, Maggie also had, astonishingly, extended her husband leave to occupy the lady whilst she whipped, kissed, and fondled him. Later, he saw to her whilst she took care of Mrs. Crosse. Then, Viscountess Fitzhardinge, one of Princess Anne’s ladies-in-waiting, stopped by and joined in.
What a night of debauchery it had been!
Excitement fluttered about her heart, but was quickly tempered by shame. Perhaps she was a bit of a tart after all.
Taking a deep breath to steady her emotions, she stepped before the shop entrance and shifted her sleeping child to free her right hand. Grasping the knob, she opened the door and stepped inside. The aroma of manifold herbs and tinctures hit her nose at once. The smell was strong, but not unpleasant. From the bouquet of fragrances, she picked out peppermint, feverfew, and black cohosh—herbs that carried her back to her childhood. The sisters who raised her had used similar herbs in the poultices and decoctions they used to tend the sick. Suddenly, she regretted not learning more about the healing properties of herbs from the sisters of St. Teresa’s Convent.
When the bells hanging on the door jangled, Mrs. Crosse looked up from her task. The friendliness of her expression dissolved most of Maggie’s awkwardness.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” the apothecary said with a kindly smile.
“Thank you for keeping your promise.”
“Did you think I would not?” Mrs. Crosse’s tone conveyed her surprise.
Maggie licked her lips. “I feared you would not when there was no word from you for weeks on end, but never stopped hoping my doubts were unfounded.”
“It took time to gather the infectious material.” Mrs. Crosse wiped her hands on her apron. “Because your child is so young, I had to wait for another of a similar age to contract the appropriate strain.”
Relief washed through Maggie. Clearly, the woman knew what she was doing. “I am grateful to you for the trouble you have undertaken on my son’s behalf.”
Mrs. Crosse’s expression grew serious. “There still are risks involved.”
“Yes, I know,” said Maggie, suddenly dry-mouthed.
The apothecary went back to her grinding. “Have you had any word from your husband of late?”
The question speared Maggie’s heart. Struggling to keep her equanimity, she said with contrived cheeriness, “I wish I had, but it is still too soon to reasonably expect a letter.”
“Yes, of course. How thoughtless of me. When was it again that he departed London?”
“Three weeks ago.”
It felt to Maggie as if he’d been gone three years. Lord, how she longed for his return, but alas, she knew not when that might come, which, alas, only added to her torture. The poets claimed that absence made the heart grow fonder, and so it was with her affection for her husband. The longer he was away from her, the more keenly she missed him.
“Do you ever get lonely, duchess?”
It was all Maggie could do not to burst into tears. “Not as lonely as I might be, were I not a solitary person by nature.”
“I am the same way myself.” Mrs. Crosse offered her a sympathetic smile. “But even we self-sufficient types need the intimacy of amity now and again.”
Maggie regarded her guardedly, unsure where this was going. Hesitantly, she asked, “Do you fancy the two of us becoming friends, Mrs. Crosse?”
“I do, duchess. Bosom friends, if you take my meaning.”
“I believe I do.” As interest sparked in Maggie’s nether regions, she turned her eyes away, hoping the apothecary would not notice the blush on her cheeks.
“And how do you feel about my proposal?”
Taking a minute to consult her feelings and conscience, Maggie found she was fine with the idea of playing the Sappho in Robert’s absence. More than fine, actually. Mrs. Crosse was a beautiful and voluptuous woman, and Maggie had enjoyed their moments together during their earlier assignation at Whitehall Palace. No, strike that. Mistress Margaret had enjoyed the experience, and welcomed the opportunity to delve deeper into the realm of feminine love.
“I believe something can be arranged,” Maggie told her. “But do let us settle our present arrangement before striking a new one.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Crosse, looking pleased. “Do come this way.”
Maggie followed the apothecary through a curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. On the other side was the sort of room one would expect to find in a physician’s office. On one wall a wooden chair stood between a table and a chest of drawers. The chair had arms and was outfitted with restraints. Anatomical models of a man and woman carved out of ivory lay upon the table. The detailed internal organs were painted in bright colors, which Maggie found as fascinating as they were gruesome. On the wall above the table hung a shelf filled with jars, some of them ceramic, some of them glass. One of the glass ones contained slimy black leeches. Atop the chest of drawers were the instruments of bloodletting: a notched bowl, small knife, and several glass cups, which, when heated and applied to the skin, drew the blood to the surface.
Mrs. Crosse motioned toward the long, draped table in the center of the room. “You can lay the child there.”
Maggie, suddenly leery, did as instructed, but kept a hand on her son. “How soon will he exhibit symptoms?”
“Not for at least a se’nnight,” said Mrs. Crosse as she made her preparations, “and perhaps as long as a fortnight.”
Doubt squirmed in Maggie’s intestines like tapeworms. She could still back out, still take her chances that God would be merciful and spare her son if he contracted smallpox spontaneously. Then, she remembered little Charles, the son of her father and Mary Beatrice, who succumbed to smallpox when only a month old. Robust beforehand, he caught the disease from his e
lder half-sister Anne, who’d only just recovered. The doctor had declared her no longer contagious, but he clearly had been mistaken.
That settled it, then. She would proceed as planned.
The baby howled when Mrs. Crosse scratched his arm with a needle, nearly breaking Maggie’s heart. He continued to scream as the apothecary packed the wound with infected matter.
“To keep the risks as low as possible,” she said, whilst wrapping the wound, “I collected the sample from an infant with a mild case. Your son should recover, but, of course, I cannot guarantee that he will.”
Panic fluttered in Maggie’s chest. “Will you come if he needs physicking?”
“Of course, my dear duchess.” Mrs. Crosse, smiling sweetly, touched Maggie’s arm. “Henceforth, I shall place myself at your beck and call.”
Chapter Two
Under a gray and murky midday sky, Robert squinted to make out the words on the standards flying from the masts of the three Dutch fluyts he’d been pursuing for a se’nnight. At last, they were dropping anchor—at Swanbister Bay, of all places, on the southern coast of Orkney. The distance and the wind whipping the hand-lettered banners made them difficult, but not impossible, to read.
For God and Religion, against Poperie, Tyrrannies, Arbitrary Government, and Erastianism.
The treasonous slogan confirmed his efforts had not been in vain. These were indeed the rebel ships under the Earl of Argyle’s command.
It had been three weeks since he left London and his family. Three long and miserable weeks of rough roads, bad weather, scrounging for food, and sleeping anywhere he could rest his head.
The nights were worse than the days. As he lay there, in a hard bed or on the harder ground, he would try not to dwell upon thoughts of his wife. As often as not, he failed. He would start out thinking about something else—like how he was going to infiltrate the rebels, which seemed next to impossible, or why the king had sent him, of all people, on this dangerous mission when he had no experience with espionage. The only answer he could come up with was that James wanted to kill him off so Lord Mulgrave could marry Maggie—though why her father would want another Anglican Machiavelli in the family was anybody’s guess.
The moment his thoughts circled back to Maggie, he was lost. He would wonder what she was doing, who she was with, and if she missed him as much as he missed her (which, of course, was impossible because he missed her so much he ached in places he didn’t even know he had). She also had the move to her new quarters at the Palace of St. James to keep her occupied, the baby to care for and play with, and all the company she desired when she wanted it. He had naught to do and no one to talk to. He could not even read or write letters to pass the lonely hours. He had not thought to bring a book with him, and posting letters to the royal palace presented too great a risk of discovery.
A fortnight ago, when he reached the Scottish border, he’d traded his carriage and team for a swift horse. By day, he worried and planned. In the early evenings, he frequented the coffee houses, where politics were openly discussed by patrons, to learn what he could. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to know where the Earl of Argyle would land his rebel army.
Yesterday, he’d overheard someone say Argyle’s armada had entered the Moray Firth. He was in Inverness then and could see the firth from the window of his lodgings. He followed the ships on horseback as far as Thurso, where he paid a fisherman to transport him “across the watter tae Arkney.” It was a long and rough journey during which, being unaccustomed to sea travel, he felt as ill as he’d been since the smallpox.
The fishing boat dropped him at a small settlement with more shaggy cattle than people. There, he bought a sturdy horse more suited to the plow than the saddle. He was astride that sorrel nag now, watching the ships drop anchor from a windswept bluff overlooking the bay.
A small crowd had gathered around him on the overlook. Most were working men, judging by their coarse and dirty garments. Crofters, fisherman, blacksmiths, cobblers, wheelwrights, carters, coopers, and the like. All Covenanters, undoubtedly, like most aboard the ships. There were also a few women in the crowd. Somewhere a baby was crying, which made him think of wee Jamie—and Maggie, which made his heart sore.
How were they faring back at the palace without him there? Had his son yet had the engraftment? Was Maggie still being harassed by that devil, Lord All-Pride?
Bitter gall rose in Robert’s throat as he recalled the trick the earl had played on her the night of the masquerade ball. Mulgrave had donned the same mask as her husband’s to trick Maggie into accepting his advances. Upon discovering the deception, Robert had nearly beaten the scoundrel to death—and would have if not for the king’s interference.
Why James put his trust in that fork-tongued snake was still beyond his comprehension. But, then again, the king surrounded himself with all manner of sycophants and fair-weather friends who would butter his ego and tell him only what he cared to hear. Robert shook his head. Was the king really that narcissistic?—or was he merely that easily led?
Shoving his suppositions aside, Robert returned his attention to the bay, where several men were lowering a rowboat from one of the ships. Curiously, only two men were in the skiff.
Why? Did Argyle plan to sail on from here? Why had they come ashore here? To gather recruits or intelligence? Whichever, Robert intended to ensure they got neither—and never returned to their comrades.
When the landing party drew near the beach, several spectators waded out to help them in. Once the boat was ashore, the men stepped out. One of them was William Spence, Argyle’s private secretary.
Robert’s blood turned cold and he stiffened in his saddle.
Spence knew him from the Scottish Privy Council, which had interrogated him under duress a few years back, after Argyle’s role in the Rye House Plot was discovered. If Spence revealed Robert’s true identity, he was as good as dead.
Fortunately, Spence had separated himself from the herd, making it easier to eliminate the danger. The man with Spence was unfamiliar to Robert. His simple mode of dress, however, made it clear he was not Argyle himself or one of the other insurgents of rank. Whoever he might be, he would meet the same fate as Spence.
As the two men came ashore, the bystanders swarmed around them. Robert, temples pounding, urged his horse forward, but kept his face hidden behind the brim of his hat. He could not hear what passed betwixt the parties, but was reasonably certain naught of significance was being said.
At length, Spence and his companion set off on foot in the direction of Kirkwall, the capital of the archipelago, which lay six miles to the east. This seemed a godsend, as Kirkwall was the seat of the Bishop of Orkney, the island’s civil and ecclesiastical authority. Bishop Murdoch Mackenzie, who was loyal to the crown, could order the magistrate to arrest the pair and arrange for a courier to carry news of Argyle’s arrival to King James.
To avoid being seen, Robert gave the traitors a sizeable lead before reining his horse toward the rode. As the crowd parted to let him pass, he thought he glimpsed Maggie. He did a double take, sure he must be mistaken. There was no conceivable way his wife could be on Orkney.
Brow furrowed, he stared at the woman, unable to make sense of what his eyes beheld. Her resemblance to Maggie was uncanny. She had the same golden curls, the same features, and the same build. She was dressed in the modest attire of country women: layers of petticoats and a short jacket covered by a belted arisaidh, the female form of a plaid, which was pinned to her breast with a silver brooch . Covering her golden curls was the style of white cap known as a kertch, the head-covering worn by married women of the lower classes.
The strange clothing could be explained. She might have guessed how he would be dressed and chose a costume to suit his.
He licked his lips and stroked his stubbled chin. Was it she? Could it be possible? Hope lit a flame in his heart, but doubt kept the fire contained.
Finally, his dumbfounded brain formed words. “Maggie? Dearest? Is
it really you?—Or do my eyes deceive me?”
She held his questioning gaze with heartening familiarity. She clearly knew him, despite his disguise. With bated breath, he awaited her confirmation.
Then, her eyes widened and her face grew pale. He could not account for her fearful reaction or why she spoke in French when she hissed, “What are you doing here?”
The answer came to him with a jolt. She was not Maggie; she was Juliette, the widow of his brother, whom he’d slain on the field of honor. Whilst he was laid up in London with a bad case of amnesia, Hugh and his Huguenot whore of a wife had plotted his demise. They also had abused poor Maggie in ways he would rather forget.
He’d presumed she was hanged for her part in the scheme or was still in jail. Last he saw her, she was being escorted to the Tollhouse by John Graham of Claverhouse, the captain of dragoons charged with keeping the peace in the Scottish borderlands. Clearly, she had bribed the judge (with money, sexual favors, or both) to gain her freedom—a distressingly common practice in the courts of Great Britain.
Suddenly, his mouth tasted sour. He took off his gloves and laid them on his lap. His fingers were stiff and cold and his palms were damp with sweat. As he wiped them on the thighs of his breeches, he tried to think what to do.
She was a Huguenot; a Protestant who’d fled France to escape the Catholic king’s persecution. She had every reason to betray him. Not only was he a Catholic, he had killed her husband and sent her to prison. If she revealed his identity here and now, he would be swinging from a noose in under an hour.
But how to stop her without killing her, which he could not bring himself to do—not only because she was a woman, but also because she was the spitting image of Maggie. She had the same trim figure, smooth complexion, and golden hair; the same blue eyes, small nose, and full lips. They even had the same pitted chin.