Secrets of the Fearless

by Elizabeth Laird

  He pushed at the gate. It swung open to his touch on rusty hinges. The squeaking sent a flock of crows cawing and flapping out of the old walnut tree nearby. John started to walk up the drive, but the fear that was gripping him made him break into a run.

  Kit! he thought. Kit!

  He was saying her name out loud. By the time he reached the chateau, he was shouting it. He looked in through the gap where the front door had once been. Behind, there was nothing now but a pile of rubble, blocks of masonry, charred beams, a twist of metal from a fallen lantern, dust and destruction.

  ‘Kit!’ he yelled uselessly into the ruin. ‘Are you there? Kit!’

  He ran along the front of the house and looked down the side to where the pump had stood in the yard outside the steps that had once led down into the kitchen. The pump was still there. A bucket of water stood beneath it and the space around it was clear, as if it had been swept.

  Someone’s been here, thought John. Betsy, perhaps, or Jean-Baptiste.

  The thought of Betsy reminded him of her cottage. It was no more than a few hundred metres from the pump, between the kitchen garden and the orchard. He raced off towards it, noticing as he did so that the path was well trodden and in frequent use.

  The cottage, unlike the chateau, was clearly lived in. A battered chair stood outside the front door. Beside it was a bowl half full of unshelled peas. The small front garden was overgrown with weeds, but flowers had been planted here not long since, and some of them were still in bloom.

  John ran up to the door and shouted, ‘Betsy! Betsy!’

  No one answered. Half mad with frustration, he ran further along the little path towards the orchard. Just before he reached the well-remembered gate in the old brick wall, a sound stopped him. A sharp exclamation of annoyance.

  He pushed open the orchard gate. Kit was standing on a ladder which was propped up against an apricot tree. She had caught her sleeve on a twig and was trying to release it. The basket dangling from her arm was tilting, and already some of the apricots she had picked were falling out of it.

  ‘Kit!’ cried John.

  Kit jerked her head round, saw John and gave a little scream. The ladder swayed underneath her. She dropped the basket, lunged for a branch of the tree and grasped it just in time as the ladder fell to the ground, leaving her swinging in the air.

  ‘Wait!’ called John. ‘Don’t fall! I’ll catch you!’ He was underneath the tree already, holding up his arms. ‘You can let go. Don’t worry. I’m here.’

  She let herself drop. He tried to catch her but missed, and they both tumbled down, unhurt, into the grass. They sat, stunned, surrounded by squashed apricots, staring at each other.

  ‘John!’ whispered Kit. ‘It can’t be true. You’re a . . . a phantom.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m real. Touch me.’

  She put out a hand and touched his arm, then drew a deep breath and burst into tears.

  ‘What’s the matter, Kit?’ he said, puzzled. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

  The dinner they ate that night, sitting outside Betsy’s cottage in the warm evening, as the light slowly faded and the stars came out, was quite, quite different from anything John had imagined when he had set out from Bordeaux that morning. He had helped Kit to her feet after her fall from the tree, noticing as he did so that her gown was a plain countrywoman’s and was much patched around the hem. Together they had gathered up the bruised and battered apricots and taken them back to the cottage. He had taken off his fancy coat and cravat, helped her dig up a few potatoes from the overgrown kitchen garden and collected some eggs from the manger in the stable. Only one horse was in there now. He recognized the old black charger at once.

  ‘Rufus!’ he said with a laugh, rubbing the horse’s black nose.

  He felt strangely awkward with Kit. She had quickly dried her tears in the orchard, and for the rest of the afternoon treated him to terse little smiles and short answers.

  It wasn’t until they had finished their supper, and were sitting over the few remains on the table, that he dared to say, ‘What happened here, Kit? What happened to the chateau? And where’s Betsy? Did she go off and marry Jem at last?’

  Kit swallowed hard and stared at him fiercely.

  ‘Betsy’s dead. She died in the fire. Jean-Baptiste too. It was my fault. All of it.’

  She was struggling to control her tears. He sat and waited, giving her time.

  ‘Start at the beginning,’ he said at last. ‘When I last heard from you, it was four years ago, in the summer of 1811. Look, I have your letter here.’

  He pulled the dog-eared, worn sheet from the pocket of his shirt. She smiled for the first time.

  ‘You kept it.’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘I wrote to you so many times, but only this one reached you, I think.’

  ‘Yes, only this one.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘It was good then, in 1811. I came home, and M. Fouchet sorted out my affairs. My grandmother was alive, but different towards me. Much gentler. She had quarrelled with my uncle. I became almost fond of her in the months before she died. There was some money, enough to repair the chateau and restore some of the rooms. We lived here quietly, Betsy and I.’ She squeezed her eyes tight shut for a moment, then went on, ‘It wasn’t bad, but I didn’t at all like being the mistress of this great place. It was a relief, quite honestly, when I didn’t have to worry about it any more.

  ‘I was invited everywhere at first, in Bordeaux, but I didn’t choose to go. It was difficult, being on my own, without a female relative to chaperone me, and Mme de Montsegard dropped me completely when she realized that I would never marry her son.

  ‘And then, in May, it was so hot here – everything as dry as tinder. A man came to the chateau. He said he’d been sent by my uncle. He gave me a letter my uncle had written. In it, my uncle said that he was sorry for all that had passed between us, that he had heard I was living here on my own, and to make amends he was recommending this excellent man to help me in any way that he could. He said I’d find him capable in many different ways. I was so . . . lonely, John. I wanted to be reconciled with my family. I accepted the fellow and wrote to thank my uncle.’

  She was holding a walnut between her fingers, squeezing it so tightly that the shell cracked open.

  ‘If only I had had more sense! If only I’d sent him away! Betsy warned me. She knew. But I wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘So there was a fire?’ John said into the silence that followed. ‘Did you suspect this man of starting it?’

  ‘Suspect? I know he did! It was the evening of the fair in the village, and all the servants I had taken on had gone. I had been in Bordeaux with Betsy. We came home to find the house ablaze. My uncle’s man was nowhere to be found, of course.

  ‘“That old fool, Jean-Baptiste!” Betsy cried out. “He was half drunk in the kitchen when we went out. I’ll wager he’s in there still.”

  ‘Before I could stop her, she had dashed inside. A second later, the roof collapsed, and . . . and . . . oh, if only I’d listened to her! If only I’d sent that villain away!’

  She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Kit,’ John said. ‘Listen to me. Kit.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault. Do you hear me? You did nothing wrong.’

  ‘I know.’ She sniffed violently, searched her pocket, pulled out a crumpled handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you mean to say,’ said John, looking at her in amazement, ‘that you’ve been living here, on your own, next to this terrible ruin, since May? That’s . . . let me see . . . three whole months!’

  She nodded.

  ‘I think you’re the first person I’ve seen in two weeks,’ she said, ‘since M. Fouchet last came to call.’

  ‘He’s still your man of business, then?’

  She laughed, but without humour.

  ‘Hardly. There’s no business any mo
re. When Napoleon fell, my uncle ran straight back to Paris. He has cleverly insinuated himself with the new government, and by telling anyone who would listen that I was an intimate friend of Josephine’s he has reversed everything. All my property is now in his hands. Only the chateau was still mine. I think that’s why he wanted to destroy it, to punish me for standing up to him. I spent my last sou a month ago, John. I’ve been living on the vegetables Betsy and I planted in the spring. I’ve been waiting . . .’

  She bit her lip, and stopped.

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘For you, of course,’ she said defiantly. ‘What else? Just as I’ve been waiting ever since we said goodbye at Corunna. As soon as the war was over, I hoped . . . I knew you’d come.’

  He stood up and stretched, feeling lighter, as if a weight had fallen off his shoulders. Then he started laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny? What did I say?’ she said, suddenly anxious.

  ‘Oh, Kit! Kit! You can’t know the relief! I bought that hideous coat and those horrible boots in Bordeaux, thinking I’d be paying court to a rich, noble lady. I hardly dared show my face here at all. I was sure you’d be married to some rich lord by now, and would have forgotten me altogether. What did I have to offer Mlle de Jalignac? A sailor in peacetime! No future prospects in the navy, not much money, just a simple tower house and a farm in Scotland, that isn’t yet my own. But now, Kit, I can dare everything. Will you come home with me, to Luckstone? Stop grinning like that, can’t you? Don’t you see that I’m serious? Don’t you realize that I’m asking you to marry me?’

  Chapter Forty-two

  It was a wild night, raw, with rain in the air. The bitter wind picked up a seagull’s feather from its nest on the topmost turret of the tower of Luckstone and whirled it down to the cobbled courtyard beneath. Rufus, his breath billowing in white clouds from his nostrils, stood close in under the eaves of the byre while John unsaddled him and rubbed him down. Then he took the other man’s horse and led both animals into the stable.

  The tower’s heavy, studded door opened, and Kit appeared, a lantern held high in her hand.

  ‘John!’ she called out. ‘Is that you? How were things in Edinburgh? Oh, is that someone with you?’

  ‘Yes, Mlle Catherine, someone is with him,’ came a well-remembered voice, and Kit started with astonishment to see Mr Erskine emerge from the shadows.

  ‘Mr Erskine!’ she exclaimed. ‘How wonderful! How came you . . . ?’

  ‘Let us in, Kit, for heaven’s sake,’ John said, gently pushing her aside. ‘We’re wet through. The rain in Edinburgh – I never saw anything to match it today.’

  She led the way quickly up the worn stone steps and into the square sitting room which filled one entire floor of the tower. A fire was blazing in the hearth and Patrick Barr was snoring in front of it, his long legs stretched out towards the flames.

  ‘You are very welcome, sir,’ Kit said, relieving Mr Erskine of his dripping cloak. ‘We had no idea you were in Scotland. How . . . ?’

  ‘All in good time, my dear Catherine,’ said Mr Erskine, stretching his hands out towards the fire. ‘Take that man of yours away and put him into something dry. He’s soaked through.’

  ‘But you must also need to change your clothes,’ protested Kit.

  ‘No, no. The rain penetrated no further than my cloak. I am quite dry beneath. I shall stay here and converse with . . .’ He raised his eyebrows towards Patrick, who had woken with a snort and was rising unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ John said hastily. ‘This is my father, Patrick Barr. Father, this is Mr Erskine, the first lieutenant from the Fearless. But you are now a captain, are you not, sir? Captain of HMS Jupiter?’

  ‘Captain? Congratulations!’ said Kit. ‘Your own ship, at last. When did you receive your promotion?’

  ‘Later, later,’ said Mr Erskine, waving them away. He turned to Patrick. ‘I am delighted to meet you, my dear sir. You are a naval man yourself, I believe?’

  ‘Indeed I am!’ Patrick said eagerly. ‘Sit down, Captain Erskine, do. Whisky shall be forthcoming, or would grog be more to your taste? I well remember, on board the Splendid, how our good captain . . .’

  John and Kit were already outside the room, hurrying up the narrow spiral stair to their bedchamber.

  ‘Tell me!’ begged Kit. ‘How did you meet him? Why is he here?’

  John stripped off his sodden shirt. Kit handed him a dry one and waited impatiently until he had put it on.

  ‘I saw the Jupiter lying at anchor off Leith,’ John said. ‘I was chatting away to some fellows on the quayside, about that consignment of slates we have been waiting for, for the new stables, when one of them mentioned that Mr Erskine was now her captain. At once, of course, I wondered if there was any chance of seeing him, and they told me he had been observed, just a few minutes previously, walking into the King’s Wark tavern. It gave me quite a turn to go in there, I can tell you. I hadn’t set foot in the place since the night Father and I were taken up by the press gang.’

  He shuddered.

  ‘Go on, John. What happened next?’

  ‘He was there. I saw him at once, talking to the landlord. When I came up to him he looked round at me, amazed, and said, “Why, here’s a coincidence! I was this very moment asking this good fellow if he knew of a John Barr of Luckstone in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh.” So I asked why he was looking for me, and he clapped me on the shoulder and said, “My boy, I have a very particular proposition I wish to put to you.”’

  ‘Oh.’ Kit was standing very still. ‘And what proposition was that?’

  ‘He would not say. He wanted to see you first and speak to us together.’

  She was slowly picking his wet clothes up from the floor. She turned her back on him, deposited them on a chair and stared out of the window into the darkness.

  ‘What’s the matter, Kit? I thought you’d be pleased to see Mr Erskine.’

  ‘I am, John, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘What is this proposal of his? I suppose he wants to offer you a place on board his ship, to make you a lieutenant and take you off with him on the Jupiter. Is that what you want, John? Is that why you’re looking so pleased?’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Kit, are you mad? You cannot seriously believe that I want to return to sea? Think what it was like! Can’t you remember? Would I ever again want to sleep squashed up in a hammock, eat nothing but weevily biscuit, be permanently cold, soaked and at risk of my life, live as close as hogs in a sty with a set of fellows I don’t care about, and be without you, apart from you, for months and years at a time?’

  She smiled with relief.

  ‘I’m sorry. For a moment I was afraid that I would lose you again. But you’ve said only the bad things about the life at sea. There were good things too. Just now and then, when I look out from the turret upstairs and see a fine ship well manned surging up the Forth on the incoming tide, her sails set, her pennants flying, beating into a fair wind, something tugs at me. Don’t you feel it too? The adventure of it – oh, I don’t know . . .’

  Her voice tailed away.

  He went up to her and put his arms round her.

  ‘Aren’t you happy here at Luckstone, sweetheart?’

  ‘Yes. Most of the time. It’s only . . .’

  ‘Only what?’

  ‘I’m not very good at being a farmer’s wife, John. I’m not like Betsy. I miss her so much. Every day. She would know how to stop the cow from kicking over the bucket when I milk her, and how to cure the bacon, and make the raspberries into jam. I can’t get the trick of it all, somehow.’

  ‘You’re doing fine.’ He planted a kiss on the top of her head. ‘That butter you churned yesterday, it was the best yet. But I know what you mean. I’m not sure if I’m much good at this life either. You should see the furrow I ploughed in the top field yesterday. It’s as wavy as the wake of ship with a drunkard at the helm.’

 
; They smiled ruefully at each other.

  ‘I’ll fetch the supper into the sitting room,’ she said at last. ‘It’s all ready. It’ll be warm and pleasant to eat in there.’

  When John pushed open the sitting-room door he found his father in full flow, waving his long fingers in the air, absorbed in the telling of his story.

  ‘“Quickly, Mr Barr,” the captain said to me. “Consign these dispatches to the deep. We are about to be taken by a French privateer. It will be a disaster if these communications fall into enemy hands.” And so, Mr Erskine, I threw the papers overboard, duly weighted with lead, as I had been instructed, so that they would sink at once and be out of reach. The gesture, however, was unnecessary, for in the engagement that followed we triumphed over our enemy. And when the dust had settled, imagine my chagrin to discover that instead of destroying the admiralty’s dispatches, I had thrown overboard the captain’s private correspondence – the letters he had received not only from his wife, but from his mistress!’

  Mr Erskine gave a shout of laughter.

  ‘I hope you do not mind me saying, Mr Barr, that I am glad you are not my clerk.’

  ‘So am I, my dear sir. So am I. The life of a gentleman lubber on land is much more to my taste.’

  When supper had been eaten, the fire banked up and everyone was sitting in the warm with a toddy in their hands, an expectant silence fell. Mr Erskine looked round at the three fire-lit faces and smiled.

  ‘I said I had a proposition for you, and you’ll be wondering what it is.’

  ‘I confess we have been speculating, sir,’ said John.

  ‘And you, Catherine, will no doubt be afraid that I am about to spirit your husband off to sea again with the temptation of a lieutenancy.’

  ‘It had crossed my mind, Mr Erskine.’

  ‘Put yourself at ease, my dear. There is no chance of that. In peacetime there are precious few new appointments to be made and far too many officers scrambling for good berths. I count myself fortunate indeed that I have been given command of the Jupiter. I had not expected to be made a captain so soon after the end of the war.’