by Laura Frantz
“The best food is the simplest,” Granny put in, not giving the offerings a second glance since she did not know her letters. “I’ll have the mutton pie ye mention.”
Before the meal was served, two fellow barristers approached their table, clearly curious about the company Magnus was keeping.
“Fancy seeing you in the presence of two lovely ladies other than your wife,” one said. “I hope Lady Isla is well.”
“Friends from Kerrera,” Magnus returned, making introductions. “Her ladyship is well, aye.”
The younger of the two men kept his eyes on Lark. Truly, with Lark adorned in the lace the captain had given her, her bright hair subdued beneath a ruffled cap, she seemed more a lady about town than a maid of the islands. She nodded demurely at both gentlemen with a polite, self-effacing smile, giving no indication she was anything but a landed MacDougall.
“There’s one more place I’d like to take ye,” Magnus said as they left the coffeehouse.
“Where else can that possibly be?” Granny asked. “We’ve been down the crag and back, from Holyrood Palace to the castle, with all the hawkers and merchants in between.”
“A bookseller,” he told them. “On the same street as the townhouse.”
Lark smiled, surely understanding his intent. She loved books but seldom had access to anything but the castle library, and then only on rare occasions.
Once inside the expansive shop with its heavy scent of ink and leather, he knew he’d not erred.
“Never in my life did I imagine a place with so many books.” Her gloveless fingers trailed over countless spines, her lips sounding out titles, her whole countenance alight.
Granny sat on a Windsor chair near the entry, watching them. Dozing. At last Lark settled on a burgundy book of verse. She was partial to poetry, or had been in the schoolroom. Their tutor had often pitted them against each other in memorization.
Standing in the pale light of a window, she held the book aloft, indigo eyes a-dance. “Thomas Blacklock.”
“The blind poet?”
She blew the dust off the cover and hugged it to her chest. Her words were more whisper as she recited the godly poem. “O come, and o’er my bosom reign. Expand my heart, inflame each vein.” Her voice trailed away in invitation. “Though ev’ry action mine . . .”
He took it up without missing a beat. “Each low, each selfish with control; with all thy essence warm my soul, and make me wholly thine.” He caught the glint of emotion in her gaze before she looked away. It knotted his own throat and left him staring unseeing at the wall of books in front of them.
“’Tis yers,” he told her. She’d been about to return it to the shelf. “To keep.”
“Mine?” The word warbled on her tongue.
This poetry of old had struck a chord with them both. He simply nodded, missing the island—the old days—so acutely he didn’t trust himself to speak. For a moment time seemed suspended and then gave way to its sweet fleetingness.
She finally said, “Bethankit,” her happiness his.
After Edinburgh, the chill of the sea seemed colder, the sky bluer, the island’s headlands more majestic. Lark returned to the stillroom with new appreciation, her book of verse tucked in her pocket. On the flyleaf she’d written the date of their bookshop visit, 8 June, 1752.
Privately, her thoughts took another turn. Lord, let me never see Edinburgh again.
One visit was enough. Nay, one visit was too much. It wasn’t just the grime or the filth or the misery she’d seen on the faces of the children who’d run after their carriage, or the tattered, staggering lot of those befuddled by drink in shadowed corners. Mostly it was what she hadn’t seen but sensed within the walls of the MacLeish townhouse. The doctor’s quiet befuddlement. Isla’s brooding presence. Magnus’s restlessness. Her own conflicted feelings.
Magnus and Isla had not yet returned to the castle, and so Lark watched for them as the next fortnight unfolded. Watched, too, for the captain till Jillian arrived at her door the next Sabbath.
“The captain’s waiting for ye in the cave. Says he needs to speak with ye posthaste.”
Lark thanked her and Jillian went on her way. With Granny napping and in no need of explanation, Lark donned her shawl and slipped out. Where was the Merry Lass? Likely the captain wanted to plan the next landing of cargo. ’Twas time once and for all, backed by Magnus’s stern words, for her to bow out.
The wind tore at her as she descended the steep path to the beach, Kerrera Castle at her back. By the time she reached softer sand, her carefully wound braid had unraveled, whipping coppery strands in her face. Bending, she took off her shoes to walk more quickly, the mouth of the cave a good quarter mile or more.
The captain had planned their tryst well with the tide out. Last time she’d come this way, two revenue officers were nearby with their long probes, searching for hidden contraband in the sand. When danger from the tax men was highest, the captain resurrected the old tale that inspired fear. Once he’d hung a lantern about the neck of a black ram, mimicking the ghost dog of Kerrera with its devilish eyes and fatal bite. Those who crossed Auld Mort’s path were said to die within a twelve-month.
As a child, she’d felt the hair on her neck rise at the legend, and it did again now, making her look over her shoulder. Behind her bounded Nonesuch, a parcel of lonesomeness with the laird away. As she had grown up with the collie, it attached itself to her when Magnus was gone too long, sleeping at their very doorstep.
“Come along, Nonesuch. Yer master should be home shortly.”
Today with the weather so squally and it being the Sabbath, no one was about. She walked past several smaller caves seldom used to cache goods, as they filled with water at high tide.
“So we’ve company.” The captain’s voice issued from the back of the cave, a discordant note in it. “Kerrera’s cur.”
Apparently sensing his displeasure, Nonesuch slunk to one side of the cavern and lay down beside an open pit.
“He’s an agreeable companion,” she shot back at him, prepared for a confrontation. “Far more so than Auld Mort.”
He chuckled, taking a seat on an upturned tub. “Yer well?” At her nod, he fixed his eye on the mouth of the cave. “The land crew will be here soon. We’ve found our spy.”
She stayed standing. “Who?”
“The club-footed farmer, Kerr. Smells a reward, likely. We’ll soon see him whipped.”
“But he’s lamed—”
“And dangerous.” He spat into the sand. “Would ye rather we poison his sheep or set fire to his hayrick?”
“None of it,” she returned vehemently.
“What’s this I hear about ye hieing to Auld Reekie?”
“For a wee bit. On account of Isla.”
“Yer at her beck and call now too?”
Lark stiffened. “What means ye?”
“First the laird, then the mistress.”
“I do what I can.” Hurt by the accusation in his tone, she sunk a hand into her pocket, caressing the book of verse. “I wore the lace ye gave me. ’Tis fit for town.”
“Aye, that it is. What about the fancy yellow cloth?”
“’Tis best to keep hidden, Granny said.”
He made a face. “What came of yer visit?”
“The physic has all in hand.” She felt disloyal discussing such matters. “’Tis none o’ yer business, truly.”
He faced her, cupping her chin in his work-worn hand. “Dinna growl at me, Lark. We’ve precious little time. Sweet talk is what I’m after. And this.” He pressed against her, the butt of his pistol in his waistband as jarring as his kiss.
Rum. Tobacco. Need and impatience. His mouth moved over hers possessively, his arms pinning her on either side as his hands rested against the cave’s damp wall.
Her first kiss. But not how she’d imagined it. Not soft and lingering, delightful and tender. Just raw and wild as a contrary sea wind. And yet, for all its tumult, it affected her no more than a k
iss on the cheek by an uncle or brother. Not a lover. Nor did she return it. Did the captain even notice—or care?
Nonesuch gave a growl and Lark started. The captain stepped back and took the pistol from his belt. Together they looked toward the noisome sea. The cave’s entrance soon filled with a half dozen tubmen and lookouts. She knew and liked most of them, fellow islanders like herself, all loyal to the laird. To a man they doffed their hats upon seeing her, a courtesy that offset the captain’s churlishness.
He climbed atop a rock. “We’ve three hundred ankers of brandy to beach, all still aboard the Merry Lass since the Philistines have been alerted by the spy. The plan is to waylay the tax men at the Thistle with the finest of spirits till we see the cargo well down the Smuggler’s Road.”
The men nodded, asking a few questions at will. Lark listened, retreating to where Nonesuch lay and sinking down into the sand, glad to be out of the battering wind.
“No flashes of pistols nor covering peat stacks nor lighting clifftop fires. I’ll come into Black Cave at the stroke of midnight if all’s calm on both land and sea.” The captain’s decisive gaze landed on Lark as she sat stroking the collie’s damp coat. “With the laird away, ’tis left to Lark to keep the castle’s stable doors unlocked. We’re in need of the laird’s carriage horses.”
She stiffened, trying to stay atop her guilty feelings. He who steals must steal no longer. Following that were Magnus’s own forbidding words. Yet keeping the stable door open seemed such a small thing, like the flash of blue light. No doubt the laird’s horses were needed. Magnus had not minded before. But . . .
Was it any wonder she felt so addlepated?
The meeting ended. The crew departed to inform their cohorts of the chosen time and place.
“Needs be I bow out of this,” she said to the captain, her words nearly snuffed by the encroaching surf.
“Needs be?” He jumped down from his rocky perch.
She had his full attention. But how to explain her change of heart to a man who never cleared the lintel of kirk? “Is smuggling not robbery? Does it not cheat the king and every soul in the nation?”
He crossed both his arms and his boots. “Ye seem to have no quarrel with yer pretties.”
She flushed, no longer mindful of the cave’s chill. “Fair enough. ’Tis yer three hundred ankers of brandy that concerns me. Since I’ve been to the Cowgate in Edinburgh and seen folk weaving about like blind men because of drink—”
“So ’tis the quality of cargo, aye?”
“If oats or molasses, even tea, ’tis more understandable. I’ve known enough hunger to welcome that. But the others—the unnecessaries. The Lyon silks and laces. The spirits.”
To her surprise, he shrugged and crossed the distance between them and sank down beside her, back to the wall, pistol on the sand. “There’s a remedy, ye ken. We can quit all this. Bid goodbye to the damp caves and midnight dangers, the unlocked stables and lost sleep.”
“Go to America, ye mean.”
“Ye’ve weathered Auld Reekie.”
“The hundred miles to Edinburgh is a mere walk compared to an ocean voyage.”
“Ye lack spirit, Lark. Vision.” He took her hand, her slender fingers swallowed in his callused palm. “Think of what awaits.”
“Cape Fear.”
“Aye, so named by an early explorer who found the coast tricky to navigate. ’Tis all.”
So he’d learned that, at least. His taking her hand somehow seemed to pull her nearer his plan. Off this beloved beach into the unknown. The untried. From a distance, the captain seemed intriguing and exciting. Up close he was dangerous. All that was good within her balked.
She pulled free, scrambling to her feet and rousing a sleeping Nonesuch. “I’d best be away. Granny will wonder what’s become of me.” At the cave’s mouth, she turned back. “I canna do as ye bid. Not even something as simple as leaving the stables open one last time.”
He crossed his arms, staying stoic, further addling her.
“Stay safe, aye?” she said as she turned away.
She had, at last, quit this ill-trickit business, if not him.
10
He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Magnus entered the castle foyer, Isla close behind with a pug in arm, Rhona trailing her with another. Footmen fanned out behind them, shouldering two trunks more than when she’d left. His wife’s indulgent parents never let her go without extra baggage. Soon they’d need a separate wagon to haul it all.
She climbed the stairs with her maid after greeting Mistress Baird. “Please send supper to my room. Dr. Hunter has ordered bed rest.”
“Very well, mistress.” The housekeeper sent Magnus a tight smile before he turned into the study. “Welcome back, sir.”
Magnus paused in the doorway, entirely focused on the cask in his path. “Some eau-de-vie?” he quipped. “The carriage horses are lathered this morning, I take it.”
“’Twould seem so. The beach was quite busy into the wee small hours.” She approached from behind. “Would ye care to eat alone in the dining room tonight?”
“Nay. My study will suffice.” He unclasped his cloak, weary of rich Edinburgh fare. “Something simple. Oatcakes. Cheese. Whatever Cook has on hand.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll see it arranged.”
He went to stand by the largest window, arguably the best view of any in the castle save his turret bedchamber. From here he had full command of the formal garden and beyond it the sea and countless leagues of coastline. If he leaned to his left, he could almost scale the wall and see into the kitchen garden and the stillroom beyond, its door open.
Lark was still at work, likely, as it was just two o’clock. Still time enough for him to ride about the island and learn of anything that had transpired in his absence. A gladness he’d never felt in the city swept through him like a headwind. Clearing his mind. Filling his soul. Home.
Half an hour later after he’d sampled the cask the captain had left him, he sought the stables, bypassing the stillroom. Lark was singing as she often did, once saying it sweetened and dignified her work. Low and melodic, her voice snuck out and halted him on the shell path.
He took a step back, toward her domain. But he had nothing to say to her, truly. Nothing other than hearsay. Jillian had told a housemaid who’d told his manservant that the captain was talking of taking Lark to the colonies. The dismay he’d felt upon learning it cut to the bone. But why wouldn’t he want to be done with the islands’ foremost smuggler, if not Lark? She was a free woman. Free to wed whom she pleased. Even an unprincipled ship’s captain.
Her singing ended. He heard a cupboard open and close. As he’d recently seen her, entertained her and Granny in the city, he had no cause to seek her out except to inquire if the rumor about America was true.
Other than the pleasure he always felt in her company.
Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee.
A strong check in his spirit sent him on his way again. Yet the tug to tarry remained.
“My mistress said you’re to read Dr. Hunter’s instructions at once.” Rhona handed Lark a sealed paper.
The doctor’s writing hand was much like him. Forceful. Exacting. Bold. He gave detailed instructions for Isla’s new health regimen: Complete bed rest. A strong cup of nettle tea upon arising, sweetened with a little island honey. A steam inhalation of various herbs. No sweetmeats. Fresh curd cheese and fish daily. Two cups of cold fertility tonic at bedtime, consisting of burdock root, milk thistle, and raspberry leaf. No less than ten hours’ sleep.
Would he make an invalid of her?
“Well?” Rhona said, arms crossed.
“Well . . . what?” Lark returned with a rare flash of fire.
“You’ll need to provide me the prescribed herbs.”
“And I will, once I’ve finished my task.” Lark waved a hand at the crowded work
table. A large bowl, a sack of salt, and a great many dried flowers and herbs left little room for Rhona’s request. “Return in an hour’s time and ye shall have what ye seek.”
Rhona cast a wary eye about. “What is that horrible smell?”
“Valerian root. ’Tis helpful for sleep.”
The lady’s maid covered her nose with a handkerchief and hastened away.
Mindful of Rhona’s order, Lark hurried her task as best she could. At last she had a great quantity of leaves and petals preserved in sea salt for a fragrant potpourri that even Isla liked. Well within the promised hour, Lark cleared the table and set about honoring the doctor’s wishes. Mayhap she should petition Providence again for a miracle too.
Half the island was his dominion, and the other half belonged to those who paid rent in exported corn. Tethering his mount to a hitch rail at one end of Balliemore near the Thistle, Magnus walked the length and breadth of the village, engaging the few shopkeepers and tradesmen and learning the latest news and needs.
A blacksmith was coveted. He’d fetch one from the mainland. The annual visit of the tailor was overdue. Could he hasten his coming? The island physic feared the smallpox had again reared its ugly head. Just last spring he’d inoculated fifty-three of the islanders at the laird’s insistence, at two shillings sixpence a head. Should he inoculate the rest? Aye, without hesitation.
Magnus had had the pox long ago. Had Isla? No scars marred her skin. Why did he not know that for certain? Because she’d been in Edinburgh during the outbreak and he’d thought it best not to worry her. Why did he feel less cumbersome gauging the health of villagers than he did his own wife?
Removing his wet hat and thumping it against the door frame to remove the worst of the damp, he entered the Thistle with its customary stink of spirits and taint of fish. On this ill-scrappit day, the taproom was full, the captain occupying his usual corner seat. Magnus had heard the revenue men had been this way, tipped off by a supposed spy. Plying them with spirits had kept them away from the last lucrative haul that left his horses so spent. The captain’s smug smile seemed confirmation that all was well, or at least calm, the weather notwithstanding.