'You're not cheating us,' George said to the shop woman. 'If you try I'll have my men mount a picket around your shop and chase away your customers.'
The proprietors had spread their hands in innocence and immediately dropped their price.
'I could afford the first price,' I told George.
'Money is a finite commodity,' George said. 'If you can afford it, give it to the poor, not to these leeches. They live by sucking money from people who have nothing.'
'You're a good man, George.' I squeezed his hand, liking this soldier more each time we met.
Fortunately, I had the foresight to bring a canvas sea-bag into which I crammed each article without concerning myself over their condition. I would ensure these clothes were adequately scrubbed before donning them. When George saw the bag, he reached across and took it from me.
'A gentleman should never allow a lady to carry a bag when his hands are empty,' he said.
'You're an officer,' I saw him swing the bag across his right shoulder. 'It's not fitting.'
'Who's going to complain?' George touched the hilt of his sword. For a second I saw the shadows return to his eyes and wondered what darkness they indicated. I suspected that Captain Rogers could be a very dangerous man.
The wig was in the fifth pawn shop we entered. I lifted it without thought and held it at arms' length. I had seen men wearing wigs of course, for they had been quite fashionable in my youth and some elderly men still sported them. Turning it this way and that, I wondered how it would feel and how I would look.
'That will alter your appearance,' Captain Rogers said, and with those few words, I made my decision. The long, curled blonde hair was human, and I guessed that some poverty-smitten person had parted with her treasured locks to feed her children.
'I'll take it,' I said.
George grinned. 'You'll look a picture,' he said. 'I find myself anticipating our little trip with great pleasure.'
I felt the same, although I did not like to admit it. I was becoming used to Captain Rogers' company. He was proving himself a man of resource and surprises.
I should have asked Mrs Macfarlane to wash my new acquisitions, after all, that was why I employed her, but either embarrassment or shame forced me to scrub them myself. It was many years since I had stooped to such a task, for Mrs Macfarlane was the most efficient of housekeepers while in India I had an army of busy servants waiting for my word.
'What on earth are you doing, Miss Flockhart?' Mrs Macfarlane's voice made me start as I delved to my elbows in warm water and soap-suds. 'It's hardly your place to be washing clothes.' She looked at the strange assortment in the washing tub, 'especially not clothes like that.'
'It's for a sort of masked ball,' I tried to excuse myself as if it mattered a damn what a servant thought.
'Is it now?' Mrs Macfarlane said. 'Well, it must be the strangest sort of ball when you wear this.' She held up a dripping dress that was all flounces and bright colours, yet would leave my ankles exposed to public view. She peered closer at me. 'You take great care, Miss Flockhart. I don't know what sort of thing you are planning, but I know that it's a dangerous game. I hope that Turnbull creature is not involved.'
I shook my head although in truth I did not know who might be involved. 'It's quite all right, Mrs Macfarlane.'
Dropping the clothes back in the washing-tub, Mrs Macfarlane put both hands on my shoulders. 'Now, listen, Miss Flockhart. You are a good mistress, you never rail like some of the others and you pay well. I have taken a liking to you, and I know you are in some trouble. If you need help, then don't be shy to ask.'
'I am all right.' I was unused to people offering me help.
'I'm not sure that you are,' Mrs Macfarlane was not a woman to be easily deflected. 'My husband is a handy man to know. He's a hackney-sedan chairman, down by Canonmills Bridge.'
I nodded, although for the life of me I could not see how a sedan chairman could be of use to me. Chairmen were some of the invisible labourers whom one passed in the street without noticing, an unseen face in the mass. 'Thank you, Mrs Macfarlane.'
'Well, that's my offer made,' Mrs Macfarlane said, 'and it stands as long as I am in your employ. My Macfarlane is a handy man to know.' She held my gaze as if allowing her words to sink in. 'Now step aside and allow me to wash these clothes, and that wig. God only knows who wore it last and what sort of crawling creatures ran about their scalp.'
'Thank you, Mrs Macfarlane,' I repeated. I was not sure if I was thanking her for washing the clothes or for her offer of help. Or rather, I was sure. I was thanking her for her friendship. Good friends are one of the rarest commodities in the world, and I seemed to be collecting them that winter.
Despite all my preparations, I was extremely nervous when we stepped into the hired coach for the short journey to the Grassmarket.
'I'm glad Captain Rogers is with you,' Mrs Macfarlane gave her parting wisdom as we rattled away.
'Your servant approves,' George said, and I nodded.
'I agree with her.'
George leaned back in the leather seat. 'You look different like that,' he said. 'I would hardly recognise you in the wig.'
I may have smiled to hide my sick nervousness.
Weir's Inn advertised itself as a purveyor of fine wines and ales as well as having rooms to let. It sat near a corner, three storeys of sin and with men and women entering and leaving in an irregular rush. I heard the raucous laughter coming through an open window and tried to push my fears away. The red and blue dress I had selected was short in the leg and left my neck hideously exposed, while the wig was hot and uncomfortable. I wriggled, adjusting the fit and wished I had never thought of this ploy.
The coach driver gave me an odd look as I alighted in a flurry of waving ribbons. 'You be careful in there,' he said, apparently recognising that I was not a natural denizen of such places. That did not bode well for my attempt to merge into the company.
'Thank you, my man,' Captain Rogers tipped him handsomely. 'There is no need to wait. When I leave here, I will be able to purchase a coach and four, and the house and grounds to go with it.'
'Aye, that'll be right,' the uncouth fellow responded. 'You mind your back, sir, and you, Ma'am. There's queer things go on in Weir's and not always for the benefit of the players.' Touching a finger to his broad-brimmed hat, he whipped on, and the coach jolted over the greasy cobbles.
I stood outside the inn with its gaudily painted sign showing Major Weir, the Captain of the City Guard who was executed for witchcraft and incest.
'Are you all right, Dorothea?' George's voice was quiet as he touched my arm.
I nodded, nerving myself to step inside. Now that the time had come I was not so sure of my idea.
'Then let us play the game.' George winked and smiled, with his little scar crinkling across his chin. 'Life is all a game Dorothea, God's chess game and we are the pawns, knights and rooks.'
I had a last look around before I entered. The Grassmarket was busy that evening, as it usually was. Situated right at the foot of the Castle Rock, and where the West Bow and the Cowgait debouched into relatively open ground, tall tenements surrounded the market space, with the site of one of Edinburgh's execution spots to add sordid memories. With the Grassmarket being so close to the garrison, there were a sprinkling of scarlet jackets among the fustian of the labourers, and more than a few brightly clad Cypriots eyeing me as a possible rival as they vied for the attention of any man who wished to avail themselves of their sordid services.
'Shall we enter?' Captain Rogers offered me his arm. 'Now, you must trust me in here, Miss Flockhart. This will be different to anything you have seen before. A certain type of gentlemen thinks it a lark to frequent such low inns and mix with the lower orders.'
I nodded, aware that George was giving me time to collect my nerves and hoping that my intelligence was faulty. I desperately did not wish to find Gibbie Elliot inside Weir's Inn. 'I will keep close to you.' George's arm was firm, a rock on which
to depend.
'Even if Mr Elliot is present, it does not mean he is a wrong 'un. Only that he has temporarily gone astray.'
'Yes, George.' I squeezed his forearm as a thank you, extracted ten guineas from my pocket and pressed it into his hand.
'It is not right that you should gamble with your own money as a favour to me,' I whispered.
'Nor is it right that a gentleman should take money from a lady,' George pushed the gold back. 'I win or lose on my own merits, and I chose to come here.' He leaned closer to me. 'You are a woman of character,' he said.
I do not think I have ever had a more sincere compliment. We stepped forward.
I had not expected the two beefy porters who lounged just inside the door, or the hard looks they threw at me.
'Might I have your name, sir?' The accent was Highland and the 'sir' more like a sneer than a title.
'I am Captain George Rogers of the First Royal Edinburgh Volunteers,' George said. 'And this lady is Marion Blairgowrie, my companion.'
I had not thought to give myself a new name and marvelled at George's powers of instant invention.'
I don't know you,' one said.
'Nor I you,' I responded, wondering what would happen if I slapped his insolent face. Hard.
'I thought I knew all the wantons,' he said. 'No matter, who looks at the mantelpiece when he's stoking the fire.' He shrugged and addressed George. 'Are you here for the play?'
'We are, my friend,' Captain Rogers hitched up his sword and smiled. He guided me past the porter, perhaps sensing my dislike.
'It's through that door and upstairs, Captain and the best of luck to you.'
The porters ushered us through a heavy door and into a crowded den where crowds of people surrounded small tables. Jugs of whisky and porter occupied the centre of each table and drinking as quickly as possible seemed to be the prime recreation. That and making hideous noises while leering at each other's faces. Busy servants kept the jugs topped up and relieved the patrons of their money.
George lifted the first whisky jug, threw a coin at one of the servants and poured himself a small glass. He tasted it and screwed up his face. 'Kill-me-deadly rot-gut' he said. 'God knows what that would do to your stomach.'
I was thankful to leave that den. Another burly porter allowed us through an iron-studded door onto a turnpike staircase that wound around a worn stone column on its journey upward. Naked flames provided harsh light that only highlighted the scars and scrapes of the stonework, and I wondered what dark deeds had been performed here over the past many centuries. This inn was as far as one could get from the gracious squares and terraces of the New Town, or the pastoral beauty of Midlothian. Weir's Inn was Edinburgh in the raw, battered and dangerous. I could nearly feel the history sharpening its claws on the coarse stonework as it waited to coil around us.
At the head of the turnpike, a wide door opened into a room that surprised me with its grace and opulence. After the sordid saloon downstairs I had expected a grimy lair of unwashed floorboards and filthy chairs. Instead, I walked into a large room with elegant lace-trimmed green curtains framing three tall windows that looked down on the Grassmarket. Two crystal chandeliers cast sparkling light onto a long oval mahogany table around which sat half a dozen players.
On the outside of the room, four women sat in silence, watching as they sipped from crystal glasses, and each one over-dressed in a profusion of ribbons, feathers and sham-finery. I was glad that I had sought Captain Rogers' advice because my attire fitted them exactly.
'Is there anyone you know?' Captain Roger murmured.
I looked at the men who sat around the table. They were strangers. I was not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
At the head of the table, nearest the windows, a tall, lean gallant with a face ravaged by care or disappointment looked up on our arrival. Three unopened packs of cards sat at his side.
'We are just completing this game, Captain. Please remain quiet until all the cards have fallen. Have a drink.' He returned his concentration to the game.
Captain Rogers lifted his hand in acknowledgement and guided me to a seat at the far side of the room where the light was dim, and I could hide in near shadow. Pouring me a drink from a ship's decanter, he handed over the glass. 'Watch and say nothing,' he whispered.
Aware that all four women had transferred their attention from the table to us, I avoided their stares and watched the fall of cards.
That game lasted another ten minutes, and the gamesters were silent until the very last hand, when the youngest man at the table, a mere boy who could not yet have reached his majority, threw his cards on the table in a sudden frenzy and began to cry.
'I'm cleaned out,' he said. 'I can't pay.' His voice rose on the last word.
'We'll need your IOU,' the ravaged man at the head of the table spoke quietly.
'I can't get any more,' the boy was sobbing.
'You'll find it,' the ravaged man produced a pen, inkwell and a small pile of paper from a hidden drawer. 'Write out an IOU for every man here and one for the house.'
'I'm ruined,' the boy looked up as the other men crowded around him.
I sat in shaking silence as the boy wrote. George sipped at his drink. The other women watched without expression, and I guessed they had witnessed similar scenes before.
The ravaged man checked the IOUs and nodded to the door. 'Take him away.'
Within minutes the room was empty except for us, the four women and the ravaged man, who collected all the loose cards and threw them into the fire.
'We always use new packs for each game,' he explained. 'This is a straight house. No cheating, no mirrors and no marked cards.'
'You have a good reputation,' Captain Rogers said.
'That young boy,' I asked as the four women looked at me with mild interest. 'What will happen to him?'
The ravaged man shrugged. 'He gambled his all and lost. His creditors own everything he has and everything he will ever make now. It is up to them. Even if he puts a period to his existence, his family will have to pay his debts.'
I nodded, feeling sick.
'Your name, sir? I did not catch it.' Captain Rogers did not appear perturbed at the fate of the unfortunate young gambler.
'I did not give it,' the ravaged man said. 'You may call me Charon.'
Charon, I knew, was the ferryman who took dead souls across the River Styx. It was a name well-suited to this place where men entered with hope and left in despair.
'When will the next party arrive, Charon?' George asked.
'Very soon,' Charon straightened up the chairs and opened the windows to allow fresh air to enter. I heard the noise from the street below. Somebody was laughing and somebody else singing, the words wild and Gaelic as they echoed from the surrounding buildings. They seemed honest compared to this room of subtle evil.
'Your whisky is good,' George said. 'Better than you serve downstairs.'
'I would not know,' Charon said. 'I don't drink.'
I heard the patter of feet on the turnpike, and then the door opened. Captain Rogers put a heavy hand on my shoulder as I made to rise.
'Sit still, watch and say nothing,' he said. 'Whatever happens, and whoever comes in, say nothing, Marion.'
I cowered into my disguise. I was Marion Blairgowrie and had to act the part. Leaning back in the chair, I crossed my legs and allowed my skirt to slide up slightly, exposing my right ankle. My face was in shadow and my insides in turmoil.
When George nodded approval, I adjusted my skirt, only a fraction, sufficient for the hem to rise to my lower calf. Perhaps I was a respectable lady from a good background, but I was also a woman with natural skills to attract a man. I wriggled my foot and watched as the door opened.
All my bravado vanished as Hector McAra entered with his ginger hair and pale face sinister under the chandelier's bright glow. He took a seat at the foot of the table and snapped his fingers. One of the girls ran to serve him, saying nothing as his hand dri
fted along her arm.
I cringed inside my wig and hoped he would not recognise me. That man scared me.
Next to enter was Turnbull, complete with the sycophantic smile and long, bony fingers. His eyes darted around the room, passed over me and away again as one of the girls handed him a glass. I hoped that my disguise was sufficient, although there was no reason for Turnbull to expect the respectable Miss Flockhart to come to such a place. I shifted my chair deeper into the shadows and tossed my head, so the long hair of the wig partially concealed my face.
'I'm not drinking anymore,' George declined the invitation of one of the women. 'I prefer a clear head to count the cards.'
'Wise man,' Charon said.
Gibbie Elliot was next, looking nervous as he accepted a glass of brandy and tossed it back with a single swallow. In his fancy pearl-buttoned vest and yellow coat, he looked more like a dandy than I had seen before while his white breeches hugged his legs. Marie had chosen a well-shaped man, I saw and wished she had found one with a stronger character.
'Would you care to join us, Captain?' Charon asked.
'My pleasure, Charon.' George removed his jacket and handed it to me. 'Pray look after that, Marion.'
Turnbull glanced at me and away. McAra did not look around.
'And the sword belt, Captain, if you please,' Charon said. 'We don't want any hasty actions here that may bring the house into disrepute.'
'Forgive me,' Captain Roger unfastened his sword belt and hung it on a hook beside the fireplace. He sauntered across to the table.
'Good evening gentlemen,' he said.
'Good evening Captain Rogers.' Turnbull gave a low bow. 'I have not seen you in here before.'
'I've never been before,' George said. 'Do I know you, sir?'
'I am William Turnbull.'
'You know me, George,' Gibbie said with a smile.
A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3) Page 10