A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3)

by Helen Susan Swift

  'I hope you kill him, Gibbie!' Marie said fiercely.

  'Not all duels are fatal,' I said, 'usually an exchange of shots is sufficient to satisfy honour.'

  'He insulted me,' Gibbie was proving as pig-headed as George.

  I opened my mouth to remind Gibbie what had happened, and closed it with the words unsaid.

  'I know Captain Rogers is your friend, Dorothea,' Marie said, 'and I still hope that Gibbie kills him. Look, Gilbert, I have found you a book about duelling and how to act.'

  'Thank you, Marie; you are the best and most considerate of wives.' Gibbie took the slim book with eager hands and opened it immediately. 'It says that I should stand sideways and keep my stomach drawn in to present the smallest possible target.'

  Feeling like a spy or a traitor, I listened, prepared to pass on the intelligence to George. Being friendly to both camps was one of the most awkward things I have ever done. Simultaneously worrying about Marie and George was not easy. And Gibbie? I asked myself, was I concerned about Gibbie as well?

  I was not. If Marie had not been my friend, I would have hoped that George killed him. Knowing what he had been prepared to do with Marie, any liking I ever had for Gilbert Elliot had shrivelled and died. The only reason I wished him to live was that Marie's life might be worse without him.

  Gibbie opened the case of pistols that McAra had left with him. There were two entirely matched duelling pistols by Nicholas Noel Boutet of Versailles, both excellent examples of the gunmaker's art. He lifted one and sighted along the barrel, cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell with a soft click.

  'Bang, you're dead,' Gibbie whispered.

  I shivered, for if Gibbie succeeded, then my Captain Roger would be the loser and could be killed or severely wounded, and if Gibbie lost then my good friend Marie could be a widow after only a few weeks marriage.

  As I had already said, maybe Gibbie's death would not be a bad thing. Maybe Marie would be better without Gilbert Elliot.

  'These are superb weapons,' Gibbie said. 'McAra has been very good to me.'

  A couple of days ago, McAra had been prepared to strip him stark and let him walk naked through the streets of Edinburgh.

  'Boutet is the director of the French arms manufactory,' Gibbie said. 'See the balance these pistols have? One only has to lift them, and they point forward, and with so much weight in the barrel they won't jerk when I pull the trigger.'

  Marie rolled her eyes at me. 'That's interesting, Gibbie.'

  'They are blind rifled too,' Gibbie squinted up the barrel. 'That makes them more accurate.'

  'I have to check on the servants,' Marie left the room. I wondered if she was upset and if I should follow her.

  'I used to like your friend Captain Rogers,' Gibbie had not looked up when his wife left the room.

  The surge of anger threatened to overcome me. 'I know what happened,' I struggled to keep my voice under control. 'I know that you had a bad run at cards. I know that you lost everything you had, down to your gold watch and the very clothes off your back. I know that you offered Marie, your wife, in an attempt to win everything back.'

  Gibbie lifted one of the duelling pistols, and I swear that if it had been loaded, he would have shot me. All the colour drained from his face. 'Damn George Rogers,' he said. 'Damn him for a loose-tongued rogue.'

  'You can damn George Rogers from Monday until Christmas,' I held Gibbie's gaze as I rose from my chair and stepped towards him. 'It was not George who told me these things. I heard from quite another source.'

  'Then damn your source, whoever it was.' Gibbie dropped his pistol with a clatter. 'You can tell him…' He lifted the pistol and placed it neatly back inside the box. I saw his face alter and wondered if he was going to burst into tears or run out of the room. 'You can tell him nothing, Miss Flockhart. I can tell you that there will be no more gambling.'

  Suddenly Gibbie's expression altered. 'I did gamble Marie, and nobody regrets it more than I do. If I could turn back the clock, I would.'

  I was not sure whether to believe him or not. There had been too many lies, too much deceit, too much hurt in my life for me to accept such a rapid alteration. I stood still, trying to understand this man.

  'If George Rogers kills me,' Gibbie had dropped all the bravado, 'then that ends things. I will be dead, and Marie can start afresh. If I kill him, then … then I don't know what will happen.'

  I wondered if I should advise him to aim to miss.

  'I do love her you know,' Gibbie spoke quietly. 'I love her so that it hurts, here,' he thumped his fist against his chest. 'Every day and every hour, it hurts, and I cannot explain why I acted as I did.' He looked at the pistols and then at me. 'It was as if some demon was inside me, ordering me to gamble, to stake everything I had. It was like a huge thrill of excitement staking the most precious thing I own.'

  'You don't own her,' I said. 'She is your wife, not your possession.' My anger was bubbling again, and I wanted to hit him. I wanted to tear him with my nails and hurt him deeply for what he had done. Or was that a reflection of my hurt from ten years ago? I did not know, and I still do not know.

  'I know,' Gibbie's voice was low. 'Please don't tell her.'

  'Why not?' I asked. 'Does she not have the right to know what sort of a man her husband is? Does she not have a right to know what her man, who promised to love and cherish her, is capable?'

  'Yes,' Gibbie said.

  'Then why should I not tell her?' I took a single step closer to Gibbie. 'Are you afraid, Gilbert Elliot? Are you afraid of your wife finding out the truth about you?'

  Gibbie could not hold my gaze. He looked at the carpet. 'I am afraid,' he said. 'I am afraid of the hurt it would cause her.'

  I stopped the words that rushed to my mouth and halted my impulse to slap this man as hard as I could. Oh, I would have found that satisfying, but would it do anybody any good, except me? I doubted it.

  'I have hurt Marie enough,' Gibbie said.

  'You have that,' I was unwilling to allow him to wriggle free. I had heard smooth words before and knew they came quickly to a lying mouth and meant nothing.

  'I don't want to cause her further pain.'

  I knew I was panting with anger. I hated this man and all that he had done. 'I wish I could believe you,' I said.

  'Please,' Gibbie looked up. 'Don't tell her. I'll put things right. I swear I shall.'

  About to ask how I looked around as the door opened and Marie entered. She ran across to Gibbie, smiling, and put her arm through the crook of his elbow.

  'Hello, husband,' she said.

  'Hello, wife,' Gibbie answered.

  I should have told her then, I know I should, but I was unable to break the spell. Happiness is such a fragile thing. It comes so softly and lasts such a short time, and often we don't recognise we have it until it is gone. I saw it then in Marie's eyes as she held Gibbie and I could not take it away. Caress your happiness, Marie, I thought. Hold it close, nurture it and savour it all you can for there are more bleak days than bright and more tears than laughter in this bitter world.

  'I will leave you two alone,' I said. I could not stay any longer. Approaching Marie, I gave her a quick hug. 'May God go with you,' was all I could say.

  I ran from Tynebridge Hall with all its memories and the two people who had such terrible secrets from each other, and I mounted Mercury once more. I did not ride home. I rode the short distance to Doctor Hetherington's house, told him about the impending duel and told him nothing else. He listened to my silence, and I am sure he understood. I remained there all night, and Doctor Hetherington slept in his box room while I occupied his bed.

  'A human head is a diminutive target,' Captain Rogers thrust his cleaning rod into the long barrel of his duelling pistol. 'It is especially small from thirty paces away when one's nerves are stretched, and one's opponent is hoping to kill you.' His grin was unexpected.

  'Are you enjoying this?' I was confused. 'This is Gibbie Elliot we're talk
ing about here. You were a guest at his wedding a few weeks ago.'

  'I know,' Captain Rogers peered into the barrel, shook his head, shoved the cleaning rod in and scrubbed a little. 'And it was you who wished to prevent the very dis-honourable Gibbie from gambling his wife.'

  I could not argue with that. 'I wish there was some way you two could shake hands.'

  George ignored my suggestion. 'We do not aim at the head. We aim at the widest possible target.' He slapped his hips. 'Hip to hip, lower belly and groin.'

  I shuddered at the thought of a pistol ball ripping into George's groin, or the belly of Marie's husband. 'Oh, dear God. Why are men so bloody?'

  'It's in our nature,' George said. 'If we were not so bloody, who would protect you against wild animals and wild Frenchmen?'

  'I haven't been attacked by a wild animal in my life, and the wild Frenchmen are no more bloody and violent than British men.' I looked away, trying not to think of a lead ball tearing into George's vulnerable flesh, or of Marie crouching beside a fallen Gibbie.

  'French women are equally bloody, or so I've heard.' George was finally satisfied with the state of his pistols and replaced them in their walnut case. Instruments of death created with care and packed in velvet. 'French women were the ones knitting and chatting as Madame Guillotine sliced off the aristocrat's heads.'

  I had heard the stories.

  'Our women, of course, are all sweetness and light,' George checked the powder horn and lead balls that also fitted into the case. 'Witness their behaviour when there is a hanging, and they gather in their thousands, or when they riot in the streets.' He grinned again. 'Maybe it should be women protecting men!' He winked and began to whistle The British Grenadiers.

  'I wish you were not going through this.'

  'I am a soldier,' George said. 'Until the French come, I have no other way of proving my martial valour.' He smiled. 'Come, come Dorothea. I am quite enjoying it all. How else can I prove my bravery to my chosen girl?'

  I looked away at that, unsure how I felt to be George's chosen girl. I was not ready to be chosen, and I was not sure that I even wished such an accolade, or if George would choose me if he knew the truth. Even so, I cannot deny that the words did give me a particular pleasure and I looked sideways at his figure with that broad chest within the scarlet uniform and those splendidly shapely legs.

  I recalled Mother Faa's words that a man in uniform would be important to me and thought that I could do so much worse than George. He had already proved himself a friend in need and now was about to give an example of his bravery. The thought that Gibbie could kill George killed brought me down to earth. Despite my friendship with Marie, I hoped that Gibbie Elliot would come off second best in the ensuing duel. Did I wish him killed? That depended on how genuine his final words had been. Did I trust his love for Marie?

  No.

  Did I believe Gibbie could, in his own words, 'put things right?'

  No.

  Marie would be better without him. His death would hurt her, but after a year or two the pain would ease, and she would be free to find a better man or no man at all. Yes, I hoped that George shot him.

  Was that a terrible thing to hope?

  I did not know. My history may have obscured my judgement as I struggled to decide what was best for Marie and what was best for me. I closed my eyes, knowing that all my wishes counted for nothing. Events would have to take their course, and I would have to react accordingly. Once more, fate would carry me along with it, as helpless as a twig in a river.

  Chapter Ten

  Christmas dawn 1803, low cloud glowered from the summit of Arthur's Seat and hovered a few yards above the ragged cliff-edge of Salisbury Crags. I stood with my feet in a muddy puddle as the two groups eyed each other across a hundred yards of the royal park.

  'It's Christ's birthday,' I said. 'It's a strange day to pick to try and kill somebody.'

  George pulled back the hammer of his pistol, aimed at a gnarled thorn tree and squeezed the trigger. The click was flat and sinister. 'Every day is a strange day to try and kill somebody.' He looked around. 'What do they call this place?'

  'This is Hunter's Bog.' I looked across to the opposing party. 'It's the traditional place for Edinburgh's duels.' I could see Marie standing slightly apart from the group and wondered if I should go and talk to her. What was the etiquette in situations such as this? Could friends on opposing sides converse as their men were about to try and blast holes in each other? Should I try again to make peace?

  Sheep on the slopes of Arthur's Seat bleated through the mist, and a sparrow-hawk hovered between the low sky and grey-green grass, searching for prey on the damp ground. Each voice echoed in the stillness, adding to the malignant atmosphere of the day.

  'We should be in church, celebrating, not out here in the cold, planning ritual murder.'

  'Tell that to your friend,' George replaced his pistol in its case. He sounded far calmer than I felt. 'If kings, princes and emperors can wage wars that kill their tens of thousands, why can't individuals decide disputes along the barrel of a pistol?' He grinned, with a flash of devilry in his eyes. 'When the world stops warfare, men may stop duelling.'

  Ignoring his comments, I decided: 'This is madness,' lifted my skirt and nearly ran across to the Elliot camp. 'Marie! Marie! We must try and stop this folly.'

  Marie's eyes were red-rimmed and her face bloated, tear-stained. 'What can we do, Dorothea? The men seem set on their course.'

  'Gilbert!' I shook him by the arm. 'You are no warrior, and Captain Rogers is a trained soldier. He will pink you.'

  'Only if I do not shoot him first.' Gibbie was hatless, and the wind had ruffled his blond hair, so he appeared more like a dishevelled schoolboy than a man set on killing or being killed. He was tenser than George, trembling as he examined his French pistols.

  'Did your principal send you with an official apology, Miss Flockhart?' McAra was spruce and smart. He sipped from a small silver flask.

  'I am acting on my own accord,' I said.

  'Then please leave us in peace,' McAra said. 'You are distracting my man. Is this a ploy to unsettle him and give your champion a better chance of success?'

  'It is not,' I said, noticing Marie's hand fly to her mouth.

  'I hope not,' I had not noticed Turnbull standing at the edge of the Elliot group. He was like that, a man who slid into company unnoticed, created discord and left with a smile.

  McAra turned his back to talk to Gibbie as Marie wiped tears from her face.

  A dog cart jolted up, and Doctor Hetherington dismounted. 'This is arrant folly!' He announced. 'Two friends determined to blow each other's brains out on Christmas morning.' He doffed his hat and bowed to me. 'Good morning Miss Flockhart. I am surprised that you have any part in this foolishness.'

  'Oh, Doctor, thank Goodness you are here. Can't you talk some sense into these men?'

  'Sense?' Doctor Hetherington smoothed a hand across the nose of his horse. 'These men are full of notions of honour and position and pride. Sense is well down the list of requirements for a gentleman, I'm afraid.'

  Lieutenant Hepburn was about twenty-five with steady grey eyes. He approached McAra with a formal bow. 'Is your man determined to go ahead, Mr McAra?'

  'My man is ready.' McAra was equally formal. 'He will accept an apology in front of the same witnesses who saw the initial insult.'

  'My man is not prepared to apologise under any circumstances,' Hepburn said.

  'Very well then. Let us select the weapons.'

  Both sides presented their cases of pistols and the seconds examined them. 'As the challenged party, my man has the right to choose.' Hepburn said. 'We will use the pistols we brought with us.'

  'I have no objections.' McAra agreed. 'Provided my man has the first choice from the case.'

  'Naturally,' Hepburn turned away.

  George lifted one of his pistols and sighted along the barrel. He was not smiling as he looked directly at Gibbie and raised a han
d. Gibbie returned the salute.

  I watched as the seconds loaded the pistols and inspected each one. McAra nodded and replaced them in the case. Gibbie chose the weapon nearest to him, weighed it in his hand and took a deep breath. Despite the morning chill, there was a sheen of perspiration across his forehead.

  'It is not too late to end this,' Doctor Hetherington said.

  'It was too late the minute Rogers gave the insult.' McAra snapped shut the empty pistol case and handed it to Hepburn.

  'It was too late the moment that Elliot decided to gamble with his wife.' George spoke loud enough for Marie to hear. 'No gentleman would do such a thing.'

  'What?' Marie's face swivelled toward her husband. 'Gibbie? What does that mean?'

  'It means that your darling husband was prepared to hand you over like a lump of meat,' George said at once.

  'Would you order your man to stop trying to unsettle Mr Elliot?' Ignoring George, McAra spoke directly to Hepburn.

  Hepburn gave a little bow and addressed George. 'Mr McAra is correct, Captain Rogers. The duel will continue without more words.'

  George nodded and said nothing.

  'No!' Marie stared at Gibbie. 'Say it is not true, Gibbie; tell me that Captain Rogers is mistaken.'

  'It was not as simple as it sounds,' Gibbie tried to escape.

  'Stand back to back,' McAra took charge. 'Take fifteen paces away from each other and then turn and fire.'

  'Gibbie!' Marie screamed. 'Be careful!'

  'Marie,' I put my arm around her and guided her away from the danger area as the two principals stood back to back. George looked splendid in his full regimentals while Gibbie wore a white shirt and dark breeches, bare-headed despite the chill.

  'He could get killed,' Marie clung to me.

  'Pull yourself together,' I held her tight, looking over my shoulder at George. He glanced back at me, winked, and then faced his front.

  I saw the two men count the slow paces as Marie placed both hands over her mouth. The seconds stepped back out of the firing area, and Doctor Hetherington watched, shaking his head and holding his leather case, ready to rush forward and help whoever was injured. In the distance, at the opening of this shallow valley, McAra sat astride his horse, watching.