A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3)

by Helen Susan Swift

  'What do you mean?' I asked, wondering what sort of Highland rogue I had harboured in my house.

  'You know that the moon is Macfarlane's lantern,' Mrs Macfarlane said.

  'I have heard the expression,' I admitted.

  'That means that the Macfarlanes work at night.' Mrs Macfarlane patted my arm. 'There is a Highland way of doing things, Miss Flockhart, and you need my man's help.'

  Now, I have heard women talk about their husbands all my life, but never quite like that. When Mrs Macfarlane said 'my man', she was inferring a bond that was stronger than any marriage vows I had heard exchanged in any church. It was something fundamental, something spiritual, something of the soul, a binding that I knew Marie and Gibbie had not attained and maybe never would. Nor would I.

  'What could Mr Macfarlane do?' I asked.

  'Anything.' Mrs Macfarlane said, and I shivered at the stark simplicity of that single word.

  I bowed to inevitability. I had attempted to solve matters by following what I thought were the correct paths, and things had got worse. Perhaps it was time to try the Highland way. 'What should I do, Mrs Macfarlane?'

  'You will have to meet Macfarlane,' Mrs Macfarlane patted my arm again, 'and he will put things right.'

  Looking into those bright, hard Highland eyes, I could not repress a shiver. The Highlanders had a reputation for bravery and daring that stretched back centuries. In very recent memory the Black Watch, the Royal Highland Regiment, had defeated Bonaparte's vaunted Invincibles in Egypt.

  'What do you have in mind, Mrs Macfarlane?'

  'Whatever is needed, Miss Flockhart,' Mrs Macfarlane said. 'Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.'

  I did not hear Macfarlane arrive at the Thistle Street house. I only heard the low rumble of voices in the hall, and then Mrs Macfarlane was at my side.

  'Macfarlane is here' she said.

  'Bring him in.' I do not know what I expected, possibly some tall, dark-haired hero with a sword across his shoulder and a brace of silver-mounted pistols at the belt of his kilt. Macfarlane was not like that. He was middle-sized, middle-aged and almost respectable looking, with a neat beard and eyes calm with the peace of the hills.

  He stepped in with his shoes making no sound on the floor and his shoulders nearly touching each side of the door jamb.

  'Mrs Flockhart,' his bow was perfunctory. 'We have met before.'

  'Have we?' I nodded as the memory returned. 'Yes, you had the whisky convoy in the Pentland Hills.'

  'You gave us welcome hospitality,' Macfarlane reminded.

  'Miss Flockhart needs our help,' Mrs Macfarlane explained the situation.

  Macfarlane listened without visible emotion. 'You would prefer Turnbull's space to his company,' he said.

  I had a chilling vision of this ordinary looking man suddenly producing a Highland dirk and plunging it into Turnbull's breast. 'What do you mean?' I asked in a sudden panic.

  'It's all right, Mrs Flockhart.' Macfarlane may have read my mind. Highlanders can do such things if the mood is on them. 'I just mean we will take him away for a while so he can neither give evidence against your friend or demand money from you.' His smile was as quiet as a purring cat, and as dangerous as a hunting leopard. 'MacGregor will help. He is a dependable man. You met him in the hills.'

  I remembered the capable looking trio. 'Have you done such a thing before?'

  'It's a way we have of getting rid of troublesome men and unwanted wives,' Macfarlane said.

  Unsure what I was agreeing to, I knew I had little choice. 'What do I have to do?'

  'All you have to do, Miss Flockhart, is receive Turnbull as you always do,' Macfarlane said. 'Leave the details to MacGregor and me.'

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, one look at that quiet, confident Highland face reassured me that I was in the hands of an expert. I did not know how, but I knew that with Macfarlane involved, things were about to take a turn for the better.

  'As you wish, Macfarlane.' Knowing about Highland pride, I hesitated before broaching the next subject. 'There will be a question of payment.'

  'There will not,' Macfarlane straightened his back. His eyes challenged me to continue with that subject.

  'Thank you, Mr Macfarlane.' He may have only been a sedan-chairman and a whisky smuggler, but I knew that Macfarlane was a better man than most I had met. I hardly heard him leave the room.

  I lay back in my chair, tapping my fingers on the arm. I was unsure what Macfarlane had in mind, yet I knew he would be efficient. Now, I wished to find out more about George Rogers. It was time to take a step in that direction as well. I now knew he had told me only the truth about his military career, and he had never let me down in any situation. For the first time in years, I had a flicker of hope. If he was as decent a man as he appeared, then surely, God willing, he might understand my position and deception?

  As it happened, I did not need to take any steps to contact him. Once again, Captain Rogers came to me.

  The letter-carrier delivered the message the very next day. What was interesting was that it was sealed not with a simple wafer but a coat of arms, presumably the Rogers crest, with a heart and two unicorns in support. However, I did not waste much time in admiring the details.

  The paper was so thick it creaked as I unfolded the letter and the copperplate writing was impeccable. It began with 'Dear Miss Dorothea' and ended with 'your devoted Captain George Rogers.' The message was short. 'I am looking forward to meeting you again. I do hope you can come along to the Regimental Ball at the Assembly Rooms so I can introduce you to my fellow officers. I have taken the liberty of hoping for at least three dances in advance.'

  I do not know what I expected. I know that I had not wished for long paragraphs of devotion, or intertwined hearts. All the same, it was the first letter of its kind I had received for more than ten years, and I was not at all sure what to think. Had I indeed turned the corner? Was I ready for a sincere relationship with another man after all this time?

  'Damn you,' I said, getting satisfaction from the oath. 'Damn you for ruining my life.'

  I did not mean George Rogers. I remembered the white, predatory faces crowding down upon me, and I shivered. I had trusted and loved a man, once, and the results still made me cringe. I closed my eyes and tried to relegate the past to history and instead re-read the letter. I liked the phrase 'I am looking forward to meeting you again.'

  And then the significance of the last sentence hit me.

  Three dances! Any gentleman who asked for two or more dances was showing an interest in his partner. By telling me in advance, George was announcing his intentions, and if he kept his word, as a gentleman would, the whole assembly would be witness to our attachment. Rather than a desultory friendship, George was looking for something more permanent.

  But was I the right woman for him?

  I did not know. I hid the letter in the top drawer of my chest. It was safe there; Mrs Macfarlane was not one of those women who interfered in her employer's affairs, or not in that way.

  I thought of my previous meetings with George. Had he been trying to entertain me with his description of his encounter with the French? Or was he trying to impress me? If the former, he had succeeded. If the latter, I had been more impressed by his actions immediately after the duel. He had accepted his wound with high good humour and no rancour against Gibbie, while many men would have cursed, demanded another shot and vowed vengeance. His appearance in that incident near the West Bow had been fortuitous, and his men certainly liked him; all these facts were very positive. I wondered anew if I had found a man I could trust. If only… The past exploded back into my mind.

  And then I remembered Mother Faa's words about the uniformed gentleman and wondered if my life was about to change. I looked in the pier-glass, seeing the shadows under my eyes and the lines that no amount of powder and potions could efficiently erase and asked myself if I were ready to trust a man again, and indeed if I ever could.

  Well
, I told myself, my friendship with George Rogers had blossomed very quickly, and he seemed interested in me. I may allow myself to smile in future. I did not care if his war stories were genuine or not, I did know that he amused me and had never made any move that was hurtful. I tapped my reflection in the pier glass.

  'Maybe you can put the past to rest, Dorothea.'

  My reflection stared back at me, unsmiling. The shadows in my eyes did not shift. I wondered if my time had come. I wondered how George would react when I eventually told him the truth. Everything depended on that; once again my past was eroding my present and my future. Could I trust sufficiently trust George to let him know?

  Chapter Thirteen

  If you know Edinburgh, you will know the Assembly Rooms in George Street. Perhaps you have also been there. If not, then I will explain that they were built specifically to allow ladies such as me the opportunity of dancing with as many men as propriety would permit. The Assembly Rooms' elegance is unsurpassed even in Edinburgh, the most elegant city anywhere and their position right in the centre of the principal street of the New Town speaks volumes for their importance.

  I know that some speak of Princes Street as something special. I do not agree. Oh, yes there are splendid views of the Castle, and now the gardens blossom where once the North Loch festered, but that is all there is to it. The architecture is mediocre, and at both east and west end the wind could blow one's gown above one's head and rip one's hat away. George Street is the place to see, be seen and meet the most refined of company, particularly in the early years of this 19th century.

  I tried to look composed as the carriages growled along George Street to disgorge their human cargoes on the pavement outside the Assembly Rooms. Unfortunately, the weather was a trifle unkind, and a thin smirr of rain dampened the gowns of the ladies and glistened on shakoes and feather bonnets and the shoulders of magnificent scarlet uniforms. I allowed myself the luxury of enjoyment as I joined the crowd, listening to the excited chatter of the younger people and the more restrained conversation of their elders.

  A crowd of onlookers watched as the officers and their ladies strolled from their carriages into the Rooms. I saw Lady Pluscarden's mulberry coloured coach among the others and noticed the lady herself, sitting on a stool at the door of her coach, sipping from a glass of wine and watching the world pass. I wished to avoid that shrewd-eyed lady.

  Fashions in Edinburgh followed the architectural trend, with an amalgamation of opposites that was a joy to the eye. One set of ladies wore the costumes of the classical revival, disregarding the long waist so that particular portion of a lady's body now seemingly stretched to the armpits, or the oxters as the colloquial would have it. As Emily once unkindly said to me:

  'The petticoat is tied around the neck, and the arms put through the pocket holes.'

  Colourful words perhaps, but apt, you must agree, as these shapeless dresses cocooned the ladies who wore such ridiculous costumes. I was not a follower of these supposedly-classical creations, as you will have guessed. We still wore the gown, as ladies had in the days of the Bourbons, but sensible women discarded the ugly hoops. Call me old-fashioned if you will, or call me traditional and you will be equally wrong, for neither is accurate. I am my own woman and will be tied by neither stricture or fashion unless they agree with what I think is correct.

  Anyway, that is to jump a little, so forgive me while I return a few hours and a few hundred paces to Thistle Street. Before I left the house, Mrs Macfarlane had inspected me as if I were her daughter. 'Much better, Miss Flockhart,' she said as she stood back to admire. 'I much prefer the gown falling in straight loose folds.'

  I had moved my feet, enjoying the feel of the muslin against my legs. 'I like this Empire gown,' I looked down at myself, wishing that I had rather more to display above the high waist. I knew men liked to admire those parts of a lady's person, so hoped that George Rogers was not overly critical of my shape. I felt nearly as nervous as I had when first launched in the world, twelve years and more ago.

  Mrs Macfarlane had read my mind, in her Highland way. 'You are fine as you are,' she said softly. 'Too much up there is worse than too little; it becomes heavy with age.' She had pressed her hands against her matronly breasts and laughed openly. She patted my bottom, 'and you are perfect there, Miss Flockhart. Not too much and not too little.' Her smile was full of mischief and knowledge. 'There is sufficient for a man to take hold of.'

  I had coloured, not used to such frankness from a woman who could either be a servant or a friend. I was never sure how I should treat her.

  'Take short steps,' Mrs Macfarlane advised. 'Put one foot in front of the other and when your handsome captain is watching, emphasise the swing of your hips. Not too much, you are a lady, after all, just sufficient to attract his attention.' She bent closer to me. 'Remember that he will be watching when you walk away.'

  Now, as I looked around at the ladies sweeping into the Assembly Rooms, I could compare the fashions. While all the younger ladies and some of the older had adopted the modern, more straightforward style, some of the older had clung to the old vogues that they had known in their youth. Even some of the gentlemen dismounted from their carriages in a long coat and lace waistcoat, with tight stockings and a powdered wig. One elderly lady arrived by sedan-chair carried by two sturdy Highlandmen. I looked carefully but the chairmen were not Macfarlane and MacGregor.

  I had agreed to meet George Rogers inside the building, which seemed a queer arrangement but perhaps he was returning from duty or some such. I walked as sedately as I could, with the feathers in my bonnet bobbing with every step, and avoiding anything unpleasant on the road, until I entered the building.

  At that moment I was concerned with the non-appearance of George Rogers. I was also slightly alarmed that nearly every woman who wore the Empire style sported a white satin hat, with at least half having a blue velvet effect in front, with a crescent of steel beside a knot of small white feathers. I wished I had studied the current trend in hats with more attention. I was out of touch with fashion. Indeed, I had coiled myself into such a tight knot of worry for so long that I was out of touch with most everything.

  I heard the minuet start in the ballroom next door and began to breathe hard with anxiety. I did like to be present at the beginning, to watch the others perform the slow dance that allowed them to display their gowns and grace and to take the measure of the company. I closed my eyes, hoping that George would not let me down. Perhaps there had been another invasion alarm? No, there were too many officers present for that.

  I pressed my hand against my breast, feeling the fluttering of my heart. 'It's only a silly ball,' I told myself. 'It's not life and death. George has never let you down before. Think of something else. Think how you will act when the ball begins.'

  'The characteristic of a country dance is that of gay simplicity. The steps should be few and easy, and the corresponding motion of the arms and body unaffected, modest and graceful.'

  I hoped I had the modesty and grace to fit into this regimental society. There was undoubtedly sufficient gayness to be seen.

  'Here you are,' George Rogers limped through the crowd like a Gulliver among Lilliputians, not in height but in bearing. Even officers of superior rank granted him passage. 'I do like your hat.'

  I touched my bobbing feather. 'It seems quite out of fashion.' I had wanted to scold him for his lateness, but his natural smile chased away my anger. He bowed low to me and straightened up with a snap.

  'Nonsense, it is most becoming.' George brushed aside my doubts with a handful of words. 'Shall we enter?'

  'To the dance,' I caught his mood.

  'My apologies for being late,' George eased my temper. 'Regimental duties, I'm afraid.'

  'You are here now,' I forgave him at once and took his proffered arm.

  George was so late that we had completely missed the opening minuet. Once again I contemplated mentioning the fact but forbore as such words might lead to ill humour
or even a quarrel. A public disagreement with one's dance partner was undoubtedly not respectable. I bit my tongue and allowed George some peace. Besides, he had apologised, he was tall and elegant, and I enjoyed having such a handsome officer on my arm. Why was I thinking such thoughts? I shook my head. Nerves; it must be nerves.

  The hall was already swirling with dancers when we stepped in, with the orchestra playing some tune I knew but could not name, and everybody present either enjoying themselves or attempting to catch the eye of somebody of the opposite sex. I looked around in sudden delight, for such occasions had once been the highlight of my life. When I was younger, I did not understand women who disliked such gatherings, for where else could one gather gossip and learn the latest styles of dress and manners? Now I was not so sure. Now I saw them as parades where men pursued women until the women trapped their victim, or where packs of men selected whatever women best suited them for breeding and perhaps wealth.

  Cynicism does not create joy. I tried to push the thoughts away and concentrate on the ball. George claimed me for three dances in a row and proved himself as adept on the dance floor as he apparently already had on the battlefield. His recent wound barely troubled him at all, although I noticed him wince from time to time when the dance necessitated him putting weight on his injured hip. The scandalous part of me wondered what he would say if I offered to kiss it better.

  I flushed and quickly pushed that thought away. I might return to it later, I decided.

  'You once told me that you danced like a carthorse,' I reminded.

  'I exaggerated a little,' George admitted. 'You seemed nervous at the time.'

  'You were correct.' I tapped his shoulder with my fan. 'Who taught you to dance so well?' I allowed George to guide me to the side table where the silver punch bowls stood in formal ranks beside a formidable array of cups and glasses.

  'The Regiment,' Rogers helped us both to a generous cupful. 'When we were in the Low Countries we had nothing else to do but dance.'