I faced him from my chair. 'I won't say the same for you.'
'You know my business here,' Turnbull continued as Mrs Macfarlane withdrew, leaving the door ajar.
'How much do you want this time?'
'Alas, I fear my fortunes have dipped a little,' Turnbull said. 'I have two gentlemen who most urgently require payment.' His smile was as broad as before.
'How much?'
'Only two hundred guineas should cover my present requirements,' Turnbull said. 'And think of the consequences if I don't pay.' He shrugged. 'You already have an example with the charming Captain Rogers. How many more friends would you lose and how much more damage could the truth do?'
I tried not to allow my hatred to warn him. 'There are always consequences.'
Mrs Macfarlane had deliberately left the door open. Now Macfarlane and MacGregor entered as quietly as if they were smuggling whisky past an Exciseman. Turnbull sneered at me, unconscious that Gaelic Nemesis was only a couple of feet behind him.
'I ask for only two hundred guineas, Miss Flockhart.' Turnbull repeated. 'That's not much to preserve you good name, is it?
Without saying a word, Macfarlane lifted a hessian sack and dropped it over Turnbull's head and shoulders. He held it tight as Turnbull began to roar, but the sacking muffle his noises, and Macfarlane's arms prevented him from moving. Macgregor cracked Turnbull over the head with a life-preserver, and they both caught Turnbull as he slumped.
It was easy and quick as that. I had not had time to move.
'That's better now, Turnbull. All nice and quiet,' Macfarlane said.
'Where are you taking him?' I asked, more numbed than shocked.
'It's best you don't know.' Macfarlane lifted Turnbull as if he were a sack of potatoes and balanced him over his shoulder. 'He won't bother you again.' He gave the man a hefty smack on the breech and smiled.
I followed them down to the hall where they had left their sedan chair. The hackney-sedan was a simple affair compared to the richly decorated chairs of the wealthy. This chair was of wood covered with canvas and black leather, with a door at the front. However, Macfarlane merely lifted the hinged roof and dropped Turnbull inside so he perched on the leather seat. Leaving the sack in place, they tied Turnbull's ankles together with strong twine and wrapped more around his body so he could not move a fraction. Finally, they tied a gag around his mouth on the outside of the sack.
'That'll stop him from shouting for help if he awakes,' MacGregor explained. 'People are used to us carrying ladies home, and the occasional man who has refreshed himself too much in a tavern. They might be too interested in a man yelling for help.'
'Thank you,' I said. 'You be careful.'
Macfarlane tapped the round badge of the Society of Chairmen that was the only decoration on his sedan. 'You see that?' he indicated the motto. 'Honesty is the best policy' it read, with a crown at the top. 'We're honest men, MacGregor and me. That badge proves it.'
'Honest as a royal duke,' MacGregor agreed. 'Or a belted earl.'
'This fellow won't give us any trouble,' Macfarlane said. He touched a hand to his forehead in a gesture that was anything but servile. 'Now you don't even think about this fellow again, Miss Flockhart. He won't be bothering you or anybody else for a long time.'
'Please,' I said, 'don't kill him.'
'We're not murderers,' Macfarlane said. 'This fellow will be safe. We'll allow him back into the world sometime.' He grinned. 'Just when depends on him.'
Closing the cab of the sedan chair, they secured it with a small padlock, winked at me and each took hold of the poles. 'Good day to you, Miss Flockhart,' Macfarlane said as they lifted the chair and walked away.
Carrying a sedan chair seemed such an innocent occupation, yet these two rogues were engaged in kidnap and also in ensuring that an official trial for attempted murder did not take place. Without a witness to speak against him, Gibbie Elliot could not face a judge.
I nodded. Macfarlane had killed two birds with one stone and surely had released Marie from a great deal of heartache. I wondered anew who had given Turnbull his intelligence about me, and if I should expect another visitor with similar demands. If so, I knew now how to rid myself of the blackmailer. I wondered why I did not feel any guilt or fear for Turnbull's likely fate. Was I so hardened now?
'Mrs Macfarlane!' I shouted.
'Yes, Miss Flockhart?' Mrs Macfarlane looked so innocent it was hard to believe that she had just arranged for her husband to transport a man from Edinburgh to God knows where.
'I am going out for a while,' I said. 'I might not be back until tomorrow.'
'Yes, Miss Flockhart,' Mrs Macfarlane said. 'Are you going to try and see the captain?'
'No,' I said. 'That bird has flown from the nest.'
'He might fly back,' Mrs Macfarlane said.
I remembered the darkness in George's eyes and I knew the answer. 'He won't' I said. 'He may wish to, but he won't.'
That episode of my life was over. That hope was gone.
I had hoped to hire Mercury again but instead found myself driving a slightly battered gig out of Edinburgh and south-west to Flotterstone Manor. I was fortunate with the weather, a crisp, cold day with the surrounding fields glinting with frost and the Pentland ridge sharp-edged against a dark blue sky. Flotterstone Manor nestled in a pass into the hills, snug under Turnhouse Hill with about eight acres of policies and some ancient outbuildings. The butler who answered the door was red-faced and cheerful.
'You'll want the mistress, then,' he said at once. 'In you come.' He opened the door wide.
Elizabeth Campbell greeted me with a smile and an immediate offer of a bed for the night. 'There's rain on the way,' she said.
'I've come with good news for Marie,' I looked around the immaculate room with its furniture in the most up-to-date French fashion. Trust Elizabeth to have everything perfect.
'Oh,' Elizabeth poured me a claret and handed over the glass. The red liquid was welcome after my cold drive. 'I'm afraid she is not here.'
I sipped at the claret, wondering which smuggling lugger brought it in and what stories of adventure and daring we would never learn. 'Will she be back soon?'
'I don't think so, Dorothea. One of Gilbert's friends came for her. A tall, red-headed, raw-boned fellow I don't remember meeting.'
'Hector McAra.' I said the name as if it were the words of doom.
'That's the man!' Elizabeth said. 'He said he was looking after Tynebridge Hall while Gibbie was away.'
I remembered Weir's Inn with the gold coins glinting under the chandeliers and McAra's cold smile as he raked in all of Gibbie's possessions, including Marie. I wondered at Marie's naivety in accompanying McAra. 'When was that?' I asked.
'Three days ago,' Elizabeth said, 'yes, that's right, three days.' She puckered up her face. 'I thought it rather odd that he should come for Marie but this entire situation is a bit of a quiz, is it not?'
I shivered. Marie had been alone with McAra for three days in Tynebridge Hall while Gibbie had been locked away in the Heart of Midlothian, chained helplessly to the wall. 'I have to go to her,' I said.
I did not know what I intended doing when I got there, but I knew I must do something. Did I plan to rescue Marie? If so, how?
'I'm sure Mr McAra will look after her,' Elizabeth said. 'He sounded like a gentleman.'
'I'm sorry, Elizabeth,' I said. 'I must go now.'
'You've only just arrived! At least stay to eat,' Elizabeth said as I withdrew from that bright room to face the darkening day outside.
Elizabeth was right in one thing. The weather had taken a turn for the worse during the few minutes I had been inside her house and the early evening brought the first of what promised to be a deluge of rain. I pulled my cloak tight, hauled my hat over my head and crouched in misery over the reins.
I worked out my route as I drove, negotiating the network of old roads that crisscrossed the ancient countryside. The rain increased as darkness dragged storm-clouds fr
om the west, hammering at the body of the gig and lashing the puddles that spread across the surface of the road. It was about fifteen miles from Flotterstone to Crichton by the country roads, and each mile brought problems of slippery mud and deep puddles. I splashed and slowed and huddled deep under the flail of driving rain that soon turned to sleet that stung my face and hands.
Darkness comes early in a Scottish January, so I scratched a flint to light the gig-lamps as I approached the final few miles to Crichton. The yellow light pooled along the side of the road as I approached Tynebridge Hall.
The left-hand lantern flickered and then died. Pulling the horse to a halt, I dismounted and checked the oil. The reservoir was empty, and there was no spare in the boot of the gig. Cowering under the sting of the sleet, I pulled myself back into the driving seat and snapped the whip. I would have to continue with a single lamp.
We rolled on with the wind increasing, blasting the gig with pieces of twigs from the nearby trees and flattening the mane of my poor misused horse. I could not restrain my yelp as something crashed against my remaining lamp, nearly knocking it from its brackets and cracking the glass. Fortunately, the light still burned, so I was not driving blind. I continued, happier now that I was in familiar territory around Crichton and with the lamp hanging loose, now showing the muddy road, now the fields and woods at the side.
The lights of Tynebridge Hall showed intermittently through the madly thrashing trees, one second visible and the next gone as the branches swayed back and forward. My sole light showed the road leading to the hall. I eased the gig onto the approaches of the hump-back Royal Union Bridge and swore as my lantern flickered and finally died.
'Come on there!' I shouted to my horse, peering into the darkness ahead. Confident that I knew the lie of the road, I flicked the reins. 'Get along!'
I heard the rushing water as the River Tyne funnelled into the gorge beneath the bridge, and I pushed forward. For some reason I laughed, momentarily crazy as the gig rose up on the hump-backed bridge, and then I heard the terrible thunder as the water tore away the stone foundations of the ancient structure.
'Oh, dear God!' I hauled back on the reins. 'Stop! Stop!'
The horse gave a loud neigh as its hooves pawed empty air where the bridge should be. I felt the gig falter and then I was falling from my perch, forward into the dark. The cold water closed above my head, and I was struggling, carried forward in the current.
Chapter Fifteen
When I tried to scream for help, water rushed into my mouth, choking me, burning my chest as I swallowed in a mad attempt to drink the river away. The Tyne was terrifyingly cold and immensely powerful as it carried me down, battered me off a rock and tossed me head over heels along the course of the river. I struggled, trying to swim, trying to find a rock to cling to, trying to end my mad passage. I swallowed water, no longer thinking logically, not knowing what to do. I smashed into something substantial, realised it was the trunk of a tree trapped between two rocks, grabbed hold and clung on tight.
Gasping, I looked around, seeing only churning water and the darkness of rocks. I gagged, kicked with my feet and felt no bottom. My hands slipped on the wet wood as my strength gave out and I began to slide away. Was this death and the end of all my troubles? For a moment I was tempted to release my grip and allow the river to take me.
'Hold still!' I heard the voice. 'I'm coming for you!'
Water closed over my head. I clawed at the tree, feeling my fingernails bend and break. I could see nobody.
'Hold on!'
'I can't,' I tried to shout, and my grip eased away. I knew it was death and it did not matter. I let go and felt strong hands on my arms.
I struggled, kicking my feet and flailing my arms. 'Let me go,' I pleaded. 'Let me go.'
Something slapped me hard across the face, shocking me into stability. I gasped and tried to speak, only to swallow another mouthful of bitter cold water.
'Keep still!' That voice again, hard and commanding. This time I obeyed and felt somebody dragging me through the water. I could feel the river bed under my feet now and pushed on sliding stones.
'That's the way,' the voice encouraged. In the dark, I could not see who it was. It was a man for sure, a man with a white shirt. He pulled me out of the water and laid me face down on the banking. I retched, spewing water as he pummelled my ribs.
'You're killing me,' I said.
'Breathe!' my torturer ordered.
I tried to breathe, drawing great whooping dollops of air into my lungs, each one burning like liquid fire. I vomited again, getting rid of vast quantities of water with sounds and gestures that were anything but ladylike.
'That's the way, throw it all up.'
I gasped and heaved with my head splitting in pain and my throat and chest burning. 'Oh, dear God,' I said.
'That sounds healthy,' the man held me as I suffered. 'You're all right.'
'I don't feel all right,' I said.
'Better and better!' There was humour in the voice. 'Women never complain when they are ill, only when they are recovering.'
I wanted to slap this man who had saved my life.
'Come on.' I knew that voice. I wanted to find out who he was. He lifted me bodily in both arms and carried me along the bank of the river. I looked up.
'Doctor Hetherington,' I said.
'That's me,' the doctor agreed. 'Come now, and we'll get you somewhere dry and warm, or you'll end up with a pneumonic infection.'
'Doctor Hetherington,' I repeated. 'My horse?'
'You're more important than a horse,' the doctor said. 'We'll get you safe first.' He opened his front door with his foot and brought me inside. 'I seem to be in the habit of carrying you into my house.'
'Yes Doctor,' I said and was promptly sick over his floor.
'Let's get you out of these wet clothes to bed.' Doctor Hetherington sat me in one of the two chairs that stood on either side of his fire.
'No, no.' I shook my head. 'You can't. I must get to Tynebridge Hall and see Marie.'
'Not tonight,' the doctor said. 'Stay there until I can get the bed warmed up.' He poked the fire and added more coal. The flames shot up, orange-red and welcome.
'I must get to Marie.' I stood up, wavered and promptly fell. Doctor Hetherington picked me from the floor.
'Warm clothes and bed,' he said, 'and anything else can wait until morning.'
'No!' I fought him. I fought him with every ounce of my remaining strength as he stripped me naked and produced a large towel.
'Stand still!' His towelling was rough as first and gentled as I stopped struggling. He missed no part of me as I stood there, shivering in front of his fire, embarrassed beyond measure and not in the slightest afraid. 'You have many old scars, a few new bruises, cuts and abrasions but nothing's broken except two fingernails. Now, put this on.' He handed me a flannel nightshirt he had been warming over the back of his chair.
'That's yours,' I said.
'Yes.' Taking away the towel so for a moment I stood as naked as the day I was born, he draped the nightshirt over my head and pulled it down. It swamped me, being far too large yet very comfortable.
'There now,' for some reason Doctor Hetherington gave my hair a final rub with the towel and pulled it away from my eyes. 'You look very fetching. Now, get through the room and into bed with you.'
'You can't do this,' I said.
'In.' He lifted me as if I were a baby, carried me into his bedroom and rolled me between the covers. I had not seen him put the warming pan into the bed, but now he moved it away, leaving only the residual warmth.
'Marie,' I said.
'Go to sleep,' Doctor Hetherington said and tucked me up. I looked up at his battered face with that broken nose and wide mouth and knew he was by far the ugliest man I had ever seen, and I did not care.
I closed my eyes, still hearing the roar of the river, and then I drifted away to a place I had not been in for years. I felt my temperature rise and the visions returned. I
felt hands on me, and I screamed, kicking out. I did not see the doctor. I saw that other man from ten years and more ago on that terrible day in the grounds of Tynebridge Hall. I heard the baying of hounds and the mocking laughter of the hunters. I remembered the fear and my screams as I ran through the thorns and brambles of the undergrowth.
I screamed out then, and thrashed on that bed, with the leering faces peering down at me, laughing as the dogs pinned me to the ground. I cowered, trying to cover my face, trying to cover my person, howling in fear and pain.
The doctor was there, watching over me. He could not help me. Nobody could help me as I writhed; screaming as the men and laughing women surrounded me. I fought them, oh, God how I fought them, slashing with my nails and kicking as they ripped the shreds of clothes from me. I remembered my screams; they were real in that night of horror; they were the only thing I could control. I remembered the terror. I still do and always will.
I came back to reality sodden with perspiration and with the covers a tangled mess around me. Doctor Hetherington was looking at me with concern in his eyes. 'Hello, Miss Flockhart.'
'Hello, Doctor Hetherington.' I replied automatically and looked down at myself. 'I'm naked.'
'You had a fever,' the doctor gently removed the damp cover and placed a blanket over me. 'I had to cool you down.'
I closed my eyes. I could not think clearly.
'Now we have to get your strength back.'
'What day is it?' I looked around. Weak sunlight seeped through the window, catching motes of dust as it alighted on the doctor's face. He looked tired and had not shaved for some days. The stubble emphasised the firm line of his jaw and his high cheekbones.
'Tuesday, I think,' Doctor Hetherington said. 'Perhaps Wednesday.'
'What day did I come here?'
'Saturday.' Doctor Hetherington put a hand on my forehead. 'Rest now. You need food and sleep.'
'I can't,' I said. 'Marie is in danger.'
'You've been in some danger yourself,' Doctor Hetherington said. 'You have old scars on your body and in your mind.'
A Turn of Cards (Lowland Romance Book 3) Page 17