Susan Johnson (45 page)

“When next he comes, tell him I’ll be at the cove
we spoke of every night. When he can, he should come for us.”

“Aye. Now go, for the agents are everywhere, and one canna always tell their ilk. Come back for a drink,” he added with a smile, taking Johnnie’s hand in his, “in safer times.”

“When Godfrey’s gone,” Johnnie said to the man he’d known since childhood.

“Aye. When the world’s a better place, my Lord.”

The days of waiting began, and the nights as well spent at Margarth Cove until each new morning brought fresh frustration. They moved lodgings often so they might appear as travelers and attract less notice, but with each change the risk of recognition increased. They lived with the fear that one day on entering a village in the confined environs of the cove, someone might identify them from their description being circulated up and down the coast. The price on Johnnie’s head inspired treachery.

Several days later their lodgings for the night were near enough to Margarth Cove that Johnnie suggested Elizabeth stay in their room while he waited on the shore. If Robbie appeared, he could be back within minutes to fetch her. If the ship didn’t arrive, she wouldn’t have to spend another night out in the bitter cold.

“I’d rather be with you,” she replied, more frightened alone. She’d begun having nightmares of Johnnie being torn from her arms; the delay in their rescue was wearing on her.

“You’re losing sleep every night,” he softly said, solicitude
in his voice. Her health was more fragile than his. “You could rest and be warm here inside; it might be several days yet before Robbie can get through the blockade. I can be back here in five minutes.”

Logically, she understood the reasonableness of his suggestion, and she struggled with her emotions. Reacting to dreams and uneasy feelings was not her normal, sensible way, so she agreed, although reluctantly. “I’ll wait here. But,” she added with a sudden smile, “I’m sleeping in my cloak.”

But when Johnnie began preparing to leave, taking up his weapons, putting on his heavy cape, she found it impossible to present a brave front. The strain of the past fortnight defeated her resolute attempt at fortitude, and she cried.

Her unhappiness tore at his heart, but he was equally concerned with her declining energies. “Just stay inside tonight, sweetheart,” he whispered, holding her in his arms, “and if Robbie doesn’t come, you can spend tomorrow night with me outside. Compromise?” It would at least give her one night’s respite from the cold, bone-chilling winds off the ocean.

“I hate being this way,” she sniffled, her tear-stained face lifted to his. “All weepy and clinging.” Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile, her lips quivering with the effort. “Just go now, and I’ll wait here by the fire.”

Their kiss was tender and sweet in the rough room so far from Goldiehouse, so distant from their former privileged lives. And they lingered in the warmth of each other’s embrace, his chin resting lightly on her head, their arms holding each other tight, reluctant to be separated, avoiding the last good-bye. Until Johnnie finally whispered, “I have to go.…”

He turned back at the door, to blow her a kiss. “And one for baby,” he said, sending another kiss across the dimly lit room. For a small moment he paused, his gloved hand on the latch as if he wanted to say more, then he smiled instead and opened the door.

After Johnnie left, Elizabeth paced, debating whether she could follow him, restless and agitated with the awful uncertainty of another night’s vigil, not knowing
whether she was capable of waiting here alone beset by solitary fears. She walked to the window and rubbed away the moisture on the glass, peering through the small aperture, seeing only solid darkness. There was no moon tonight, clouds having scudded in from the sea that afternoon, bringing squally weather ashore. She shivered, her fingers chilled on the cold pane, acknowledging the merit in Johnnie’s suggestion; she was glad she hadn’t gone out. The threat of snow hung in the air, errant flakes striking the window at intervals, as if in warning of a storm.

Moving to the fireplace, she sat down on a simple chair pulled up to the small grate, hands clasped in her lap, her feet tapping. Then, restless after a short time, she walked back to the window—as if she could see something in the dense blackness. As if her wishing would bring Johnnie back. She tried reading for a brief period, but the flickering tallow candles offered poor illumination; she abandoned the book in exasperation. And so the evening went in an uneasy fidgeting from chair to window and back again, her legs and back aching after hours on her feet, the baby persistently kicking in reaction to her agitated movement.

When the sudden knock on the door disturbed the silence, she went very still.

It was too late for anyone to be up. And Johnnie wouldn’t knock, she thought, feeling a shiver of fear race down her spine—he’d call out so she’d know his identity. Fainthearted, shaky, she didn’t answer, wishing like a child did with unreasonable simplicity that the sound was an ordinary mistake—a guest who had lost his way, perhaps. Although in these modest lodgings, with only three bedchambers, it would be difficult to get lost.

Standing rigid in the center of the room, she listened. A moment passed, and then several more. All was quiet; she began to relax.

And then the sudden clash and clang of metal hammering metal ruptured the quiet, the lock on the door quivering under the impact. A scream rose in her throat, instantly muted, an unconscious self-defense, and she raced for her cape she’d thrown on the bed. Perhaps the
attackers didn’t know she was inside; she might yet have time to escape through the window if the door held. Darting a glance toward the old wooden portal, she nervously focused on the hinges pulling away from the frame.

If it only lasted a few minutes more, she desperately hoped.

No longer concerned with subterfuge, men raised their voices in exhortations and harangues against the ancient wood and iron. For a stark moment a familiar voice struck her ears, extinguished in the next flashing moment by a burst of invective, the besiegers bickering over the means of entry. Against the shouting, clash, and banging and rending of wood, Elizabeth struggled with the lock on the small paned window, the old rusty mechanism stubbornly resistant to her strength. Her heart beating frantically, she wrenched the handle again with a vigorous effort, and a small piece of rust fell to the floor. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes at her weakness, and she jerked on the latch again with desperation and fury. A small crack in the corroded metal appeared; she threw her weight into another powerful tug, and the ancient clasp broke free. With a savage thrust of her hand she shoved against the moldy iron frame, and the window moved a few reluctant inches on its rusty hinges. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her hand, she gave the window another violent push … then another, until the creaky window spread open enough to allow her egress.

Now if the door would just resist a few seconds more, she fervently prayed, dragging a chair up to the opened casement.

Just as she was balancing her ungainly weight to step up on the chair, the door crashed open, swinging away lopsidedly on its single remaining hinge, banging then dangling against the wall. Soldiers burst into the room, the first still armed with the iron bars they’d used to force the door.

She lunged up onto the chair, intent on throwing herself out the window, preferring the unknown, however perilous, to her rough attackers. But the room was scarcely a dozen feet wide, and before she could maneuver her bulk complete with dragging skirts and voluminous
cape through the window, a rough hand was dragging her back. She struggled against his grip, but the heavyset soldier shoved her into the chair she used as a ladder, held her there with his elbow at her throat and, reaching around her, pulled the window shut.

The small room filled with soldiers as she slumped in the chair, feeling slightly faint after her strenuous physical exertions, trying to concentrate on her breathing so she didn’t lose consciousness. And intent on subduing her dizziness, she didn’t notice the gradual suppression of conversation until the room had become totally silent. She looked up as the sudden hush struck her to see the throng of men slowly part in two.

Her father stood on the destroyed threshold.

“Where is he?” he said, harsh and chill, his eyes like ice.

“I don’t know,” she replied in a tone only audible because of the utter quiet. Then she straightened her back almost in reflex reaction to the presence of her father, drew air into her lungs so her voice was stronger and lifted her chin. “And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you,” she said, her uncertainty of the black unknown vanished, her personal fear evaporated before this familiar adversary. When she added, “He left three days ago,” her eyes were as cold as his.

“Amusing,” her father curtly snapped. “Your landlord of course doesn’t agree.” Surveying the crowded room with all the curious faces trained on him, he said to his men with an imperious gesture, “Check the room for weapons and then wait below.”

“Maybe you didn’t pay the landlord enough for the truth,” Elizabeth mockingly replied, unconcerned with public disclosure of his deceit. “You’d understand that particular subtlety better than most, I expect.” Her expression matched his for imperiousness.

“He left you like that then.” His eyes swept her swollen form.

“It’s his habit, I believe.”

“And you’re dwelling in this hovel for …?” The room had emptied now so his gaze could take in the full
measure of the meager furnishings, the limited dimensions.

“For what I’d hoped would be deliverance from you. You generally prefer a more refined milieu.”

“He’s made you love him, it seems, for you to so blatantly protect him. We’ll have to see you’re properly schooled before the trial. A reluctant wife is more to our advantage.”

“You mean the verdict isn’t decided yet?” she said. “I find such nicety of principle out of character for you. It must be Queensberry’s discriminating political acumen that insists on a trial. You’ll understand,” she added, “if I don’t wish you luck in finding him.”

“We’ve four squadrons out. We won’t need luck. Is that Ravensby’s shirt, or have you taken on new habits?” Harold Godfrey’s gaze rested on Johnnie’s wool shirt hanging on the bedpost.

“He left it for me. It’s warm.”

“How chivalrous. Although I suppose his resources are more limited these days. He was formerly conspicuous for his largess to his lovers.”

“He was formerly a wealthy man.”

“Yes, well … such are the vagaries of fortune.” Her father’s faint smile was unpleasant. “Now if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I must see to our planned welcome. In case,” he said with delicate emphasis, “my Lord Carre is still in the vicinity.”

But he left two soldiers at the door to guard her, and when he returned some time later, he had the hinges hastily renailed so the door was back in place. Then, drawing up a chair by the small fireplace, he sat down, stretched out his legs, crossed them at the ankle, and gave every indication he intended to stay.

He didn’t invite his daughter to join him at the fire, nor would she have if asked. In the shadowed silence of the room she racked her brain for some means of warning Johnnie. Would he spy the troopers or recognize a discrepancy in the door despite the unlighted passageway? Would Robbie have come and Johnnie not be alone when he returned? Could she stand by the window and hope he’d question her presence there? But the few tallow
candles guttered low in their holders. The only light soon would be from the grate, not conducive to a clearly visible image through the wet panes. And as if her father had been reading her thoughts, he curtly said. “Move away from the window.”

She didn’t.

Glancing over to her, he leisurely recrossed his legs. “You won’t be able to warn him, my foolish girl,” he quietly said into the fire, “because he’ll come for you regardless of the danger. The fool should have left you at Goldiehouse and run for the coast. He might have saved himself. But he wouldn’t leave you then, and he won’t leave you now. So you can stand there if you wish, or scream warnings when you hear his footfall, or do anything you think might help, but he’ll come for you. You’re our bait.”

“Take all my money,” she quickly said, urgency in her tone. “I’ll sign it over to you immediately if you let him go.”

There was the minutest pause before he said, “I don’t need your money now.” His voice in contrast to hers was mild, almost engaging. “I’ll have some rather large estates gifted to me once the trial is over,” he softly added.

“What if he can defend himself?” Elizabeth swiftly proposed. “What if you lose? You could have my money
now
 … without the uncertainty of a trial.”

Her father looked over at her briefly. “The jury has already been selected.” He laughed, a pleasant sound if one didn’t know his history. “Save your money for the lawyers.”

At least Johnnie would be alive, she thought, taking heart. He would remain alive tonight and tomorrow and all the days of the trial.

But she preferred him to escape. Later, when she heard his familiar tread in the passageway, she screamed in a pealing cry so the shrill words tore at her throat, “Get out, Johnnie! Run! Run! They’re here!”