The Scottish Prisoner (59 page)

“I’m most honored by your request, sir. I promise you, I will execute the office to the very best of my ability.”

Dunsany’s withered face lighted with relief.

“Oh, you relieve my mind exceedingly, Lord John! I confess, the matter has been pressing upon me to a terrible degree.” He
smiled, looking much healthier. “Let us finish our ride and then go back for our tea; I believe I shall have an appetite for the first time in months!”

Grey smiled back and accepted the old baronet’s hand on the bargain, then followed him as they sped up to a canter past the ruffled waves of the mere. Movement in the distance caught his eye, and he saw a string of horses running down the slope of a distant hill, graceful and wild as a flurry of leaves, led by a horseman.

It was too far to be sure, but he was sure, nonetheless. He couldn’t take his eyes off the distant horses until they had rounded the bottom of the slope and disappeared.

Only then did his interrupted chain of thought restring itself. Yes, marrying Betty would make Jamie Fraser more comfortable at Helwater—but he need not stay at Helwater; it had been his choice to return. So it must in fact be Betty that drew him back.

“Well, bloody hell,” Grey muttered. “It’s his life.” He spurred up, passing Dunsany on the road.

JAMIE WAS SURPRISED
at how quickly Helwater reabsorbed him, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been. A farm—and Helwater was a working farm, for all its grand manor house—has a life of its own, with a great, slow-beating heart, and everything on a farm listens to that beat and lives to its rhythm.

He knew that, for the rhythm of Lallybroch was deep in his bones, always would be. That knowledge was both sorrow and comfort, but more of the latter, for he knew that should he ever go back, that familiar heartbeat would still be there.

 … and his place shall know him no more
, the Bible said. He didn’t think that was exactly what was meant; his place would always know him, should he come again.

But he would not come to Lallybroch again for a long time.
If ever
, he thought, but quickly put that thought out of his head. He turned his ear to the ground and felt the beating of Helwater, a quicker sound, one that would support him in his weakness, comfort him in loneliness. He could hear the speaking of its waters and the growing of the grass, the movement of horses and the silence of its rocks. The people were part of it—a more transient part, but not an unimportant part. And one of those was Betty Mitchell.

It couldn’t be put off. And one benefit of the inexorable daily rhythm of a farm was that the people were part of it. He lingered for a moment after breakfast, to speak to Keren-happuch, the middle-aged Welsh kitchen maid, who liked him in a reserved, thin-lipped, dour sort of way. She was deeply religious, Keren—as evidenced by her name—thought him a Roman heretic, and wouldn’t stand for carryings-on in any case, but when he told her that he had come back with news for Betty of a kinsman, she was willing to take his message. Everyone would know, of course, but under the circumstances, that wouldn’t matter. At least he hoped not.

And so in the quiet part of the afternoon, an hour before tea, he came to the kitchen garden and found Betty waiting.

She turned at his step, and he saw that she’d put on a clean fichu and a little silver brooch. She lifted her chin and looked at him under her straight dark brows, a woman not quite sure of her power but clearly thinking she had some. He must be careful.

“Mrs. Betty,” he said, bowing his head to her, formal. She had stretched out her hand, and he was obliged to take it but was careful not to squeeze or breathe on it.

“I came to tell ye about Toby,” he said at once, before she could say anything. She blinked and her gaze sharpened, but she left her hand in his.

“Toby Quinn? What’s happened to him, then?”

“He’s died, lass. I’m sorry for it.”

Her fingers curled over his and she gripped his hand.

“Died! How?”

“In the service of his king,” he said. “He’s buried safe in Ireland.”

She was plainly shocked but gave him a sharp look.

“I said how. Who killed him?”

I did
, he thought, but said, “He died by his own hand, lass,” and said again, “I’m sorry for it.”

She let go his hand and, turning, walked blindly for a few steps, put out her hand, and held tight to one of the espaliered pear trees that stood against the garden wall, spindly and vulnerable without its leaves.

She stood for some minutes, holding on to the branch, head bowed, breathing with a thickness in the sound. He’d thought she was fond of the man.

“Were you with him?” she said at last, not looking at him.

“If I had been, I should have stopped him.”

She turned round then, lips pressed tight.

“Not then. Were you with him when you … went away?” Her fingers fluttered briefly.

“Yes. Some of the time.”

“The soldiers who took you—did they catch
him
?”

“No.” He understood what she was asking: whether it was the prospect of captivity, transportation, or hanging that had made Toby do it.

“Then why?” she cried, fists curling. “Why would he do it?”

He swallowed, seeing again the tiny dark room and smelling blood and excrement. Seeing
“Teind”
on the wall.

“Despair,” he said quietly.

She made a small huffing sound, shaking her head doggedly to and fro.

“He was a Papist. Despair’s a sin to a Papist, isn’t it?”

“Folk do a great many things they think are sins.”

She made a little noise through her nose.

“Yes, they do.” She stood for a moment staring at the stones in the walk, then looked up suddenly at him, fierce. “I don’t understand at all how he could have—what made him despair?”

Oh, God. Guide my tongue
.

“Ye ken he was a Jacobite, aye? Well, there was a plot he was involved in—a great matter, with great consequences, did it either fail or succeed. It failed, and the heart went out o’ the man.”

She let out her breath in a sigh that sank her shoulders, seeming to deflate before his eyes. She shook her head.

“Men,” she said flatly. “Men are fools.”

“Aye, well … ye’re no wrong there,” he said ruefully, hoping that she would not ask whether he had been involved in the great matter—or why the soldiers had taken him to start with.

He needed to go before the conversation became personal. She took his hand again, though, holding it between both of hers, and he could see that she was about to say something he didn’t want her to say. He’d shifted his weight, about to pull loose, when he heard footsteps on the walk behind him, heavy and quick.

“What’s going on here?” Sure enough, it was Roberts, face flushed and lowering. Jamie could have kissed the man.

“I brought sad news to Mistress Betty,” he said quickly, taking back his hand. “The death of a kinsman.”

Roberts looked back and forth between them, clearly suspicious, but Betty’s air of shock and desolation was unfeigned and obvious. Roberts, who was not, after all, a stupid man, went rapidly to her, taking her by the arm and bending solicitously down to her.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

“I—yes. It’s only … oh, poor Toby!”

Betty was not stupid, either, and burst into tears, burying her face in Roberts’s shoulder.

Jamie, being the third wise party present, silently praised God and backed hastily away, murmuring inconsequent regrets.

The wind was cold outside the shelter of the kitchen garden, but he was sweating. He made his way back toward the stables, nodding to Keren-happuch, who was standing outside the kitchen garden, holding a vegetable basin and waiting patiently for the godless behavior inside the walls to cease.

“A death, was it?” she said, having obviously come along to ensure that his aim had not been wicked canoodling, after all.

“A sad death. Would ye say a prayer, maybe, for the soul of Tobias Quinn?”

A look of surprised distaste crossed her face.

“For a Papist?” she said.

“For a poor sinner.”

She pushed out her thin lips, considering, but reluctantly nodded. “I suppose so.”

He nodded, touched her shoulder in thanks, and went on his way.

The Church did call despair a sin, and suicide an unforgivable sin, as the sinner could not repent. A suicide was therefore condemned to hell, and prayers thus useless. But neither Keren nor Betty was a Papist, and perhaps their Protestant prayers might be heard.

For himself, he prayed each night for Quinn. After all, he reasoned, it couldn’t hurt.

The Fog Comes Down

BOWNESS-ON-WINDERMERE WAS A SMALL, PROSPEROUS
town, with a maze of narrow stone-paved streets clustered cozily in the town center, these spreading out into a gentle slope of scattered houses and cottages that ran down to the lake’s edge, where a fleet of little fishing boats swayed at anchor. It was a considerable coach ride from Helwater, and Lord Dunsany apologized for the effort required, explaining that his solicitor chose to live here, having left the London stews for what he assumed to be the bucolic pleasures of the country.

“Little did he know what sorts of things go on in the country,” Dunsany said darkly.

“What sorts of things?” Grey asked, fascinated.

“Oh.” Dunsany seemed mildly taken aback at being thus challenged, but furrowed his brow in thought, his cane tapping gently on the stones as he limped slowly toward the street where the solictor’s office lay.

“Well, there was Morris Huckabee and his wife—only it seemed she was, in fact, his daughter. And
her
daughter was in fact not Morris’s at all but born to the ostler at the Grapes, as the mother admitted in court. Now, ordinarily, the wife would
inherit—old Morris had died, you see, thus precipitating the trouble—but the question arose: was a common-law marriage (for of course the old creature had never gone through with a proper marriage, just told everyone she was his wife, and no one thought to ask for details) based on an incestuous relationship valid? Because if it wasn’t, you see, then the daughter—the wife daughter, I mean, not the daughter of the wife—couldn’t inherit his estate.

“Now, under those circumstances, the money would then normally pass to the child or children of the marriage, save that in this case, the child—the younger daughter—wasn’t really Morris’s, and while in law, any child born in wedlock is considered to be the child of that marriage, regardless of whether he or she was really fathered by the butcher or the baker or the candlestick maker, in
this
case …”

“Yes, I see,” Grey said hastily. “Dear me.”

“Yes, it was quite a revelation to Mr. Trowbridge,” Dunsany said, with a grin that showed he still had the majority of his teeth, if somewhat worn and yellowed with age. “I think he considered selling up and going straight back to London, but he stuck it out.”

“Trowbridge? I thought your solicitor was a Mr. Wilberforce.”

“Oh,” Dunsany said again, but less happily. “He was, indeed. Still is, for matters of conveyancing. But I did not quite like to employ him for this particular matter, you know.”

Grey did not know, but nodded understandingly.

Dunsany sighed and shook his head.

“I do worry about poor Isobel,” he said.

“You do?” Grey thought he must have missed some remark that established a relationship in the conversation between Mr. Wilberforce and Isobel, but—

“Oh!” Grey exclaimed himself. He’d forgotten that Lady Dunsany
had said that Mr. Wilberforce was paying considerable
attention
to Isobel—this remark being made in a significant tone that made it clear that Lady Dunsany had her doubts about Wilberforce.

“Yes, I see.” And he did. They were visiting the solicitor for the purpose of adding the new provision to Dunsany’s will, establishing Lord John’s guardianship of William. If Mr. Wilberforce had aspirations to Isobel’s hand in marriage, the last thing Lord Dunsany would want was for the lawyer to be familiar with the provisions of his will.

“Her sister’s marriage was so—” Dunsany’s lips disappeared into the wrinkles of his face, so hard pressed were they. “Well. I have concerns, as I say. Still, that is neither here nor there. Come, Lord John, we must not be late.”