Some Enchanted Evening Page 26

  The Scottish sun had shown its favor for the MacKenzies for the last four days, shining brightly on their ball and all its mechanisms. Now it was gone, hidden behind a clabbering of gray clouds that bespoke an incoming storm. The wind whipped the veil on her hat and slapped at her cheeks, obstructing her journey as it changed direction and pushed the horse from one side to the other.

  Freya Crags seemed quiet when she cantered across the bridge, not at all as it had the first time she rode into town. Yet she felt a pang of longing. This was where she had met Robert for the first time. She had feared him then. Feared his attraction. Feared his darkness. Now she missed him, wished that he would hurry back from Edinburgh to answer the questions that plagued her.

  Did he love her, or was she nothing more than a passing fancy?

  The Freya Crags market was gone. A few men stood in a huddle and gossiped. A woman carried buckets of water hung from a yoke around her neck. The old fellows, wrapped in shawls, huddled out of the wind in front of the alehouse and waved a hearty welcome. She waved back and threw them a kiss but headed toward Mistress Dubb’s shop. Yet they called her, and after a moment of hesitation she indicated she would come and speak to them. She knew that before ten minutes had passed, Amy would hear that she was in the village, and perhaps Amy might like the warning.

  The princess is in town, Mistress Dubb would report.

  Would Amy rush out to meet Clarice? Or would she sulk in a dark corner of the shop and wait for Clarice to approach her?

  Poor Amy. And poor Clarice, who didn’t know how to make everything right. She didn’t think there was a way.

  She walked Blaize to the stables and delivered him, with a payment of coin, to be placed in a warm stall and given a rubdown.

  Then she strolled to the alehouse, smiling at the five old men because they deserved her full attention.

  They stood as she approached, and bowed. “Hamish MacQueen. Henry MacCulloch. Gilbert Wilson. Tomas MacTavish. Benneit MacTavish,” she recited.

  “Yer Highness, ye remember our names!” Henry said in astonishment. He always spoke too loudly. She remembered that from the first time they’d met.

  “But of course.” She caught Gilbert as he bowed and once again almost toppled over. “I make it a point to remember the names of all the handsome gentlemen I meet.”

  They beamed.

  “Did ye come fer yer game o’ checkers?” Tomas asked.

  Helping Tomas into his seat, she said, “I don’t think I should. I’m distracted today, and I fear I would play badly.”

  Tomas rubbed his papery hands together. “All the better.”

  She laughed aloud and shook her finger at him. “A terrible man, you are.” She liked the sounds of their voices: gravelly with age and warm with the Scottish accent. She thought that Robert would sound like them someday, and she wondered if she would be there to hear it.

  “Ye’re looking sad, Yer Highness.” Hamish fumbled with the sleeve on his amputated arm. “What’s wrong?”

  The pins had come loose, and she could see he was embarrassed by his disarray. Looking into his eyes, speaking calmly and directly, she said, “Mr. MacQueen, your sleeve has come undone. Might I help you put it back together?” She didn’t wait. She took the loose pins and threaded them through the material to close the gap. “If you’ll bring me your shirts, I’ll sew buttons and buttonholes at the ends of your sleeves. Then you won’t have to fool with these wretched pins.”

  “A princess shouldn’t ha’e t’ sew my buttons,” Hamish sputtered.

  She didn’t ask him who would. For all she knew, he might have outlived his entire family. Instead, she said, “I like to sew, and I like you. That makes my work doubly blessed.”

  “Eh?” Henry cupped his ear and turned to Benneit.

  Benneit shouted, “She says she’s going t’ sew Hamish’s shirts.”

  Henry pounced. “So, Yer Highness, ye’re going t’ stay at MacKenzie Manor?”

  She tried to think of what to say. Would Robert ask her to stay? In the end she did nothing more than shake her head. “I don’t know.”

  The old men exchanged speaking glances.

  She would have liked to know what they were speaking about.

  With an assumption of ease she seated herself on the stool before the checkerboard. “I would like to order us all an ale. Where’s the owner of the alehouse?”

  Tomas chortled and rocked back in his chair so far, she thought she was going to have to catch him again.

  “She found herself unexpectedly busy.” Gilbert put his finger over his lips to mime silence.

  By that she assumed the old men were being discreet.

  But before she could press them for the gossip, Hamish advised, “Yer Highness, strong wind blowing from the east.”

  “What?” She turned and found herself staring at Mistress Dubb, making her way across the square from her seamstress shop.

  Clarice’s heart leaped with delight. Amy wanted to see her.

  But that was foolish. Mistress Dubb wouldn’t run Amy’s errands.

  Mistress Dubb reached Clarice and creaked into a curtsy. “Yer Highness, what a pleasure t’ have ye here in Freya Crags once again. Have ye come t’ give this auld face a treat?”

  “I have,” Clarice assured her. “But first I was hoping to speak to Miss Rosabel.”

  Mistress Dubb puffed like a teakettle. “That awful thing. I don’t want t’ talk aboot her.”

  Clarice half rose in alarm. “Why?” What had Amy done now?

  Mistress Dubb pulled a long face. “She left me in the lurch wi’ half a dozen orders and na way t’ fill them, that’s why.”

  A surge of panic brought Clarice all the way to her feet. “What do you mean, she left? She couldn’t have left.”

  “I tell ye, she’s gone,” Mistress Dubb said.

  “Where? When?” Clarice demanded fiercely.

  The old men were nodding.

  “Yesterday, but she left wi’oot a word t’ me, so I dunna know anything else.” With a beefy hand Mistress Dubb pushed Clarice back onto the stool. “Dunna blame yerself.”

  Clarice gaped at her and feeling weak, sat without a whimper.

  “Dunna go thinkin’ that because ye made her pretty she decided she could go out in the world and find herself a man.”

  “Oh.” Clarice’s breath exploded from her in a rush. “You’re speaking of that. No, I never thought—”

  “Although it’s true, is na it?” Mistress Dubb lectured without ceasing. Lectured without understanding. “Pretty girls always find the men. When I was young, I found them—or, rather, they found me. That’s what I was hoping ye could do fer me, was make me pretty again—”

  Clarice couldn’t bear the sound of that voice anymore. She cut her off with an abrupt, “Did anyone see what direction she was going?”

  “Nay.” From her bosom Mistress Dubb pulled a paper sealed with a blob of wax and handed it to Clarice. “But maybe ’tis in this letter she left fer ye.”

  The seal had been tampered with, although not broken. Clarice raised her disbelieving gaze to Mistress Dubb, and her eyes must have held some royal power, for the guilty seamstress muttered as she scuttled away, “Dropped it. I’ll leave ye here t’ read it.”

  Dread in her heart, Clarice weighed the letter in her hand.

  Henry gestured kindly. “Go on. Read yer letter.”

  Breaking the seal, Clarice perused Amy’s beautiful handwriting:

  Dear, best, kind Clarice,

  I told you I did not want to be a princess anymore. I know you did not believe me, but it is true. I hate waiting for my life to start and knowing that I’m ill suited for that life. Why? Because I’ve been free to wander the countryside, to speak to normal people, to see the worth of work.

  I am not willing to live the kind of life we’ve been leading. So I am going away to somewhere where no one knows me, where I can learn who I really am and what I am capable of.

  Do not worry. I know, you b
elieve that you must. But search your mind. Be fair. You know I’m capable of caring for myself. I always go into town before you. I always find a situation of steady work in a respectable shop. I promise you, I will be cautious and intelligent, for I have learned from a brilliant teacher—you, dear Clarice.

  I beg you, please do not try to find me. I promise that as soon as I am settled, I will put an advertisement in the papers and assure you of my well-being, and I have faith we will see each other again.

  If you truly wish it, may you find your way back to Beaumontagne, marry a prince, and live happily ever after. I know you think I know nothing because I am your younger sister—

  “I don’t think that,” Clarice protested, but with a sinking heart, she knew it was true.

  —but if you ask me, you are too vibrant to suffer such a fate, so think well before you return.

  Until then, I hope you stumble on whatever it is you truly seek. Farewell, dear sister, farewell.

  Lovingly, your sister forever, Amy Rosabel

  In an effectual disarray Clarice crumpled the paper, trying to get a breath, trying to understand what had happened. “Amy,” she whispered. “Amy.” Her baby sister. Out in the world by herself, searching for something that didn’t exist. An identity beyond princess…there was no such thing. Amy couldn’t pretend to be one of the common crowd. Why would she even want to be like…like Mistress Dubb, or these old gentlemen? They worked so hard for so little, and were tied to a village or a city and a family or…well, all right, princesses were tied to a country too, and bound by endless ceremony. They had their husbands chosen for them and were judged solely by their abilities to breed sons. Clarice had tried to convince Amy being a princess was all wonderful, although she had known in her heart that it wasn’t.

  But royalty was their duty—and their fate.

  Henry broke into her musings. “Miss Rosabel, yer sister, isna she?”

  Dumbfounded, Clarice stared at the old man. “Did she tell you that?”

  “Nay. The little lass kept t’ herself mostly,” Gilbert said.

  Gently Henry said, “But when ye get t’ be as auld as we are, ye ha’e naught t’ do but observe the people around ye, and ye get guid at it.”

  “Womanish talent,” Benneit grumped.

  Henry ignored him. “So we noticed that ye and she ha’e similar ways aboot ye, and when ye talk and she talks, sometimes there’s the faintest hint o’ a faraway land in yer voices.”

  Clarice couldn’t see the sense in lying. The old men weren’t going to snitch on her. “She is my sister. She’s a princess too.” She held out the crumpled remains of the letter. “And she’s gone. If she would have waited, we would have gone back to Beaumontagne and everything would have been very well.”

  “But if ye didna go back t’ yer kingdom, ye could do whatever ye liked.” Gilbert leaned forward. “Ye could be a spinster and live in a cottage.”

  Amy wanted to do that, or so she had said. For the rest of her life she wanted to design clothes, beautiful clothes for the wealthy women to wear.

  Henry added, “Or ye could wed a wealthy man and be verra happy fer the rest o’ yer days.”

  “A wealthy, titled man.” Hamish waved his single hand. “Say…an earl.”

  Subtle they weren’t, and an idea sprang to life in Clarice’s mind. It wasn’t Amy she thought of, but herself. If she, Clarice, weren’t a princess, what would she want to do? To know that no country depended on her existence. To choose her husband based on something besides his pedigree. To be just Clarice, with no title weighing her down…inevitably her thoughts went to Robert. If she weren’t a princess…if he weren’t a Scottish earl…

  “Ye know, a princess should be free t’ follow her heart.” Hamish coaxed her along, trying to make her see things his way.

  “A princess owes it t’ the rest o’ us t’ ha’e a happy ending,” Benneit said.

  “Womanish,” Henry mocked him.

  “Shut yer maw,” Benneit said. “Can’t ye see she’s thinking aboot it?”

  She loved Robert so much. Because of that love, she had done one selfish thing. She had given in to the need she sensed in him and lain with him, and when she did, he had filled a need in her she hadn’t known existed. They were each illustrious people on their own, but together they were remarkable. They were happy. They were whole.

  Catching sight of the letter in her hand, she smoothed out the wrinkled sheets and a few hot tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Yet how could she think of herself now?

  The old men gathered around and awkwardly patted her back. “There, there,” they said. And, “It’s fer the best.”

  Maybe they were right. Maybe it was for the best. Amy didn’t want to be found. If Clarice went after her, Amy would resist returning, and Clarice couldn’t force her. Didn’t even want to force her. She wanted Amy to have what Amy wished, and if that included her freedom, then Clarice had to stand before Grandmamma’s throne and, for her sister, lie like a trooper.

  Of course, because Amy had her freedom, and because they didn’t know where Sorcha was, Clarice would have to do her duty. She would go back to Beaumontagne. She would marry whoever was chosen for her. She would breed sons who would inherit the throne.

  She couldn’t live for Robert or with Robert, so for Amy’s sake Clarice would ride away from Robert MacKenzie and never look back. If, fifty years from now, she still cried into her pillow at night, well, that was the burden a princess carried.

  Sniffing, she straightened her shoulders. “All right. I’ve come to a decision.”

  Clearly delighted, Henry said, “I knew ye’d see things our way!”

  From across the bridge she heard shouting.

  Gilbert studied her. “I dunna know that she’s seeing things our way.”

  “She has t’ see love is more important than anything else,” Tomas argued.

  The yelling grew louder.

  Clarice paid little attention. “There are different kinds of love. One is a love of duty and of honor. Hepburn knows that love. So do I.”

  Now the yelling made her stop to look. It penetrated even Henry’s hearing, bringing his head around. It wasn’t a pleasant sound, this shouting. It was discordant, containing a current of fury that caused Clarice to rise.

  Shuffling their feet, the old men strained their eyes to see across the bridge—where, stomping in the lead, came that bully Clarice had met the first day she came to Freya Crags. The man who’d made fun of her, bet her ten pounds she couldn’t make Amy pretty, then sneaked away before she could make him pay. What was his name?

  Hamish spit on the ground, a crude and scornful statement. “We’ve got trooble. It’s little Billie MacBain.”

  Billie waved his fists, his face screwed into a wild triumph. Behind him marched soldiers. English soldiers. And striding beside Billie MacBain…dear Lord!

  Clarice staggered backward.

  Beside Billie MacBain marched Magistrate Fairfoot, the man from whom she’d stolen Blaize. Tall, distinguished-looking, he carried the weight of his office on him and had a twist of cruelty to his mouth.

  “English knaves,” Henry bellowed, but this time there was so much shouting, no one heard him except for his friends and Clarice.

  “They’re hunting me.” Clarice shouldn’t panic. She’d been in worse straits. “It’s me they want.”

  The old men didn’t look shocked or ask her what she’d done wrong. Benneit said, “Then we’d best get ye oot o’ here before they can get their filthy hands on yer royal person.”

  Some of the villagers, women mostly, trailed after the English. The soldiers carried muskets over their shoulders, and they glanced about as if they would love to fire on the crowd.

  “Oot the back o’ the alehouse.” Hamish urged Clarice toward the dim interior. “There’s an alleyway behind the shop.”

  Her heart thundered in her chest. This was what she feared. This was her nightmare.

  Gilbert said, “Don’t worry, Ye
r Highness. We’ll point them in the wrong direction.”

  She looked again at the oncoming troop. She swallowed. She nodded. “Thank you.” She ran for the inside of the alehouse, calling back, “Thank you!”

  As she freed the latch, she was already planning how to get to Blaize. She wouldn’t be able to saddle him, but she could use the mounting block and ride him bareback. They’d take the paths across the countryside, ride toward MacKenzie Manor….

  Her lungs hurt as if she’d already run for miles.

  No. No, she couldn’t go back to MacKenzie Manor. Fairfoot would hunt her down there, denounce her as a criminal, and tell the ladies they had been defrauded. They’d be willing to hang her themselves.

  Robert wasn’t there to save her.

  Besides, she couldn’t go running to Robert. Not now. Not ever.

  Poking her head out the door, she checked the alley. It was empty. The soldiers hadn’t planned ahead. They hadn’t covered her escape.

  Quietly she closed the door behind her. The wind whistled through the alley, tearing at her hair, chilling her bones. Clutching the lapels of her jacket, she kept her head down and hurried to the corner.

  With any luck she’d be gone before Magistrate Fairfoot realized she wasn’t in the shop. Before he got his filthy hands on her, used her as an example to all the women in his district, and raped and hanged her.

  Her heart thumped in her chest. She could make it. With each step she became more sure. She was going to make it.

  She turned the corner.

  And ran right into Colonel Ogley’s arms.

  Twenty-eight

  He who lies down with dogs shall rise with fleas.

  —THE OLD MEN OF FREYA CRAGS

  The next morning, as Robert approached MacKenzie Manor, he reflected with satisfaction on a ring in his saddlebag. He didn’t know if its beauty was enough to entice Clarice to marry him, especially after the way he’d treated her in bed…well, he had enjoyed that. In fact, he’d never been so close to heaven.