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Chapter Fifteen

Kelso June 1724

I began to move slowly through the weeks, as if through wet sand. I startled at sudden noises or even when my name was called.

Eventually, after a few attempts, I sewed Mrs Baxter’s new lace trim onto her best cape. It took a long while, for I would go to bed exhausted each night – a new exhaustion that threatened to sink me to the floor. The baby whirred and buzzed inside me, on and off, but I felt no great love or bond, only fear. My stomach grew and I was sure I would be found out any day. I counted the days and months, back and forth, and calculated that I must leave Kelso by the end of July or the beginning of August, for I would be due to give birth around the second or third week of September.

My sewing was as haphazard as my thoughts. Mrs Baxter did not like the way the cape sat on her shoulders when she tried it on. It was a Saturday morning and she was keen to look her best at kirk the following day, as she and Mr Baxter were hosting a Sunday lunch. The parlour was to be closed to anyone but those invited. The guest list included the minister and his wife and some of the finer folks of Kelso. The Baxters were always keen to show everyone that the River Inn was a place of good repute. We were in my room.

‘Unpick this lace,’ she said, scowling at herself in my looking glass. ‘It’s too frilly. I can’t go to kirk like this.’ Then, alas, she spied my rouge pot. ‘What whoreish ointment is this?’ she cried. She towered over me, grasping my face and looking for traces of whoreish ointment. Mercifully there were none, as I had not been out that day.

‘It’s not mine, it was left by Mrs Rose,’ I replied truthfully.

‘Have you ever entertained a patron in this room?’ she demanded, looking about her as if there might be more traces of whoreishness.

‘Never,’ I declared. ‘And I never will, Mrs Baxter. For my ma always said men bring nothing but trouble.’

She gave a tight little nod of her head and ran her eyes up and down the length of me. I clenched everything, hoping she would not notice the swelling around my middle. Her eyes lingered there, but she said nothing.

‘Men do bring trouble,’ she went on. ‘But only if you let them. Practise your psalms. You will find all the teachings there that you need. And unpick that lace.’

Kirk was dull and I knew all the psalms. Fisher folk are God-fearing folk. There is not much that will put the fear of death into you more than watching a tide swell under a black sky, waiting for your menfolk to come home safe. So there are not many psalms I’m unfamiliar with, and Mrs Baxter seemed appeased by that.

Afterwards we rushed home at a quick trot to get lunch laid out. Cook had already boiled a ham ’til it was falling off the bone and she only needed to do the cabbage. By the time the guests filed in, glorious in their states of grace and ravenous for their roast, the parlour had been swept of pipe ash and dropped dice and aired out, and the tables were assembled together and scoured of any stale ale. I was to serve, not sit, and in return I was to be given my own plate in my room for a quiet lunch, which suited me. Truth is, I hardly got any time on my own and I needed thinking-time. Thinking was precious to me. It was the time when I could run through my worries and, most importantly, plan.

But first I was to dish out buttered cabbage and pleasantries.

A pompous-looking gentleman sat near the top of the table, next to the minister. I noticed him straight away, for he was the tallest man in the room, with shiny silvery hair and sharp shoulders. He carried his chin at a high tilt and looked down his nose at everyone. When it came time for me to pour him his water, he fixed me with a cold, unblinking stare and his eyes followed my bosom as I leaned over, saying nothing.

Well, what can you do about that? Not much, so I glared at him and when I went back into the kitchen, I made sure my apron was as high as it could be and I was showing no hint of flesh.

Cook sent me out again with the wine bottle, and of course the silver-haired fellow’s eyes lit up at that.

‘Pour me a generous splash,’ he murmured when I got round to him. I kept my eyes on the bottle, but I felt his bore into me. ‘I’ve seen you around Kelso, from time to time,’ he said. ‘My name is Dr William McTavish.’

McTavish! The wicked Mrs Rose’s so-called uncle? The man she feared had murdered his own wife?

He held out his glass and pursed his lips. He wore a jet-black ring that gleamed lavishly. His hands were slender, with the longest fingers I had ever seen.

A chill raced through me. It must be him. A lewder grin I had never seen; it practically salivated. The Baxters must be turning some blind eye to his antics, to have him at their Sunday table.

‘A pleasure to meet you, sir,’ I lied, ‘I am Mistress Maggie Dickson.’

‘And you are the Baxters’ new maid, eh? Come all the way down here from the fishing ports or somesuch, is that right?’ he asked, a curve of amusement on his lips, his tongue flickering between them. He sipped his wine and put his glass down, readying himself for an answer.

‘I am indeed, sir, from Fisherrow,’ I replied meekly, for I did not want to upset this gent and end up poisoned, even though I was desperate to find out if he had any news of the wicked Mrs Rose.

‘A bleak place, I’ve heard,’ he mused. ‘Although the oysters are second to none. I have rooms in Edinburgh very near Fishmarket Close. I do like to choose my own seafood. Selecting shellfish is not a job I would trust to a servant.’

‘And you are a physician,’ I said, for I was thinking in the back of my mind that although I would not like to trust this man with my life, one day I might have to, if there was a problem with the birth.

‘I practise regularly in Edinburgh,’ he observed, ‘for the monies are better there. Anyway, enough of this small talk, for I believe that we have a mutual friend.’

‘Mrs Rose,’ I said. ‘But she was not my friend, for she stole all my money, and all the town knows it.’

His eyes darted about the room to see if we were being overheard, but the minister was deep in conversation with Mrs Baxter.

‘Tell me, have you heard anything of her since?’ he asked.

‘Not a word,’ I told him. ‘But I am keen for news.’

‘Well, that makes two of us – you and me both – for I am most keen for news of her. And if you do hear of her, I would like you to tell me, would you do that?’

I assured him I would, although I did not fancy Mrs Rose’s chances if he ever caught her. Mibbie he would poison her, like his poor wife Kitty. Good.

His lewdness had shrunk away now, leaving something else – a look of bitterness. I knew, then, that whatever Mrs Rose had done to me, she had infuriated the doctor. ‘Well, Mistress Dickson, if you are ever in need of any tinctures or sleeping draughts, pay me a visit. Mrs Rose swore by laudanum for her nerves; ladies often do, and I do not charge a fortune for it.’

I hoped I would never need his attentions and I did not want him staring at me any more, for if he was any sort of doctor, he might realize I was with child. By now, the rest of the table were rattling for their wine, so I excused myself and went to fill their cups, making sure my apron hung nice and loose over me.

But my hands shook. He had frightened me, this gent. There was something off about him. I could just see him slipping his inconvenient wife a draught of something deadly. Here you go, Kitty, this will help your nerves. I was not surprised, now, that Mrs Rose had run away from him. If I was her, I would have done the same. I could not forgive her for taking my money, but mibbie she was running for her life.

When I went back into the kitchen, Cook asked if I was all right and I said I was perfectly well, but I did not like the look of Dr McTavish.

Cook surveyed the kitchen door to make sure she would not be overheard. ‘Stay clear of him,’ she warned. ‘There are all sorts of rumours about him. It’s hard to tell what’s true and what’s made up.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ I replied.

Where is Mrs Rose? I wondered. In London most likely, in lodgings I ought to have been in, living the life I ought to be living right now. I tried not to feel bitter about it all, but much later on, when lunch was scoffed and the guests stuffed full and sent home, and the dishes done, I sat on my narrow little bed, eating a cold plate of ham and cabbage leftovers. I could not help a wave of fury about the women who had betrayed me. My own sister, and the whore Mrs Rose.

What was to become of me?

It was early summertime now. A cool, greeny summer when the days were growing to their longest.

I had a pile of coins, for Mrs Baxter paid me every week, and it was growing too. By the end of July it would be enough.

I also had one pair of boots, in need of minor repairs. Two shawls. One bonnet. Four gowns, including my navy wedding gown, all of which had been let out. Assorted petticoats and knickers, in various states of rag.

I had bought things for the birth too. Things I would need. Linens, for I knew there would be blood. And the baby would need to be dressed, whether I kept it or left it on a church doorstep. So I had bought another bolt that could be cut up for tail-clouts and swaddling, and a box of pins. There was something else, also. A little baby bonnet in pure white wool with creamy silk ribbons. I had seen it at the market and could not stop myself from handing over a penny and slipping it into my creel.

The next morning, Monday, brought silver cloud and a bold gust of wind about it. I rose with it. I stole downstairs, out into the stables, and asked Jack the ostler for a quiet word.

Jack was a shy fellow, small and wiry, who never said much to anyone, not even to Mr Baxter, for I often heard him bemoan the fact. ‘Jack chats away to the horses all day long, but all I get from him are grunts,’ he would rumble. Mrs Baxter would soothe him and say it did not matter, for Jack was hired for his gentleness with beasts, not for his conversational skills.

Jack looked uneasy at the prospect of a quiet word with me. He rested his weight on his sweeping brush, seeming not to know which hand to hold it in.

‘I need you to keep a secret,’ I said. The stables were bustling. A cart was being loaded up for the road.

Jack nodded, looking even more uneasy.

‘The coach driver, the one who brought me here,’ I went on. ‘How often does he come here, would you say?’

Jack sucked his teeth and passed his sweeping brush from one hand to the other a few more times.

‘I would say he comes here once every few weeks or so,’ he finally declared.

‘And have you seen him recently?’ I asked. ‘For I haven’t, but I might have missed him.’

‘He’s not been back awhile,’ said Jack. ‘Are you looking for him?’

‘I am indeed,’ I replied. ‘Only to have a word. So when he does next come back, can you be sure and find me and let me know?’

Jack nodded.

‘And is he a regular, would you say? Are you certain he will call again in the next few weeks?’

‘Come to think of it, I would,’ said Jack. ‘He always likes to have a full coach, whether it be passengers or mail or parcels, so he might be holding off to make his journey worth the while, but he has passed through here for many years now, as long as I’ve worked here.’

I thought Jack chatted very well indeed, and wondered if mibbie Mr Baxter just did not know what to ask him to get a decent bit of conversation out of him.

‘Thank you, Jack. Now this is our secret, do you understand?’

He nodded again, firmly this time. ‘Well, if that will be all, Mistress Dickson, I have a lot of hay to sweep this morning and horses to feed,’ he replied.

That was all. I was back to the scullery before anyone could miss me, to launder bed sheets, a job that would make my arms ache, but never mind. That coach driver had said he would still take me to London. I would hold him to his word.

I was pegging the bed sheets onto the washing line and they were looking as clean as I could really get them, these being the sheets of a travellers’ inn where dirty feet and unwashed bodies leave unfortunate grime, when Mrs Baxter came to find me and send me out on yet another errand.

‘We’re at the end of the salt packet,’ she said. ‘And the grocery boy is not due. We can’t do a stew without salt. Can you go and find some? There’s usually a salt-seller on the south corner of the market.’

Off I went, drying my hands on my skirts. I could not carry on like this, though. I ached. I longed for a confinement. Imagine it, lounging on a bed all day.

I dragged myself up the street towards the salt-seller. But I did not make it that far. For just a few feet from the market square, as I was passing the dark mouth of an alleyway, a hand reached out and grabbed my arm.