Page 56 of The Wild Rose of Kilgannon (Kilgannon #2)

TWENTY-TWO

“W e buried Angus in a snowstorm, but I don’t think Matthew noticed,” wrote Gilbey.

“He stood over his father’s cairn until we led him away, and then he sat in the hall before the fire, staring into the flames.

He fell asleep in front of a bowl of soup and he slept for two days.

” Angus had been buried on the steep slope that ran up to the mountains on the far side of the loch, next to his Mairi, and his two daughters, near the ruin of the house where Angus and Mairi and Matthew had lived, the house that Angus and Alex had pulled down after Mairi and the baby had died.

When the short ceremony was finished, Matthew built the cairn over his father while Gilbey and Dougall and Thomas handed him rocks, their fingers frozen and shaking, then they stood as Seamus played “MacGannon’s Return” into the storm.

“We will make sure all is well here, Mary,” Gilbey wrote, “and then we’ll return to be with you. I’m sending this with a MacDonald who’s going to London for his own reasons. We won’t be long.”

I reread the letter and folded it neatly, putting it in my pocket again, and sighed as I looked out the window.

It seemed we were no closer to London than we had been an hour ago.

Beside me, Henrietta dozed, her head against the side of the coach, and on the seat opposite, my sleeping baby was strapped into a carrying cradle.

Lord Webster had sent more than a letter.

He’d also sent men and a coach, saying that they would accompany me to London.

He asked me to come at once, so that, he’d written, “you may see your husband before his sentence is delivered and performed.” Performed.

I had little doubt what he meant. One would not say performed of a pardon.

Executions were performed, not amnesties.

Despite the staff’s and the boys’ strenuous objections, I had gone with the judge’s men.

It was only a trip to London, I told them.

Once at Louisa and Randolph’s, I would write and let them know I was safe.

They had not been pleased but the thought of seeing Alex swept me past their protests and into the coach.

We left an hour after I received the letter, for the judge’s men were openly impatient to leave and so was I.

Alex , I thought. Of all of our visits, this would be the hardest. And the last. Of that, I had no doubt.

My eyes filled with tears again and I chided myself.

I would have to find some courage before I saw him again.

As we entered London, I peeked out the window trying to see landmarks, but nothing was familiar.

When we passed St. Paul’s heading east I knew we were not going to Louisa’s and knocked on the roof.

When that was ignored, I called to the driver.

Neither he nor the footmen would answer my questions, and I began to be alarmed.

Still, I told myself, it was possible that I was being brought to see Alex before going to Louisa’s.

We were heading toward the Tower and I comforted myself with that idea until we turned north, away from the river.

Then I demanded to know where we were going and threatened to scream unless they told me.

That, at least, got a reaction, but not the one I wanted.

The coach jolted to a stop and two footmen leapt into the coach with us, waking the baby as they pushed his cradle aside and sat opposite me, their expressions hostile. The coach lurched forward.

“Madam,” said a footman through clenched teeth, “you are going to Lord Webster’s house.

If you scream or attract any further attention to yourself we will make you very quiet.

Is that understood?” I lifted my chin but one look at the man, who put a hand on my son and looked at me with obvious meaning, silenced me.

I nodded and reached for my child. We rode the rest of the way in uncomfortable stillness, Henrietta looking with huge eyes at me and then at the men.

I looked at the baby or out the window, my anger growing.

I would have something to say to Lord Webster about this.

When at last we arrived, I stepped onto the gravel driveway of a small manor house on the outskirts of London, isolated and fenced, the foliage dense between the house and the road.

I looked up at the shuttered house with a sinking heart, telling myself that Lord Webster intended for me to meet Alex in this secluded spot for the simple reason that it was so hidden.

With that thought in mind I went inside.

We were led by a silent sullen woman to an upstairs room that faced the driveway.

As she closed the door behind her I crossed the room and opened the shutters.

And heard the bolt being shot on the door behind me.

Turning, I looked across the room in surprise, certain I was mistaken, but Henrietta, who met my eyes with a startled look, had heard the same thing and said so.

I tried the door. It was bolted from the outside and I knocked at first, then banged on it, shouting.

There was no answer. Crossing the room again to the window, I looked at the men who had lingered on the gravel below and realized that they were not footmen.

They were guards. “Oh, my dear God,” I said aloud, “what have I done?”

What I had done was deliver myself, my baby, and the innocent Henrietta into the hands of our enemies.

But I did not recognize that at first. No one came near us for two days except to bring us food or water or to empty the chamber pot.

My luggage, scanty as it was, had been searched before it was delivered to us, and the speechless woman who served us also took the baby’s linen away.

She never looked at us. Two men stood guard at our door at all times.

On the evening of the second day, a carriage rolled onto the drive.

Henrietta and I watched anxiously as Lord Webster stepped out and walked into the house.

Twenty minutes later the guard summoned me.

I followed him downstairs, my thoughts in a storm, and was shown into a small parlor where I waited.

Within moments the judge swept into the room as though it were Westminster.

I studied him, trying to determine his purpose.

I did not want to anger him if he truly intended to let me see Alex, but I was less than pleased by this treatment.

He bowed before sitting ceremoniously in one of the chairs opposite me and watched me with hooded eyes.

“Madam. You will, no doubt, have some questions as to why you have been sequestered here.”

“I do,” I said, trying to keep my tone equivocal.

“I grew very weary of you disrupting my court. ”

I bent my head. “For that I am truly sorry. It was not intended, sir. I was overcome by the announcement of the verdict.”

“That was once, Mistress MacGannon. I meant every time you came to court. No one was paying attention to the issues. They were watching you and your husband.”

“I am not responsible for that.”

“Exactly what your husband said.”

I waited, still unsure of this man or his mood. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his bony knees.

“Mistress MacGannon, your husband is dead.” I stared at him, unable to think, let alone speak as he watched me with that predatory gaze. “He drowned.”

Drowned , I thought, remembering my dream.

“Do you understand?” Webster demanded. I shook my head. “Stupid woman. Your husband drowned whilst attempting to escape.”

“From the Tower,” I croaked. “He was escaping from the Tower?”

“No. Pay attention. Your husband was sentenced ten days ago.”

“Sentenced? How? When?”

“Madam, we have the Crown’s blessing to proceed as we deem proper.

Your husband was sentenced in secret.” His eyes narrowed.

“We have not found Lord DeBroun and do not know if he’s in hiding or if your husband’s relations are holding him as they claim.

I could not risk the two of you disrupting my court again and turning it into a shambles.

I sentenced him in my chambers rather than in the court.

” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together.

“We were very lenient, considering the crime.”

“But how did he drown?” My voice was a whisper .

Lord Webster frowned at me. “Stop interrupting. Your husband was sentenced to fourteen years indentured service in the colonies. In Virginia.” He straightened his back and watched me.

Fourteen years , I thought. “He was put on board a ship bound for the colonies. It sailed eight days ago. Your husband threw himself over the rail and into the water. We have no doubt that he drowned.” With a brusque gesture he took something from his pocket and held it out to me.

It was a gold pocket watch and I took it from him with a pounding heart, remembering the day that I’d first seen it, the day Alex had bought it.

I knew before I opened it that I’d find June 5, 1712 engraved inside, and Trenchant and Sons on the face.

“Did this watch belong to your husband?” Webster demanded, bringing me back to the present.

I nodded. “Yes,” I said hoarsely. Alex , I thought. I held the watch in my hand and felt Lord Webster’s words begin to penetrate. “This does not prove Alex is dead,” I said, “only that he was unable to prevent you from taking this from him.”

“Mistress MacGannon, do not be witless. He was seen going over the rail. How long do you think he lived in that water?”

We sat in silence while I struggled not to let despair overcome me. Alex with seaweed in his hair. I had been right. He had come to me. Eight days ago, Webster had said. I tried to remember which night I’d had the dream. “You don’t have his body.”

He scowled. “Your husband is dead.”

“He can swim,” I said softly. “He can swim. It’s not true.”