To Hunt A Husband

Chapter Two-2

However, making our way back to the coach was not easy with what seemed like half of Midlothian either chasing the fugitive or obstructing those who were. We tried to negotiate a passage through the crowd, being buffeted by sundry people and saying, “Pray excuse me,” as loudly as decorum permitted without any discernible effect.

“Oh, this is no use,” Mother said. I could see that she was growing increasingly exasperated as the mob clustered around us. The cries of, “Stop thief!” “Murder!” “Help the unfortunate fellow escape!” or, “Catch that man!” resounded, with little boys running around in great glee and their mothers dealing out smacks and cuffs in frantic worry for their offspring.

“Are you all right, ladies?” Adam Carmichael reined Chetak in front of us, with that humorous gaze scanning us both. “Miss Robyn Moffat, we meet for the second time today.”

“We do, sir,” I even managed a curtsey amidst the chaos for Mr Carmichael's horse seemed to act as an island in the rush of people, creating a small oasis of relative peace.

“And you must be Miss Moffat's sister.” My gallant Mr Carmichael bowed to Mother.

“I am nothing of the sort, sir, as you are well aware.” Yet, despite Mother's hot words, her hand moved to straighten her hat, and I could see she was quite taken by Mr Carmichael. “I am Mrs Thomas Moffat, Robyn's mother.”

“A good day to you, Mrs Moffat.” Mr Carmichael lifted his hat. “If you stay close, ladies, Chetak and I will push through the crowd.” Mr Carmichael said. “Where are you heading, Mrs Moffat?” He diplomatically addressed Mother rather than me.

“The White Hart Inn,” Mother said. “We have left our carriage in the stable there.”

“The very place I am going,” Mr Carmichael said, touching his hat. “Pray, follow, ladies.”

Glad of the escort, we obeyed, walking meekly behind the horse as Mr Carmichael created a channel through the roaring crowd. When one group of drunken carters tried to bar his passage, Mr Carmichael leaned sideways from his saddle and slashed the most impudent across the shoulders with his crop. 'Move aside there!'

“That's the stuff!” Mother cried in full approval.

I said nothing, wondering what level of steel lay beneath Mr Carmichael's jovial exterior.

The carter turned around, eyed Mr Carmichael, decided not to protest and moved aside for us. Mr Carmichael pushed on through the crowd.

“Here we are,” Mr Carmichael guided us to the White Hart Inn. He stopped outside, dismounted with an effortless grace and lifted his hat first to mother and then to me. “I shall wait until you are safely away.”

“Thank you, Mr Carmichael, but there is no need,” Mother said. “We know the road from here.”

“In that case,” Mr Carmichael said, “I shall be on my way. I wish you both a pleasant trip home.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mother glanced at me. “I wish you a successful conclusion to your business, whatever it may be. You will have to visit us sometime in Winter Lodge, to allow me the opportunity to repay your kindness. I'm sure that Robyn would also be pleased to see you.”

I nodded, although I was not so certain if I would be pleased or not. There was something vaguely unsettling about Mr Carmichael, some tension beneath the urbane exterior.

Waiting until Mr Carmichael walked his horse away, Mother smiled. “So that was your Mr Carmichael, was it?”

“He is not my Mr Carmichael, Mother.”

“No, of course not.” Mother's smile was so superior that I knew she was planning something. “He should certainly be somebody's Mr Carmichael.”

Our driver was in the taproom of the White Hart, quaffing whisky and quite forgetting about his passengers until Mother reminded him of his position and sent him off with a flea in his ear.

“You have five minutes, George, to bring the coach to the front of the hotel.”

“I thought you'd be another hour, Mrs Moffat, with all this confusion.”

“We do not employ you to think, George, but to drive the carriage and do as you are told. Five minutes and not a second more.”

It was only four minutes before George drove the coach to the front of the inn. Giving him a nod of approval, Mother boarded first, with me following. Hauling aside the curtains, I peered out of the window.

“Don't stare, Robyn,” Mother said. “Simply tie open the curtains and sit back in your seat, as I do.” She gave me a wink. “That way, you can look outside without anybody seeing your face.”

“Yes, Mother.” Settling back in the worn leather seat, I looked outside in time to see Mr Carmichael still there, sitting on Chetak and watching our coach emerge from the courtyard. I am unsure whether he saw me, despite my precautions, but when he lifted his hand in farewell, I was sure he gazed directly into the coach, with deep seriousness shading his mocking eyes.

* * *

I lay in bed that night, knowing that my life had changed, although I did not quite know how, or why. My mind whirled with images of Mr Carmichael beside my tree, Andrew in his smart blue uniform and the scarlet ranks of soldiers waiting outside the Freemasons' Hall, together with the face of that unfortunate collier as he fled from the police. Remembering that Andrew had mentioned he was going to Dalkeith for something special, I sighed. Rather than searching for a ring to seal our engagement, he had become a Special constable.

I sighed again. Unable to rest, I rose from the bed and paced my room until the creak of floorboards woke half the house.

“Get to sleep, Robyn,” Father shouted. “You'll be tired and out of temper in the morning.”

Knowing I could not sleep, I pulled on a pair of boots, slipped my winter greatcoat over my nightclothes, jammed a hat over my unruly hair and left the house. I did not intend to go far, merely to walk around the grounds until I eased the confusion inside my head. I was fortunate that the moon was nearly full, casting a friendly light over our smooth lawns with the splashing fountain, and casting shadows from the avenue of beech trees that lined our drive.

I paced up and down, soothing my mind as I tried to put order into the chaos within my head. I was so intent on my thoughts I barely heard the whistling owls or the barking of the deer from the woods a hundred yards to the east. Who was this Mr Carmichael, and what did I now feel for Andrew? I did not know. Mr Carmichael appeared the most courteous of gentlemen, yet he carried a long pistol at his saddle and had not hesitated to use force to part the crowd. I was not sure if he fascinated or repelled me.

As for Andrew? I continued to pace. Andrew and I had a long-standing arrangement that we would marry, with no date fixed. We were young when we made the pact, and my youthful ardour had cooled. Now I was unsure how I viewed him, or if I wished to spend the remainder of my life with a man I did not love, although I certainly did not dislike him. There were other men out there, Hugh Beaton for instance, or Derek Pringle.

With a breeze blowing clouds across the sky, the moonlight was fitful, sending shifting shadows over the ground. One moment there was darkness, the next light, so I was unsure if I had seen movement or not in the flicker of light at the head of the beech avenue. I watched, hoping for a deer or badger, for I do love to see the wild animals of the countryside. Instead, I saw the figure of a man darting across our lawn 100 yards in front of me.

“Oh!” I covered my mouth to stall my instinctive shout. My first thought had been to challenge the intruder, but I realised that action might be foolish. In the present disturbed state of the country, this fellow could be anybody, from a solitary poacher to a cracksman from Edinburgh looking to break into Winter Lodge. On the other hand, it might only be one of the servants returning home after some romantic liaison. I smiled at the latter thought, for the whole household knew that young James, the groom, was making sheep's eyes at one of the maids in Dalhousie Castle, a few miles down the road.

I stood still, prepared to run back to the house if need be and equally ready to say nothing if my nocturnal visitor was on some innocent pursuit. A stray poacher after a rabbit for the family pot did not concern me and, as for James, the best of luck to him, I say. We all need love in our lives, and that thought brought me back to my dilemma with Andrew.

What on earth induced him to join the Specials? I had never heard him express any interest in anything political. Indeed, I had never heard him express any interest in anything before, except maybe fishing. Andrew did not possess the most active of minds.

My thoughts were interrupted again by movement ahead of me. The man must have been lying prone in a patch of darkness and moved when the moonlight betrayed his position. This time I saw him distinctly as he shifted, bent double, across our lawn. I knew his face, if not his name, for he was the same fellow I had seen with Wild Will that very morning, and the same fellow the police had chased through the streets of Dalkeith.

At the same moment I recognised him, he also saw me. I had never seen such an expression of surprise cross a man's face as then.

“You,” I hissed, pointing to him.

“Miss Moffat!” He whispered my name, placing a finger across his lips to compel me to silence. “Please! It is you I have come to see.”

“Me? The police want you,” I said, but not so loudly that my voice carried.

“It's all right,” the man said, “I won't hurt you.”

“What are you doing here?” I had the sense to keep my voice down.

“I need your help,” the man said. “If the police find me, they'll throw me in jail.”

Glancing back at the house, I saw it was still in darkness. “What have you done?” I was not sure if I should shout for help or allow this man to gang his ain gate, as we say. That means go his own way.

“I've done nothing harmful,” he said, which was probably the answer any murderer or thief gave when first questioned about their activities.

Now, if he had been an ugly old man with warts and a bald head, I would probably have shouted, or run for help, for it is well known that the signs of depravity are visible on the physiognomy of any criminal. However, this man was, if not quite handsome, at least not unpleasing as to his countenance, and was about the same age as me or perhaps a few years older.

“If you've done nothing harmful,” I said, “why do the police wish to arrest you?” I thought that rather a pertinent question, given the circumstances of this fellow roaming around our lawn at one in the morning.

The man began to look agitated, glancing at our house and behind him, as if he expected a score of policemen to erupt from our shrubbery. “People say I've done wrong,” he said. “I'd be obliged if you did not tell anybody you've seen me.”

“I won't if you are innocent,” I said, rather enjoying the drama of the situation, and now feeling quite secure with this vulnerable and rather handsome young man.

“I am innocent of all crime. I swear it.”