15

It’s a complicated issue requiring careful analysis.

George Washington

On the day the verdict was to be read, the courtroom was nigh to bursting, the news hawkers foremost. The unsavory air rippled with tension. Lark sensed it immediately upon entering the packed chamber.

She sat with her back to the gawkers, wrists shackled. Was it true what was said about being branded on the thumbs with an M for murder? She’d never seen such, though some vague memory tugged at her. Once in the castle kitchen there’d been a scullery maid who’d kept her thumbs hidden. Some said she was a thief and had snitched a silver sauceboat. Cook had asked the laird to employ her, which he promptly did. What had become of her Lark couldn’t recall.

Would Lark hide her thumbs too? ’Twas preferable to hanging. Or transportation. All she wanted was to flee the crowded courtroom and return to the castle, to her beloved isle. But her dismay soared amid gavel pounding and a fight that erupted in the gallery.

Rhona was brought back for questioning. Lark kept her head down, eyes on a crushed stem of rosemary at her feet. Its pungent smell had long faded. How her heart craved the solitude and sanctuary and fragrance of the castle garden. The comforting hum of the bees. Both seemed like heaven on earth.

Rhona was sobbing again. Oh, to shut one’s ears to such a display. Did Rhona truly miss Isla? No doubt the horror of her mistress’s final moments was a heavy weight to bear. But Lark had sensed no true affection between them in life, none other than an oft fractious mistress-servant relationship.

The jurors were whispering among themselves as Rhona was dismissed. She resumed her seat to Lark’s far right on the front row. Lark lifted her head, her aching tooth throbbing along with her head. The judge was perusing court papers, the court clerk scribbling furiously.

“No other witnesses?” an official asked in a loud voice, casting a baleful eye about the large chamber.

“Aye.”

Lark stilled at a deeply resonant voice behind her. A startled hush descended, and then came the shuffling sound of a great many people getting to their feet. Yet no one had said, “All rise.”

The deep-throated voice came again. “I call myself as a witness.”

Lark looked over her shoulder, a wild tumult of emotion inside her. She struggled to stand, dizzy and queasy and disbelieving. Magnus was making his way to the front of the chamber. He had a presence that eclipsed that of anyone who’d entered, an undeniable vitality and intensity that made people stand when there was no formal call to do so. His longish hair, uncut during mourning, was worn loose, absent of his usual tie. Whiskers stubbled his jaw. Lean and lithe yet powerfully built, he looked ready to storm the courtroom, even tackle both judge and jurors.

His black armband, the only nod to mourning, was not lost on her.

She tasted freedom. Hope. Just a glimmer of each, yet . . .

“Ye kilt-wearing Jacobite!” The jeer was screamed from the gallery. Did someone in the crush of onlookers know his habit, his political leanings?

The judge looked in a fury. From the hurled insult or the fact that it was true? Lark tore her gaze from him to the laird, sensing all that was at stake.

The judge stared at Magnus. “A witness, you say? Your title?”

This almost made Lark smile. Magnus had the look of a bonny prince. But he was also angry and aggrieved, more so than she’d ever seen him.

“I am Magnus MacLeish. Laird of Kerrera. Husband of the deceased.”

A murmur of shock washed over the chamber.

“Son of Wallace MacLeish, killed at Culloden,” the judge said slowly.

“The same, aye,” Magnus replied. Without acknowledging Lark, he moved in front of her and faced the jury. As if by standing between her and those who would condemn her, he aimed to shield her.

The subtle act swelled her heart and blurred her vision. She traced the beloved set of his shoulders and back through damp eyes, hardly hearing what he said, though the timbre of his voice touched her deeply.

She was cast back to their years of schooling in a cold castle turret. She, being a girl, had been left out of the debates between Magnus and his tutors. Had that prepared him for this moment? Was this what he did in Edinburgh, having studied the law?

“I beseech ye members of this jury . . .”

She swallowed and tried to focus. He was indeed arguing. On her behalf. Every word rang true, countering Rhona’s lies and half-truths without calling them out. Nary a murmur was heard as he spoke. All were rapt. But not all were approving.

Rhona looked livid. The judge’s face grew more florid. Even the court clerk, surely hardened by countless cases, stood transfixed, lips parted. Yet it was not just that Magnus was eloquent and compelling, even forceful. It was that he was kilted. And a widower, husband of the deceased. While some clapped at intervals, others looked murderous.

“Ye blethering Jacobite!” someone cried from the floor.

At this came several shouts in Magnus’s favor—and then absolute mayhem. All around her erupted shoving, fighting, kicking, and biting.

Dropping to her knees, she took cover, crouching behind the bar. Her gaze swiveled from a stoic, now silent Magnus to the judge who’d lost control of the courtroom. His call for order and repeated pounding of the gavel were snuffed beneath the brawling. Rhona fled out a near door, as did several other women who’d come as spectators, hungry for scandal.

Should she follow? Lark stood on trembling legs as Magnus moved toward her. A burly man, toppled by a blow to her left, was righted by Magnus, only to be kicked in the shin by another man. One lad threw a leather fire bucket at the jurors, dousing them with water. A bench overturned, and someone began pelting rotting neeps and tatties down on them from the gallery. One struck Lark’s shoulder, a glancing pain.

An open door was to her right. Wanting to flee yet still shackled, Lark breathed in the unsettled air now tainted with . . . smoke?

“Fire!” someone screamed.

She was shoved viciously from behind, and then her world went black.

Who’d have thought a blow to the head would be a blessing in disguise?

“I’ll not examine a patient I might well get the pestilence from. Besides, there’s too much blood from the wound.” The stern voice helped clear Lark’s head. A physic? “See that she is bathed—with soap. And I insist on clean clothes for her.”

“Very well, sir,” came the obliging female voice. “A half hour then.”

Lark was stripped. Scrubbed. Nigh scalded. The wound at the back of her head stung like fire and her tooth still ached, but she was deeply grateful for a bath. She gritted her teeth as the gaol matron cleaned her hair.

“These plain clothes will do. The Society of Friends oft visit here.”

Lark regarded the olive-green cloth, the plain linen capelet, and the white cap. Weak-kneed, she sat in a simple shift and loose stays. Her parting with her filthy shawl was bittersweet. It seemed to belong to her former life, not her new, unknown self. Benumbed by all that had happened, she stared at white thread stockings and scuffed low-heeled buckled shoes. Even a simple linen apron.

The doctor came in and clucked his tongue at her sore head, applied a salve, pulled her troublesome tooth, declared her fit to transport, then left. The matron drew back Lark’s hair so severely into a knot her scalp ached all the more.

Lark finally asked the hated question, afraid of the answer. “What does the physic mean by ‘transport’?”

“The verdict was read once the courtroom returned to order, but ye’d been knocked senseless and removed,” the matron replied. “Ye’ve been found ‘guilty in art and part’ as an accessory to the crime. Ye’ll soon be taken to a transport ship. I’m not sure where to.”

Lark’s belly gave a fierce, clawing clench as her mind grappled with the unwanted words. And then her thoughts swung to Magnus.

“What has happened to the laird of Kerrera? MacLeish?”

The matron gathered up Lark’s soiled clothes. “The laird’s been taken to the master’s side of Glasgow Cross tolbooth.”

“The master’s side?”

“Aye. For indicted gentlemen. Yer on the common side.”

“Indicted?” She searched the matron’s expression and tone for some cruel jest. “For speaking in my defense?”

“Nay. For violating the Act of Proscription. His lairdship has been found guilty of wearing his plaid afore this. Two witnesses came forward to swear to such. Now he’s liable to be transported to one of his majesty’s plantations beyond the seas.”

Transported? Banished.

Struck dumb, Lark watched her go out, the clink of the keys locking her in once again. How she hated that sound. What was left of her sheltered world—that sacred, inviolate haven made up of Magnus and Kerrera, croft and castle—lay in irretrievable ruins.

A stiff west wind, damp with salty spray, draped Magnus as he stood on the congested Glasgow pier along the banks of the River Clyde. He peered past the commanding customhouse and shipping office, a large sailcloth company and countless warehouses, to the towering masts of endless ships, each bound for separate ports.

Beside him stood his longtime confidant and ally, Richard Osbourne, one of the Tobacco Lords who traded with colonial America. His fortune was made in tobacco, sugar, horses, and slaves. Magnus could not make peace with the latter but was glad his influential friend stood beside him this day. Only the Almighty could have crossed their paths at such a time, allowing Magnus’s letter to be carried to Osbourne’s Glasgow residence with a holy haste.

“Here’s what I discovered, having been denied my appeal that the lass in question be pardoned.” Osbourne gestured to the nearest sloop. “Miss MacDougall’s to be put aboard the Neptune with one hundred thirty other women convicts. As for yourself, I hope to secure a place aboard the Bonaventure, one of my frigates refitted to carry stores to the Sugar Islands.”

Magnus withheld a wince. “So there’s little more to be done for Lark MacDougall.”

Osbourne sighed. “I did what I could to no avail, short of bribing the attending physic to declare her unfit for transport. Sadly, the jury was likely swayed by your late wife’s father, so Miss MacDougall’s conviction stands. She’ll not be branded, but she’ll be indentured.” He cast a baleful eye on Magnus. “For the moment, I’m most concerned about you.”

“Mayhap yer appeal of my case will go through.” Magnus struck a hopeful tone though his spirits sagged. “Yer request that I leave tolbooth on a pass for two hours’ time was granted this day.”

“Aye, but the presiding judge you encountered for Miss MacDougall’s trial is rabidly anti-Jacobite. And if he gets wind of what we’re after, he might deny both requests.”

“He’s a kilt hater. I suspected as much. And pro-Hanoverian to boot.”

“Aye on both counts.” Respect rode Osbourne’s features. “’Twas bold of you to walk into an unknown courtroom and defend a condemned woman like you did.”

“Mayhap foolhardy. But I could do nothing less. She’s an islander like myself. Our family histories have been entwined for generations. And the truth of the matter is that she had nothing to do with my wife’s death. I canna stand by when her very life is in jeopardy on my account. ’Tis a notorious miscarriage of justice.”

“Aye, that it is. The whole affair is a flagrant violation of the biblical command to not bear false witness. The courts are nothing but bribes and perjury and more.” He squinted into the glaring, sunlit water. “If you gain passage on the Bonaventure and arrive at my plantation in Jamaica as I hope, you can act as factor, something that may well suit you. At the end of your two-year term you can return to Scotland.”

“There’ll be naught to return to.” The thought was so overwhelming Magnus could hardly speak. “I well ken what happens to Jacobite property seized and sold.”

“True enough. ’Tis been the fate of many a Highlander and Lowlander too.”

Magnus fixed his gaze upon a departing barge lying low in the river. “Tell me more about the voyage. What the Bonaventure is carrying. The date of departure.”

“That depends on several factors. My Jamaican plantation is in need of men and supplies. I’m keen on acquiring a few men skilled in agriculture and horticulture to make the voyage, and I’ve been given leave to carry a few male felons suited to the task. A special garden is being built on her quarterdeck. Room enough for pots of various vegetables, fruit, even herbs to use for food or physic in Virginia—my main estate—or Jamaica once there.”

Magnus offered up a silent prayer before plunging ahead. “Miss MacDougall was the mistress of Kerrera Castle’s stillroom like her grandmother before her. Keeper of the castle’s bees too. Highly skilled. Why not arrange for a woman to oversee yer shipboard garden?”

“Why not, indeed.” Osbourne looked at him intently, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Perhaps it’s not too late. I shall try to have her transferred from the Neptune then. A female prisoner is far more manageable than a male. Perhaps the arrangement will benefit us both.”

They fell silent as a commotion from behind made them turn. A coach was passing, a dozen women roped to the outside seats. A gaol turnkey sat atop the box, spewing tobacco and keeping an eye on his charges. One woman held a baby who was crying so piteously Magnus set his jaw. The coach lurched to a stop by a lighter bobbing at the edge of the pier, waiting to row the women over to a waiting ship.

Again Osbourne smiled rather wryly as he scrutinized the ship in question. “Could the Neptune be before our very eyes? Not to mention the lass in question?”

Stung by amazement, Magnus looked hard at the wagon. Lark was the sixth woman to step down. Nearly unrecognizable in Quaker garb, she glanced his way absently, then looked back again with wide-eyed surprise.

“Keep yer eyes down,” the turnkey snapped. The women were marched across the dock then hauled into the lighter, a precarious business with each in manacles.

Lark looked to her shoes while Magnus stood riveted, overcome by a strange mix of fury and helplessness as she was rowed away across the expanse of churlish water.

A scowling sailor waited to pull them over the side of the enormous vessel. Shoulders bent, the women formed a line at an anvil to have the rivets knocked from their irons one by one. The jarring clank rippled over the water above the cries of gulls and shouts of the crew. Once the turnkey was paid his fee of a half crown a head, he returned to shore in the empty lighter.

“A miserable business,” Osbourne concluded. “Even bound for fair Virginia.”