Chapter Five

Montagu House, London, Wednesday, 19 July 1865

THE GARDEN GATE HAD BARELY slammed shut behind her when Margaret heard Lochiel’s alarmed voice calling her name from the other side. He would catch her easily if she tried to outrun him, and having made her bid for freedom, she was determined to hang on to it. In the ballroom her parents, their guests, and most of all the man standing on the orchestra dais waiting to claim her could go hang for now. There would be a terrible price to be paid for what she’d just done, but for the moment all she cared about was that she was free. She was absolutely not going to allow Lochiel to drag her back to face the music until she certain she could stand resolute in the face of what would be intense pressure to recant.

Margaret had never before ventured beyond the garden gate on this side of the house. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw that she was standing on the actual banks of the Thames. Up close, the river smelled absolutely foul. She could hear the water rushing past just a few feet away. Momentarily distracted, she inched forward, marvelling at the sheer power of the tide as it raced in from the estuary, experiencing a wild, irrational urge to jump in. She could imagine herself, buoyed by her crinoline, being carried by the river, waving at Lochiel as he stood helpless on the banks as she bobbed past. His disembodied voice called her name again, yanking her back to reality.

Her pale gown was positively glowing in the dark. She had to hide, but there was nowhere obvious. As the gate creaked open, she reached the corner of the wall marking the edge of her father’s property just in time. He was still calling her name, for goodness sake, as he approached. She crouched down as best she could behind a bushy shrub, closed her eyes, and prayed.

Lochiel came agonisingly close to her hiding place, but he didn’t spot her. Breathlessly, she waited until he made his way back to the riverfront before risking a glance. She could barely make him out, a dark figure, hesitating, unsure of which direction to take. When he finally made his choice, Margaret counted to fifty before edging out, spitting dust from her mouth. Picking up the hem of her ball gown, she fled in the opposite direction. She had no idea where she was going. She didn’t care. She was alone, her whole body energized by her flight, with every step casting off the fetters of her disastrous London Season. Emboldened, she ran faster, relishing the tug of the wind in her hair, enjoying the visceral thrill of her speedy if somewhat ungainly progress.

What a sight I must be! Laughing, she pictured herself, her crinoline bouncing and swinging like a mainsail flapping in the breeze, her satin dancing slippers slipping and sliding in the mud and the slime, the pins dislodging one by one from her hair, which was unravelling from its regulated curls and flying out behind her. Back at Montagu House lay chaos, but this impetuous, grand gesture would finally force her parents to accept that she was deadly serious. Whatever happened next, she would not be marrying Lord Rufus Ponsonby.

Running at full tilt in satin slippers on ground that seemed to consist entirely of mud was hard going. Eventually forced to come to a halt, her chest heaving, Margaret sucked in air that filled her lungs with an acrid metallic tang. Above her, the sky was starless as it always was in London, for even at the height of summer, a cloud of soot from myriad chimneys cast a pall over everything. She had no idea how far she had gone, but looking over her shoulder, there was no sign of Lochiel.

Her exhilaration began to fade as she gazed around her. Impulsive grand gestures were all very well, but she’d have made her point just as effectively if she’d returned to the garden and hidden in the shrubbery, as she’d originally intended. Damn and blast the man. It was his fault that she’d run off like a spooked horse and ended up who knew where.

What was happening back in the ballroom? Would Mama and Papa still be standing on the dais while confusion reigned? Or had her pursuer returned to report her flight, forcing them to send all their guests home? They would be utterly furious with her. If they had only listened to her. No, no, that wasn’t fair. She had not tried nearly forcefully enough to make herself heard. She had been too eager to please, ignoring what her instincts had been telling her from the first. They’d think her actions childish, selfish, thoughtless, undignified. They were unaware of the ongoing debate she’d been having with herself from the moment the match had been proposed, so her flight would seem like a bolt from the blue.

Her father would be cursing her. Why is it that you are capable of thinking only of yourself! How many times had he hurled that accusation at her? It seemed particularly unfair, given how hard she had tried to quell the rebellious little voice in her head and do as he bade her. But she had finally paid heed to that dissenting voice, and she could not regret having done so.

So what now, M.—go back and face the music? That would certainly be the sensible thing to do. Better to surrender herself than be marched back by a search party. But as she hesitated, she heard footsteps coming her way. Hurriedly, Margaret crammed herself and her crinoline into a narrow alleyway, screwing up her nose as her foot splashed in something she hoped was a puddle, even though it hadn’t rained for weeks. She could hear them now, talking. Not one man, but two? Holding her breath, closing her eyes, as if that would make her invisible, her ears strained. Not talking but singing a sea shanty.

When I was a little lad

And so my mother told me,

Way, haul away, we’ll haul away Joe,

That if I did not kiss a gal

My lips would grow all mouldy,

Way, haul away, we’ll haul away Joe.

The men’s voices were surprisingly tuneful. They staggered past her hiding place, oblivious to her presence, arms around each other’s shoulders, absorbed in their drunken reverie.

As their voices faded into the gloom, she crept out. Behind her someone laughed, making her heart leap in her chest. Peering over her shoulder, she couldn’t see anyone at all, but her skin prickled all the same with awareness of someone being close by, watching her. The last sparks of elation were doused by a cold trickle of fear. She was in the middle of the docks. A flight of stairs led down to the river, which was lapping near the top step, covering it in a layer of scum. Several of the barges she knew were called lighters were moored, though all seemed deserted. Behind her was a row of shuttered warehouses. Her sensitive nose twitched at the rich aroma of coffee beans and spice. Cinnamon? Nutmeg? A loose rope dangling from a winch swayed in the breeze like an empty noose on a gallows.

Cold sweat pricked her back. A small cat—she fervently hoped it was a small cat—slunk by, disappearing into the pitch-black, narrow slit of an alleyway between the warehouses. The tall, shadowy shapes of the large cranes being used on the embankment works looked sinister, like monstrous giants waiting to claim the unwary who stumbled into the deep trenches they guarded.

Margaret shivered, too late realising how vulnerable she was. Just ahead of her on the river was a suspension bridge. Below it, she could make out a light swinging from side to side as the craft it illuminated bobbed on the tide. A blur of flashing light, clanking metal, and billowing smoke rattled across at speed. A night train carrying freight or post most likely. Which meant that must be the Hungerford railway bridge. Yes, and that huge building must be the Charing Cross terminus. The more her eyes became accustomed to the dark, the more she could see. The station was glowing almost invitingly compared to the gloom surrounding her. It didn’t look so very far away. From there, she could find her way onto Whitehall, to street lamps and safety.

Gathering her courage and her crinoline, Margaret hurried along as fast as her tired legs would allow. She was sure she could feel eyes monitoring her progress. A nightwatchman lifted his lamp. In its glow she caught his astonished gaze. She heard his shout, but she didn’t stop. Onwards she ran, past a brightly lit riverside tavern crammed full of people, even at this hour. She heard the discordant clink of a piano. A man, who stood in the doorway inhaling the contents of a large tankard, made a drunken lunge for her, catching hold of one of the swags of her gown.

“Looking for business, my pretty?”

Panicking, Margaret tore herself free, leaving him with a handful of sarsenet and organdie. A shout went up as she ran full tilt. Footsteps followed her but quickly died away. The man had taken her for a fallen woman. In the eyes of her parents, that was probably what she was. As she swerved to avoid a huge pile of planking, her nose assailed with the scent of resin and wood shavings, she tripped over a stone and tumbled into the mud.

The murky waters of the Thames loomed terrifyingly close. Heart pounding, she scrabbled back from the edge, having narrowly avoided falling in. Perhaps it would have been better if she had. It would be a suitably pointless and ludicrous end. Would a drowned daughter be less of a headache than one who had created a scandal by running away from her own betrothal party? Almost certainly. The result of a tragic accident rather than a self-inflicted mortal blow. Mama and Papa would consider themselves better off being rid of her. They’d probably be right. Vaguely aware that she was on the verge of hysteria, unable to contemplate going back the way she had come, Margaret’s only coherent thought was to reach the sanctuary of the railway terminus. Picking herself up, she plodded on through the timber-yard and into what was clearly a deserted marketplace, trampling on discarded cabbage stalks, sliding on rotting leaves, conscious that at least some of the rank odours assailing her were coming from her soiled clothes.

The terminus building was absolutely massive, but she could see no way of accessing it from the riverfront. Another freight train screeching past overhead, sparks flying, sent her stumbling backwards, muffling her scream with a gloved hand reeking of slime as the giant iron beast hurtled past, belching steam, pistons pounding. Cautiously, she began to edge her way around the walls towards, she fervently hoped, the main thoroughfare, where there were bound to be people in the environs of the station.

Her footsteps slowed. The journey back to Montagu House was no more than a few hundred yards, but away from the gloom of the riverside, she was acutely aware of her appearance. Although she was covered in mud, and she was convinced there were bits of shrub in her hair, her white silk dress with its layers of petticoats and lace and trimming was still very obviously a ball gown. Her gloves were ruined, but they were still unmistakably evening gloves. Would she be taken for a woman of the night again, one who had been involved, quite literally in a bit of mud-slinging? Creeping stealthily onwards, keeping her eyes fixed on the treacherous cobble-stones, Margaret stumbled into a solid mass.

A loud curse rent the air. “Watch it! Ain’t you got eyes in your head?” A grizzled man, who appeared to be slumped on the ground, glared up at her.

“I’m so sorry,” Margaret muttered. “I didn’t see you there. Excuse me.”

But as she made to step around him, a hand grasped at her skirts. “Here, just a minute, miss.”

In the act of trying to free herself she stopped, surprised by his accent. “You’re Scottish.”

“Aye, but you’re safe enough—it’s not infectious.” She caught a glimmer of a crooked smile. “You’re no Sassenach either, by the sounds of it.”

He hadn’t got up. Was he drunk? He didn’t sound drunk. Knowing she ought to make her way homewards post-haste, she remained where she was, irrationally reassured by his accent. “No,” Margaret said, “my home is near Edinburgh.”

“Then what on earth are you doing here?”

A very good question. Her breathing was slowing, her panic subsiding. “I have come to London to—to visit family and friends.” An answer very far from the truth, but at least it was believable.

The man chuckled softly. “I meant what are you doing here. This is no place for young ladies, especially not bonny ones in silk gowns.”

He wasn’t sitting on the cobbles, Margaret realised, but perched on some sort of makeshift wooden trolley. Oh dear lord, and his tattered trousers were pinned just above the knee. He hadn’t got up because he had no legs. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise—is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Help me?”

“Your legs, I mean . . .” She stuttered to a halt, blushing furiously. Should she have pretended not to notice? But that was preposterous.

“Lord bless you, miss, no. It might not look it to you, but I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”

“I did not mean to offend, I . . .”

“Ach, you didn’t, don’t fret. Sure, don’t us Scotsmen have a reputation for being legless six nights out of seven? I just take it a day further. That’s my wee joke, you understand. So what happened to you? Had a tiff with your beau did you, run off and got lost?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I did run off.” Dismayed, Margaret felt tears start in her eyes. “It’s a long story.”

“And you’re in a bit of a state, too. Here, why don’t you sit down before you fall down, and tell me all about it while you calm yourself. I’m not exactly in a hurry to go anywhere.”

He stretched his hand towards her. It was grimy, but she took it gladly, sinking down beside him, touched by the simple gesture.

“You are very kind. May I ask your name?”

“It’s Scott, Fraser Scott.”

“Scott! What a coincidence. That is my family name.”

He gave a snort of laughter. “I very much doubt we’re related. My kin are from a wee village called Lochgoilhead in Argyll.”

“You are very far from home, Mr. Scott.”

“I’ve been much further afield than London. I was a soldier, Miss Scott. I lost both legs in the Crimea.”

“Oh no! How dreadful. You poor man.”

But Mr. Scott shook his head, patting her hand with his other filthy paw before letting her go. “It was almost ten years ago now.”

The Crimean War. She dredged her mind and came up with a blank. Her sister Victoria, needless to say, had made an album about the war, including maps and clippings from the Times, but Margaret hadn’t been in the least bit interested. “I’m so sorry,” she said, with real regret. “I know next to nothing about it. Save, there is a poem, isn’t there? I remember now: ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’”

“Stupidity and needless slaughter dressed up as heroism. Lucky for me, I was a mere foot soldier, and not fit to ride with Cardigan’s Cherrybum’s—begging your pardon for being so vulgar, miss.”

Margaret giggled. “Cherry what?”

“Bums. Their jackets were too short and their breeches were too tight, you see. They were all guts and glory. The first part, at least, was true enough.”

“Mr. Scott, how is it that—forgive me for being blunt—how is it that you came to be sitting on a wooden trolley in the middle of the night?”

“As it happens I’m working. I’ve been keeping an eye on Percy Wharf, which you’ve just passed through. If you look over, you’ll see this is a fine vantage point, and no-one expects a cripple to be a lookout. I can’t give chase, unless the pilferer is a tortoise with an injured foot, but I can blow my whistle if I see anything, and get the nightwatchman’s attention.”

“Even so, it sounds like dangerous work.”

“It has its moments, but most of the would-be thieves are no more than bairns. Mudlarks, they’re called, urchins who come down to the water at low tide to scavenge.”

“What on earth can they possibly find in the mud?”

“Coal, mostly, lumps that have fallen overboard. They sell it on the street for a few pennies. As far as I’m concerned, that’s not stealing. Though some of them are bold pieces, clambering up onto each other’s shoulders to reach the decks of the barges. I’ve no option but to blow the whistle on them, though it pains me to do it.”

“And if they are caught?”

The Scotsmen shrugged. “Get off with a caution, if they’re lucky enough to get a magistrate with a soft heart. At worst, a few weeks locked up, then they’re straight back to work again.”

“Good God, they put children in gaol?”

“Well, they have to make an example of some of them. It stops the others going to bad, so they say.”

“You don’t believe that?”

“It’s not for me to say, but God helps those as helps themselves. Which is why I’m here trying to earn a crust.”

“I’m sorry, but I think that a very poor fate for a hero who bravely served queen and country.”

“It wasn’t the Russkis that did for me— it was my poor eyesight.” Mr. Scott snorted. “Didn’t see the cannonball coming, did I? The next thing I knew, I woke up in a field hospital with two bloody stumps.”

Margaret was moved to press his hand. “Oh, that’s awful.”

“Ach, I was so bad with the fever for a while, I didn’t know my own name. That’s what did for most of us that made it as far as the field hospitals, you know, the fever. No beds, no clean linen, water so foul it made you gag. I’m surprised any of us survived.”

“But Miss Nightingale, didn’t she put an end to such dreadful conditions?”

“Whatever she did, her good works never reached the place they laid me down to die, Miss Scott.”

“Please call me Margaret. Unless you are a ghost, and frankly after all that’s happened tonight, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised, you clearly didn’t die.”

“For a while I wished I had. People said I was lucky. Do I look lucky to you? I was crippled. I’d not only lost my legs, I’d lost my livelihood, for I’d served in the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders since I was a laddie of fourteen. Soldiering was all I knew.”

“You must surely be entitled to a pension?” Margaret said indignantly.

“There are ways to claim such a thing, but—” Mr. Scott broke off, looking sheepish. “Truth is, I’ve never been good with my alphabet—can’t write more than my name, in fact. Any road, I’d rather make my own way in life. I don’t need charity. Don’t shed any tears on my behalf, miss. I’ve a wife and three bairns waiting for me when I get home in the morning.” The veteran winked. “They took my legs, but that was all.”

“Oh!” Margaret blushed as she took his meaning, but she met his gaze boldly. “That must be a great comfort for you.”

She was rewarded with a bark of laughter. “Oh, indeed! There now, I’m glad to see you’ve got your smile back, and a right bonny one it is. That’s enough about me, though. Tell me, for I’m fair dying to know, what scrape have you got yourself into?”

Margaret’s smile faded. “Not so much a scrape as a big black hole. I’ve run away from a party held to celebrate my betrothal.”

Saying it aloud made her feel rather sick, but it made the army veteran laugh. “If you’d given me a hundred goes, I’d never have guessed that. What was wrong with your intended? If he had both his pins, he’s already a better bet than me.”

“There is nothing wrong with him,” Margaret replied. “He has a castle in the Highlands. What could be more romantic? I’d have my horses and my dogs, and I wouldn’t have to put up with my husband too often, for his business interests keep him in London for much of the year. You see, Mr. Scott, he is perfect husband material.”

“Save you canny abide him, I’m guessing. Am I right?”

She shuddered. “That is it in a nutshell. I cannot abide him at all, though I promise you, I’ve tried. He disapproves of me. He thinks I talk too much, too, and that I need to learn to guard my tongue. What he really means is that I ought to say only what he thinks. He makes my skin crawl. I can’t explain it any other way.”

“Are they forcing you into it, lass?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I agreed. Well, I didn’t disagree,” Margaret said, shifting on the cobbles, for her legs had gone quite numb. “I assumed that Mama was right, that I would grow to like him.” She twisted her hands together miserably. “I knew from the moment Papa named him that I wouldn’t, but I allowed myself be persuaded otherwise. If only I had spoken up, I wouldn’t be in this dreadful mess. And now I must face the consequences. I almost fell in the Thames back there, you know. It might have been better if I had.”

“Ach, away, you don’t mean that. You’ve your whole life ahead of you.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not usually such a pathetic creature. My troubles are nothing compared to what you have endured.”

“It seems to me that what you need to do is go back and face the music. We Scots have a reputation for fearlessness, and you’re no different, you hear me.”

Margaret mimicked a shaky salute. “I shall take inspiration from you and show courage under enemy fire.”

“Your father’s not your enemy, lass, no matter what you think. He’ll likely be worried sick about you, and not without reason. There’s gonophs—child pickpockets—who would risk their necks to cut the lace from your petticoats, never mind the jewels you’re wearing,” Mr. Scott said. “London’s awash with rogues and vagabonds. For all you know, I could be one of them, playing the old soldier when the truth of it is that I lost my legs—ach, I don’t know, in a fall from a house I was robbing.”

“You could have robbed me anytime while we’ve been sitting talking. I knew from the moment you spoke to me—I sensed I could trust you.”

“Well, trust me on this, too. We need to get you safe home, and double-quick before your parents think you’ve been abducted or worse by some ne’er-do-well. Am I right?”

Though Margaret’s heart sank, she could not argue with him. “Mama will be furious with me, and as for Papa—oh God, I can’t begin to imagine what my father will say.”

“He’ll be too relieved to have you back safe to be angry with you.”

“You don’t understand. He has always thought me utterly selfish and rather pointless. This betrothal is the only worthwhile thing I have ever done in his eyes. He’ll never forgive me.”

“I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think, but any road there’s no point procrastinating. Chin up, Miss Scott! Courage, lass.”

His kind, heartfelt words stiffened her resolve. Margaret was struggling resolutely to her feet when Fraser Scott grabbed her arm roughly. “Run!” he hissed.

“I don’t understand. . . .”

“Run as if your life depends on it, miss,” he urged, looking over her shoulder in alarm and grabbing a club that had been concealed behind his trolley. “Harm a hair on that lassie’s head and so help me . . .” he roared.

In a blind panic Margaret picked up her skirts and prepared to flee.

“Not so fast,” a male voice rasped in her ear as a pair of powerful arms enveloped her.