Everard sought a corner table, his back to the wall and his eyes on the open door. Behind his left shoulder was a window into an alley that had been the sudden exit of a great many Scots in trouble with the law. Though he had no such difficulties, who knew when it might be needed? He was sometimes mistaken for his brother, though Davie was not quite so tall.
Boyd soon joined him after a quick perusal of the room. A serving maid bobbed a curtsy and brought ale, the pewter tankards chilled. Boyd swallowed a mouthful. Everard raised his tankard as two men at the next table did the same in a toast to “the king o’er the water,” as the exiled Stuart was called.
“Plenty o’ Jacobite feeling hereabout among common folk,” Boyd said under his breath. “But has been for mony a year.”
The tavern was full of coarse talk and laughter, black-faced miners from the coal pits crowding half the tables. It brought to mind Lady Hedley and her family’s extensive collieries employing hundreds of miners across Northumbria. Word was the duke was an honest, generous laird, overseeing entire villages of miners’ families.
Or was it simply hearsay?
Everard could find out. Quell his restlessness and ride south and learn firsthand. Trouble was, as Boyd jested, he could go nowhere unnoticed no matter how humbly clad. Word would soon travel about the sable-haired giant with the harmonic Borders lilt. Nor could he leave his father again. Rather he send Boyd in his stead.
“So, are you prepared for scouting Northumbria and leave nae stone unturned in regard to the duke and his daughter?” he asked Boyd.
“Och.” Boyd set down his tankard, surprise sketched across his unshaven features. “Sae far? Ye must be jesting.”
“Nae. If we’re to bring the lass into the castle, needs be we find out how certain matters stand first.”
Boyd took another drink. “But yer faither should make so weighty a decision, aye?”
Everard stared hard at him in brooding silence. Boyd, never guilty of a lazy intellect, surely read the reluctance in his master’s eyes.
“Unless yer faither was nae longer here . . . then the matter would fall to ye.” Boyd squinted as if weighing the possibility. “And ye dinna want to invite trouble beneath yer roof . . . or a traitor.”
A fiddler struck a tune near the flickering hearth, the popular air “Katie Beardie.” Everard tapped his toe beneath the scarred table, the wind rising as if aroused by the music and wafting through the window.
“Is it true what’s said about roving fiddlers?” Boyd cast a glance over his shoulder. “That some are naught but Jacobite spies?”
“Aye, but like as not there are some who fiddle for King Geordie.” Everard drained his drink and brought an end to his toe tapping. “We’d best hie the two miles home. I’ve no inkling what awaits me.”
7
To conserve oneself in a Court is to become an absolute Hero.
JOHN EVELYN
Bellbroke Castle
Northumberland, England
The small dining room glittered with beeswax tapers, liveried footmen bringing dishes on quiet feet. Blythe sat to the right of her father at the damask-clad table that seemed somewhat foreign, she’d been away so long. Her stomach rumbled in unladylike fashion as grace was said. After so much rich French fare, it was heartening to see the table spread with many of her favorite Northumberland dishes—Cook’s way of welcoming her home? Kippers and leek pudding. Stottie cake and clootie dumplings. Cheeses and cold meats.
“Have you ventured out much in my absence, Father?” she asked, placing her serviette in her lap. “You’ve always enjoyed making the rounds to our neighbors. I can’t imagine you dining alone the entire time I’ve been gone.”
Her father took a long drink of claret. “I’ve lately seen the Shaftoes and Forsters on business. As for entertainment, the Percys had a March assembly you missed.”
“The Percys are such gracious hosts.” She smiled, though her mind stayed fixed on what she’d overheard at the Château de Sceaux. “I recall you saying something about venturing to Lancashire.”
“Ah yes, an occasional trip south to meet with certain gentlemen at the Unicorn Inn in Walton-le-Dale there. The Earl of Derwentwater and fellows.”
She stilled at the young earl’s mention. How casually her father spoke of him, as if he bore no painful association with her mother. The earl’s own mother, in fact, had been rival for the king’s affections, though she wasn’t nobly born but a stage actress named Moll Davis.
Blythe shut the memory away. “I suppose your meetings have to do with estate matters?”
“Among other things.” Father’s mouth seemed sewn shut, her cue not to press the subject.
“I’m full of questions, being away so long,” Blythe said, passing him a dish of dumplings. “My thoughts are with the villagers too. I’ve oft wondered how Widow Collingwood is faring with her eyesight nearly gone, and the Robsons’ triplet babes who had fever. I suppose your factors bring you news of our neediest tenants.”
He cut into his meat as she sampled the leek pudding. “They are all well, last time I inquired.”
“Then there’s little Jemmy Turnbull, who was run over by a wagon, and Mr. Elliot and the miners, who suffered firedamp from the last explosion.”
Her father’s thick brow raised. “How on earth do you remember such things?”
“I’ve a mind for details, much like Grandmother,” she said, wishing he would address matters at home rather than abroad. What would he think of founding a society for the prevention of accidents in collieries? From his stern expression, she daren’t mention it. Not yet.
Try as she might to pin him down, it seemed his thoughts ranged elsewhere, the silences heavy, even intimidating. How deep was he in this business of the Rising?
Taking a breath, she forged ahead. “Now that I’m home, I’m ready to resume riding and paying visits, something I missed amidst all my fan waving in France.”
At last, a spark of interest lit his eyes. “There’s a new foal sired by Galahad in the mews. A lively black filly with a white marking between her eyes.”
“How delightful.” She smiled. “What shall you name her?”
“That pleasure is yours. Something literary, I suppose.” He signaled for a footman to bring more wine. “Borrowed from the hallowed halls of Camelot, perhaps.”
“Then I shall go down to the stables in the morning.” She cut a bite of fowl with her knife, a thousand thoughts galloping through her head. “Guinevere has been exercised faithfully in my absence, I hope.”
“Of course.” He set down his utensils though he’d eaten but half his supper. “I was expecting you’d rather spend time at your desk than gadding about the countryside.”
“I read the post, then enjoyed two hours of calligraphy and a bit of Dante prior to supper. I’ve missed everything so much I shall likely flit about from place to place for a time.”
“Then I must caution you against it.” He leaned back in his chair, candlelight calling out weary lines about his eyes and the downward slant of his thin lips. In a few terse words he dismissed the servants and bade them close the dining room doors. “Now that you’ve returned, my fervent hope is to safeguard you from any danger.”