Amanda Scott (8 page)

She turned back to face the magistrate and said firmly, “I do not know that gentleman, your worship.”

“Do you say, then, that even his name is unfamiliar to you?”

“Certainly it is. I am but newly come to London, sir. In attempting to find a particular address, my coachman took a wrong turning, and we were attacked. He and my maid were killed, my belongings were stolen, and I was left without money or protection, which is how I come now to be in this predicament.”

Titters and chuckles of disbelief filled the courtroom, but the magistrate made no rebuke and in fact appeared to share the amusement. “A very good tale,” he said approvingly, “but it will not serve you, I fear. You speak well, and I should not be at all surprised to learn that you had at one time or another served as a lady’s maid or in some like position, and try to ape your betters, but since Mr. Carsley cannot speak for you, I fear—”

“Forgive my interruption, sir,” the calm voice said, “but I see no reason that I cannot speak for the young woman. If it will help her, I am perfectly willing to do so.”

Maggie turned to him, unsure whether he spoke sincerely or meant merely to mock her. His expression was serious, and she saw that his demeanor was that of a man accustomed to having his wishes attended to. Had he not been engaged in an occupation so distasteful as drawing scenes in a public courtroom, she might have thought him a member of her own class. He smiled at her.

The magistrate said severely, “Now, now, sir, take care lest you act too impulsively. Since it is patently clear that this woman does not even know the name Carsley, I find it impossible to believe that your brother can have anything to do with her.”

“Your brother!” Maggie stared aghast at the young man.

“Don’t blame me,” he said with an engaging grin. “He don’t recognize the connection unless he is forced to do so, and in point of fact, he is only my half-brother.”

“But—” She broke off when he held up a restraining hand.

He said calmly to the magistrate, “She knew the title, your worship, and there must be cause for that. I daresay there are many who do not know the family name, and I see so little of him these days that I cannot claim to speak for him; however, I do recall his mentioning sometime or other in the not too distant past that he had undertaken a responsibility of some sort. Therefore it is entirely possible that this young woman is his ward, and I can assure you that I should not like him to discover after the fact that I had allowed her to be hanged if he is indeed responsible in any way whatsoever for her safety.”

The magistrate grimaced, no longer in the least amused. “My dear sir, this young woman is no more than a common thief!”

Carsley sighed. “Not common, sir, if you will permit the contradiction. Only consider how politely she speaks. In any event, the purse was recovered, so I suggest you allow Rothwell to decide what should be done with her. She can always be clapped up again later if he does not wish to claim her.”

“Will you engage to return her to custody if you discover that she has lied to this court, Mr. Carsley?”

“I will engage to present her to Rothwell, sir, and I can promise you that if she is lying, he will swiftly make her wish that she had chosen to allow you to hang her.”

Maggie squared her shoulders and met Mr. Carsley’s stern look, but inside she was quaking, and whether it was at the thought of being presented to Rothwell or being returned to Bridewell, she did not know. Why was it, she wondered dismally, that so frequently persons who presented themselves to her as rescuers proved rather quickly to be otherwise?

The next few moments passed in something of a daze, but it was all too soon that she found herself standing outside the stone archway beside Mr. Carsley, facing a canal that flowed down the middle of a wide road crowded with all manner of traffic. Despite the fact that most of the pedestrians looked like many she had seen in Alsatia, she drew a long breath of fresh air and looked around with interest, feeling her freedom as if it were her father’s strongest whisky. At last, she turned to her companion and said, “Mr. Carsley, thank you for helping me.”

“You know,” he replied, looking shrewdly at her, “you do talk like an educated woman, but you look like something dragged out of a hedge. Who the devil are you and what were you thinking to fling Rothwell’s name at that fool magistrate?”

“You said yourself that he had recently taken up a new responsibility. How do you know I did not speak the truth?”

“Ned is always taking up new responsibilities, so it was the first thing I thought to say, although, in my view, it is usually his money that’s wanted, not his protection or advice. But that is all beside the point. I want to know who you are.”

She paused. Once mentioned, Rothwell’s name had worked like magic, and having made it through the dreadful court proceeding without giving her own name, she hesitated now to reveal it. “I ought to have known your brother’s surname,” she said, choosing momentary diversion instead. “It was foolish of me to mention him without knowing even that much about him, but you see—”

“Half-brother,” he said, taking her arm. “I think we had better repair to my house so that you can at least wash your face and tidy your hair before I take you to him.”

Maggie dug in her heels. “Oh, no! That is, although I am most grateful to you for intervening on my behalf, sir, I cannot face your brother. And there is no need to take me to him, since you must know by now that he is not even aware of my existence.”

“I suspected as much,” Carsley said. “Still, I promised the beak I’d take you along to Ned, so I must. What happens after that, he will decide. Can’t say I blame you for wanting to turn tail and run, though, for it won’t be a pleasant experience. Not looking forward to seeing him myself,” he added, giving her a less than friendly look. “I prefer to keep my distance if you want to know the truth of the matter.”

“But I do have friends in London,” Maggie said, “so if you would just lend me enough money to take a hackney coach or a chair, I could go to Lady—”

“To Lady whom?” he asked when she broke off in confusion.

He seemed like a pleasant young man, but in view of the possible dangers involved, to reveal an acquaintance with her ladyship before speaking to her might not be wise. “Please, just believe that I do have friends,” she said. “Surely, you could spare me a shilling or whatever it costs to hire a chair.”

“But I can’t,” he said flatly. “I gave my word.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what does that matter? You do not want to see your brother—and certainly I don’t want to see him—so there is no need for you to take me there.” She stared at him in dismay when a new thought struck her. “Look here, do you mean to drag me back to that horrid place afterward? The magistrate said you were to do so if I proved to be lying, and you know even now that I lied through my teeth.”

“You have not been listening,” he said, tightening his grip on her arm and urging her downhill. “We’ll go this way, to the river. You will not want to walk all the way to my house, so I shall splurge and hire a barge for us at Blackfriars.”

Maggie could see the Thames—wide, blue, and sparkling—at the bottom of the hill, and curious to see the river that had been called the lifeblood of London, she let him guide her toward it without more protest, but she did not intend to drop the subject altogether. Looking up a moment later, searching his face for answers, she said, “I heard everything that was said in that courtroom, sir, and that man said you were to return me if you were to discover that I had not spoken the truth.”

“What you did not hear, however, was me saying I would. I said only that I would engage to present you to Rothwell and that I will do. I don’t give my word lightly, but when I do, I feel honor bound to keep it.” He grimaced again at her appearance. “I do wish you had something more presentable to wear.”

“No more than I wish it,” she retorted, “but all the baggage I brought was on my coach, and that entire vehicle—not to mention four horses—disappeared in Alsatia before I had regained my wits, so I cannot tell you what became of my other dresses.”

“So that tale was true, was it? Were you really in Alsatia at the time?”

“I was. My coachman, being new to London, took a wrong turning and in a single moment drove from a perfectly civilized road into an altogether uncivilized one. My coach was mobbed and overturned. I am lucky to have escaped with my life.”

“How did the coachman manage to go amiss?”

“I am sure I cannot tell you. His directions were quite clear, to take Fetter Lane from Holborn, turn into Fleet Street, and then take the sixth turning toward the river.”

“He must have turned the wrong way into Fleet Street. I do not know which street is the sixth, but I can tell you that nearly any turning he might have taken from Fetter Lane east—until you were well past Bridewell, at all events—would take you into Alsatia. The fashionable areas are to the west. Look here,” he added, albeit in the same matter-of-fact tone, “were you harmed in any other way?”

Her head was pounding now. She looked at him, encountered a straight look, and blushed, saying quietly, “I bumped my head, and it aches a bit, but that is all.”

“Then you were lucky indeed,” he said. “Now, do you mean to tell me your name, or must I make one up? I shall need to call you something, you know, when I present you to Rothwell.”

“I am Margaret MacDrumin, Mr. Carsley.” Watching him carefully, she could see no sign that he recognized her name.

He nodded, saying, “I take it then, that you are now resigned to meeting Ned.”

“I suppose I am.” She sighed. “Will he be very angry?”

Carsley shrugged. “We must hope not, but if he is, you may believe that he will be more angry with me than with you.”

That was hardly reassuring, but she could think of nothing to say in response, and he fell silent for a time. Despite her headache, she was drinking in the sights and sounds of the city. There were costermongers everywhere, crying their wares, and a man and woman danced for pennies on the footway.

As they neared the riverbank, the noise grew louder. Iron cartwheels and horseshoes clattered on the cobblestones. Carters shouted, and pedestrians looked to be in constant danger of being crushed against the walls of nearby buildings, for there was no protective raised pavement in this area, and it was next to impossible to tell where the footway ended and the street began.

Maggie stayed close to Mr. Carsley, and felt a vast sense of relief when they were seated at last in one of the long narrow barges that carried paying passengers from point to point along the river. They went with the current, so their passage seemed swift to one who was in no hurry, but she was too fascinated by the view to ponder her fears. Seen thus from the river, the city was clearly much bigger than Edinburgh, and more impressive.

Mr. Carsley pointed out landmarks he considered to be of interest, and although she was certain she would never remember Puddle Dock Laystall or the Steelyard, she was just as certain she would never forget the Dung Wharf with its huge pile of manure or St. Paul’s Cathedral, looming above the whole city.

“There’s London Bridge, straight ahead,” Carsley said, “and the water tower. Most of our water comes from the river. Wooden pipes carry it all over the city.”

“I suppose you’ve painted many pictures of London, sir. It’s all so magnificently picturesque.”

“I leave that sort of thing to Canaletto and Scott. My work is more anecdotal, but since I don’t have Will Hogarth’s amazing technical memory, I can’t simply paint things I have seen, so I must make sketches first, which is why you saw me doing so in the courtroom. I’ve done a number of court paintings this year.”

Having no wish to repay his kindness by criticizing his choice of subject matter, Maggie said nothing, and a few moments later the barge arrived at the Old Swan Stairs.

Carsley helped her to the landing, saying cheerfully, “We’re nearly there. I’ve got any number of my pictures sitting about in my house, you know, if you’d care to see them.”

Maggie returned a light reply, but it occurred to her as he guided her across Fishmongers’ Hall terrace and behind the water tower that she ought not even to accompany him to his house, for it was not at all a proper thing to do. But she could not wait for him in a public street either. Not until he spoke again to explain that they had arrived at Fish Street Hill did she summon up the nerve to say, “Are you truly taking me to your house?”

His smile was understanding, and he said, “You need not trouble your head about your reputation. I’ve a housekeeper of sorts, and another chap lives with me. This way now.”

“I thought the bridge was near here.” She looked around, disoriented, for the river had disappeared altogether, and they were apparently back in the center of town.

Carsley laughed. “We are on the bridge,” he said. “Look yonder, at that space between the houses. From there you can see the water. That point is nearly halfway across.”

She did not believe him until she could lean over the parapet and see the barges plunging between the huge footings that supported the bridge. “That looks like fun,” she said.

“It’s dashed dangerous. The tide’s on the rise now, so it is relatively safe, but as the river goes down, the current runs more swiftly and lots of accidents take place. Here’s my house.”

To her astonishment, his home was over one of the many shops that lined each side of the bridge. When he opened a narrow door between two of these, indicating that she should precede him up the narrow dark stairway, she began to feel ill at ease, but once they reached the top and he opened the door, she forgot her fears. The room she entered was charming, a drawing room with windows at each end overlooking river and bridge, and filling the room with light. There were no curtains, the furniture was comfortable-looking but not shabby, and the two windowless walls were covered with colorful paintings.

“How wonderful,” she exclaimed.

“We like it. Dev, you here?”

At first a grunt and mumble from a sofa turned toward the river windows was the only reply, but a moment later a shaggy, dark head rose over the sofa back and a pale, doleful face appeared. “So you’re back, are you, James? Who’s the wench?”