Another Country (28 page)

And, in the end, even if the forgerers were caught,
the common man was left with a fistful of useless dollars.

“Rupert...” Eleanor’s voice was low. “Are you
actually considering, in your present state, to chase after this
man Summers? Do you not think the person who tried to kill you
before will try again, doubly so, the more you persist? And what
can you hope to find? Henry won’t get his money back, not at this
stage, and neither will any poor soul who has been fooled. The best
you can hope for is to break up this ring of counterfeiters, and as
like as not they’ll start again, somewhere else.”

“Not if they’re in prison.”

“Prison!” Eleanor shook his head. “I know enough of
this country--and this world--to know the men who go to prison will
not be the scoundrels who are behind this crime. They’ll be the
dogsbodies who were pushed into it because their own lives were so
hopeless.”

Rupert’s eyes danced. “Why, Eleanor, you sound like
a positive crusader.”

“The only thing I’m crusading for is your safety,”
Eleanor retorted. “If not for yourself, than for me.”

Ian cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should leave you
two to sort this out...”

Eleanor turned on him fiercely. “Don’t leave!
Perhaps you can talk some sense in him, if I can’t.”

“I don’t think there is anyone in the world who
could sway Rupert more than you, Eleanor,” Ian replied. “But I fear
I would not try, even if I could. It is for Rupert to decide his
own fate.” He sketched a slight bow to Rupert. “And if I can aid
him in his search, I will do my best.”

“Thank you, Ian.” Rupert looked profoundly grateful,
and Eleanor looked as if she’d suffered a personal betrayal.

Ian smiled faintly. “I’ve been informed that you are
to be released on the morrow, to recover more comfortably at home.
The danger is passed. All you have to look forward to now, I’m
afraid, is a rather sore head.”

“Amen to that,” Rupert replied with a grin. “I look
forward to more comfortable surroundings.”

“Indeed.” Ian left swiftly, and Rupert was left
gazing in helpless affection at his intended.

“I’m not being this way to hurt you,” he said
softly. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“I know you are an insufferably stubborn man.”
Eleanor gave an unladylike sniff, only just holding her tears at
bay. “I don’t want you in danger.”

“I don’t want to be in danger, either.” Rupert
leaned back and closed his eyes. His head throbbed terribly. He
felt a heaviness, the burden of what he needed to discover.

Perhaps Eleanor was right, and there was little he
could do. Even if he caught the forgerers, someone would still go
free, someone with power and influence who could escape the arm of
law.

Yet he couldn’t just give up. And, he realized with
a sudden pang, he couldn’t go back to pushing paper. He felt more
needed, more purposeful, tracking these criminals than sitting in
the shipping office, dreaming of the time when his neatness with
numbers would bring him recognition.

He felt more alive.

“Rupert,” Eleanor whispered, “what are you
thinking?”

“I’m thinking,” Rupert replied slowly, “that I love
you very much, and I hope you love me--”

“You know I love you!”

“Yes, but this is part of who I am, Eleanor. Who I
want to be.”

Eleanor looked troubled and even a little afraid.
“What are you saying?”

“That this is what I want to do.
And if we are to marry, you marry that part of me.” He spread his
hands, helpless and yet certain. “You marry
all
of me.”

Harriet leaned against the table, her eyes closed.
The pain she was feeling receded, and she sighed in relief. Surely
it was just a common twinge.

“Mama?” Maggie looked at her in concern, her apron
full of potatoes. “I fetched the potatoes from the root
cellar.”

“Thank you, lass.” Harriet smiled and straightened,
trying for a brisk normality.

Then she felt another wave of pain, and nearly
stumbled.

“Mama?” Maggie dropped the corners of her apron, and
potatoes rolled and scattered across the floor. Harriet clutched
the rungs of the chair to steady herself. “Mama!”

“Maggie,
cridhe
, I’m all right,” Harriet said
between ragged breaths. “It’s the bairn, that’s all. The bairn is
coming.”

“But...” Maggie shook her head. “You said not till
spring! And we haven’t even started syruping yet!”

“I know. This wee boy seems to have made up his mind
to come early.”

“It’s a girl, remember?” Maggie’s teasing smile
disappeared quickly at the sight of her mother’s obvious pain.
“What should I do?”

“Fetch your grandmother. She’s gone to feed the
chickens.” Harriet stumbled slightly as she made her way to the
bedroom. “Fetch her quickly, Maggie!”

She heard her daughter run out of the house. The
slam of the door woke a sleeping Anna, but Harriet knew she could
not fetch her daughter from the cradle, not in this state.

She eased herself onto the bed, closing her eyes.
Today of all days, with Allan and George out trapping. It was
barely March, far too early...

“Harriet?” Harriet heard Betty’s anxious voice from
the front door. “Harriet!”

“In here, in the back.”

She heard Betty’s quick footsteps, and Maggie
crooning to Anna.

A few seconds later, Betty was there, leaning over
Harriet in concern. “Is it the bairn?”

Harriet nodded. “It’s too early. Far too early.”

Betty pursed her lips. “I’ve seen bairns come
earlier and thrive. They know their own minds, they do.”

Harriet clutched her hand. “But what if...? I
couldn’t bear it, not again...”

“You never mind that,” Betty said briskly. “What you
need to do is think about that bairn in your arms, red-cheeked and
wailing. Think on that, Harriet MacDougall.”

“I can’t.” Tears leaked from under Harriet’s closed
lids. “It wasn’t meant to be like this. The pains are coming too
quickly, too strong, I know it’s not right...”

“It’s just that little boy trying his best to get
out into this world. He wants to know what all the fuss is
about.”

“Allan’s not even here.”

“For the best, really.” Betty moved briskly to the
linen chest and began to sift through the layers of cloth for old
sheets. “Of course, we haven’t had time to prepare a layette for
the poor creature, but I daresay he won’t mind.”

“How do you know?”

Betty was concentrating on the sheets, tearing them
into neat strips. “How do I know what?”

Harriet opened her eyes and looked straight at her.
“How do you know it’s going to be all right?”

The room was silent except for Harriet’s labored
breathing. “I know,” Betty finally said, her voice strong, “because
I’ve seen too much death and sadness to see it again. I know
because between you and me, we will make this bairn live.” She
reached forward and grabbed Harriet’s hand. “We can, you know. I
know we can. Do you believe me?”

Harriet squeezed Betty’s hand tightly as another
pain assailed her. “I do,” she finally gasped. “I believe you.”

Margaret tossed her bit of embroidery away in
disgust. She’d been in bed for over a week, and was feeling
restless. Henry insisted she stay in bed, and in her heart Margaret
knew he was right. Even standing for a few moments had left her as
a weak as a newborn kitten.

Still, this enforced bed rest was driving her to
madness. She wasn’t used to being still, to having nothing to do
but think. She tended not to amuse herself with the usual ladylike
pursuits, such as sewing or embroidery, and those activities were
certainly not placating her now.

A quiet knock on the door had her leaning forward
eagerly. “Come in, come in.”

“You have a visitor, ma’am, Miss Isobel. I said you
might be strong enough--”

“I’m plenty strong enough,” Margaret retorted. “Send
her up, do, Hetty.”

A few minutes later Isobel stood in the doorway, as
pale and elegant as always, yet also a bit careworn.

“Isobel, come sit down.” Margaret motioned to the
chair next to her bed, and Isobel moved into the room.

“You’re looking quite well, considering,” Isobel
said with a flicker of a smile. “We feared the worst, you
know.”

“So everyone tells me. I assured Henry I’m not so
easy to be got rid of.”

“As if anyone would be rid of you!” Isobel gave a
little laugh, but Margaret could see she still looked anxious.

“And how are you faring? Eleanor told me how you
stepped in as teacher during my illness. I can’t thank you enough
for such a service.”

Isobel waved her hand in dismissal. “The children
are all the thanks I need.”

“I must admit,” Margaret said candidly, “I didn’t
think it a position to suit you.”

“Oh, I can well imagine.” Isobel’s smile was
brittle. “I’m sure you thought I couldn’t be bothered teaching
ragged little children, some who don’t know a word of English! I’m
sure you thought I’d be afraid the poor little creatures would soil
my gown, or give me lice, or some such.” Margaret could only stare
at her in surprise. “Didn’t you?” Isobel continued. “I daresay I
once thought it myself.”

“Isobel, I didn’t mean...” Margaret trailed off,
unable to continue. It was what she meant, she realized, even if
she had not intended to be mean-spirited.

“I know what you’ve always thought of me,” Isobel
continued, a hard edge to her voice. “You haven’t had much time for
me, have you? I can scarcely blame you. You were full of zeal and
purpose, and I had my head high above you all, dreaming of the time
Ian and I would marry.”

Margaret clutched the edge of the counterpane,
kneading the silky cloth between her fingers. “I had no idea...”
she whispered.

“No idea that I knew? You needn’t think I’m slow or
stupid, just because I couldn’t see the truth in front of me. It’s
plain to me now, of course, and I expect it was plain to everyone
else. Ian doesn’t love me. He never did. Any expectations I
had--that Mother and Father had--were based on the affection a
brother has for his sister, and nothing more. I know that now.”

“I’m sorry,” Margaret said after a long silence.

“So am I. It’s hard to let go of your dreams.”

“I know how that feels.”

“But I didn’t come here to speak of this, or to put
harsh words between us,” Isobel continued. “I came to tell you I
want to teach at the school even after you return, if you’ll have
me. I imagine you’ll need another teacher, especially if Eleanor
doesn’t return.”

“But won’t Eleanor return?” Margaret asked in
puzzlement.

Isobel smiled faintly. “I suspect she might have
duties elsewhere, if her concern for Rupert is any measure.”

“Concern? Has something happened to Rupert?”

Isobel’s face paled. “Oh, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t
have spoken!”

Margaret leaned forward. “I believe you should have.
What are you keeping from me? Is Rupert ill?”

“He’s all right now.” Henry stood in the doorway,
his features softened with tenderness. “Good morning, Isobel.” He
nodded briefly to his sister. “He’s been in hospital, Margaret, but
he’s to be released to us tomorrow, and he’ll make a full
recovery.”

“Hospital? But why?”

“I’ll tell you all about it, I promise you, but the
doctor is here now to examine you.” He turned to Isobel. “Would you
mind asking the doctor to come up, please?”

Isobel excused herself, and Henry
turned back to his wife. “It is
your
recovery I am concerned about
now, my dear.”

Margaret was not to be so easily placated. “Why have
you been keeping secrets from me?”

“Because you were ill to the point of death, and I
did not want to add one jot to your burden!” Henry spoke so
fiercely Margaret shrank slightly against the pillows. “Margaret,
my love, do you have any idea how close I came to losing you? And
in doing so, losing myself? I am nothing without you, Maggie.
Nothing.”

Henry sat on the edge of her bed, and Margaret put
her arms around him. For a moment there were no words that needed
to be said.

Downstairs, Isobel sent the doctor up with a few,
terse words. She felt strange and irritable, and she didn’t know
why. She’d accepted that Ian didn’t love her; she’d resigned
herself to being a spinster.

Yet seeing her brother care so tenderly for his wife
had sent a fierce, stab of longing for her. She didn’t want to grow
old and withered without love; she didn’t want to have only causes
and crusades to sustain her.

She was only twenty-three, she could still find a
husband, or so her mother said when Isobel had informed her that
the hopes for Ian had come to naught.

Isobel knew her mother believed this, but she had a
more practical nature. She was leftover goods in Boston, discarded
by someone who should have married her. Any suitors would be second
rate.

She sighed, and was preparing to leave, when there
was a knock on the door and the butler went smoothly to open
it.

“Master Campbell--”

“Isobel.” Ian stared at her from the doorway, his
face careworn and even a bit haggard.

Isobel’s heart beat painfully as she gazed back at
him, realizing afresh the full force of her feelings. “Hello,
Ian.”

The butler stepped aside, and Ian shed his coat and
hat. “I came to see how Margaret fares, but I am glad to see you as
well. I’ve been meaning to call on you at home.”

“Have you?” Isobel had meant to sound diffident, but
it came out cutting, sharp with hurt. She couldn’t help it; Ian had
been home for over a week.

A flush rose up his neck and face, and he looked
down in obvious shame. Isobel felt a small prick of triumph. At
least he understood that much, she thought. He should have
called.