That impertinent young jackanapes has had the effrontery to rally his supporters,” the general had announced

The lawyer looked agitated. “You must call a doctor! The health of Alison Porteous must be guarded at all costs,” he said. “There’s a good man not a stone’s throw from here, a Doctor Turner,” he continued. “He attends the cream of Edinburgh society.” “We are humble folk, Mr Davidson,” Duncan protested. “This doctor won’t attend the likes of us.”

“He’ll come where he’s summoned,” Davidson said tersely. “Well, if you are certain.” Duncan sounded worried. “I shall ask Ellie, one of our helpers, to...” “Are you referring to Miss Ellie Chalmers?” Surprised, Duncan nodded. “I am.” “I’ll be talking with her, too, if you please.” Seeing the perplexity on his listeners’ faces, he smiled. “I see no point in concealing the fact that I have similar news for her. Miss Chalmers, too, has a benefactor.”

He turned to Kirsty. “Doctor Turner’s home is across the road, opposite Queensberry House. There’s a plate at his door. Fetch him, please, and tell him I sent you.”

He turned to Duncan McAllan. “You, sir, would favour me by letting me speak with Miss Chalmers. You should also know that Miss Porteous is yet another of my client’s beneficiaries. I would rather her father had been here when I spoke to her, but no matter.” Thoughtful “I expect him within the hour if that is of assistance.” The lawyer looked thoughtful.

“It may be,” he commented. “I don’t intend troubling Miss Porteous until I have the doctor’s views.”

Sighing, he raised his eyebrows. “Now, sir, Miss Chalmers?”

As Duncan went to the kitchen to fetch Ellie, his thoughts were racing. Why had Kirsty received such a fortune? Alison, too, and stranger still, Ellie? Three slips of girls with an unknown benefactor. Why?

Hoping it would not be long before John arrived, Duncan entered the hot, steamy kitchen.

“Ellie,” he called out, “there’s a gentleman here to see you – a lawyer. Please come with me.”

Surprised, Ellie stopped kneading the dough she was preparing, brushed the flour from her hands and followed him from the room.

General Guest stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the castle ramparts from his office window.

As Robert sat patiently, he felt the old soldier looked his years; his shoulders drooped and his face was grey. No wonder, Robert thought, as he, too, pondered the news they’d just heard.

Sergeant McCrae had brought the latest dispatch barely an hour ago.

“That impertinent young jackanapes has had the effrontery to rally his supporters,” the general had announced, reading it.

“The standard was raised at Glenfinnan and by all accounts quite a few Stuart sympathisers have rallied, though not as many as the Young Pretender might have hoped.”

For some while Robert and the general had discussed the ramifications of the situation, debating what action they would take. Now Robert awaited a final decision.

At last, the general turned from the window. “Would you agree that the rebels will make for Edinburgh?” he said, his voice dispirited.

“Undoubtedly, sir. Here in the capital he can be proclaimed Prince Regent, which would add more power to his cause.” Sour look

“Hmm. If he’s not stopped he could be here in a few weeks, yet what can we do with but one regiment of ailing, tired men?”

“With respect, sir, you mentioned we were to be joined by another regiment under Colonel Gardiner.” A sour look crossed the general’s face. “Gardiner’s a good man but his dragoons are like ours, weary and sick. No, Captain, there’s not much hope there.”

His face brightened as a thought struck him. “There’s always General Cope. Surely London will order him up here with his army?”

“Surely, sir,” Robert agreed. “I hear he has a good few thousand men. That should be enough to quell the rebels.”

“I wish I shared your optimism, Robert.” The older man sat down and loosened his tunic collar. “Whatever happens, I vow this castle will not fall to Charles Stuart,” he growled.

“To that end, Captain, you will ensure we have enough supplies, food and ammunition to resist a long siege. And double the firearm drills for the men.”

“As you wish, sir.” Robert saluted and made for the door. “By the way, Robert,” the general called after him. “The lassies who entertained us that evening at Lady Catherine’s – did you ever get to know them better? You appeared interested.” His eyes twinkled.

Robert shook his head, remembering the words of the Aberdeen merchant, William Watt. “I’m afraid not.”

The general sighed. “Honest to goodness, what’s wrong with the young men nowadays? If I was your age I’d be down at that Mission House whenever possible!”

“My duties are onerous, sir,” Robert said stiffly. “They do not allow for much dallying.”

Dr Daniel Turner stood at Alison’s bedside, his face grave. Her cheeks were flushed and she rolled her head from side to side. He placed a hand on her forehead, then bent closer and sniffed.

“Have you noticed this musty smell?” he enquired of Kirsty, standing nearby.

“Yes, Doctor. It reminded my father and me of a place overrun by mice.” Symptoms

“Exactly! That aptly describes the odour this poor girl is emitting, and that, together with the other symptoms, confirms my fears.”

Stepping away from the bed, he placed a hand on Kirsty’s shoulder and drew her back. “Typhus,” he intoned quietly. “Oh, no! Surely not! But she’ll get well, won’t she?” “That depends. She’s young and with good nursing she may recover, but the crisis has yet to come. There is...”

His words were interrupted as the door burst open and John and Agnes Porteous rushed in, Duncan and the lawyer, Davidson, right behind them.

Agnes cast one look at her daughter’s still form and reached for her husband’s hand. “Oh, John, look at her, our poor wee girl.”

“You’re the doctor?” John flicked a glance at Turner. “I am, sir. Daniel Turner at your service. I’m afraid your daughter is gravely ill. Typhus.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Duncan whispered from the doorway while behind him, pale-faced, Davidson echoed his words. More tomorrow. Glens of Stone was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. There’s more great fiction in The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Mandy Dixon