Glens of Stone, Day 33

Robert sat and fumed in the locked room. How had he been stupid enough to let Ewan Ogilvie take him prisoner?

On Saturday morning Kirsty said: “I’ve never been to a masquerade ball. Why do you think Lady Catherine invited us?” She turned to Duncan, sitting supping his porridge. “What’s so special about us, do you think?” “I don’t know,” Duncan said. “Alison’s parents are also to attend, I believe?”

“Yes,” Alison agreed, “and Malcolm, too. Costumes for an affair like this will cost us a great deal.”

“We could use some of the money we were given by the lawyer,” Kirsty suggested. Duncan rose and paced the floor.

“Actually,” he said, “I have to say you have another benefactor – or perhaps the same one.”

The previous evening he had opened the offerings box in the meeting hall and found a package inside. Now he drew a package from the folds of his coat and offered it to Kirsty.

“It contains a short letter and banknotes to the sum of 70 pounds.” “Seventy pounds!” Alison cried. “But who?” Kirsty had been reading the enclosed note. “It’s unsigned. It says part of the money is for the Mission funds, and part is for the purchase of finery.”

Suitable

She looked from one to the other. “We’ve to buy suitable costumes for the ball.”

“It is a strange affair,” Duncan said, still pacing. “What’s so strange?” Malcolm stood in the doorway. Quickly Kirsty explained. “So now we can afford to attend this ball,” she finished.

“My dears,” Duncan began, “I don’t wish to be a Jeremiah, but I confess to having doubts about attending this function. “Kirsty knows my views about dancing.” All eyes turned to Kirsty. “It is deemed by some to be unseemly,” she explained.

“Indeed, the local Assembly Rooms have scarce been open these last years, such is the animosity displayed to those who would frequent them.”

“Well, I, for one, am accepting the invitation,” Alison announced. “Kirsty, Malcolm – what about you?” Kirsty took hold of one of her father’s hands. “Is it true?” she asked. “Is dancing really the Devil’s work and forbidden in the Scriptures?” “It is not forbidden, it’s just...” “It’s just that it’s frowned upon by a lot of sourfaced joykillers! I certainly intend going.” Alison stomped away.

“Leave her be,” Duncan advised when Kirsty would have followed her. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You young ones must go and enjoy yourselves. It’s a fine opportunity for you and Malcolm to celebrate.”

Robert sat and fumed in the locked room. How had he been stupid enough to let Ewan Ogilvie take him prisoner? The general would be thinking he’d deserted. And what would he say when he learned of McCrae’s perfidy?

There was, of course, the matter of General Guest’s bombardment of Castle Hill and the Lawnmarket.

At least, so he’d heard from the Forbes girl, Ellie Chalmers had almost fully recovered from her injuries and was apparently to be attending Lady Catherine’s masquerade ball this very evening.

Robert had to admire her ladyship’s determination to ignore the unrest caused by the arrival of the rebel army. He felt a rather wistful longing to attend the function himself.

Heavily armed

He had no hope of that, with two heavily armed Highlanders outside the door.

“Mr Ogilvie arranged it,” Jean Forbes told him when she brought him an early supper. “He would,” Robert said bitterly.

He was surprised to learn that she was accompanying the others to the ball.

“And why not?” she demanded. “Her ladyship is adamant that I attend.”

She didn’t reveal that her presence was only required so that she might wait on the others. “You’re just as Ellie says: your nose is that high in the air, it’s aye frosted.”

Lady Catherine pirouetted before a full-length mirror in her dressing-room. “I hope I look the part,” she murmured, her voice full of doubt.

“Better than the original,” McLaurin assured her, though Anne Boleyn had never graced Edinburgh’s streets. Lady Catherine turned to the old woman.

“I can’t understand why you won’t don a costume for this assembly,” she complained. Her companion raised a protesting hand.

“Me, in costume? What garb would suit me? That of a North Berwick witch, perhaps – them as plagued the old King!”

“The very thing,” Lady Catherine declared, laughing. “Most apt.”

Huffily, McLaurin tottered to her feet. “I’d best away and ensure the sedans are ordered.” She pulled open the door and stumped, her cane tapping, into the passage. Her thoughts turned to Robert Marshall, locked away upstairs.

Her mistress had been both annoyed and fearful to find that the young captain was being held in her home.

“We could all be hung for this!” she’d shouted at Ewan. “We can’t take an officer of the King’s army prisoner.”

“It’s only a temporary abduction, ma’am,” Ewan had assured her. “He will be free to return to the castle in due course – if he wishes.”

His last words had held a guarded message which Lady Catherine had missed. Later, she had once again tackled Ewan, who had lost his temper.

“The city is in the hands of the Prince’s forces. As an officer in his army I have certain powers. Indeed, if I wished it I could commandeer this building for military use and have you cast out into the street! So have a care, madam!”

He’d been bluffing, of course, but his words had had the desired effect.

Impatience

McLaurin peered upwards through the dark of the stairwell and heard the low voices of the two guards. Poor lad, she thought, picturing Robert. Then she allowed herself a sly grin. “But it’s for his own good.”

Thomas McLean’s mood was one of impatience. The day had dragged but now, at last, resplendent in the uniform of a Roundhead captain, he was ready to leave for the Assembly Rooms.

Tonight, at last, if the old woman was the one he sought, he could learn the full extent of her treachery all those years ago.

It was doubtful if the old wifie – or Lady Catherine herself – would recognise him after all this time, but the mask would ensure his anonymity.

He lifted the loaded pistol from the bed and placed it in his belt. Next he donned the silver mask, smoothed his straggly hair and clamped the heavy helmet on his head.

He was ready.

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