Page 51 of Highland Jewel
They lay there in each other’s arms for a while, until he grew restless. She knew he had to leave.
As he helped her to dress, she tried to ask more questions, but it was futile. Niall would tell her no more. With every minute, Maisie felt him growing more distant, more detached. Gloom pervaded the very air they were breathing. While Maisie had been soaring in the sky not so long ago, she was now sinking into a darkness that bordered on despair.
She couldn’t blame him for drawing away. He had to be frantic for his lost family. For Fiona. For those two girls.
Why thedevilhad she stopped at Fiona’s house that day? The guilt persisted. She could have addressed those women at the Brewers’ Hall on her own. If only she could take back that one decision. But she couldn’t. It was done. Worlds had been dashed, torn to pieces, in a moment.
How could Niallnotdespise her? If he was cold to her now, she deserved that, at least.
When they were ready, he picked up his traveling bags, and they went out the door and down to the street together. They found a hackney cab on High Street, and Niall’s face was somber as he handed her into the carriage.
They rode along in silence, and she stared out at the people, brushing away the tears that she couldn’t control. The carriage stopped at the front door of her house. He helped her out and held her hand for a moment.
“I’ve been given a task to accomplish in exchange for my sister’s life.”
She knew it. She’d guessed that much. She waited for him to say more.
“I have to kill a man.”
“Who?”
He shook his head. “I’ll not be coming back. You are free of the promises we made.” He let go of her hand. “You must forget me.”
CHAPTER18
The Grassmarket
Edinburgh
April 3, 1820
Panicked shouts and cries from behind Maisie echoed off the stone buildings as she ran with the crowd trying to escape the chaos of the Grassmarket. She glanced back over her shoulder. A line of dragoons was spurring their mounts to form a barrier across Cowgate to stop any more protestors from escaping.
She knew the soldiers would come. Everyone knew.
When the weavers and other Scottish reform groups in Glasgow and Edinburgh and Aberdeen called for a day of strikes to protest London’s repressive actions, the authorities had responded by shutting down all work in the cities. Every militia in the region was called up, and word had been circulating all day that the yeomanry barracked in the castle had been patrolling the streets. Many of the dragoons, it was reported, had been drinking all morning and were already intoxicated before the speeches even began.
According to the Six Acts, the assembly in Grassmarket was illegal. The speeches were illegal. The verybanners being held aloft were illegal. The new laws didn’t matter to the working people of Scotland. The rising had begun. And she felt it was her duty to be there. She owed it to Fiona. She owed it to herself. Earlier today, she’d lifted the banner of the Female Reform Society with Ella and other women in protest.
Niall’s warnings no longer deterred her. He was gone. She continued to mourn him. His parting words haunted her waking hours and deprived her of sleep. She was afraid even to guess at the specifics of his assignment, though. Hope had slipped beyond her reach. The only purpose she had left in her life was taking part in the fight.
Maisie was out of breath by the time she turned off the main road and began to climb through the wynds and passages that would eventually take her to South Bridge. Only a few fellow protestors turned off with her. The rest would run until they reached the abbey and the outskirts of Edinburgh.
In the Grassmarket, she’d nearly been caught. The fighting around them had been intense, with angry citizens responding violently to the drawn sabres and charging steeds of the yeomanry. Many people had been hurt, and pandemonium ensued. Maisie saw organizers being dragged from the hustings and savagely beaten. By the time she was able to find her way out of the center of the maelstrom, injured protestors were being carried and dragged away by friends and family, and she knew at least some of them would be taken to Infirmary Street. She wanted to get home.
As she emerged from Adam Square onto South Bridge, Maisie saw mounted Hussars in their blue coats and tall fur busbies leading two columns of red-coated foot soldiers, and a wave of dread washed through her. They could be simply making a show of strength to encourage order in the residents, or they could be going to the house of the leaders and making arrests. She feared it was the latter.
Racing across South Bridge onto her street, she passed the house and turned the corner into the alleyway. A cart stood by the small garden leading to the kitchen door. The unattended horse tossed his head nervously as she passed and went into the house.
Inside, bedlam reigned. Maids and manservants scurried back and forth from the front rooms. In the hallway, men and women were sitting with their backs against the wall. From the front of the house, she could hear Archibald shouting instructions over moans and cries of pain.
Tossing her cloak on a hook in a corner, she ran to her sister’s examination room to help. She wasn’t there. She looked in the surgery. Wounded lined the wall, but she wasn’t there.
“Isabella?”
“She took an injured lad upstairs to put him in her own bed,” the housekeeper called. “Said she’ll be down directly.”
Worry tore at her. The soldiers outside were coming in this direction. Their spies had to know that Archibald was one of the leaders. People here in the house had been at the protest. At least some of them would be wanted by the authorities. Maisie ran up the stairs in search of her sister.
