Page 6 of Highland Jewel
“I can’t be arrested. Catriona and Briana,” Fiona said, her hoarse voice rising in panic. As a widowed mother to two daughters only five and seven years of age, she had too much at stake.
Maisie grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the rear of the platform. People were streaming around it, searching for ways to exit the Grassmarket. “Sit down at the edge.”
Fiona sat and reached up, grabbing for Maisie’s hand. “We go together.”
A narrow space beside an elderly woman following two protestors presented a chance. Giving Fiona a push, Maisie watched her friend land on her feet and immediately get swept along in the current of moving bodies.
Fiona’s shout of protest was lost amidst the other voices as she was carried away from the oncoming troops. Relieved for Fiona’s sake, Maisie searched for another opening for herself. But the crowd pressed harder.
Cries rang out behind her, and she turned around. The mounted soldiers had nearly reached the hustings. They were coming fiercely, their gleaming swords held high in the air. The once-crowded stage now held only three people.
Fear chilled her. The reality of her situation was numbing. Months of protests, crusading for her beliefs, and the moment she’d dreaded was upon her. And worse, she’d kept it all secret. Her family would have no way of knowing she’d been arrested. Isabella, her sister, would become alarmed and then frantic with worry, but she wouldn’t know where to look. She’d never imagine Maisie was involved in these protests, never mind leading them.
The two men remaining on the platform jumped down, one after the other. The soldier in the lead spurred his horse on. His eyes focused on her, the only prize left for the picking. She backed along the edge. Below her, a hatless man passed by. Crimson blood from a gash on his head was running freely down his face and neck, staining his shirt and coat.
Time had run out. The blue-coated dragoon was upon her. His steed snorted wildly and banged against the platform. Maisie picked up the flag at her feet and thrust it at his chest like a spear. He grabbed hold of it and shoved it furiously to the side. Suddenly, a small gap in the crowd opened beneath her. Dropping the flag, she leaped from the stage.
Shock and horror struck her like a club when she jerked to a stop in midair. She was suspended from theplatform, dangling several feet from the ground. Her dress had caught on a protruding nail.
Helplessly, she watched the mounted yeoman lift his sabre and rear back with murderous intent. But before he could slash at her, someone reached up and dragged him from his horse.
Shouts and cries filled the Grassmarket as Maisie tried to free herself. Then, she felt an arm encircle her waist, lifting her off the nail and pulling her roughly away from the stage.
Pandemonium surrounded her. Her feet had not yet touched the ground, but she was moving with the crowd. She twisted around to see who was carrying her. A man who stood a head above the throng was shoving his way through.
“Hold on to me,” he barked. “Don’t let go.”
She was half walking, half floating, and she clutched the arm wrapped around her waist. He was a lifeline in the sea of humanity engulfing them. Dreadful cries pierced the air. She caught glimpses of the soldiers riding amongst the mob, swinging sabres. Whatever control they possessed before, it was gone, and everyone scrambled to get out of their way.
The pressure of the bodies robbed Maisie of breath. The faces, the voices became jumbled. Her knees were wobbling, her vision blurring. The hold on her rescuer relaxed. “I can’t… I can’t breathe.”
The man’s arm tightened. “Stay with me.”
She didn’t know how he managed it, but suddenly they turned a corner into a dark close. Stone walls and arches enclosed them as they descended a few steps into a shadowy passageway.
He set her down, but Maisie’s legs were not steady enough to keep her upright. She leaned against the walland sank to the ground. Trying to force air into her lungs, she gathered her knees into her chest.
They were concealed in the narrow space, but the sounds of shouting and rushing crowds still filled her ears. She couldn’t stop the trembling that continued to sweep through her in waves.
“Are the soldiers still attacking? Is this another Peterloo?”
A foolish question, she realized. He gave no answer. She’d seen the militia charging through. But how many people would be injured… or killed?
He stood beneath the arched entrance of the passageway, nearly filling the opening with his height and broad shoulders. His back was to her. She didn’t know if he was guarding her or preparing to go back into the Grassmarket to rescue someone else. But the way he’d acted on her behalf—his courage and chivalry in the face of the armed yeomanry—was magnificent.
“Thank you for saving me.”
He said nothing and continued to look out.
Maisie pushed to her feet. Her heart still pounded, but she couldn’t stay here. The skirt of her dress was torn near her waist where the nail had caught the fabric. Her cap was missing. Her white spencer jacket was stained with what she feared was blood.
She needed to get back to her house on Infirmary Street. Some of the injured could be taken to Isabella and her husband, Archibald Drummond, at their surgery. Both were doctors, and even though she herself had no medical training, Maisie feared she would be needed there on a day like today.
Her exit was still blocked. Her rescuer had not moved. His powerful frame was silhouetted in the dim light beyond. He wore no hat. His light brown hair was long, falling below his collar. His dark grey coat lookedfairly new, the cut conservative, and it fit him well. She assumed he’d been in the crowd, one of the protestors. Perhaps, like her, he wanted change.
“I need to go out there,” she said softly.
“Why?” His tone was sharp, and he glared as he wheeled about and faced her. Maisie took an involuntary step backward. “To get yourself arrested?”
