Page 39 of The Swordmaster's Daughter

“Forgive me my mind is in such a state I can barely think. Rosalind. Her name is Rosalind. I was supposed to protect her. I will never forgive myself.” He clenched the hilt of his sword, clearly itching to use it. “I should have been there.”

“May I ask what it is that has happened?” She already had a strong notion, but it was necessary to confirm her suspicions and not jump to conclusions that might be false. He held out his hand to help her aboard, a gesture she would normally refuse. She took the hand that was meant to steady her, a hand that was trembling and gripping her too tightly for comfort, allowing him to guide her to her seat. She said nothing of the crushing of her fingers, nothing of the tremble in his hand, and nothing of the fact that once they were seated, he still did not let go of her hand. The bargeman pushed off the wharf with a cry of “Westward Ho!” As he steered them into the choppy waters of the gloomy grey Thames, she stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. It was only when they were a good distance from shore that he chose to reveal the true nature of the crisis, his face as grim as a pallbearer, his hand curled into a tight fist.

“Tis a sorry and sordid tale I must burden you with.”

“Tis no burden,” she reassured.

”As you know I was meant to attend a meeting of the swordmasters to help set up the combined Scots and English Fencing Society, but this morning my uncle sent word I was needed elsewhere. When I finished this new task, it was too late to attend the meeting, so I thought I may as well go home but instead I stopped on my way at an inn to pass the time for a while.”

“And where is home?”

“A small lodging in Whitehall. My sister, Rosalind still lives at my uncle’s house as a companion of sorts to our aunt. She likes to bring me food when she can. She does not trust that I am eating well enough without a woman to fuss over me. Our parents, you see, died when we were small, and we were sent to live in the household of my uncle. He has no son and means to adopt me as heir to his estate, but my sister does not have such favorable status, and I fear is treated not much better than a servant. But I digress. While I was out Rosalind came to visit me and was carrying my favorite stew made from sheep intestine and ground meat in a small pot for me to reheat. As she struggled to hold the pot and open the door, a man held the door, pretending to be helpful, before pushing his way in and…” McCrae’s face pulled taut and he sucked in his cheeks, slowly breathing in and out, fighting for control. She gave his hand another squeeze.

“You do not need to say anymore. I can imagine what happened next. Grandma and I have seen terrible incidents like this before.”

“You have?” A sudden squall came out of nowhere, the blast whipping at them from the direction of the stern and setting the barge rocking from side to side. McCrae pulled his cloak around both their shoulders. “The least I can do is to keep you warm.” It was a simple statement said with such bitterness and self-reproach that the words and the sentiment seemed at odds. “I promised, you see,” he said fiercely, “I promised I would always protect her.”

“I am sure your sister would not blame you.”

“No. You don’t understand. I promised our mother I would always look after Rosalind. I made that promise when I was seven years old just before the highwaymen took her away. They ambushed our wagon. We were on our way to Uncle’s seeking a place to stay after Father died. Mother made a bargain with the highwaymen. She would go with them if they did not harm me. If you can call not harming me leaving me to fend for myself with no water, no food, no horses, nothing but knee-deep snow and bitter cold. My sister had fallen asleep and if we had not covered her with cloaks those animals would have taken her as well. Promise me you’ll take care of your sister. They were the last words I heard our mother speak.” His hand was still entwined with her hand, his fingers kneading and digging into her flesh. “And now I have failed her. This scoundrel ravaged Rosalind in my own room when she came to leave food for me.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I can never forgive myself. It is all my fault.”

Much as she wanted to comfort him and dissuade him of this irrational belief, she knew it would not help. The pain of a deeply felt guilt cannot be soothed with reasoning. Action is a far better salve than any words. Reaching up underneath the cloak she put one arm around his back, linking her hands to enclose his chest in her arms. She rested her head on his shoulder and felt the weight of his head fall against hers as he buried his face in her hair. If anyone asked, he would say he was keeping her warm, sparing her frail female body from the bitter cold. If anyone asked, it was the bracing air that made his nose run and set him sniffling. And if anyone asked it was only compassion that made her draw him into such an intimate embrace.

Though the wind howled and buffeted the barge she barely noticed the lurch of the bow, the peak and crash of the relentless waves, or the bite of the bitter-cold spray. All she was aware of was the heat of his breath, the rise and fall of his chest, and the thud of his heart against the inside of her arm. The wind suddenly shifted to the port side of the barge hastening their approach to the shore.

McCrae broke the embrace, putting a good foot of distance between them when they were a few hundred yards out from Westminster wharf. “We are nearly there,” he said, squaring his shoulders and straightening his spine. It was not so much a statement of fact as a declaration of resolve. His lips compressed into a thin hard line and he stared into the distance. “Are you sure you can help Rosalind?”

Lucinda nodded firmly. “At least until my grandmother arrives. I could never replace her. She has years of wisdom and experience, but I do know what it is that I need to do.”

Robert McCrae spoke softly and gently after knocking on his apartment door. “Rosalind. Tis me. I have brought someone to help.” He turned the key and grasped the doorknob, fixing his gaze to some imagined distance and stepped inside the room.

A young woman sat in a finely carved oak chair set next to a small fireplace, staring vacantly across the room. Her dress was pale blue, her hair blonde and loose about her shoulders, crinkled from where it had been braided, so it fell in a shallow staircase to her waist. She shivered as they entered and looked up at McCrae for reassurance.

“This is Lucinda Evans. Her grandmother is a gifted midwife and healer. Lucinda will care for you until her grandmother arrives.”

“I lit the fire to heat your supper,” Rosalind said. “You may as well eat it. No point letting good food spoil and go to waste.”

McCrae clenched his jaw and solemnly nodded. “Perhaps later.” The normally smooth burr to his voice was jagged and ridged.

Rosalind did not cry or rock. She did not wail or shrink. She sat stiffly with her arms locked to her chest. A sister or a mother would run to comfort the girl, throw their arms around her, and stroke the length of her shimmering hair, but a brother is not the same as a mother or a sister. McCrae did not run toward her for much as he must love his sister, he was still a man and a man’s touch was the last thing she would want. Lucinda’s heart ached for them deeply, for the violated young woman and the guilt-ridden brother who stood rigid and stalwart, both damaged and broken but bravely pretending to be strong.

“If you could give us some time alone? An hour should be enough.”

“Of course,” McCrae said before he bolted for safety. He was gone before you could blink, barely disturbing the air with his departure, air which hung heavy and stale, trapped with too much weight.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” Lucinda indicated the bed. It too was carved oak with a soft wool mattress on top judging by the way she sank into it as she sat on the brightly-colored quilt. A rush mat covered the floor. A bookshelf, at least three feet long, filled with pamphlets and books lined the wall behind the chair where Rosalind was sitting. She had never seen so many books in one place. A plain sturdy clothes chest was the only other furnishing in the room.

“I made the quilt for Robbie,” Rosalind said. She spoke with the same soft rolling “r” as her brother did.

“You are a fine needlewoman and an excellent cook as well I hear.”

“You know what they say,” Rosalind said with a rueful smile. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” For a moment her face twitched, and she looked like she might cry, dabbing at her nose with a square of linen she pulled from under her sleeve. Red marks ringed both her wrists.

“He bound your wrists with rope?”

Rosalind glanced at her wrists and nodded.

“Put a blindfold over your eyes.”

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