Saving Time

Chapter 37

Murphy’s Law #2

“Murphy was an Optimist.”

March 14th

Melissa leaned back in the kincob upholstery of the coach, her limbs without strength, watching through the coach window as her uncle outside gave final instructions to an officer on the white steps of Pulteney House. He had been so consumed with army business this past month. The morning hung damp and cold, the London streets smelling of coal dust. She wrapped a travel blanket around her legs, her lethargic effort to keep it off the footwarmers frustrating her.

Sitting next to her, Martha, the Scots maid her uncle had found for her, leaned over to efficiently finish tucking the blanket in around her.

Thanking her, Melissa pursed her lips, angry with herself. What is wrong with me? Continually clumsy, she seemed unable to complete the simplest tasks without help. Perpetually cold, she had the servants keep the fire in the parlor always blazing. She had no energy for anything, a cavernous emptiness residing where her willpower and desires once glowed. After a month in London, even at such a grand hotel, her uncle decided she needed to return home to Scotland.

Colonel Graham climbed into the coach, rocking the cab, and shut the door. He tapped on the roof and the coach lurched into motion. He smiled at Melissa. “It has been so long since I have been to Lynedoch. I fear I won’t recognize Balgowan House. Do you remember how you loved to fish the Almond down to the Tay, and your adventures riding the forest trails of Atholl?”

“Yes, Uncle, I remember.” Her lackluster reply robbed him of his smile. His thick eyebrows furrowed, his forthright gaze making her look away. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so, so glaikit.”

“Aye, lass, I ken.”

“I know you do, Uncle.” The pain and guilt in his eyes led her to say, “I will be forever grateful to you for taking me to see foreign lands, and for your kindness now.”

Colonel Graham pressed his broad shoulders against the back of the seat as though he could push the coach to a faster pace. He gazed out the window at stone buildings as carriages passed by, daylight shadows scurrying across his face in the cabin gloom. As though recalling his own loss so many years ago, he said, “You’ll find a healing of your heart among your kith and kin.”

Melissa wished it would be so, yet her pain lay deeper and wider than she imagined any family and friends could reach, all bound to a tale no one would believe. Her lip quivered, remembering her two weeks with Captain Starke. Just a handful of trying and fearful days together. Such an awful, awful undeserved end for such a heroic man—because of her.

Tears came again. Hand on her bodice where the malicious medallion hid, warm and heavy. She would see her nana and return the hated glamor. She would ask her nana how she could foist such a devilish instrument of woe on her granddaughter, on an innocent man.

~ ~ ~

Rig stood in line with Brooks, and other officers to receive his back pay. Like most things in the army, it was taking forever. He fumed, impatience becoming his response to everything. A whole month had gone by, and he was still in Portsmouth with no direction, no future, no word from Melissa.

“Be sure to ask for your baggage and losses including horse furniture and travel expenses.”

Rig nodded to Robert Brooks. In the past weeks recovering from the campaign and traveling to Portsmouth, waiting for any army orders, he and Brooks had become good friends. Rig would have floundered without his help, things like mailing letters off to Melissa and Colonel Graham should have been simple. Now he had to learn how to make an envelope, learn how to write with a quill pen, and do it in longhand. Getting the Colewart Barracks administration to ‘frank’ the letters was another adventure in bureaucratic procedures.

Officers got their meals from a regiment’s officers’ mess, so Rig had been temporarily added to the First Guard’s Mess. The President of the Mess, a Major Plimpton, required Rig to add his share to the money pooled together for meals. He thought the whole thing absurd. Officers had to pay for their own clothes, equipment, and food.

Shuffling forward in line, Brooks leaned in saying, “I might have to join the Rifles, old boy. Your new togs do look exceedingly martial.”

Rig grinned and shook his head. “I seriously doubt it. You’d never give up your scarlet coat and yards of gold lace.” His new green, almost black uniform felt good, flea-free, and smelling of lavender.

The past weeks hadn’t been totally wasted. He and Robert had found a recommended tailor in town who made military uniforms. Not stopping there, Brooks had suggested obtaining civilian clothes. Now Rig had a suit, a lounging robe, spare shirts, trousers, and two pairs of boots. The baggy linen shorts which passed for boxers were a nonstarter. It was amazing. Labor cost nothing, the cost of his clothes, fifty pounds, was the yearly salary of the servants in the barracks. Robert had taken Rig to the Bank of England on St. Thomas Street to open an account, trading in the saddle bags of silver and gold doubloons he still had for a bank account. It came to 1,025 pounds sterling. He received a draft book for writing what appeared to be checks.

Finally at the front of the line, Rig handed Sparhawk’s red paybook to the agent behind the desk. He waited as the man methodically calculating the days since Sparhawk had purchased his captaincy, multiplying by ten shillings, six pence a day. He had never been paid his wages or reimbursed for any of his travel to and from Spain. The bespectacled agent wore an immaculate coat with a high collar and lacy shirt, counting every pence out twice, a poster boy for obsessive compulsive disorder. Rig would now have spending money.

While the officers behind him were about to mutiny, the man slowly filled in Rig’s pay book with the new information, and then pushed the pile of coins he had determined belonged to Sparhawk toward Rig. He suggested Rig count it before signing the receipt. The entire line behind him groaned in unison. Rig signed the receipt and scooped all the coins into his coat pockets. He hadn’t thought to buy a money purse. He left with 172 pounds, eleven shillings, three pence jingling in his coat pockets when he and Brooks left the office. The military refused to deal with paper currency or drafts.

With Brooks, Rig contemplated the rest of the day. Sergeants were drilling their companies on the parade ground, but no officers were involved. It was not something officers engaged in unless ordered to for Saturday exercises. Weird. It left him far too much time to think of Mel, to reflect on the ache in his chest her absence incited, to wonder where she was, whether his many letters had reached her through her uncle. He prayed she didn’t believe he’d drown.

She filled the center of his life, everything else valued in relation to her after just eighteen days in her company. He knew his love for her went beyond the fact she represented the only person in the world who knew his real origins.

Yet, a life with her remained unimaginable, nonsense considering his situation. He had taken up walking for hours around the city, exercising his damaged leg, or watching the mind-numbing drills performed by stiff, red-coated soldiers.

~ ~ ~

March 28th

Robert Brooks burst into Rig’s room. “Splendid news, Sparhawk. Our warhorses have been located and they are herding them to the barrack stables as we speak.” Rig had just finished dressing for breakfast.

“Good timing, considering we both have received our orders and I have to go to London.”

Reading his orders, Rig had no idea why he wasn’t directed to join his battalion in Southampton. No explanations had been included. The prospect of riding to London on his own led Rig to start his mission mapping over breakfast, insisting Robert tell him all about the route, and what he’d need to know.

The noise in the barracks mess hall required them to speak up, even sitting next to each other at a long table crowded with dozens of exuberant officers.

Robert just laughed. “Don’t bother, old boy, I’ll travel with you.”

“What, why? Aren’t the First Guards shipping out to Spain in a few weeks?”

“They are, but I decided to go on leave and see the family in London.”

“Just like that? Regardless of orders?”

Brooks cocked his head, studying Rig quizzically. “You bally well know we officers can take our leave anytime we wish though it may not please the gold braid. I haven’t seen my family in more than two years. Besides, I must make sure you survive your journey deeper into English civilization.”

It had become a joke between them. Rig’s ignorance of practically everything amused Robert no end. He assumed Sparhawk’s Canadian wilderness living led to Rig’s lack of knowledge. Rig didn’t correct the impression.

“However, beyond friendship and mutual destinations, there is my continuing curiosity about you. For instance, Sparhawk. I must ask why you were harvesting stinging nettles on the parade ground yesterday. The tea from the nettles is bloody-awful even as a medicine.”

“You might want some anyway. It’s been two months since either of us have had fruit of any kind and the Navy has cornered the lemon and lime market in Portsmouth and Sothern England.”

“Stinging nettles can ward off scurvy?”

“Yes.” It was part of Ranger survival training, but he couldn’t tell Robert about that or vitamin C.

“Well, if that is so, sign me up, but don’t tell the Royal Navy. They will immediately scour the bloody Parade Ground and Portsmouth for the damn weeds.” Brooks chuckled. “And you wonder why I find you an entertaining fellow.”

Rig gave his friend a patient look and handed him his orders. “Can I do the same with these orders? Go on leave and ignore them?”

Examining the document, Robert said, “Your orders come from the Home Office, the government, old boy, not the Horse Guards. You can’t ignore it. There is no reporting date included. I imagine it will be forthcoming. I am certain this too will prove entertaining.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that there are domestic issues involving you. The powers-that-be don’t want you marching off to Spain.”

After breakfast, he and Brooks went down to the stables to find their mounts. The stables were massive, said to accommodate a thousand horses though nothing near that number were in residence. Finding Chief’s stall 129 required searching among the maze of wood, straw, and horse flesh.

When the stall was found, Rig froze, appalled. “Damn.” He hardly recognized Chief. Standing unshod in dirty hay, hair matted, his ribs stuck out. The sea voyage had been no kinder on the horses. Chief had even been branded over the eagle and crown with the number 22. A number. He wanted to take apart whoever did it.

Robert’s horse was in no better shape even though he’d left it in La Corunna during the campaign. Robert fumed, “How could anyone treat an Arabian that badly?

The rest of the day was spent finding private stables in Portsmouth, which could properly care for and help rehabilitate their mounts. Then they had to have the horses fitted for saddles, also paying for new bridles, the rest of the horse furniture, plus shoeing.

Returning to his barrack’s room that night, Rig saw his two roommates were nowhere to be seen, which was typical. They were usually out carousing in town, drinking at the local clubs, stumbling home drunk in the early mornings. Standing in the doorway next to Rig, Robert grinned at the sight of buckets by each bed. Rig had found it necessary after the first night.

Saying “Good night” to Robert, Rig sat on his bed. Rotating his left arm to fight the stiffness, he considered his situation. He had healed and was slowly recovering from the campaign and sailing the storm. There had been so much he’d had to learn and do in the last month, yet he remained antsy, fretting over the lack of any communication from Mel or Colonel Graham. He felt he was drifting to no purpose, unable to anticipate the challenges of this world.

Rig knew her ship had reached Portsmouth. Where Mel was, he didn’t know. Did she believe he was dead? Is that why he hadn’t heard from her?

His immediate goal, the only real thing in this world, remained his desire to see Mel again but he had no idea how to find her. Had illness plagued her transport as it had The Black Swan?

Surely the letters he’d sent to army headquarters in London had been forwarded to Graham. Everything in 1809 seemed achingly slow, inefficient, and too often made little sense when there was any information at all. It left him isolated in a way he’d never experienced before.

He desperately missed cell reception, text messages, and the internet. He’d really like to know what the weather is going to be. His whole world was limited to walking distance, and any outside news, newspapers and riders, days late. He feared when he traveled to London any letters addressed to him in Portsmouth would never reach him. Children in this time had to be born patient to avoid dying young from frustration.

When Rig brooded over his situation and travel to London, Brooks patted him on the back, saying, “You will stay with my family, no arguments. You can leave that address on Brook Street for any forwarded mail.”

Rig eyed his friend. “Brook Street? Any relation to Brooks?”

Robert grinned and nodded. “Ours is an ancient family and came to own a good portion of London’s west side. An ‘S’ was added to our surname in 1657. The Brooks have always maintained a bland sort of humor. The family joke is by that century the extended relations had grown so numerous, we could only speak of the Brook family in the plural.”

~ ~ ~

April 3rd

Melissa hesitated at the door of her nana’s room. Nana was ill so she had been moved from her house in Luncarty to be cared for at Melissa’s sister’s estate in Stanley. It was home neither to Nana nor Melissa, but that was where her sister had brought her.

Nana could be dying. How much anger could she carry to her nana’s bedside? The room was dim, smelling of medicines and sickness, a candle lighting the table by the bed. Boards creaked as Melissa walked into the room. A small, gray head could be seen in the half-light, covers tucked all around it.

A reedy voice asked, “Who’s creeping aboot?”

“It’s me, Nana, Melissa.”

“Ah, child, ye have returned.” A hand shot out from under the covers. “Let me see ye, lass.”

Melissa pulled up a chair and sat by the bed, taking her nana’s hand. The old woman’s skin was translucent, as though she were fading away, but her eyes were bright with life. She gazed at Melissa for a time before speaking. “Ye appear well but have a burdened heart.” She couldn’t meet her nana’s gaze.

“Tis your sister wishing you to play nurse maid again?”

Already, Melissa’s sister, Elizabeth, had begun pressing her to help with her three children in an attempt to edge her back into Melissa’s old role of nanny. “As long as you are sharing our house with not else to do.”

“No, Nana. It’s this dowie thing that is the burden, the dool it has inflicted.” Melissa whipped off the medallion and threw it on the bed, tears in her eyes. “I wish I’d never seen the wicked enchantment.”

Her nana picked it up, frowning, wrinkles appearing and disappearing on her brow. “The Nathair òir was for your protection and good luck, a family inheritance for your well-keeping.” Propping herself on an elbow, the old woman squeezed Melissa’s hand. “What has happened, m’uan?”

Melissa shook her head, suddenly overwhelmed by the telling of her own story. “Tis beyond my ken to know.”

“Tell me all, child. How has it failed ye? What has caused your misery?”

Melissa began, “I was in Sahagun, tending the wounded from the fearful cavalry battle there when I heard that French dragoons had carried away twelve British women including my friend Emily. When only nine returned the next day, without Emily, I went in search of her, thinking she must have lost her way.”

For a while Melissa stared at the floor before beginning again. It was late into the evening when she finished her story, the room cloaked in dark shadows save for a circle of candlelight around the bed. “And now he’s dead, after all that he suffered through no fault of his own.”

Nana’s eyes shone bright in the candlelight. “Thank ye, child. Tis a wonderous tale, an awful tale.” She stared at the candle flame for a moment and then said, “My own encounter with the amulet’s miraculous aid is nothing compared to yours. I was saved from a pack of wild dogs at the last moment by a hunting party when I remembered to remove the Nathair òir.”

Nana smiled, squeezing her hand. “Melissa,mo chridhe, your captain is alive.”

She didn’t think she’d heard right and stared at her uld nana.

With a chuckle, Nana repeated her words.

“How could ye know that?”

“Because the amulet is still very warm. He must love you very much.”

“What? Why? How?”

“There are rules the amulet follows. Did he return it to you?” Melissa nodded. “Did he himself replace it around your neck?”

“Yes. But—”

“The Nathair òir is ancient magic, passed down through our family from times forgotten.” Her nana lay back and closed her eyes. “It takes its duties very seriously given the proper actions. It also protects the heart as well as the body, and those who are loved.”

“But how?”

The old woman gave a faint smile. “I have no notion, child. I’m sorry. I have told you alt that I ken of the amulet.” Her nana grinned. “Regardless, be assured, your man is alive.”

Melissa started crying, gulping breaths shaking her. Her nana let Melissa cry for a time before saying, “I am happy the family’s Nathair òir has served you so well in such dire straits. I would like to meet this soldier from the times to come.” She patted her hand. “I am tired now, child. Call my nurse, Adel. We will talk more tomorrow.”

Melissa hurried to her room to write a letter to Rig addressed to the Horse Guards.

~ ~ ~

April 30th

The morning was cool, but bright as Rig and Major Robert Brooks rode through the London streets. Chief had recovered much of his fine form and was decked out with a new saddle and bridle, the black leather, shining in the sun. Rig wore his one civilian suit of brown and tan. He refused the top hat, preferring the black broad brim he wore now. Worries about Mel necessarily on hold, he still wished she could see him, ride here with him on such a beautiful day.

Rig marveled at how good he felt. A new world, he remained fascinated by the passing city scenes. Carriages and riders passed in the cobblestone streets. Hawkers sold their food and wares, and painted store signs declared the quality of their products.

It had rained last night, washing the coal smoke from the air, providing a bright blue sky overhead. It all added to a pleasant ride down the wide New Bond Street to The Mall and across the lush St. James Park to a broad expanse of pavement fronting the British Army’s offices at the Horse Guards and next to it, the Government Buildings of White Hall.

Rig and Brooks entered the Horse Guards first, to confirm Robert’s leave, and to see if any letters had been collected there. It proved to be a massive, two-story edifice of white stone and brick with a central clock tower five stories high. Once the two of them received directions at the front desk guarding the depths of officialdom, they passed through the huge foyer and main hall, the ornate interiors meant to impress. The building quickly devolved into a warren of hallways and tiny offices. Men rushed about with stacks of paper and worried faces. It reminded Rig of the only time he’d been in the Pentagon.

Fortunately, Robert knew his way around. They quickly completed reporting Robert’s leave and Rig reporting in. He was informed his letters were held by the Home Office next door. Robert shot Rig a surprised frown but said nothing. Other than the order to go to the Home Office, Rig had not received any notice of when or where he was to go in the massive stone building.

On entering White Hall, Rig informed one of a battery of officious-looking men behind a long counter in the main hall who he was. He presented his orders, and the man disappeared without a word. Soon another, older, but equally officious-looking gentleman came up and introduced himself as Mr. Brinderson. He directed them to a waiting room with a long table and several chairs on each side.

There they waited and waited some more. Robert kept checking his pocket watch. Rig decided he needed to find one for himself. The battery in his wristwatch died soon after landing in Cornwall. He took it apart and buried it all.

Better than a quarter-hour later, two men entered carrying briefcases and sat down across from them. There was no question that they were lawyers.

The men introduced themselves as Mr. Cranstable, solicitor, and Mr. Applegate, barrister. Mr. Cranstable opened with “You can be in no ignorance as to why you are here or of your elevated status. You—”

“Actually, I can be,” Rig interjected. “I have no idea why I am here, so, please enlighten me.”

The two lawyers glanced at each other. Mr. Cranstable said, “You didn’t receive our letters while you were in Canada?”

“No.”

Mr. Applegate studied Rig suspiciously. “You are claiming you were unaware of the Barony and estate you have inherited?”

“That’s right.” Rig met the barrister’s gaze until the other looked away.

Applegate turned to Cranstable with a wave of a hand, passing the issue to him. The solicitor cleared his throat. “You, sir, are the last living relation of the Baron Aston, and as such have inherited his title and estate.”

Mr. Applegate nodded. “And his debts.” Both men retrieved papers from their leather briefcases, dropping thick stacks on the table with a double thump. “You see, we here at the Home Office, upon hearing that you had bought a commission and hared off to Spain, felt sure you were attempting to avoid your responsibilities.”

“Which are?” Rig leaned back, not liking the story or the barristers. It was one thing after another. Was he ever going to get a break?

Applegate sniffed. “Please, don’t plead ignorance of the situation.”

Rig leaned forward, glaring at the man. “If you accuse me of lying one more time, you and I are going to have a serious problem.”

Mr. Applegate, who was much smaller than Rig, sat up and harrumphed, quickly shuffling papers before pulling out a much longer sheet of paper. “Your predecessor ran up serious debts in his last years before passing away eighteen months ago. The estate owes various vendors and gambling vouchers, the total of which is ￡3,471.”

Robert put an elbow on the table. “Why haven’t the debts been paid by selling off the estate?”

“It can’t be sold. It is entailed to Captain Sparhawk, so it is illegal to sell it.”

“Oh.”

Robert leaned back with an apologetic pat on Rig’s shoulder.

Rig felt this was going south in a hurry. “And if I refuse the title and estate?”

“It makes no difference. You are the inheritor regardless.”

“Well, if I don’t have that kind of money, what then?”

“You go to debtors’ prison until the debt is paid in full,” Mr. Applegate said, with a supercilious twist of his mouth. Rig was sure he was enjoying this.

“And how do I pay off a debt in prison?”

“Well, your creditors would receive all the earnings from the estate as well as any money from the sale of furniture, equipment, and household goods not entailed until the debt is paid.”

Mr. Applegate nodded, anticipating Rig’s next question. “It would take several years.”

Robert squinted at the lawyers. “And the army has nothing to say about this?”

Both lawyers shook their heads.

Rig sighed. “And how much time do I have to pay this debt before I’m locked up?”

Mr. Cranstable cleared his throat again. “The debts have been left unpaid for over a year, but as you were not in England, the reckoning was postponed until the end of August. Of course, the vendor and others are hoping to be paid rather than see you in prison.”

“Yes, I can imagine.” Rig watched as Mr. Cranstable set an inkwell and quill from his briefcase on the table.

“We have documents for you to sign, establishing your ownership of the property and acceptance of your title, though there is the ceremony to officially ascend to the barony to be paid for.”

Mr. Applegate nodded and passing more papers to Rig, said, “There are these forms also, acknowledging your receipt of the listed debts.”

They passed an inkwell and quill to him.

Applegate leaned back, arms folded, saying, “Of course, you know you cannot rejoin your regiment until all the debts are paid and any attempt to leave the Commonwealth again will lead to your arrest.”

Robert leaned in close. “My family can recommend a good lawyer.”

Rig rubbed his forehead. What a clusterfuck. He remembered the original Sparhawk’s enigmatic smile in the firelight. Did that bastard know?

Mr. Cranstable, sat up, exclaiming, “Oh!” and dug into his briefcase again. He held up a stack of envelopes. “And these are letters for you.”