Chapter 13 #2
They were quite close to High Street in Inverness—the church-like spire of the Tolbooth was visible just above the trees.
Morrigan passed by a group of youngsters engaged in what appeared to be a botany lesson in progress. She had no trouble finding Madame Laborde. At the edge of a greensward on the lowest terrace, a slight woman in a blue dress and coat sat on a bench. She had a sketchbook on her lap.
Morrigan forced herself to take a breath and approached.
The artist’s gaze lifted from the page when she heard the footsteps. The sketchbook closed swiftly, but not before Morrigan espied the caricature-style drawing she was working on.
“Madame Laborde?”
The woman hesitated but then rose to her feet, leaving the book on the bench. She was small and thinly built, but durable looking. The wide brim of her hat shaded her eyes, but from what Morrigan could see, she was still young and attractive enough to draw men’s attention.
“I am she.”
“I was speaking with Mrs. Goddard. She told me you were out here, and I hoped to have a word. I was . . . my friend is looking for a tutor for her daughters.”
“Your name?”
She couldn’t lie. Not with the headmistress coming out soon. “Morrigan Drummond.”
“Any relation to Dr. Drummond?”
Morrigan felt her blood grow cold. “Do you know a Dr. Drummond?”
“Dr. Isabella Drummond. Or does she go by the name of Isabella Mackintosh now?”
Of course. She’d know a great deal about Cinaed’s life, Morrigan thought. She was drawing him, making a mockery of his life. Unlike the other women who lived in the house at the top of the gardens, she was working for the British government.
Morrigan’s sgian dubh sat at the ready in its sheath in her boot. She could force Madame Laborde to come with her. She could let Searc handle whatever needed to be done.
A dozen possible plans raced through her mind. She forced herself to be calm. Taking the woman would create chaos.
“You’re her stepdaughter, aren’t you?” the artist asked.
Morrigan’s face caught fire. She hadn’t been prepared for this, but there was no point in pretense. “I am.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“The nuns and children in your etchings.”
“I see. You’re quite clever.”
“It seemed that you wanted to be identified.”
She smiled. “Why are you here?”
“To speak to you. To offer you more than what they’re paying you.”
“The son of Scotland doesn’t care for the way I present him?”
“He doesn’t even know about your caricatures.”
“Then why are you offering me anything?”
“Because I care about his cause.” Mrs. Goddard said the woman needed money to leave Scotland. Searc could certainly arrange it. “I understand you want to go back to France. We can book passage for you to go immediately.”
The artist frowned and crossed to a brass sundial on a pedestal at the center of the green space. She turned and looked intently at Morrigan.
“It’s not just the money. Through my friends here, etchings of my artwork are now being posted in Tain, Nairn, Elgin, and Aberdeen.” She motioned to her drawing pad on the bench. “I’ve been sketching and painting for all my life with no recognition.”
“But no one knows who you are still.”
“I’ve been promised that two separate printers in Edinburgh and Glasgow will be offering to produce my work, etched and hand-colored. I believe London will be next.”
“But you’re a Scot. How can you support the very government that is oppressing your own people?”
“I care nothing about politics.”
“Innocent people are suffering. Dying.”
Madame Laborde scoffed. “I understand your feelings. I learned a great deal about the son of Scotland and about your family. I know about you. I know about your late father.”
She wanted to throw the words back in her face. If all this woman knew was what she learned from the authorities, then she had no idea of who Archibald Drummond was. And no idea of who she was.
“Your father supported and organized reformers in what is a losing cause. You think that’s your calling too. But look at you. No home, no family of your own, no dowry, and no prospect of marriage. You have no future, Miss Drummond.”
Those words meant nothing to her. This was a woman whose life had been dependent on the generosity of men. Morrigan wasn’t here to argue the rewards of wealth and matrimony. What she had to do was to somehow convince Madame Laborde to change sides.
“You can continue to pursue your art. You can be recognized and paid generously for it too. All I ask is that you look about you. See what the British military and the wealthy absentee landlords are doing to Scotland and the Highlands.”
“None of that means anything to me.” She shook her head. “What I see around me are people who have more than I have.”
“I tell you the Scottish people are suffering. Farm folk are being thrown from their homes. Tradesmen who assemble and protest are being trampled in the streets. My father was shot down in his own surgery.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Drummond. But I see none of that here.”
“You may not see it, but it’s true nonetheless.” Morrigan thought of Maisie’s articles. “I can bring you newspaper accounts.”
“And you think reading pathetic stories will change my mind?”
“I’m certain of it. I know when you see the truth, you’ll have no difficulty deciding which side is more deserving of your talent.”
Madame Laborde looked past her in the direction of the house. “Perhaps you’d have no objection to including this gentleman in our conversation?”
Morrigan turned and looked across the gardens. A wiry man with a pinched face and carrying a stout walking stick approached with a nimbleness that belied his middle age. Four bruisers trailed behind him.
“Have you met Sir Rupert Burney?” the artist asked, a note of amusement in her voice.
Morrigan couldn’t breathe.
“I’m certain he’ll be delighted to make your acquaintance and hear all you have to say.”