Summer of Love (35 page)

    
It was past eight before Rose called her for supper. The food was
simple, a bit on the greasy side, but tasty.

    
"Lass, I don’t make you out. You speak a refined English, wear nice
clothes like a lady, and ride expensive horses, but somehow I don’t see
you in a castle or fancy house. Where do you come from?"

    
"I come from the Highlands. From Loch Tay." Helen was reluctant to
say more.

    
"Ah, I see. A laird’s daughter. That’s it. I’ve seen them strutting
around on Trongate. Most are a haughty bunch that fancy themselves
better than us commoners."

    
Helen tried to visualize the more prosperous tacksmen’s daughters,
like the McNabbs from Killin, strutting around town. They too had
always looked down on her kind. She smiled in spite of her worries.
"Yes, I know what you mean… My parents aren’t well-to-do. They can
just barely scrape together a living."

    
"So where do the nice dresses come from?"

    
"I bought them from an innkeeper’s wife in Stirling," Helen chuckled,
"because my husband thought that my simple petticoat and little jacket
weren’t ladylike enough."

    
"He’s right… Tell me about that husband of yours, or aren’t you
married yet? Don’t deny that you’re running away with him!"

    
Helen chuckled again. "Rose, I like you. Yes, we’re running away, in
fact, we plan to run all the way to America. And yes, we’re married,"
adding in a murmur: "Just today."

    
She fingered her new wedding band absentmindedly, while her
thoughts drifted to Andrew.
When will I see him again?
Slowly, tears
began to form at the corner of her eyes.

    
Rose got up and patted her shoulder. "Poor lass! Don’t worry! He’ll
soon be free again. You just go and rest now! And lock that door of yours
securely. If a sailor tries to come too close, yell, and I’ll take care of him.
And if I’m not around and he won’t let you be, I’ve another little trick for
you. Just knee him in the crotch with all your might. I promise that’ll fix
him for good." She rolled her eyes fiercely. In spite of her grief, Helen
had to smile.

    
For a long time, she was too strung up to find her sleep. Her thoughts
went in circles. Twice she dozed off, only to wake up startled and
disoriented, searching for Andrew next to her and then remembering
what happened. Finally, she cried herself into an exhausted sleep.

 * * *

When Helen wanted to go into the city early on Sunday, Rose told her
that it would be unwise to do that while all God-fearing citizens attended
church and that she must take Owen along as her guide. So early
afternoon, Owen and Helen walked hand-in-hand in the shadows of the
tall, impressive stone buildings of the city, up Bridgegate Street, King
Street, occasionally dipping into a close between buildings. They
explored the wide Trongate in both directions and walked around the
tolbooth, carefully studying it both from the front and the back.

    
The tall, five-storey building gave her the shivers. Its grey, hewn stone,
its little turrets at the corners protruding past the roof, its slender steeple
that towered over it at the corner of High Street and the Trongate, and the
knowledge that Andrew was incarcerated behind these walls, made it
look forbidding. Owen showed her where the prisoners entered the jail
through the solid iron door with its small wicket at eye level. She
scanned the narrow, barred windows of the prison cells and wondered
behind which one Andrew was held, whether he had been slapped into
hand and leg irons, and what he might be doing right now.

    
The fortress seemed impregnable, equally impossible to enter as to
leave without the permission of the jailers. Would she be allowed to
visit? But would it be wise to do so as long as she still had the black
stallion? She really needed to find a way of getting rid of him and get
another black or almost black horse instead. The innkeeper of The Good
Shepherd saw her leave with a black stallion, so the authorities would
know that also. Maybe Rose might know how to go about that.

    
Owen’s suggestion that they go back to The White Heron pulled her
out of her ruminations. She asked him to show her the House of Jarvis
and Sons. On their return, he led her through more of the narrow alleys
between the tenements, warning her to beware of chamber pots
unexpectedly being emptied from the windows above.

    
Helen liked the lively, intelligent boy. Within one afternoon, she got
a real education about city street life and the various do’s and don’t’s for
surviving there without attracting the attention of the police, how to get
from one main street to another through narrow passages and open spaces
in the back of the houses.

    
They slipped back into the inn by the rear entrance. Helen gave Owen
a sixpence coin and thanked him for his interesting company. The boy’s
eyes lit up with pleasure.

    
At supper time, she questioned Rose about replacing the stallion with
another black horse.

    
"Leave that to me, lass," Rose assured her. "I make inquiries. I guess
you’re in a hurry… It might cost you a bit of money."

 * * *

Monday morning, wearing the dark gray jacket over the white blouse and
skirt, Helen visited the house of Jarvis and Sons on Saltmarket Street.
Mr. Jarvis junior received her and within the hour she was directed to the
nearby offices of Thomas MacIntyre and Company, Barristers and
Solicitors, where she was questioned at length by John Grant. He
promised to visit Andrew promptly. He was somewhat taken aback when
she refused to tell him where she was lodging and instead only promised
to check for news at his office at least once a day.

    
She was back in his office on Tuesday morning. John Grant had seen
Andrew and talked to him, as well as to the provost’s clerk.

    
"Did my husband have a message for me, Mr. Grant?"

    
"Yes, he said that he was treated well and urged you not to worry. But
to be frank, Mrs. Campbell, things do not look good at all. Your husband
suspects that James Drummond from whom he bought the horse did not
get it by lawful means—"

    
Helen nodded in agreement.

    
"—and without a receipt there is no way to prove his innocence."

    
"And James Drummond would deny having sold the horse to him. I
know my Balquhidder cousins."

    
John Grant raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You are related to them?"

    
"Yes, they are cousins of my mother."

    
"That won’t help either. We better keep that quiet."

    
"Can’t I testify?"

    
"The trouble is that your husband was close to here when the horse
was stolen which puts him within easy reach of the scene of the crime."

    
"But I can testify that he bought the horse in Balquhidder. We both
rode the mare from Killin."

    
"Where you present when the deal was struck?"

    
Helen hesitated for a second. "No."

    
"So the provost could claim that your husband left the horse with
James Drummond and simply picked it again up on the way through
there." As an afterthought, he added: "Anyway, as his wife your
testimony would not count for much."

    
Helen’s spirits sank a bit more.

    
"As I said, things don’t look good. The clerk intimated that his Honor
has already convicted your husband, at least in his mind. All he is waiting
for is to get confirmation from Lord Hugh’s stable master that the horse
in question is theirs. Apparently, he was rather upset that it disappeared
and sees this as another proof of your husband’s guilt. It now also
implicates you. For this reason I urge you to let me arrange for the horse
to be delivered to the authorities. We can easily convince them that you
complied with their order the moment you heard about it. So at least you
will be in the clear."

    
"But giving up the horse will wrongfully convict my husband."

    
"I am afraid that you might well be correct there. However, we also
have to think of you, and your husband instructed me quite forcefully to
see to it that you are not harmed."

    
"Do you believe in my husband’s innocence? Please, give me an
honest answer. I know that all circumstances seem to point to his guilt."

    
"Your husband strikes me as a very honest, right thinking young man.
He was very open with me. I believe him. But that is of no consequence.
You are correct, the circumstances make him seem guilty."

    
"So the horse will just seal that!"

    
He nodded.

    
"In this case I won’t give it up."

    
"Mrs. Campbell, let me assure you that your husband wants you to
comply with the provost’s order of sequestering the horse. It is your duty
to obey him."

    
"I won’t."

    
"It will just put you into a bad light too, and I would not be able to do
anything to help you then."

    
"As long as they don’t have the horse, they can’t convict him."

    
"Probably not, but they can keep him in prison while they look for it,
and they are bound to find it sooner or later. They will have you
followed. They know that I became your husband’s solicitor on your
behalf. I really must urge you strongly, in your own interest, to obey your
husband and give up the horse."

    
Helen cogitated on this for a while. Should she do it? She was certain
that Andrew wanted her to comply. To hell with the law if it convicts an
innocent man so easily while the guilty get off scot-free! There must be
another way to get him out of prison.

    
"What will happen to my husband if he’s convicted? Will he be
hanged?" The words almost choked in her throat.

    
"Oh no, my dear lady, nothing so drastic. But he is likely to be
transported."

    
"To where?"

    
"To America. Your husband told me that is where you planned to go
anyway."

    
"But not that way! As free people!" protested Helen.

    
John Grant chuckled embarrassed.

    
"Mrs. Campbell, I urge you once more to reconsider your decision. I
know I speak for your husband on this… Maybe you should visit him, so
that he can tell you himself. I can easily arrange it for this afternoon. The
earlier you see him, the better."

    
He looked at her expectantly, while she weighed up his suggestion.
She knew that Andrew would want to see her, that she too wanted to see
him desperately. But this would put her right into the hands of the
authorities. She was pretty certain that so far the police didn’t know what
she looked like. The constable couldn’t have seen her distinctly in that
dark entrance hall of The Good Shepherd. The most he could tell was that
she had red hair, but so did lots of young women in Glasgow. It would
also make it easier for them to have her followed.

    
"No, I think under the circumstances it’s better if I don’t. But please
let my husband know when you see him next, that I think of him all the
time. I’ll give you a letter for him tomorrow."

    
"Mrs. Campbell, I cannot express my misgivings strongly enough.
You are making a grave mistake."

    
"We’ll see. Good day, sir." She rose from the chair, shifted the little
handbag she had bought earlier that morning to the other arm, and
walked to the door. Shaking his head gravely, John Grant showed her out
of the office.

    
Back in Saltmarket Street, she strolled casually along, stopping
occasionally at a shop and scanning the people behind her inconspicuously. She was looking for a man, not necessarily in uniform, but still
official looking. But nobody seemed to follow her. After a while, she
entered a close, walked swiftly some fifty feet along it, checked that she
was alone, and hid in the recess of a house entrance. She remained there
for five minutes. Nobody passed by. So, she continued down the alley
and then by various detours returned to The White Heron. There, she
found Rose in the bedroom. She gave her an account of what the solicitor
had said.