“All right… I’ll leave,” he said quietly. “Print these, if you must, but promise me you won’t distribute them in the town.
Promise,
Sophie!”
Her ragged breathing had evened out and she seemed calmer, but she remained tight-lipped and refused to answer.
“I’m due to meet Bozzy at the Cap and Feather for a final farewell before he leaves tomorrow for London,” Hunter said, eyeing her uncertainly. “Shall I tell him you wish him Godspeed?”
“I would appreciate, in matters relating to me, that in future you do not allude to
God,”
she snapped. “As far as I have observed, He doesn’t exist! As for Bozzy, I bid him adieu.”
***
Hunter, Will Creech, and several other of Jamie Boswell’s cronies who had lifted glasses all evening in honor of their friend’s imminent departure for London decided, at length, to call it a night. It was nearly three in the morning when the raucous group wended their way past the front door of the Cap and Feather, much to the relief of the pubmaster who should have closed his doors an hour earlier. The revelers cursed cheerfully when they felt the frigid winter air sear their skin. Their brandied breath formed clouds of steam in the night sky as they clapped Bozzy on the back, wishing him a safe journey and a grand adventure in the capital.
A loud pounding rent the air, coming from across the High Street. Hunter peered through the gloom, unable to determine the source of the steady thuds reverberating in the chill air.
“Who’d be making repairs
this
time o’ night?” one of the lads asked jocularly.
Ignoring his companions, Hunter strained to see a white rectangular-shaped sheet tacked to the door of the butcher shop which stood diagonally across from the Pen and Feather. He crossed the High Street, trailed by Bozzy, who hiccupped occasionally, although he was not quite drunk enough to be insensible.
“‘The Immorality of Censorship Considered,’” Boswell read aloud over Hunter’s shoulder, “‘by Sophie McGann.’ Hey, what? Good God, man!” he exclaimed. “What’s that minx up to now?”
The steady thud of wood against wood grew louder. It seemed to emanate from behind the row of Luckenbooths.
“You’d better head on home, Bozzy, m’lad,” Hunter said quickly, grasping his friend by the shoulders and pointing him bodily in the direction of his lodgings. “Remember, your coach leaves at dawn, and you’ve got your kit still to pack.”
“My man’s put most to rights, old chap!” Boswell said, slightly slurring his words. “I say… you think they’ll approve m’accent in London town?” he asked. “Think I’ll manage a posting to the Guards?”
Hunter was aware that the pounding had momentarily ceased. Then the thuds began again, although this time, the sounds had become fainter.
“I’m sure you’ll get your commission—but not if you miss the coach
. Home
with you, now,” he said, desperate to be rid of Lord Auckinleck’s son, regardless of how stalwart a friend Jamie had become during their year’s acquaintance.
Fortunately, Will Creech and Andrew Erskine, the fourth member of their party, came to his rescue, offering to escort Boswell to his doorstep. Hunter bid them all a hasty good night and waited until they had disappeared into Parliament Square before tearing down the placard Sophie had nailed to the butcher shop entrance. Walking quickly around the east end of the Luckenbooths, he strode down the alleyway that separated the medieval row of shops from St. Giles Cathedral.
Tacked on the thick wooden door marking the entrance to that ancient seat of Christianity was Sophie’s broadside denouncing the ministers, kirk elders, and Lords of Justiciary. Hunter swore under his breath and ripped the printed diatribe to shreds. Groping his way in the darkness down the High Street in the direction of Holyrood Palace, he headed toward the place he wagered would be Sophie’s next stop: Tron Church. Hunter had no doubt that his enraged young friend would affix a broadside to the very lodgings of Lord Auckinleck himself, not to mention those of Constable Munro, Lord Lemore, and even the entrance to the Tolbooth prison!
Approaching the high-steepled church, Hunter heard Sophie before he glimpsed her in the murky light. She had taken off her right brogue and was using its heel as a hammer. Next to her, on the top step of Tron Church, sat at least two dozen broadsides which she clearly intended to plaster throughout the city.
“You insane little fool!” Hunter exploded, grabbing her small shoulders while ripping down the placard she had just tacked to the church door. “You may be brain cracked, but
I’m
not—I’ll not let you
do
such a thing to yourself!” With that, he pulled her down the stairs into the road.
“Let me
go!”
she screeched, prompting Hunter to clamp his large palm over her mouth to prevent her protestations from raising the dead in the nearby cemetery—not to mention the town guard.
After a brief struggle, he managed to encircle her waist in the crook of his elbow and hoist her onto his right hip like a sack of meal. Bending his knees, he scooped up the pile of broadsides from the church steps with his free hand and headed straight down the High Street in the direction of Sophie’s lodgings. He prayed to St. Ninian that the neighbors were sound sleepers and would not wake to her enraged denunciation of him and every man in the town.
Hunter nudged open the front door of the book shop with the toe of his boot and marched over to the hearth at the rear of the chamber. First he threw the offending placards on the low-burning embers. The paper kindled at once, spawning flames that cast a bright glow against the bookshelves nearby. Then, as the blaze waned, Hunter eased Sophie off his hip and set her feet down on the slate floor as gently as he could. He noticed she’d lost a shoe.
“Where else have you posted broadsides?” he asked her quietly. “I’ll fetch them back.”
Sophie stared at him wordlessly. Then she lifted her hands to cover her face and turned away, her shoulders heaving as she gave way to big, hollow sobs. In the remaining glow from the hearth, her auburn hair turned amber, a brilliant nimbus around her head. An almost unearthly radiance transformed her into a Botticelli portrait like the ones he’d seen in Boswell’s book on Italy. Despite the tears sliding down her cheeks, she appeared surprisingly mature… a woman weeping, not a sniveling girl exhausted from her fiery burst of temper. She was actually quite lovely, he thought with some surprise, noting her delicate profile and smooth, flushed skin.
This heartsore lass was an entirely new Sophie, and her grief rendered him both uneasy and fiercely protective. He thought of his sister, Megan, and comforted himself that the strange, mildly unsettling sensations coursing through him were distinct from the lecherous impulses prompted by the likes of Gwen Reardon. His sudden, overwhelming desire to enfold this seventeen-year-old in his arms merely sprang, he assured himself, from brotherly concern.
Hunter was relieved to see Sophie wipe her eyes
with her sleeve. She turned to face him, swallowing the last of her tears.
“The other broadsides”—she heaved an enormous sigh, as if agreeing, but bitterly, to unconditional surrender—“I posted one at the entrance to Chessel’s Court and one—” She bit her lip and shifted her eyes
away from his. “I tacked one at Lord Auckinleck’s lodgings!” she blurted.
“Oh, no,” Hunter groaned, but before he could chastise her further, he heard the tramp of feet outside the shop and a murmur of masculine voices. He raced to the front of the chamber to peer out the square-paned windows, dismayed to see a small detachment of town guardsmen accompanying a disheveled-looking Constable Munro, who held what looked like one of Sophie’s broadsides in his hand. From the man’s sleepy countenance, Hunter surmised that the man had been roused from his slumbers. “God’s wounds, Sophie!” he cursed. “They’re coming to
arrest
you! Quick! Out the back chamber!”
“But I’ve only one
shoe!”
she cried.
But Hunter didn’t tarry with such niceties. He pushed her ahead of him past the printing press that bore silent witness to her folly. As soon as they emerged outside, he grabbed her by the hand and hauled her down the familiar alley bordered by the back of the Luckenbooths on his left and the cathedral on his right.
“Stay close to the buildings!” he barked hoarsely, dragging her behind him as he abandoned the protection of the row of shops. The two of them ducked past Bothwick’s Close and ran down the Royal Mile toward the only sensible destination under the circumstances: Boyd’s White Horse Inn, where the coaches for London departed. Boswell was due to leave for the capital at dawn, only a few hours hence. Hunter’s makeshift plan for Sophie’s escape would be doomed if Lord Auckinleck chose to rise at cock’s crow to bid his wayward son farewell.
The White Horse coaching station was situated a few doors down from Hyndford Close where Sophie’s pig-riding friend Jane lived with her two sisters and her imperious mother, Lady Maxwell. Hunter and his charge stumbled into the livery yard and made a dash for the horse stalls.
A sleeping groom was curled up on a pile of straw in a corner. Four bay horses chewed contentedly in their separate stalls, and a small, closed carriage stood sentinel nearby.
“Blast!” Hunter cursed softly.
“What’s amiss?” Sophie whispered, her erstwhile bravado having evaporated into the cold night air.
Hunter pointed at the post chaise scheduled to depart at dawn.
“’Tis a closed carriage with only one bench inside to hold two persons. Bozzy mentioned last night that a Mr. Stewart was booked to travel to London, so there’s no room for
you!”
“What about riding beside the driver?” she proposed, aware, now, of the jeopardy in which her rage at the Church elders had placed her.
“Not with the town guardsmen looking for you…”
Sophie’s eyes widened with anxiety. She motioned for him to follow her away from the slumbering groom so as not to awaken him. Suddenly she gestured toward the post chaise, or “chariot” as some coach makers called the transport Boswell had engaged to take him to London.
“Look!” she whispered. “There’s a large wicker trunk on board… there… under the driver’s seat!”
Hunter strode over to the carriage and pulled the trunk toward him. It was heavy and unwieldy. He slid it off its storage platform and opened the lid to peer inside.
“Well,” he breathed. “Here’s a bit o’ good luck. ’Tis Bozzy’s gear. If we just rearrange things a bit…”
Before Sophie had time to consider whether she wished to ride to London curled up in a wicker trunk, Hunter was prodding her into the woven reed baggage compartment. She coiled herself into a fetal position, nestling her hip just even with the top of the basket. Hunter dropped a smelly horse blanket on top of her. It covered all but her nose.
“For warmth,” he whispered. “You’ll need it.” He dug into his breeches’ pocket and pulled out ten shillings, tucking the coins into her hand that, to him, felt as small as a child’s.
“I’m sorry ’tis so meager… I spent most my siller at Bozzy’s farewell fete.”
“I’ve four pounds in a tin box hidden behind the Bibles at the shop,” she whispered back. “’Tis all I’ve got as well. Perhaps you could send a draft to—”
“I’ll sneak back and bring the money to you, if I can,” he interrupted. Suddenly, a worried frown creased his brow. “I may not be able to inform Bozzy you’re on board before you leave, so be sure you reveal your presence only when you’re safely beyond the borders. You can ride next to the driver the rest of the way. And ask Bozzy to assist you when you get to London. He’s due to see Sheridan and might procure some useful introductions around town. Sheridan will probably remember your help in advertising his lectures… go see him with Boz,” he told her urgently.
“Don’t worry,” she said with a wan smile. “Jamie and Mr. Stewart may realize I’m on board rather quickly if I can’t breathe in here. ’Tis mighty fierce smelling with this horse blanket you’ve provided.”
She poked her head above the lip of the trunk to glimpse the pink wash that had tinged the night sky.
“Hunter?” she whispered.
“Yes?” he replied, looking down on her small body curled around Boswell’s possessions, including the book on Italy and Corsica he had bought from Daniel McGann.
“Thank you. Thank you for saving me… from myself.” Hunter shrugged and flashed her a rueful smile. “I’ve an aunt,” Sophie continued, “Harriet Ashby is her name. She lives on Half Moon Passage, Covent Garden. If you write me there, I’ll critique your hand and grammar,” she ventured tentatively.
“Sh!” Hunter said abruptly, cocking his head.
Before they exchanged another word, he slammed down the trunk’s top over her head and wedged it back under the driving seat.
Only a tiny fissure of light filtered through the wicker’s woof and weave. Sophie couldn’t see Hunter depart, but she heard his footsteps fade into silence as he bolted out of the livery yard. Soon she detected the sounds of jangling harnesses and surmised that the groom was preparing to hitch the bays to the carriage.
Less than an hour elapsed before she heard Hunter’s voice explaining to the preoccupied groom that he was placing a few more belongings in his friend, Mr. Boswell’s trunk. He lifted the wicker top only a few inches, and Sophie felt something heavy drop on her, followed by several coins raining down on the horse blanket.