Heart of Brass by Felicity Banks

Author:Felicity Banks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Odyssey Books
Published: 2016-07-25T03:40:32+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

Patrick responded instinctively, as I now realised he always did. He reached out to hand her aboard before the carriage stopped moving. I yelled at the horse to stop. It parped indignantly at my brusqueness and snapped itself up into its smallest shape.

‘You’ll help me?’ asked the Scottish woman, her blue eyes brimming with tears.

‘Of course we will,’ said Matilda, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. ‘Do you want to bring your tent?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s long past moving, but I’ve two children.’

‘Fetch them,’ said Patrick. ‘They can sleep in our tent tonight.’

She bobbed a frantic curtsey and hurried back to her tent. ‘Aline! Duncan!’

Two young children scrambled out and the woman pushed them up into the carriage. The girl giggled as she tumbled head-first into the pile of black silk. I caught sight of Duncan’s eye and realised he was much older than his small shape made him appear. His father’s sudden death showed in his face, and my heart stilled for a moment in sympathy.

I alighted to speak a few choice words to the horse, which screeched back into its most useful shape. In the back of my head, a treacherous voice asked if I wanted to get mixed up in a murder. I told the voice it was thinking exactly like an empty-headed society girl, and I would therefore do the opposite of what it said. That gave me time to control my face, and pack away my tears.

My new bosom companion and I climbed back on board and sat beside Matilda while Patrick led us on. She needed a bath, but I breathed more delicately and tried not to change the neutrally pleasant expression on my face. I was itching to ask why her husband had been murdered, and whether the rest of us were in danger. Even inside my own head, I didn’t know if I wanted to face down the potential danger or to run from it. I just didn’t want to let her children believe the world was against them, as it had been against my father when he was killed.

The whole town was thick with tension, and we’d only just arrived. My heart ticked unevenly, put off by the ominous mood. I hoped no one noticed. When Patrick judged that we’d travelled far enough, he reined in the horse, unhitched it, and opened it into our suddenly-crowded quarters.

‘My name is Mrs Scobie,’ said the woman, flushing and ineffectually smoothing her hair. She was bereft of bonnet, gloves and shoes.

‘Your husband was James, then,’ said Patrick. ‘My father told me about him. He was a good man.’

Tears shone in her eyes, and she turned her face away. For the first time, I saw her as a person, someone just like me, and was glad we hadn’t left her in the dust.

Matilda and I introduced ourselves—I remembered to use my false name—and motioned for her to tend to her children inside while we set up a fire for breakfast.

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