Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) (48 page)

Giving the captain a gentle push in
the direction of the man, Portia waited only a moment. As soon as Turner had
moved away into the crowd, she slowly backed up. Floor-length windows stood
open behind her, and in an instant she was crossing the flagstones of a terrace
and running down steps into the moonlit gardens below. 

Portia was thankful to find the
gardens still empty of guests. If her information was correct, her mother was
being kept in a suite of rooms on the second floor facing the rose gardens. The
only way to reach her, without going through the house and being seen, was by
way of a low balcony off her bedroom.

Raising the skirts of the gown,
Portia ran along well-tended paths bordered by boxwood and flowerbeds and soon
found her way into the rose gardens. She immediately spotted the balcony,
situated above a small pear tree and flanked by sturdy rose trellises. It was
just as it had been described to her, and she quickly climbed a small
embankment to the house. 

Portia Edwards had spent the entire
twenty-four years of her life blithely ignorant of her origins. Raised in an
orphanage school in Wrexham in Wales, at the age of sixteen she joined the
family of Parson Higgins and his wife. In all her life, she had never doubted
the stories of her parentage that Lady Primrose, the most generous benefactor
and the founder of the orphanage, had told her since childhood. Her mother had
died in childbirth and her father, a high-ranking Jacobite supporter, had died
sometime after Culloden during the long years of exile in France. Though she had often imagined longingly what it would be like to have a family, she had
none.

Then, about a month ago, her eyes
had been opened and a childhood of wishing for the impossible suddenly appeared
within her reach. When Mary, the parson’s wife, had come down with a cold, Dr.
Deming had paid a visit to the house in the lane off Sudbury Street. The
physician, admiring Portia’s necklace, had recognized the miniature portrait of
the woman inside the locket. From that moment on, Portia had not rested until
she had found out everything she could about Helena Middleton. 

Portia touched the locket at her
throat and started climbing the trellis. The narrow balcony served more for the
sake of looks than function, for there was not even room to stand inside the
railing. The windows had been closed in spite of the warm evening. Realizing
that she still had her mask in one hand, Portia laid it on the railing and
tried to peer in. Unable to see, she held on to the trellis tightly with one
hand and leaned closer, disappointed to find the curtains drawn, as well.

It was rumored far and wide that
Admiral Middleton’s daughter Helena was mad and this was the reason why she was
held in seclusion. In searching out information about the family, Portia had
heard the old man’s compassion continually praised for the devoted care of his
daughter. Portia guessed at the truth. If her father were a Jacobite, then Helena’s affair would have been a tremendous disgrace to a trusted Crown official. But was this reason enough to lock a daughter away for more than two
decades?                            

Portia tapped softly on the window.
She understood that she had mere seconds to try to explain all of this to her
mother. Their resemblance was hardly perceptible. In fact, it was not beyond
reason to imagine that Helena might be completely ignorant of her daughter’s
survival. She tapped again and felt the worry form like a hot ember in the pit
of her stomach. As challenging as explaining their relationship might be, the
more difficult task for Portia would be to convince Helena Middleton to escape
this house with her.

The curtains pulled back sharply
and the burning ember rose from Portia’s stomach into her throat. The woman
looked older than she had imagined. Touches of gray streaked her golden,
waist-length hair. Her skin was pale and marred with dark shadows beneath the
eyes. The resemblance to the miniature portrait, however, was unmistakable.

Helena was holding a candle in one
hand. She wore nothing over the thin rail that she must have been sleeping in.
As she opened the latch on the window, Portia realized that her mother had not
yet seen her.

The rose trellis creaked perilously
under her weight, and the young woman took hold of the balcony. She had been
dreaming about this moment all her life, and now she could hardly breathe.

The window opened. Helena placed the candle on the windowsill and leaned out.

“Mother?”

Silence enveloped them, and Portia
saw the look of bewilderment turn to terror. Color drained completely from her
mother’s face. Portia reached out a hand and touched the other woman’s arm, and
Helena let out a scream loud enough to wake the dead.

***

Pierce Pennington watched as the
royal governor and his entourage entered the ballroom. Following the man’s gaze
as he swept into the chamber, Pierce noticed how Thomas Hutchinson quickly took
note of everyone and everything in the room—very much like a herding dog
sniffing the air around his flock for the scent of a wolf. 

He returned the governor’s nod when
the older man looked his way. Hutchinson immediately turned his attention on their
host as Admiral Middleton approached to greet him. A small string ensemble
began to play a recent Handel piece, and Pierce pushed away from the large
column against which he had been leaning. He had made his requisite appearance.
He started toward the large open doors leading to the gardens.

“Mr. Pennington, you are not
leaving us so soon, are you?”

An officer had moved to block his path, and Pierce recognized him at once. A few years older than himself, Captain Turner was not
distinguished by his physical presence, and at first glance, the man did not
leave much of an impression on either friend or foe. Pierce sensed there was
more to the man, though, for he had evidently served the Admiral well for many
years. It was well known that the captain had Middleton’s complete confidence. 

“I was on my way to the gardens for
some fresh air. Why do you ask, Captain?” 

“A young lady of my acquaintance
desires to be introduced, sir.” 

“To me, Captain? Don’t tell me she
has already tired of your company?” 

“I think not, sir,” Turner huffed.
“She simply wishes to meet a Scot, and you, I believe, may be the only person
here who fits the description.”

“A lady of discriminating taste.”
Pierce glanced over the officer’s shoulder at the sea of scarlet and blue coats,
gold braid, fresh ruffles, hoop skirts, and feathered masks. High ranking British military men and their women filled the room. “I see no one waiting on you, Captain.”

“Is that so?” Turner looked over
his shoulder. “She was right there a moment ago.”

Pierce answered another nod from
the governor and their host as the two men walked passed them. 

“Is she beautiful?” He turned his
attention back to the officer. 

“Quite so,” the captain replied
vaguely, his eyes scanning the ballroom.

“Young?”

“Yes.”

“Does she have a sense of humor?”

“I did not ask you to woo or court
her, sir,” Turner said, turning to him in annoyance. “A brief introduction will
suffice, if you please.” 

“Then take me to her, Captain, if
you think ‘tis safe.”

With a stiff bow, the officer led
him in the direction of a refreshment table. This distraction was costing
Pierce precious time. He cast a glance at the large stone terrace overlooking
the gardens. By the courtyard entrance, he knew his groom Jack was waiting with
the carriage.

Turner’s course began to meander as
he searched in vain for his escort. He finally stopped and glanced helplessly
about the large ballroom. “I cannot imagine where she went.”  

“You probably frightened her off,
Captain,” Pierce replied, keeping his tone light. “Perhaps I shall have the
good fortune of meeting this mysterious lady another time.”

“As you wish, sir,” Turner said,
still looking.

As soon as Pierce moved toward the
terrace doors, though, Turner was beside him.

“Perhaps she stepped out for air. She
was just remarking on how warm it is.”

With the officer still at his side,
Pierce stopped on the empty terrace. Trying to appear unhurried, he looked out
at the spires and rooflines of Charlestown across the moonlit river to the
north and at the masts of ships in the harbor to the east.

“Your elusive maiden is not out
here,” he commented, breathing in the smells of the sea and freshly cut hay
that mingled with the scent of roses in bloom. “Perhaps you should take another
look in the ballroom.”

“Indeed…perhaps...”

Turner’s indecisiveness irked
Pierce. “’Tis best if you go inside and ask a few of the other guests. A young
and beautiful woman unescorted in a ballroom draws attention, Captain.”

“Indeed, sir. My apologies.”
Without another word, the officer bowed and disappeared inside.

With a practiced air of leisure,
Pierce casually made his way down the stairs and along the brick pathways through a small orchard. Although the guests were eagerly showing off their wit and
clothes to their peers and their betters, there was no saying that some of them
would not venture out onto the terrace. He did not want anyone to see him
leaving.

Beyond a cherry tree, the path led toward the stable yards. He paused to cast a final glance toward the house. No one was
on the terrace. All was calm.

Then, as he turned to go, a scream
cut through the night.

*****

This was clearly not the time to
explain anything. At the sound of her mother’s response, Portia nearly lost her
grip on the railing.

When Helena staggered back from the
window, Portia tried to regain her footing on the trellis. As quickly as she
dared, she began her descent. All around her, it sounded as if the household
had come alive. The barking of dogs in the kennels followed Helena’s scream,
and shouts of running servants could be heard through the open window. 

Halfway down, Portia’s dress caught
on some thorns. Trying to disengage it, she felt the trellis begin to come away
from the house. She had no choice. Tearing the dress free, she jumped, grabbing
at a branch of the pear tree as she fell.

As she dropped onto the soft
ground, she was aware of her dress tearing and the laces of the corset snapped.
Leaves and branches showered down on her, but she couldn’t stop to worry about
any of it. Quickly, she struggled to her feet and started running from the
window and the commotion taking place in the chamber above. Crossing the rose
garden, she spied an arched opening leading out and turned her steps toward it.
Then, as Portia looked back at the house one last time, she collided with a
tall and very solid body suddenly blocking the archway. Stunned, she fell back,
but a pair of strong hands grasped her shoulders.

Portia looked up in panic,
expecting one of Admiral’s servants. Instead, she was relieved to find her captor
was the Scotsman she had sent Captain Turner after. Shouts of “Thief!” and
“Housebreaker!” rang out in the darkness.  

“’Tis not what you think!” she
exclaimed, already knowing that she could not reveal the truth if she ever
wanted to come back here to carry her plans through.

“And what do I think?”

“I am no thief.” She tried to move
away, but the man’s hand wrapped tightly around her wrist. She could hear the
loud voices of servants coming across the rose garden. “They are mistaken. I
was only walking in the gardens. I…I must have frightened a lady looking out
her window.” 

“It must have been an arduous
walk.”

Portia winced when his free hand
touched her cheek. She had scratched herself in the fall. He pulled a twig with
leaves still attached to it from her hair.   

The pursuers were almost upon them.
She tugged on his arm and tried to hide in the shadows of the garden wall. Being caught would prove disastrous, she was sure. Admiral Middleton was vicious enough to lock
his own daughter away, and Portia did not want to think of what he would do to
her if he guessed the relationship between them. 

“I came here as a guest. ’Twas too
warm in the ballroom. I needed to come outside for a walk. ” Panic seized her.
If he held her for another instant, she would be lost. “Please, you must help
me. It will be impossible to try to explain this to them.”

“I agree. You are having difficulty
explaining it to me.”

“Mr. Pennington,” she pleaded. “I
beg you to believe me. I am no thief. Where I was and what I was trying to do
is perfectly justifiable and explainable to a rational person…but not to a
pursuing mob. If you would help me get out of here…”

“There!” The shout was nearby.
“Someone is
there
!”

Portia glanced over her shoulder
and saw men approaching. Several had torches. She shrank against him.

“Please,” she whispered against his
chest.    

He pulled her wrist sharply,
forcing her to his side as he called out. “Over here.”

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