Cat's Cradle (12 page)

Frank pushed me inside. ‘The idea of the disguise was to make you less conspicuous, Cat.'

‘But where's the fun in that, hey?'

Frank raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Give me strength!'

‘I can't believe you just did that,' Charlie marvelled. ‘You've broken more college rules in five minutes than I've managed in a month.'

‘Missed me, have you?' I grabbed the cap back and skimmed it to the peg by the door. It fell perfectly in place and I applauded myself.

‘Course we have,' laughed Charlie. ‘Now, tell me everything while I make us some toast.'

The stay in Cambridge was all too short. After a day's rest, Bridgit and I climbed inside the Edinburgh mail in the yard of the coaching inn. Frank had insisted on treating us to this conveyance rather than the slower stage, saying he felt happier knowing that we were travelling with the well-armed guard who looked after the mail sack. Highwaymen were known to be active on the Great North Road and Frank said he did not
want to be responsible for subjecting a poor innocent thief to the experience of trying to rob Cat Royal.

Once free of city traffic, the mail set a cracking speed – about ten miles an hour from the rapidity with which the waymarkers flashed by. An astonishing pace and one our grandparents' generation would find difficult to imagine. Not as comfortable as Frank's carriage, the mail was still relatively smooth, making light work of the turnpike roads. The bugle sounded frequently to warn other travellers of our approach and we would gallop by, leaving lumbering carts in our dust. As the flat lands of Cambridgeshire and Lincolnshire fell behind, we were more frequently asked to alight to assist the horses in climbing particularly steep hills. Once, as we crossed what seemed an unending stretch of boggy moorland somewhere near York, we all had to help push when a wheel got stuck in a rut three feet deep. But all in all we made excellent progress. The hostlers at the coaching inns had horse changes down to a fine art, the swiftest being but three minutes by the
pocket watch of the lawyer who sat opposite us for a long stretch of the journey in Yorkshire.

Moors gave way to rolling green dales: grazing sliced up into an uneven patchwork quilt by grey stone walls; the steep fells were home to shepherds, stubborn sheep and little else. Cottages snuggled in valleys or in the shelter of trees, hinting of harsher winters and bitter winds this far north. In Northumberland, we passed an earth bank littered with tumbled stones. Hadrian's Wall according to a friendly cleric – boundary of the Roman Empire, last bastion of civilization.

‘Beyond this, they're all savages,' he joked.

After three days of bone-wearying travel and a coach change in Edinburgh, Bridgit and I finally arrived at the Scottish town of Lanark, both heartily sick of being constantly on the move. Our bags were thrown down at our feet and the coach rumbled onwards, bound for Glasgow.

Bridgit put her hands on her hips and gazed round the marketplace, crowded with people coming and going, their pattens and boots clacking on the dark cobbles. I rubbed the small of my
back, feeling my spine would never be quite the same after all that jolting. In the light drizzle that was falling, Lanark did not appear very welcoming. The stallholders were packing up after a morning's business. The houses were built of sombre grey stone and reminded me of a huddle of Quakers waiting in silent worship around the square. The town was built on a slope and surrounded by steep wooded hills, giving the impression that if the houses did not hang on tight we would all slide off and land in the bottom of the valley like children spilling off a sledge.

‘What now, Cat?' Bridgit asked.

Mentally giving my spirits a kick, I replied, ‘We find our cotton mill, of course. Let's ask someone.'

I approached a boy of about my age lounging by a mounting block. He feigned indolence as he chewed on a straw but I'd noted that he had been watching us closely ever since we got off the coach. He had a book stuffed in the pocket of his jacket and a pair of steel-rimmed glasses hanging from a buttonhole in his waistcoat. I took these signs to mean he was educated, which in turn would
hopefully mean he would have wit enough to help us.

‘Excuse me, can you direct us to the mill?' Even to my ears, my voice sounded obviously and ridiculously English compared to the locals.

The boy spat out the stalk and rubbed his freckled nose as if pausing to translate my question.

‘Ye'll be wanting New Lanark?'
*

‘Er, I think so. Is that where the mill is?'

‘Aye.'

‘Can you show us?'

The boy grinned, displaying his crooked front teeth. ‘I can –' I opened my mouth to thank him, but he laughed – ‘but I didna say I would.'

Too tired for teasing, Bridgit turned away. ‘Leave him – he's no use at all.'

‘Nae use? I ken the place like the back of my
hand. I live there. Ye'll find nae one better to show ye.'

‘Maybe, but we want someone willing,' I replied. ‘And as you so obviously have an important task here today keeping that mounting block company, we'll bid you good day,' adding under my breath, ‘
blockhead
.'

He whipped a cap up off the stone and shoved it on his scruffy hair. ‘Stop all yer bletherin' and come along wi' me.' He strutted off without pausing to see if we were following, like a master striding in front of recalcitrant pupils.

I looked at Bridgit, who shrugged.

‘Seems the professor has changed his mind.' I picked up my bag. ‘Let's not lose him.'

We caught up with our unhelpful guide as he turned down a road leading out of town.

‘The mill – is it far?' I panted.

‘Very far for sapsie Sassenachs.' He refused to look at us.

I guessed this was an insult. ‘And for un-sapsie ones?'

‘No so far.'

‘Good.'

‘What you want wi' the mill?'

‘Employment. What else?'

‘It's sair-work, no for soft lasses.'

‘We're not soft.'

He shrugged as if he doubted my word but did not feel it worth the bother of arguing.

Bridgit gave me an expressive look and took over the interrogation.

‘What's your name?' she asked, deftly diverting him from our little quarrel.

He seemed to respond well to her quietly spoken question and gave her a smile. ‘Jamie Kelly, miss. And yers?'

Bridgit swiftly introduced us.

‘Pleased to meet ye, Miss O'Riley.' He removed his cap then clamped it back on his head. ‘I'm always happy to be o' service to a bonny lass.'

‘Why, thank you, Mr Kelly.' Bridgit laughed at his compliment. He blushed, the redness creeping up his cheeks to the roots of his dark copper hair. ‘And what do you do at the mill?'

‘Faither's a mechanic; he looks after Mill
Number Two. It's a very important position.' He tucked his thumbs in the pocket of his waistcoat and swaggered a little. I hid a smile.

‘I do not doubt it,' Bridgit assured him. ‘And you? Do you work in the mill?'

He shook his head. ‘Nae, I go to the mill day-school. Faither wants me to be a mechanic wi' him so I need schooling, he says.'

I wrinkled my nose in doubt. ‘So why aren't you there now, Master Kelly?'

‘We had a test so I decided to troon school the day.' He met my eye in a challenge, daring me to criticize. ‘And if ye tell my faither or the dominie I'll never forgive ye.' Perhaps he wasn't as devoted a scholar as his appearance suggested.

I waved his threat away. ‘If you play truant, Jamie Kelly, that's your affair. Miss O'Riley and I couldn't care less.'

We walked on for at least a mile until we reached the top of a hill overlooking a wooded river valley. The air was soft with misty rain, like a gauze curtain over a stage backdrop.

‘Take a keek o' that, Miss O'Riley.' Jamie
addressed himself to my companion; it appeared he had given me up as a bad lot. ‘That's what ye came all this way to see.'

‘Keek?' I snorted.

‘That means “look”, Miss Priss,' Jamie sneered.

Down below we could make out the dark slate roofs of buildings snaking along the edge of the riverbank, somewhat like the warehouses on the Thames. Nearest the water stood a vast manufactory, walls pierced by many windows in six rows. It struck me as outlandish to see such a modern building of regular lines set down in this once Arcadian spot, like a giant child's playbricks dropped out of the sky. Even from our bird's-eye view, I could hear the rumble and clank of machinery. Set a little higher up the slope were a couple of fine houses and several long rows of cottages. I could just glimpse the gardens, bright with autumn flowers and vegetables, behind the workers' homes. Everything looked neat and gave the impression of a well-ordered enterprise, but for the moment I could see no workers.

‘Where is everyone?' Bridgit asked, her
thoughts travelling a similar path to mine.

‘They willna be out till seven. Then ye'll see them.'

As the working day was far from over, it seemed that we would have a chance to apply to the owner today. I fingered my letter of recommendation tucked in my pocket.

‘Where might I find Mr Dale?' I asked Jamie.

‘Mr Dale, is it?' Jamie laughed. ‘The maister doesna want to be fashed wi' the likes of ye. Ye go see the overseer if ye want work.'

‘No, I want to see Mr Dale himself. I have a letter for him.'

‘Ye think me a gowk? A snippie lass wi' a letter for the maister – what clamjamphry is that!'

I was beginning rather to enjoy his colourful words, particularly since I knew he would have to eat them all when I produced the lawyer's recommendation.

‘Well, Master Kelly, this snippie lass intends to see the maister, gowk-laddie or no. Where is he?'

Jamie bristled at my turning of his own insults
back on him. ‘This is something I must see. This way.'

He led us down a steep path to the valley bottom and up to the door of a fine house sitting in its own garden – fit for the maister indeed.

‘Go on wi' ye. Chap the door,' he dared me.

I lifted the knocker and gave a smart tap. After several moments, a neatly dressed maid opened it.

‘Can I help ye, miss?' she asked politely.

‘I have a letter for Mr Dale.' I produced the missive with a flourish, pleased to note Jamie's mouth agape with surprise; he had not believed in its existence until that moment.

‘Will ye wait a wee while in the parlour, miss? I'll enquire if the maister can see ye now.' The maid beckoned Bridgit and myself inside, ignoring Jamie. I gave him a triumphant nod as she shut the door on him. Showing us into the parlour, she took the letter and disappeared down the passage to the rooms at the back of the house.

Left to ourselves, I had time to admire my surroundings. The parlour was of modest size but comfortably furnished. Fine muslin curtains
screened the view of the mill while still letting light pass through, giving the room a muted, genteel atmosphere. An embroidery frame waited by the hearth, a pansy half completed in rich purple silk. The walls held family miniatures and local views, including an impressive painting of a waterfall. I peered at the title: Corra Linn. Tiny figures could be seen on the bank admiring the rainbows in the water. If that was in walking distance, I resolved that I too would go and see it before I left Scotland. The waterfall reminded me of my time with the Creek Indians in America, a poignant memory as one of my friends had died by the banks of a much smaller fall – an incident in which I had very nearly lost my life.
*
But I knew somehow that if I stood where those people were standing, with the spray of Corra Linn wetting my face, I would feel happiness as well as sorrow. I wondered if my adopted Creek family still thought about me and wished me well. My heart told me that they did.

‘Miss Royal?'

So lost in my thoughts I had not heard Mr Dale enter the room. I spun round to see a rotund, bewigged gentleman coming towards me, the opened letter in his hand. Of short stature, he was at risk of being as wide as he was tall. A watch chain strained across an ample expanse of striped silk waistcoat.

I bobbed a curtsey. ‘Sir.'

He turned to my friend.

‘And this is my travelling companion, Miss O'Riley.'

Mr Dale gave her a pleasant smile and waved us both to take a seat while he stood on the hearthrug, bobbing slightly on his heels. His double chin wobbled in time, making me think of a jolly pug dog begging for a treat.

‘Though I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mr Beamish in person, I've heard of him – a great man,' Mr Dale said, waving the letter in the air. ‘He vouches for you, Miss Royal, so I will of course be delighted to oblige him.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Perhaps, lass, you could be a little more explicit in your needs?'

There was no reason to doubt the man, so I decided to tell him the truth. I explained about the letter and my desire to discover the truth behind the claims that I was related to the Moirs in some fashion.

Mr Dale peered at me speculatively. ‘The Moirs, eh? I know the family – not well, of course – but I recognize the names.'

‘I thought that . . . that if I worked alongside Mrs Moir for a while I would be able to get a sense of things.' Out in the open like this, my plan seemed so feeble. I wondered if I had not made a monumental mistake coming all this way.

‘And your friend?' Mr Dale smiled encouragingly at Bridgit.

‘I came to keep Miss Royal company on the road. I'll work alongside her too, if it please you, your honour.' She dipped a second curtsey.

Mr Dale rocked on the balls of his feet before replying to Bridgit.

‘Well, miss, from the look of you, I'd say that
you are fine material for a tenter. Your friend here is small enough to find work as a piecer, perhaps in the same room as this Mrs Moir. I'll look into the possibilities. Do you have a place to stay?'