Two days later, Phoebe gazed out the window of the impressive coach the Movement had sent for her. It was sleek, slim, unmarked, and best of all fast. Reddish-brown underbrush and tall, yellowing-green trees at the foot of picturesque hills flew by. But, after ten hours of jarring motion from the conveyance, as the horses raced northbound over the dirt road with only quick stops to water and change the animals, her teeth and bones were starting to rattle.
Falcon’s missive, written in Caesar’s cipher with a recognizable script, had arrived yesterday at the lodge by messenger. It contained seven words.My Dear Hawk,Be ready. Sending transport.
Today before dawn the six-horse carriage had arrived at Hortons lodge with its driver and two rather brawny-looking uniformed footmen. Phoebe had been dressed and waiting. She had slipped from the lodge while everyone except Lucia was still asleep. She’d had to reassure Lucia several times she’d be back the next day, not to worry, she was visiting her aunt’s sick friend who had sent the coach with its driver and footmen as her escorts.
Phoebe had been avoiding lengthy conversations with Slade since seeing him and Swindlehurst together. She shouldn’t care about their embrace. She didn’t. She was sure she didn’t. But her stomach muscles clenched every time she recalled Swindlehurst kissing him.
The coach arrived just outside a quiet country village about ninety miles north of Birmingham, stopping at its local inn, called the Red Lion, just as the golden-orange sun touched the eastern horizon. After disembarking from the phaeton, Phoebe was escorted by one of the footmen to the waiting area on the top floor.
When Falcon’s young fresh-faced assistant, code name Blue Jay, appeared, Phoebe eyed her with a smile. “My thanks for the prongs. They were perfect for opening a locked drawer,” Phoebe said. Blue Jay was garbed in a smart cobalt dress with a crisp white pinafore, and a white linen coif covering her neatly braided black hair.
In the Movement, everyone had a code name, and Blue Jay’s suited her well, for she was not only perky but fiercely opinionated regarding the exiled Jacobite Court, of which her parents were former courtiers.
“Magnifique! The prongs did the job they were designed for,” Blue Jay said in a polished French accent, looking quite pleased.
Phoebe had learned on first meeting Blue Jay two years ago that the exiled Jacobite Court started its history at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, near glorious Versailles, France, until the Peace of Utrecht ended and it had to relocate to less-prestigious Lorraine, then later Avignon. That history was closely tied to the formation of the Movement, funded by exiled Prince Charles Edward Stuart and the French government.
Blue Jay led Phoebe to a grand and spacious room then left. Phoebe’s eyes found Lady Naveau, codename Falcon, right away amidst the elegant décor which sparkled despite the dimmingevening light coming in through the white lace curtains from outside.
“Forgive me my dear if I don’t get up to greet you, my knees have been protesting,” Falcon said, her French accent hardly noticeable amidst her eloquent pronunciation. Her warm countenance made Phoebe forgo the customary greeting of offering deference to the countess. Instead, she leaned down and wrapped her arms around the other woman’s solid, slim frame.
Falcon returned the hug adding a warm and affectionate pat on Phoebe’s back. Phoebe trusted, loved and respected Falcon. And she was grateful because Falcon had given her the chance to take back control of her life. To fight against the fear and weakness Ross had instilled in her ever since the moors, since Ross’s attack. Life wasn’t fair. The good weren’t always rewarded, there wasn’t always justice for the abused, and the bad weren’t always punished, but this purpose gave her a chance to make matters less unfair. And if she could make it safer for just one other woman, then she could cope. She would survive.
As Phoebe took the chair next to Falcon’s velveted winged back chair, her eyes swept the other woman’s length. Falcon’s resplendent appearance in the silver and light bluerobe volantegown, topped off with an immaculate, tall, silver-gray peruke was enough to leave anyone in awe. But for some reason, Phoebe always found reassurance and comfort in Falcon’s presence. Or perhaps it was that Falcon’s voice never rose an octave above a calm steady timbre, and Phoebe found this rather soothing.
“I trust you and your family are doing well, your ladyship,” Phoebe said.
Astute gray-blue eyes twinkled at Phoebe from a refined, square-jawed face.
“Except for my complaining joints, I am as healthy as an ox. My sons are both doing a commendable job of holding the reins of our shipping empire. And my two daughters-in-laware busy with my three rambunctious grandsons. Only more grandchildren and overthrowing George II and the Whig party would make me happier,” Falcon said, with an imperious tilt of her chin.
Phoebe chuckled. Falcon never missed a chance to express her derision for the English Crown or their supporters.
“And how is your family, my dear?” Falcon continued.
“Mother and Father are well. Although I can’t tell which they are more disappointed in, the fact that I am not in the Highlands, or that I haven’t yet taken a husband,” Phoebe said.
“Your parents love you and mean well, I am sure, my dear. And how is your brother?”
“Egan is meeting with Laird Campbell on the Isle of Coll because they murdered two of our retainers,” Phoebe said.
Falcon frowned with concern. “The Campbells fought with the Royal Army against the Movement at Culloden last year. They are untrustworthy and an unpleasant bunch. I hope Egan fares well.”
Egan was a formidable warrior who had trained under the feared and legendary Warlord MacDonnell himself, along with Slade and their other foster brothers. He was more than capable of handling the Campbells.
Phoebe straightened in her chair. “Egan travels with an army of Dunbar retainers and has their unreserved loyalty. The Campbells are the ones who should be wary.”
Falcon laughed; the soft warm sound filling the room. “Spoken like a true Dunbar, my dear. Now, what was so important we had to meet in person?”
Phoebe reached into her reticule, pulled out the copies of the General’sNew Artillery Cannondesign and theGlenfinnan Missiondocuments and handed them to Falcon. The countess donned a pair of golden spectacles and scanned the documents.
Afterwards, Falcon regarded Phoebe, the spectacles adding an air of superiority to an already impressive presence. “With Henry Pelham being reelected, the Whig party is becoming bolder. I will send a missive to my contact near Glenfinnan to warn the villagers of the raid. Now, tell me all not contained in these documents,” Falcon said, displeasure wrinkling her brows.
Phoebe recounted her discovery by the general and her subsequent flight from the manor to Slade at the Hortons lodge.
Falcon’s brows arched in concern as she slowly took off her spectacles, placed them on the side table, then regarded Phoebe with a watchful gaze. “I am pleased you made it out unharmed. But I can imagine how difficult it must have been for you, given your particular background.”
“Maybe difficult, but I am certainly content with the information this mission yielded,” Phoebe smiled.
