“No! By inspiring the wives! Imagine a world where every child was brought up by parents who loved and respected one another equally; who shared the work of the household and its fruits fairly. Don’t you think those children would grow up more willing to be fair to their friends and neighbours? Our closest relationships are tainted with oppression and fear, when they should be about love and respect.”
David felt an ache in his chest. His own parents loved one another. There had never been violence between them. A few angry words here and there, but soon made up. And that respect they had for one another was mirrored in all their dealings with their two sons and neighbours and friends. He felt a sudden yearning for them at that thought, a pang of longing for the simple goodness of his own family.
“Do you know what the ancients did, Davy? They made up regiments of lovers. Men who would fight side by side, both for themselves and for their lovers. They knew that such armies were invincible. Because as strong as hatred is—and it is very strong, I do not underestimate it—love is stronger. A man will fight for hate for a long time, but he will fight for love to the death. We are at our most noble when we love.”
David stared at the younger man, taking in the belief that shone in his eyes. The way he spoke of armies of lovers—male lovers—without blinking an eye. The way he put love above everything else, above the institution of marriage and the laws of God and of man too.
Murdo Balfour had once accused David of being an idealist, but he was no such thing. Euan MacLennan was the real thing, and he awed David with his faith.
David, however, was a pragmatist to his very soul. He had said he would help Elizabeth, and he would.
“All right, listen to me,” he said. “I will try to speak to Elizabeth privately. I will tell her we’re willing to help her—you and I—if she wants to be helped.”
“You mean it?” Euan asked, his gaze very intent. “You will help her too, if you can?”
“If I can, yes. We are not the only ones concerned about her, you know. Her father is too. He asked me to look out for her, and I promised that I would.”
“But how will you get her alone? She is always chaperoned or with Kinnell. Is there any chance you might see her somewhere neutral, since you know her father? At his house perhaps?”
“From what Chalmers has said, I don’t think Kinnell allows her to visit him alone, but there may be another chance. I’ve been invited to the Peers’ Ball on Friday, and she may be there. If so, I’ll try to speak with her.”
“That sounds promising. If she wants to leave him, you can tell her that I have undertaken to personally get her safely out of Scotland and take her somewhere Kinnell will not find her. I’ve had to learn to cover my tracks over the years, and I have friends who will gladly help a woman in trouble make a new life.” He paused. “But she has to be willing to take that chance.”
“I’ll tell her,” David promised. “I only hope she’s at this ball, because I struggle to see any other way of speaking with her privately.”
“There will be a way,” Euan said determinedly. “We’ll think of something else if this doesn’t work.”
David nodded, but the truth was, if there was another way, he couldn’t see it.
Chapter Eleven
Friday, 23rdAugust, 1822
David wore his usual evening clothes for the Peers’ Ball: black evening coat and trousers, pristine white linen and an ivory satin waistcoat. This last was the most luxurious item of clothing he’d ever owned. When his fingers brushed the fabric, the heavy silkiness reminded him of when he was small and used to pet Fletch, his father’s sheepdog, in front of the kitchen hearth. The dog’s ears had felt like that, only warm. Warm and satiny.
His father used to say,“You’ll spoil that dog.”
He checked his appearance in the looking glass—the knot of his cravat looked all wrong. He loosened it and began again, but his second and third attempts were no better. The linen was all wilted now, the starch gone out of it. Impatient, he tied a simpler knot on his fourth attempt and decided it would do. It wasn’t as though he was a fashionable young buck. Far from it. He was exactly what he looked like: a solid, professional man, overly sober in his dress and predictable in his habits.
Who would look at him and guess what he was? A sodomite. Or almost a sodomite. Certainly in thought, if not quite yet in deed.
Not quite yet.
He went out the front door and locked up, trying hard not to dwell on the fact that he may not return this night. A dozen things could get in the way of him spending another night with Murdo, and he dared not get his hopes up. Instead he thought of what he’d say to Elizabeth if he saw her. How he’d phrase an invitation to dance with her husband looking on.
He had plenty of time to ponder it. The walk to Murdo’s house took longer than usual thanks to the crowds in George Street. The whole area around the Assembly Rooms was already congested with milling spectators and soldiers, and this over an hour before the ball was due to begin. Once past George Street, though, the streets were emptier, and soon enough, he was rapping on Murdo’s front door.
He expected to be shown the way to Murdo’s rooms, but this time the footman ushered him into a drawing room on the ground floor, taking his greatcoat and hat away and murmuring that his lordship would be with David presently. The man’s accent gave him away as one of Murdo’s London servants.
This room was much more formal than Murdo’s private sitting room, the furniture more elegant, less comfortable. David brushed his hands over the tails of his coat before perching on a chair upholstered in black-and-gold-striped silk that looked far too fine to sit on.
His gaze wandered over the room, taking in the spare, masculine style of the décor. The furnishings were largely monochromatic, with just a few touches of gold here and there. Above the black marble fireplace hung a portrait of Murdo, standing in an improbably classical grove of trees, a pair of hunting dogs at his feet. Curious, David got to his feet to take a closer look. Though it was a good likeness, he didn’t think it quite did Murdo justice. It missed his spark, the quick brightness of his gaze.
“There you are.”
David started and turned on his heel to discover the subject of the painting in the flesh, standing in the doorway in full highland dress.
No tartan trews this time, but a full kilt in the Balfour colours of dark green and blue, complete with rabbit-fur sporran and matching tartan stockings gartered at the knee. Murdo had added a bit of reserved London style in the form of a black, short-waisted jacket, albeit with lace spilling from his throat and cuffs. With his height, broad shoulders and dramatic colouring, he looked like the hero from some romantic novel of Sir Walter’s, right down to the silversgian dubhprotruding from his right stocking.
