Page 16 of The Scot Who Loved Me
She was standing by the salon window, red serge drapes grazing her cheek and curious stares grazing her back. Above her head was a casement with the city’s arms in stained glass. Square panes the size of her hand offered small views of a larger world outside. Another dray passed her home, this one loaded with Mermaid Brewery casks. The third one today.
Gathered in her salon were her cousins Mary and Margaret Fletcher, Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora, mother hens to their band of thieves, and of course, Cecelia MacDonald. The tight-knit group was on tenterhooks at footfalls overhead—Will, the interloper they badly needed.
It was a tad ironic, Cecelia, his nearest flesh and blood, was the one to cast doubts about him.
“Cecelia makes a fair point.” Mary sipped tea, her gray eyes pools of self-possession. “You said this morning, the man you found at Marshalsea struck you as mildly unhinged. He could very well hie off to the colonies with our gold.”
“‘Mildly unhinged’?” Cecelia smirked. “Either one is or is not.”
Anne’s breath steamed a circle on the window. Tension camped between her shoulder blades and nothing could unwind it. She badly wanted to reach around and rub the spot.
“A fortnight ago, the lot of you argued for Will to join us—against my wishes. Now you’re singing a different tune.”
She had been the lone voice against seeking Will, though Aunt Maude abstained from that debate before grudgingly admitting they did need Will. Then there was Will’s surprise imprisonment. Like her, they would not tolerate him in chains for donning a kilt. There’d been a scramble to gather resources and find the right warder with the right offer at the right place and time. Bribery was a delicate skill and should never be rushed. Hence, Will’s three days in Marshalsea’s shed instead of one.
Stepping away from her vigil, she addressed Mary. “Speaking of gold, the purse you gave me was full of 1703 VIGO-stamped half guineas.” She arched her brows in reprimand. “Really? Must you?”
“I must.” Mary set down her cup with a firmclink. “It’s nothing more than giving the English a dose of their own medicine.”
“A dose, I think, that’s quite lost on them.”
Mary reached for the teapot, anI don’t caremoue on her mouth.
Anne sighed. VIGO minted coins celebrated England’s seizure of Spanish gold boldly taken in Spanish waters. It wasn’t an exact analogy, but she understood the message. The English had crowed about plundered gold with minted coins; Mary, in her way, crowed about French livres in their possession. There was no need to argue the point. Instead, she’d try a measured approach.
“Would you consider stamping a more recent date?”
“I will not. If the Government arrests me, it will be for coins struck before the union, never after.”
Mary. Elegant, meticulous, well educated. A dear friend and cousin who excelled at nearly everything she touched. She was the staunchest Jacobite in their fold. But, oh, once her mind was set, heaven help the body who got in her way. It took certain skill to shepherd the woman.
“Then at least make the coins look as if they were minted in 1703. Ledwell, daft man that he is, commented on their polished state.” She ventured across the room, side-stepping a battered sea chest. “We have got to do better. All of us. No detail is too small.”
A frown etched Mary’s forehead. The admonition struck a chord.
“I could tumble the finished coins with rocks, but the noise...”
“Dears, Mary and I are in a precarious state,” Margaret chimed in. “The coal boy asked if we were eating our lumps of coal. It is August, after all.”
Mary and Margaret were sister proprietors of Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays. By day, stays and corsets were their shop’s custom. But Mary, the daughter of one of Edinburgh’s finest silversmiths, was skilled with more than needle and thread. By night, she converted French livres into guineas and half guineas. A tedious, but necessary, process done in the back of her shop. Passing French coins, they’d feared, would attract attention.
After Dr. Cameron’s arrest, the MacPherson of Cluny had contributed to their cause. Anne’s knife at his ballocks convinced him. He’d smiled through clenched teeth and given up one hundred thirty-five gold livres, the last of the money he’d filched while supposedly guarding it for the Bonnie Prince. Dr. Cameron had already taken the rest.
Where he hid the money was the question.
At Callich burn, in a fresh grave he’d found in Murlaggan private burial grounds?
In the woods near Loch Arkaig?
Or right under Clanranald noses in Arisaig’s beaches, fields, and woods?
None of them had answers until shortly after Dr. Cameron’s death. That’s when an explosive rumor reached the league: Jacobite gold had traveled south to London.
Anne had returned to the City with the MacPherson of Cluny’s one hundred thirty-fivegold livres to fund their hunt for the rest of the treasure. Their chief, Ranald, 17th of Clanranald, was supposed to search in Scotland while she and the league searched for stolen gold in London. But, she suspected the burden of old age and managing the clan wore on their chief. Thus, hunting for the treasure fell squarely on the women presently seated in her salon.
And hunt, they did. Like lionesses.
One by one, Mary Fletcher melted their cache of coins, poured them into a small bronze cast, and stamped them with a new identity.
