Page 38 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“How will I find you?”
A glow kissed her bare shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sloane. We’ll find each other.”
Miss MacDonald closed the door, taking the light with her.
Chapter Ten
When the noon hour came, he took a hack to the mouth of London Bridge. From there, he went on foot. Carriages, carts, and drays moved at a snail’s pace. Tempers spiked, flies bothered. Storied wattle and daub buildings crowded out the sun and his good mood. Crossing over to the borough of Southwark was akin to passing into another principality. Narrow streets, rough commerce, the buildings sagging under the weight of time and neglect. He wore his boots because he was certain he’d step in shite today, both real and metaphorical.
Last night, in striking their bargain, Miss MacDonald had shined a light on her honorable motive, while his scampered like a rancid beast needing to hide in the dark.
How ironic to see the last stop on London Bridge was a scale shop, the sign above the door readingJustice and Scales. The leather-aproned proprietor was bidding good day to a man on foot when Alexander approached.
“Sir, would you kindly tell me how to find Gun Wharf?”
The scale maker eyed him through spectacles perched on the end of his nose. “Follow the noise, you’re sure to find it.”
“The noise?”
Between foot traffic, conveyances, and the river’s rush, the din was chaotic. His vague smile must have won the scale maker’s sympathy.
The older man chuckled. “Living on the bridge, a man forgets how loud it gets. Come. I’ll show you.” The scale maker led him to a narrow passage where London Bridge and land joined and stretched his arm at a throng in the distance. “See there? That’s Gun Wharf. Finish line for the boat race.”
“There is a boat race today?” he asked.
“Indeed. Southwark’s annual Gun Wharf Sprint. Isn’t that what you’re looking for?”
“I was not aware of any race.”
“It’s the poor man’s Doggett Coat and Badge race.” Sun shined on the scale maker’s bald pate. “Six wherries row from the Custom House to Gun Wharf.”
Indeed, six wherries sliced the river like red splinters. Londoners had hacks to navigate the city’s roads, and wherries to navigate the river.
The scale maker tipped his head at an ancient stone church near the bridge. “Cut through the churchyard to Coxes Wharf. Gun Wharf is next. Jog fast and I collect you’ll make it in time to place a wager.”
Alexander touched his hat. “My thanks for your help, sir.”
He was trotting toward the church when the scale maker called, “Smart money is on Mr. Henry Baines.”
Alexander whipped off his hat, the soles of hisboots punching dirt in the churchyard. At Timber Yard, he picked up the pace, dodging piles of wood. Men stacking lumber blurred on his right. The Thames blurred on his left.
His heart banged his chest. The youthful urge to run, to be there, to find Miss MacDonald and cheer with her. Glad he was for his old hunting boots, worn soft from tromping through fields. Breathing hard, he rounded a warehouse and ran into a deafening roar.
Sweat nicked skin under his cravat. He tugged at his neckcloth, sun-bleached wood quaking underfoot. Gun Wharf. He combed the crowd at three hundred strong, all facing the river, kerchiefs and hats striking the air.
He was supposed to find Miss MacDonald in this?
Chest billowing, he spied an older boy atop a barrel. A row of them lined a warehouse wall. The lad waved his Dutch cap like a pennant.
“Give ’em hell, Mr. Baines!”
Alexander grinned as he stepped nimbly onto a crate and leapt onto a barrel. He got his bearings and searched the bobbing heads. Salty warehousemen, thrum-capped sailors, and harlots with bright stays and not a glimpse of Miss MacDonald anywhere.
He checked his pocket watch. A few minutes past one o’clock.
This assignation belonged to the wayward Scotswoman, his respect did too. She’d won it last night. An adventuress, playing his game and making it her own. This meeting, at a Southwark boat race, was a point being made. He hungered to know it. Spine against the warehouse, he’d watch the race and wait. When it came to the gentler sex, sometimes waiting was all a man could do.
The lad beside him screamed at the top of his lungs, “Scull harder! Scull harder!”
