Year of Folly Page 6

  “Best hurry, hmm?” Helen murmured and walked over to the door and opened it. “I’ll have the books and things sent to ye at Kirkaldy. Quickly. There is yer umbrella and yer reticule.” In a quick flurry Helen picked up Emma’s things, pushed her gloves into her hands, and shepherded her to the front door.

  Then she shocked Emma by kissing her cheek. “Tell me what ye learn, yes?”

  Chapter Six

  Emma hurried down the path, through the charming little gate and onto the street. The slope of the street helped her pick up her pace, so she was almost running by the time she turned onto Bank Street. Helen likely watched her from the window.

  Morgan was thirty yards ahead. Emma raised her umbrella, as a makeshift parasol, which she could drop in front of her face if he glanced backward again. It should have felt wrong to follow him without declaring herself. Only the perspective altering conversation she’d had with Helen negated it. She recalled one point Helen had made. “Women give men control over their lives because the law insists upon it and because we’ve been trained to think we are helpless, when we are not.”

  Emma’s allowance was under Morgan’s control. She would be negligent if she did not ensure for herself that the money was in safe hands. At least, that was partly the reason why she now trailed him along Bank Street. The other was simple curiosity, for Morgan was the last man Emma would suspect of keeping secrets.

  If Morgan was heading toward the center of Inverness, he must soon turn off Bank Street to use one of the side roads to reach the High Street. Only, he held straight on, bypassing the usual roads. He continued passed the ironworks and the cemetery, used the tow path to pass beneath the bridge, then moved into the less salubrious areas to the north of the town.

  Even though no one had itemized the features of the area between Inverness and the port at the mouth of the river, Emma understood by indirect references that the area contained brothels and public inns and other seedy businesses. It seemed appropriate that a man with a secret would venture into such an area.

  However, the warehouse he approached appeared mundane. The sign over the top of it had a whisky barrel painted on it. The sign was faded from long years of exposure to the weather. Emma could not make out the name beside the barrel, except for an unhelpful “r’s” at the end.

  The boards on the side of the building were silver with weathered age, with flakes of dirty white paint clinging to the grooves and scratches. The windows were boarded up with rough planks.

  Emma halted at the end of the fence which enclosed the warehouse. She peered around it as Morgan walked across the weedy yard. He was not the only man approaching the small door. Other men, less well-dressed and just as furtive, were lingering around the door.

  A large, heavy-set man dressed in typical salt-stained dock worker clothes and a flat black cap stood in front of the open door. He inspected each man as they arrived, before allowing them into the building.

  He turned away one man as Emma watched. The man protested, his voice rough with drink. The guard merely shook his head. The man kicked at the wall and stalked away, his hands held in fists.

  The guard barely glanced at Morgan. He nodded as he stepped aside for him.

  Morgan disappeared inside.

  What was this place? Emma risked exposing more of herself beyond the edge of the fence to examine the far end of the neglected building.

  Everyone else was passing into the building now, in a steady stream. Emma thought she could hear voices from inside the building, too. How many more were already inside?

  The last of the men passed inside. The guard stepped in with them and shut the door.

  Emma suspected the guard would stand on the other side of the door, watching for anyone else who tried to enter.

  She hung her folded umbrella over her arm and moved into the yard, angling for the other end of the building. Carefully, she stepped over puddles and lifted her train so it did not drag through the wet weeds. Her boot heels sank into the wet, brown earth. They would have to be thoroughly cleaned, later.

  She approached one of the boarded-up windows and leaned to peer through a gap in the boards. She shaded her eyes, shielding them from the late afternoon sun blazing over her shoulder and studied the interior of the warehouse.

  It had clearly once been a distillery warehouse, for there were still old barrels stacked against the far wall, covered in grime and cobwebs. The entire building was one large room, with support posts and curling brackets holding up the roof.

  Gas lanterns sitting on the earth floor provided light, for the windows did not. The lanterns also conveniently marked off a twelve foot square space between four of the pillars.

  Most of the men in the warehouse stood around the edges of the square. There were far more than Emma had seen enter through the door. She glanced to the left to confirm that yes, the big guard was standing with his back to the door, his large arms crossed as he monitored everyone suspiciously.

  Nothing was happening inside the lanterns which Emma could glimpse between the men moving around the outer edges. Was this a boxing ring, then? She remembered Ben had once been involved in illegal boxing matches in the docklands of London. No one really spoke about it except in hushed tones when they thought no one else was listening—while she had listened.

  A man held a notepad, writing in it with a stub of pencil. He listened to men speaking to him, took coins and notes from them and stuffed them in his pockets, licked his pencil and wrote quickly, then tore off the page and handed it to the man who had paid him. There were three other men doing similar things with paper and taking money.

  The men were placing wagers, Emma realized. Perhaps that was why they were furtive about the event. Most of society disapproved of gambling, despite its men being members in good standing of at least one card club.

  A pair of men in shirt sleeves stepped into the square between the lanterns. They were thin men, and older. One had a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. They didn’t look like boxers at all. Ben had large shoulders and Emma could easily imagine him trying to punch another man and winning, but not these men.

  Then another pair of men stepped into the square and Emma caught her breath, for they wore no shirts, not even undershirts. They were also barefoot. One of them wore a worn and wrinkled kilt and the other, dusty work trousers. Their bare chests gleamed in the orange gas light.

  The men around the square stopped moving and watched the pair, instead.

  The two men wearing shirts hovered around the unclothed pair, who put one arm over each other’s shoulders. They moved their other arms underneath and around the other man and gripped their hands by curling the fingers of each hand into a curve and hooking them together.

  The two men in shirts bent beneath the pair, holding them apart.

  Then, on some unseen signal, the bent men stepped out of the way and the two bare chested men grappled each other, grunting. The audience cheered and clapped and called out encouragement, as each man tried to best the other. They shifted around the square, struggling against each other.

  Was this a type of wrestling, then? It wasn’t any sort of wrestling Emma had ever seen. Although her exposure to the ancient sport was only via newspapers, which occasionally showed illustrations of gentlemen wrestlers with big mustaches rolling upon the ground, trying to pin each other down.

  With a heavy exhalation that turned into a cry of victory, the man wearing trousers threw the man in the kilt to the ground. The man in the kilt fell heavily.

  Emma slapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes growing large, as the man’s kilt flipped up, exposing, well…all of him.

  It explained why there were no women in the audience.

  A mixed cry of jubilation and disappointment rose around the square. The bookmakers pulled pound notes out of their pockets, as men approached them and held out their torn-off notebook pages. Winnings were counted off and handed over.

  Morgan was a part of this affair? Did he like gambling? And whose
money did he use for his wagers?

  Indignation touched her as Emma saw the men speak with the bookmakers, arranging their bets for the next match. Had Helen suspected Morgan of this vice? Was she aware of what happened in this warehouse?

  Perhaps it was a good thing Emma had followed Morgan here, after all.

  The two men in shirt sleeves stepped back into the area between the lanterns, as the bookmakers finished taking bets. The audience returned to their places around the edge of the square, as the second pair of contestants stepped into the illuminated square.

  One of them was Morgan.

  Emma found her hand was up against her mouth once more, holding in her gasp of shock. This was why he came here? Not to gamble, but to wrestle?

  Her gaze dropped to Morgan’s bare chest, fascination warring with her shock. She had seen men without shirts before. Not often, because it was considered crude by most of society, but often enough that the sight of a bare-chested man was not completely shocking. Only, this was Morgan.

  His shoulders were rather larger than she had supposed from being usually hidden beneath his jackets and coats. They were not bulging and wide shoulders like Ben’s, but they were not puny or bony, either. They curved in a pleasing angle from his neck—which was also not fragile at all. His arms were thick, too.

  It occurred to her to wonder how often Morgan did this, if he had useful shoulders and arms. Long enough to build muscle, at least. His arms flexed as he sized up his opponent.

  The muscles of his chest were rounded, too. There was a patch of dark hair between the two upper chest muscles. The hair arrowed down to his trousers, which hung low on his hips, for no belt or braces held them up.

  This is indecent. You should leave right now, Emma told herself. Only, she could not tear herself away from the window. You know all you need to about Morgan’s secret. Turn and go.

  She remained where she was. It was difficult to reconcile this bare-chested man with the proper, polite Morgan she knew. Only it was him. The long nose, the black hair and thick brows and the height of him was unmistakable. The jut of his hair over his brow, too. He was too far away for her to see the blue of his eyes, and he was scowling at the other man, his eyes narrowed.

  The two contestants came together, an arm over each shoulder, to grip behind the others’ back, while the men in shirt sleeves kept them separated.

  Then the match began.

  The two men tussled, their feet shifting in the dirt as they turned in circles, fighting to find an advantage over the other man. The crowd cheered, hissed and shouted. Some of them clapped encouragement.

  Emma watched, fascinated. All thought of discreetly leaving and letting Morgan keep his secret vanished.

  Morgan won, as Emma suspected he might. He tossed the man onto the ground and stepped back with a grim expression, as the men cheered and whistled. The defeated man rolled back onto his feet and trudged out of the ring while the bookmakers exchanged more money and set up more bets. Morgan remained in the square, his chest and belly heaving.

  Another half-naked man stepped into the ring and nodded at Morgan. It was the winner of the first round.

  Morgan and the winner were locked together for the next round.

  A hand gripped Emma’s arm and yanked her around. “Wotcha think yer doing then, Missie?” the big guard demanded, glaring down at her.

  She had been too busy peering at the wrestling to check on the guard at the door. She had been caught.

  THE GUARD YANKED AND DRAGGED Emma down the length of the long warehouse, while Emma tried to protest. Her voice was weak and she could not think of any justification for what she had been doing, which added to her fear.

  The guard hauled her around to the door, shoved the door open and pushed her inside.

  Emma stumbled into the warehouse. The stench of stale spirits was strong. It seemed to ooze from the walls themselves.

  She spun to face the guard once more, her back to the wrestling. “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding,” she began, to give herself time to think. Although, what they could possibly have misunderstood about her spying through the window, she did not know.

  The guard ignored her. He rolled his tongue against his teeth and gave a piercing whistle, which made Emma wince. He waved at someone behind her.

  She turned to face whoever it was he had called over. The man who came toward her was better dressed than most of the workers watching the wrestling. He considered Emma. “What is this, then?” he said, his accent only lightly Scottish.

  “This man hauled me in here,” Emma said quickly, putting indignation into her voice. “How can either of you expose me to such lewdness?”

  Neither of them showed an ounce of shame.

  “I heard shouting coming from a warehouse that is supposed to be empty—”

  “Do you have a financial interest in the warehouse, miss?” the well-dressed man asked softly.

  “No, of course not. Only, the building is clearly abandoned and I heard—”

  “You walk regular through this part of town, miss?” the guard said.

  “No, but—”

  “A remarkable coincidence, you arriving in this unremarkable spot in Inverness just in time to hear noises that beckoned you to investigate,” the other man said. “Are you, perhaps, a member of the church group?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is there a problem, Gavard?” The query came from behind the well-dressed man. Emma sighed, for it was Morgan’s voice.

  Gavard moved aside, revealing Morgan, still disturbingly half-naked. Morgan had his shoes and stockings in one hand and his other clothes over one arm.

  “No problem, Mr. Davies, sir,” Gavard replied. “Merely one of the tiresome church ladies collecting evidence, I dare say.”

  “Hardly,” Morgan said. He still had not looked at Emma. “Have you ever seen members of the Protestant Church Ladies League wearing green sateen?”

  Gavard frowned. “Green what?”

  Morgan held out his clothes. “Here, hold these.”

  Gavard took them, his frown increasing.

  Morgan bent and brushed off one foot, then slid the stocking and then the shoe into place. While he worked, he said, “You’re paid to keep protesters at arm’s length, Gavard, not intimidate young women who are passing by.” He put his other shoe on and straightened and reached for the shirt over Gavard’s arm.

  Gavard’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know the lady, then?” he asked suspiciously.

  “I do,” Morgan said, buttoning the shirt swiftly and tucking it into his trousers. “Miss Emma Wardell. My cousin, and a visitor to Inverness.” He plucked the waistcoat off Gavard’s arm and slid it on. “She is no threat, Gavard. I suggest you turn her loose with a warning about prying where she shouldn’t.” He didn’t bother fastening the waistcoat. Instead, he took the last item, the jacket, from Gavard and threw it on. “Or you can hand her over to me and I will administer the necessary discipline.”

  “Morgan!” Emma protested, her horror increasing.

  Gavard ruffled his hair. “Very well, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Morgan tugged at the open fronts of the waistcoat, then nodded toward the door. “After you, Emma. Out of the way, if you please, Jock.”

  The guard scowled but moved out of the way. He even opened the door.

  Emma stepped through, her heart running far too hard. Morgan moved outside behind her and the door shut with a solid thud.

  Emma whirled to face Morgan. “This is not at all what you might think.”

  Morgan scowled, as he pulled his collar from a pocket and dug for the pins. “No? What is it, then? You followed me here, didn’t you?”

  She swallowed. “Yes.”

  “There are few explanations which justify such an act.” He strode across the yard with angry steps.

  Emma hurried to catch up with him. “It was not my intention to spy upon you. Only, you were clearly hiding something—”

  “What of it?” Morgan de
manded, as he shoved the ends of his tie inside the waistcoat and fastened it, still walking.

  “Will you please slow down?” Emma called, for she could not maintain the same pace. Her legs were simply not long enough.

  Morgan whirled to face her. His anger was clear now. The polite, urbane expression he had been using for Gavard was gone. “It isn’t enough that you must turn life upside down at Kirkaldy, but you have to worm your way into this, too?”

  Emma came to a surprised halt. “I’ve upset everyone?” Oh, but that was awful!

  “I ask little of anyone,” Morgan said, yanking the bottom of the waistcoat into place. “A few private moments, in a life filled with everyone else’s excesses…” He spun on his heel and strode along the edge of the road once more. There was no footpath until they reached the bridge where the tow path began.

  “I really…I have upset your life, Morgan?” Emma called after him. She hurried once more to catch up with him as he strode, her heart thudding with the exertion and the knowledge that she had been a burden upon someone. “It was not my intention…”

  “No?” He didn’t halt. “You know very well how this family rallies around anyone in need. You’ve seen it happen time after time. Will, and Jenny and Jack, and Iefan and Mairin… Even Lilly and Jasper managed to shake up the family, all the way from Yorkshire.” He took a half a dozen fast strides. “One would think the Scottish Highlands far enough away to avoid the ripples, but apparently I was wrong.” Bitterness tinged his words.

  Emma’s heart lurched again, at the mention of Lilly. Only this time, it wasn’t horror. It was irritation. “You have no idea why Lilly did what she did,” she snapped.

  Morgan halted, his head tilting. He turned to face her. “Did I hit a nerve, Emma?” He said it softly, although his anger still glittered in his eyes.

  “Why should I bother you with the truth? You hate family crises.” She walked past him, her chin in the air and her heart beating even harder. What had possessed her to snarl at him in that way?