Amanda Scott by Highland Fling Page B

birthday. Neither observation seemed to distress her, and it occurred to her only now that she had scarcely blinked at being told that both Mungo and Fiona, servants—nay, good friends—whom she had known her entire life, had perished at the hands of the ruffians who had attacked her coach. That she was not sobbing with grief seemed most peculiar, but she had not the slightest inclination to cry. She had no particular desire to do anything, except perhaps to lie down and go to sleep.
    That would not do at all. Clearly, her mind had been affected in much the same way as when she had learned of the defeat at Culloden and other dreadful events that had occurred—thanks to the English and certain Scottish traitors—in the time since then. It was certainly not the first time she had observed that her mind tended to take on a sort of protective casing when she was particularly distressed. It would be better for her, she thought, if the odd calm that overcame her at such times would only make it easier to think, but that was not the case. In the thoughts that flitted through her mind without reason or meaning, only one was clear. She did not want to stay where she was.
    “I must get to Essex Street,” she told Peg Short.
    Peg’s eyes widened. “Essex Street, is it? And just who might ye be knowin’ in that fine neighborhood, girlie?”
    “My arrival is anticipated at the house of the widow Viscountess Primrose,” Maggie said. “Do you know where that is?”
    “Aye, mayhap, but why should I help ye? Ye’ve naught to give old Peg in return for ’er kindness, that’s sure.”
    “No, but Lady Primrose will reward you if you will but convey me safely to her house. If you cannot take me so far, perhaps you will just help me get out of this neighborhood. If I can find a safer street, perhaps I can hire a chair—”
    “Lord love ye, mistress, but no honest chairman would take ye up, looking like ye do, even if ye had gelt, which ye don’t.”
    Maggie bit her lip. Peg Short was right. “Then what is to become of me?”
    Peg looked upward for a long moment as if she sought counsel from the heavens. Then, looking shrewdly at Maggie, she said, “Be it worth ten bob to ye, then, to find Essex Street?”
    “Yes, it would be, and I am certain that Lady Primrose will pay you even more if you will see me safely to her doorstep.”
    Peg looked carefully to right and to left, as if consulting with her imaginary friends, then appeared to make up her mind. “I’ll do it,” she said. “Can ye walk, mistress? For it b’ain’t no good expecting me to carry ye.”
    Repressing her own doubts, Maggie assured her that she could walk and forced herself to keep up as Peg led the way through what were surely the worst parts of Alsatia. Trying to keep her eyes straight ahead of her, so as not to call attention to herself, Maggie was certain her ragged clothing must help her blend in with the inhabitants. She looked no better than Peg.
    After what seemed an eternity, they emerged onto a wider street, more like the ones the coach had passed along before taking the fatal turning, and Maggie began to take hope. She was exhausted and by no means sure she could much longer keep up the pace Peg set, but she was determined to follow until she dropped. At least now she felt safe again, though the footway was much more crowded than before.
    Peg, just ahead of her, brushed against a stocky gentleman, and Maggie had to swerve to avoid running right into him. A moment later, Peg stopped in her tracks, bent swiftly and straightened, then turned back to Maggie, holding a fat purse in one hand. “That man,” she said, pointing toward the one she had jostled. “He done dropped it, mistress. D’ye run after him and give it back. Quick now! Me old legs’ll never catch him.”
    Maggie stared at the retreating back of the gentleman, wondering how on earth Peg expected her to run after him when she could scarcely walk without collapsing. But when she