The guard also thought his luck was in. A pretty lady, lost and alone, and in need of help. Just the thing to cheer him up. ‘Why don’t you come inside, miss, while I take a look at your horse?’ he offered.
‘That is most kind of you, sir, but I must be on my way. If you could just give me directions.’
The guard had noticed the buttons and the ankles and was not to be put off so easily. ‘Come now, miss, a glass of wine will do you good. Step inside for a minute.’
‘You’re too kind, sir. But would you look at the horse first? I’d like to be sure he’s sound.’
‘Very well, miss. I’ll do that.’ He shut the door, carefully locking it behind him, and walked over to the horse. He examined each hoof in turn, ran his hands up and down each leg and patted it on the rump. ‘I’d say he’s sound, miss. Can’t see anything wrong.’
‘Oh, good. He seemed to be favouring a front leg. Perhaps I was mistaken.’
‘Must have been, miss. Now shall you have that glass of wine?’
Before Mary could reply, there was a shriek from inside the cottage. The young guard, wine forgotten, ran back to the door. The lock delayed him but a moment and he was inside within seconds. Tobias Rush had a way of making a man move very fast.
While Mary had been distracting the guard, Thomas had slipped round the cottage and found a back door. He tried the handle but of course it was locked. The shutters of one window were slightly open. He peered through them and, easing his hand in, managed to reach the catch and push them fully open without making any noise. The window was low enough for him to pull himself up and tumble inside head first.
The room was empty. He tried the door. It was locked. He was locked in the cottage in an empty room and had no idea how Mary was getting on, or how many guards there were. There was no time for thought. He would have to act. He stepped back to the window and launched himself at the door. It creaked but held. He tried again. This time the lock broke and he fell through the doorway. Three terrified faces looked down at him sprawled on the floor and one of them screamed.
He got to his feet and held his finger to his lips. ‘Margaret, it’s me. There’s no time to explain. We must go.’ Margaret peered at him. Thomas? She peered again. Older, sturdier and with a faint scar on his cheek, but it was Thomas. Recovering some of her wits, she shepherded the girls to the window.
‘Out, girls, quickly.’ Margaret pushed Lucy through the window and was helping Polly up on to the window ledge when the guard burst in, his pistol drawn. Polly jumped and Margaret turned to block the window. Thomas stood in front of her. No more than ten feet from the guard, he braced himself for the shot. The guard raised his pistol and fired. As he did so, he was pushed hard in the back by Mary, who had followed him inside. The shot went wide, merely grazing Thomas’s arm. The guard lunged past him and got his arm around Margaret’s throat. He moved behind her. ‘Move an inch and she dies,’ he threatened. ‘Either of you.’
‘Tobias Rush is dead. You have nothing to fear from him,’ said Mary, looking the guard squarely in the eye. Margaret looked astonished.
‘Rush dead? You’re lying.’
‘Why would I lie, sir?’ Mary continued. ‘And how do we come to know about Rush?’
The young guard looked at Thomas, thoroughly confused. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Thomas Hill. The lady you are holding is my sister and this lady is my good friend, Mary Lyte. Her brother is a member of the Assembly of Barbados.’ A little shaken by his wound, Thomas managed still to speak with authority. ‘Please release my sister. Then you will be free to go. Tobias Rush is quite dead. I killed him.’
They could see that the guard was wavering. Mary reached into a pocket and pulled out a small purse. She took out a sovereign and offered it to him. ‘This is for your trouble. It’s more than you’d have got from Rush.’ The guard released his grip on Margaret and took the coin.
Without a word, Thomas put his arms around Margaret.
‘Be on your way, young man,’ said Mary. ‘You’ve acted wisely and you have nothing to fear.’
Thomas and Margaret were weeping on each other’s shoulder. ‘Come now,’ said Mary, ‘tears later. First we must find the children.’
It did not take long. Polly and Lucy had been hiding in the trees, watching the door. When they saw their mother come out of the cottage, they dashed out. ‘We heard a shot,’ said Lucy. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No. I am quite unhurt. Uncle Thomas has a graze on his arm, nothing more.’
‘Is it really you, Uncle Thomas?’
‘It’s really me,’ replied Thomas. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Of course it is.’
They put Lucy on one horse with her mother and Polly on the other with Mary. Both girls were crying. Thomas had to walk. In Oistins, they found another horse and set off for the Lytes’ estate.
When Adam returned that evening from the Assembly, he found Thomas and Mary sitting in the parlour with a lady and two young girls he did not recognize.
‘Well now, we have a new governor, and we seem to have new friends!’ he exclaimed. The appointment of Sir George Ayscue and the subsequent festivities had gone well and he was in high spirits. ‘And who may these lovely ladies be, may I ask?’
‘You may ask, brother,’ replied Mary, ‘and removal of your hat accompanied by a suitably low bow would be in order. These ladies are Thomas’s sister Margaret Taylor, and her daughters Polly and Lucy Taylor.’
‘Good Lord. Are they really? A most unexpected pleasure,’ said Adam, bowing as extravagantly as he could without falling on his face. ‘I have no idea how you come to be here but your arrival most certainly calls for a celebration. Would you be kind enough, Thomas?’
By midnight, the girls asleep in Mary’s bed and the table littered with wine bottles, jugs of plantain juice, cups and glasses, and the remains of a hastily prepared meal, Margaret knew about the brutes, about Patrick, about Charles Carrington and about Humphrey Walrond and Lord Willoughby. She had heard about the battle that never took place and Thomas’s part in it and she had heard about the revolting Gibbes brothers. She knew about the scar, but she did not know, and never would, about the whippings or about the manner of their deaths.
And Thomas knew about Tobias Rush. He was a man for whom pain and power were substitutes for sexual gratification. For three years he had threatened to harm the girls if Margaret defied him but she had been spared anything more. He had, as he had claimed, acquired Thomas’s shop and house by forging a contract of sale. She had found out that he was in Barbados and knew he was alive when Rush handed her the torn-out page with the word ‘Montaigne’ written on it. But that had been two years earlier. For all she knew, he had died since. As for the girls, despite being told that he was dead, they had always believed their uncle to be alive.
The next morning, Adam sent a messenger for Charles. When he arrived and after much of Margaret’s story had been told again, Thomas led them all to Patrick’s grave. There those who had known him and those who had not grieved together.
Later, unable to resist the opportunity for a little gallantry, Charles insisted on escorting Margaret and the girls around his estate. While they were gone, Adam spoke to Mary. ‘Ayscue’s fleet brought with it letters from England. Of course, only now have they been delivered. One of them was from Sir Lionel Perkins. His son has died of a fever and you are thus free of any further obligation to his family.’
‘Adam, the obligation was yours, not mine. Nevertheless I am sorry for Sir Lionel’s loss. Please tell him so when you write back. But I have grieved this morning for a man I knew and cared for and who died protecting me. I cannot grieve for a man I did not know and did not want to marry.’