Page 47 of The Secret Castle in the Highlands

7 June 1793

The Jolly Jester was a tavern close to the harbour; an unimpressive greystone with flickering lamps, scarred benches and equally tired wooden tables. Raucous music tumbled out of the door, as well as drunk customers.

Harris eased the horses to a stop a short distance away. ‘Don’t go in, madam,’ he advised, materialising out of the dark to greet me at the coach door. ‘Please allow me to take you back to The Hawthorns.’

I shook my head and hitched up the hood of my blue velvet cloak. ‘I shall only enter for a moment, Harris. You have my word.’

‘Well, at least allow me to accompany you. It is not a safe place for a young lady such as yourself to enter alone.’

‘Thank you, Harris. I appreciate your concern, but if you were to go in there with me, and someone from the town were to recognise you, my identity would be revealed immediately.’ I gave him a wry smile. ‘Obviously, my husband has no such qualms, but I do.’

‘But madam…’

I gave him a flick of my eyes.

‘There is no arguing with you, is there, madam?’

‘No. There isn’t.’

Harris arranged his mouth into a tight line of disapproval and took my gloved hand as he assisted me down. ‘Promise me one thing, madam. Should you become frightened or feel threatened, you call for me immediately. Without hesitation.’

His stern, thin face melted a little under my smile. ‘I promise I will.’

I dipped my head and walked slowly towards the Jolly Jester, where shafts of light were creeping across the rough grass. The combined smell of sweat and cheap ale was overbearing.

A few enquiring heads turned towards me as I hovered by the entrance before stepping inside. An assortment of hats and wigs bobbed in my line of sight. A fiddler occupied one corner, thumping a scuffed shoe on the flagstone floor. He played a frantic reel, promising to ensnare his wispy grey beard in his strings.

I pulled my eyes away from him and scanned the cluster of ruddy, jeering faces. My heart thudded with the vibrancy of the music. Resignation hit me before settling in my stomach.

There was Augustus, seated towards the back of the tavern. He had that foppish grey hat of his, perched down and over part of his face, presumably to try to protect his identity, but I knew it was him. A young, flame-haired woman, spilling out of a dirty pink gown, was perched on his lap.

Abhorrence swirled around inside of me. How could he do this so publicly? I knew of the rumours about his various indiscretions and was prepared to overlook them as long as he did not embarrass me or, more importantly, our son.

But this…

I watched with morbid fascination while the woman, her curls towering on her head and secured with snatches of rags, leaned into him and whispered something into his ear. Augustus threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Ignoring leers from two robust-looking men propped up against the bar, I made my way out.

The cool night air washed over my burning cheeks and the uproarious music gave way to the melodious crash of the waves on the vanilla beach below.

Harris hurried towards me, from where he had been tending to the horses. He raised one thick eyebrow at me.

Could I ever escape him? I thought not. My life felt as if it were tumbling around me. All I wanted was to be free of him. ‘Please take me home now, Harris.’

‘It would be my pleasure, madam.’

I felt great sweeping pangs of sympathy for poor Georgina and her son.

It must have been awful for her, trapped in a marriage like that and unable to do anything, for fear of being persecuted. The woman would be tainted, at that time, even though it was her husband’s behaviour that was to blame.

Mason flicked through more of the diary, his legs stretched out in front of him as he sat on my couch beside me. He proffered it to me again. ‘Now read this.’

3 January 1794

I know that it is wrong.

I know that I am a married woman with a young son, whom I adore more than anything.