Read Online Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) by Julia Brannan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julia Brannan
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in good spirits, in spite of the looming threat of Richard’s return, and Beth hoped sincerely that his friends, whoever they were, would demand a lot more of his time in the future.
John and Beth repaired to the barn after the others had dispersed. He had been learning the art of knife-throwing in his spare time and Beth now offered to give him a lesson. John ran off to fetch his knife from his room, returning moments later, and Beth hitched up her skirts and seated herself on a barrel outside the barn to observe him. He stood facing the barn door, and then took several steps backwards.
“Just another couple of steps back, John,” Beth advised.
John readied himself. He held the knife about half way along the blade and after a moment’s preparation, threw it at the door. The blade nosedived into the ground a few feet in front of him.
Beth went to retrieve the knife. “You’re flicking your wrist as you throw. Keep it straight. Try again,” she said, passing it to him.
He held the blade as she had just demonstrated.
“Don’t curl your finger round the blade, John, or you’ll cut yourself.” He readjusted his grip, then turned to her, a puzzled look on his face.
“But I’ve watched you, lots of times. You hold the knife with the edge toward the ground. And you flick your wrist. And the knife always lands in the target.”
“Yes, but I’ve been doing this for a long time,” she said.
He still looked doubtful.
“But I used to watch when your mother was teaching you, and she always held the knife with the edge toward the ground too.” He regretted the words as soon as they were uttered, and looked at her nervously.
“You never told me that you used to watch us,” Beth said, feeling disgruntled. She treasured her memories of the knife-throwing lessons with her mother. They had been private, intimate moments, when Ann, in between correcting her daughter’s fumbling attempts to avoid amputating her own fingers, had told her stories of her wild youth in the Highlands. Beth had been unaware that they had been observed, and irrationally, even after all this time, resented it.
John blushed.
“Yes, well, I hadn’t been here long, then. I didn’t know you very well. I didn’t like to intrude.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, wishing he hadn’t said anything. He had watched the mother and her smaller replica in fascination, mesmerised not just by the mistress’s skill with weapons, but also by the relaxed and easy intimacy between them, of the casual loving gestures which Beth had taken for granted, and which he, having never known his mother, had longed for. “She loved you very much,” he murmured, half to himself, and the longing in his voice drove Beth’s resentment away. She sat down on the barrel, turning the knife over in her hands.
“Yes,” she said. “I was very lucky, I know that.”
“I spent months trying to pluck up the courage to ask her to teach me to throw a knife,” John admitted.
“Why didn’t you?” Beth said. “She probably would have said yes. Although she’d have made you wait until you were older,” she added thoughtfully. Beth had been ten when her mother had deemed her old enough to start learning to defend herself. John would have only been six or seven then.
“I wanted to, but I asked Jane how to go about it, and she forbade me to even mention it. I was too frightened of her to disobey her. I thought she might fire me. Jane never approved of your mother teaching you ‘manly skills’, as she put it.”
Beth laughed.
“I know,” she said. Jane had worshipped Ann Macdonald, but had not approved of either her Jacobite convictions or her thoughts on the necessary skills a young lady should learn. “But my mother was brought up very differently to Jane. Her family suffered very badly for supporting King James in the ’15. A lot of the clansmen either died in battle or were captured. Her father died of typhus in prison and she had
John and Beth repaired to the barn after the others had dispersed. He had been learning the art of knife-throwing in his spare time and Beth now offered to give him a lesson. John ran off to fetch his knife from his room, returning moments later, and Beth hitched up her skirts and seated herself on a barrel outside the barn to observe him. He stood facing the barn door, and then took several steps backwards.
“Just another couple of steps back, John,” Beth advised.
John readied himself. He held the knife about half way along the blade and after a moment’s preparation, threw it at the door. The blade nosedived into the ground a few feet in front of him.
Beth went to retrieve the knife. “You’re flicking your wrist as you throw. Keep it straight. Try again,” she said, passing it to him.
He held the blade as she had just demonstrated.
“Don’t curl your finger round the blade, John, or you’ll cut yourself.” He readjusted his grip, then turned to her, a puzzled look on his face.
“But I’ve watched you, lots of times. You hold the knife with the edge toward the ground. And you flick your wrist. And the knife always lands in the target.”
“Yes, but I’ve been doing this for a long time,” she said.
He still looked doubtful.
“But I used to watch when your mother was teaching you, and she always held the knife with the edge toward the ground too.” He regretted the words as soon as they were uttered, and looked at her nervously.
“You never told me that you used to watch us,” Beth said, feeling disgruntled. She treasured her memories of the knife-throwing lessons with her mother. They had been private, intimate moments, when Ann, in between correcting her daughter’s fumbling attempts to avoid amputating her own fingers, had told her stories of her wild youth in the Highlands. Beth had been unaware that they had been observed, and irrationally, even after all this time, resented it.
John blushed.
“Yes, well, I hadn’t been here long, then. I didn’t know you very well. I didn’t like to intrude.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, wishing he hadn’t said anything. He had watched the mother and her smaller replica in fascination, mesmerised not just by the mistress’s skill with weapons, but also by the relaxed and easy intimacy between them, of the casual loving gestures which Beth had taken for granted, and which he, having never known his mother, had longed for. “She loved you very much,” he murmured, half to himself, and the longing in his voice drove Beth’s resentment away. She sat down on the barrel, turning the knife over in her hands.
“Yes,” she said. “I was very lucky, I know that.”
“I spent months trying to pluck up the courage to ask her to teach me to throw a knife,” John admitted.
“Why didn’t you?” Beth said. “She probably would have said yes. Although she’d have made you wait until you were older,” she added thoughtfully. Beth had been ten when her mother had deemed her old enough to start learning to defend herself. John would have only been six or seven then.
“I wanted to, but I asked Jane how to go about it, and she forbade me to even mention it. I was too frightened of her to disobey her. I thought she might fire me. Jane never approved of your mother teaching you ‘manly skills’, as she put it.”
Beth laughed.
“I know,” she said. Jane had worshipped Ann Macdonald, but had not approved of either her Jacobite convictions or her thoughts on the necessary skills a young lady should learn. “But my mother was brought up very differently to Jane. Her family suffered very badly for supporting King James in the ’15. A lot of the clansmen either died in battle or were captured. Her father died of typhus in prison and she had
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