The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (51 page)

Although she was obviously not fearful enough, or she would not have the temerity to nurse the brat herself. His sister was behind this. Anne hadn’t mentioned Beth in the letter, but he could see her stamp all over this little rebellion of his wife’s. What he wouldn’t give to have them both here now, in this room, so that he could take all the frustration, rage and pain he’d endured in the past days out on them.

Someone knocked tentatively at the door.

“What?” snarled Richard, halting in his pacing. The door opened, and a nervous ruddy-faced young man poked his head round it.

“Er…you called for me, sir,” he ventured hesitantly.

“Ah. Yes. Smith. I would like some tea,” said the captain, in a more moderate tone.

“Tea, sir?” echoed Smith incredulously.

“Yes, tea,” said Richard impatiently. “I take it you have heard of the beverage?”

“Yes, of course, sir. Straight away.”

He started to duck back out of the door, with obvious relief.

“Sergeant,” said Richard, halting the man in his retreat.

“Yes, sir?”

“How is Titan?”

The sergeant swallowed nervously.

“Er…the surgeon managed to get the ball out of his leg, sir, and he thinks it might heal in time, with luck.”

“Good. You will ensure he gets the best of care. Did the surgeon say when he will be fit to ride again?”

“He’s…not sure if he will be, sir. He said it will be a few weeks before he knows. The ball caused quite a bit of damage, he said, sir.”

The sergeant closed his eyes and waited for the explosion.

“Ah. I see,” said Richard quietly. “Well, we will have to wait then, and see what happens. And how are you, Smith?”

“Me, sir?” said the sergeant, stunned.

“Yes, you,” replied Richard with something that looked almost like a smile. “You were wounded, were you not, in the battle? How are you?”

“I’m fine, sir,” stammered the sergeant. “It was just a scratch.”

“It was a lot more than that,” said Richard. “You fought very bravely. All the men did. Ask the landlord to give a bottle of wine to each man, at my expense. I should have done that immediately after the battle, but I’ve had other things on my mind.”

Now Richard did smile, at the sergeant’s expression of unbelieving wonder. He looked as though he’d wandered into the mouth of Hell and instead of the expected cloven-hoofed demon with a pitchfork, had encountered a golden, fluffy-winged angel. It was good to keep the men on their toes, and one way to do that was to sometimes behave in the way they least expected you to. A gesture of appreciation now and then went a long way too, especially when it was bestowed by a normally harsh officer like himself. And his men
had
fought well. They deserved his praise.

“Yes, sir, at once, sir. Thank you. Very much. Sir.” Smith said, beaming now. He made to leave the room again.

“Don’t forget the tea, sergeant,” Richard called.

“No, sir.”

“And a woman. For the whole night. You know the sort I like.”

Once the door was closed, Sergeant Smith drew out his handkerchief and mopped the nervous sweat from his brow. Captain Cunningham was the most unpredictable man he’d ever met. You never knew how he was going to react from one day to the next. He would have a man flogged if he even imagined he was not being shown sufficient respect; he expected all his orders to be followed without question; he had no sympathy with weakness or any display of nerves in his men; and if he wanted something he expected it to be provided for him, and would accept no excuses. He had, as far as the sergeant was aware, no discernible sense of humour.

On the other hand, his bravery was beyond question. He would not expect any of his men to face anything that he himself would shrink from. Which was fine, except that there was nothing he
would
shrink from. He was reckless in his courage, which the sergeant personally considered a dangerous quality in an officer, particularly as it endangered his men, of which the sergeant was one. Since he had married well and come into money the captain was showing that he could be extremely generous to his men, if he felt they deserved it. His men feared their captain and some of them hated him. No one admitted to liking him.

The sergeant started down the stairs. Tea. Why the hell would anyone who was in the enviable position of having a wine merchant for a landlord ask for tea? Still, it should be easy enough to procure. The woman was a different matter. Richard’s reputation with women was already becoming notorious, and once a whore had spent one night with him she was not eager to repeat the experience, in spite of his generosity, and the word was spreading. There had been some whispered speculation in the mess as to whether the captain was a secret molly, who tried to hide the fact by buying women then taking his frustration out on them when he couldn’t rise to the occasion, but neither the sergeant nor the men really thought this to be the case. Captain Cunningham showed no sexual interest whatsoever in his own gender. No, the captain was a normal red-blooded male, although he certainly seemed to hold women in deep contempt, to hate them even. It would not be easy to find a whore who was willing to spend a whole night with him. The sergeant would have to find one, though, or face the consequences.

He set off to accomplish his task. He felt sorry for the poor cow, whoever she was going to be, but the sergeant was a practical man; whores were whores, and better one of them be beaten half to death than him for failing to provide one.

In his room, Richard had already forgotten the sergeant. He sat down at the escritoire, scanned Anne’s letter again, and picking up a sheet of paper and a quill, prepared to reply to it. It was most annoying that he couldn’t write what he wanted to, and instead would have to send the sort of letter that everyone would expect a loving new husband parted from his dear wife for the first time to write. She might show the letter to others; she would certainly keep it, along with all the other ridiculous souvenirs she was already accumulating; a lock of his hair, a pressed flower from her wedding bouquet.

He sighed, adjusted position slightly to take the weight off his injured leg and settled down to write.

“So obviously she feels a great deal happier now, and the christening will go ahead next week,” said Caroline. Her voice was coming out a little jerkily, as she was bouncing Freddie on her knee as she spoke. The little boy chuckled with delight, waving his chubby fists about.

“Good,” Edwin murmured into his brandy.

“Have you listened to one word I’ve said?” his wife asked.

Edwin started and looked up.

“Yes!” he said. “Of course I have. Richard wrote to say he thinks that George William is an excellent patriotic name for the child and…er…”

Caroline shook her head in mock despair.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just a bit preoccupied, that’s all. I’m not sure it’s wise for us to commit another six thousand troops to Flanders. It leaves us terribly vulnerable at home.”

“There’s no choice, though, is there?” said Caroline. “We have to replace the men who were killed at Fontenoy last month.”

“Yes,” said Edwin. “But if there were to be a Jacobite rising now, we’d be unable to defend ourselves.”

“Do you really think there will be?” she asked. “The French army’s as tied up as ours, and the Pretender’s son is still whoring his way round France, isn’t he? We’re hardly in any immediate danger.”

“Hmm,” said Edwin moodily.

“Edwin, you have to relax at some point,” she said with concern. “Worrying yourself into an early grave isn’t going to solve anything.”

“You’re right,” he agreed, putting his glass down and reaching over to relieve her of the child. “So, the christening, then. Are we invited?”

“Yes, although the whole thing was nearly delayed again when Anne realised she’d forgotten to ask Richard who he wanted for godparents. I honestly think he couldn’t care less. He’s just been in a battle, and he was wounded; he’s probably got a lot more on his mind than the christening of a child he’s not that interested in.”

“Who did she ask?”

“She asked Anthony and Beth, and Bartholomew Winter.”

“Really?” Edwin raised one eyebrow. “Did Anthony agree?”

“Of course he didn’t. He gave the same excuse he gave us for not being Freddie’s godfather. Beth refused as well, but I think that’s more because she knows Richard would be annoyed if he knew Anne had asked her, than because of any superstitious beliefs. She suggested Charlotte might be a better choice, as she helped Anne so much after Stanley died. Charlotte nearly died on the spot from excitement.”

“I bet she did,” said Edwin. “It must be the most exciting thing that’s happened to her since poor dear Frederick died.”

“The only exciting thing, I should think. What is it about the Cunningham men that they have to make sure they’re surrounded by feeble women, and then still feel a need to trample all over them?”

“Insecurity,” said Edwin. “It takes a man of great strength and personality to marry a firebrand and survive intact.”

“Or not so intact, if you’re referring to us in that statement,” warned his wife.

“Not at all,” said Edwin, with the polished insincere candour of the born politician. “I was thinking of Anthony and Beth.”

“Of course you were. Anyway, it’s nice to see Anne relaxed and happy again. She was terrified that Richard wouldn’t forgive her for nursing the baby herself, but he seemed fine about it. Beth still thinks that he was trying to murder the baby by insisting Anne hand-rear it, but she always does think the worst of him. He had no idea it was so dangerous; he said as much in his letter.”

“He did, actually,” said Edwin.

“Did what?”

“Know it was dangerous,” said Edwin, cradling his son, who was desperately trying to keep his eyes open, with diminishing success. “I told him myself one night, just before he left for Gravesend.”

“Did you now?” said Caroline, a strange tone in her voice.

“Yes. We were playing cards, at the Winters. I can’t recall how the topic came up, but I remembered all the statistics and stuff I got for you, because I found it appalling, to be honest, that it hasn’t been made more public that you’re effectively sentencing your child to death if you hand feed it. I’m trying to get the House to take some action over it, in fact. Anyway, I thought I’d mention it to Richard. It was a pretty noisy party, though. I expect he didn’t hear me properly, or forgot.”

“Yes, maybe he did,” said Caroline. “I’m sure you’re right.” She leaned across and rang the bell for the nurse to come and take Freddie to bed. “I assume you can be present on Sunday, then? Only the most tedious and superficial people will be there, guaranteed. And the firebrand and Anthony, of course.”

“And us,” said Edwin. “And if you tell Beth I said she’s a firebrand, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

“I’m sure you won’t,” said Caroline. “Don’t worry, I’ll spare no expense on your funeral.”

Late June, 1745

“
Mhic an Diabhal!
I still canna believe it,” said Alex, half to himself. “Why would he do such a thing? Has he turned traitor?”

The fact that Alex was breaking his golden rule of always remaining in character when he was dressed as Sir Anthony was a measure of how disturbed he had been by Murray of Broughton’s letter, received today. In it Murray had said that the letter which he had entrusted to the Earl of Traquair four months ago, stating that the clans were unanimously against any rising in Britain without French support, had never been delivered to Prince Charles. He could be planning anything, assuming the clans would rise for him when they had no intention of doing so.

“Do you really think Traquair has turned traitor?” asked Beth.

“I dinna ken,” said Alex moodily. “But what other reason could he have for holding on to Murray’s letter for four months before returning it to him? If he couldna find anyone to deliver it as he says, he should have tellt us long since. Maybe he wants Charles to fail.”

“Or maybe he thinks that if Charles waits for French support there will never be a rising,” Beth suggested.

“Aye, possibly, but it’s no’ up to him to decide for us, or to keep information from his prince, either, the bastard.”

“Still, at least the letter’s on its way now, isn’t it?” said Beth, trying to reassure Alex, although she was worried too. She looked out of the carriage window. They were close to Kew now; within a few minutes they would be entering the driveway of the White House. “Murray said Glengarry’s taking it to Charles in person.”

“Aye, I just hope it gets there this time, that’s all.” He sighed.

“Why shouldn’t it? You don’t suspect Glengarry, do you?” Beth asked.

“No, I’m just worried, that’s all. And angry.”

“Well, you’ll have to stop being angry, and stop being Alex too,” she said softly. “We’re there.” The coach rattled to a halt and Duncan jumped down to open the door.

Alex closed his eyes for a moment and took a couple of deep breaths.

“Christ, I hate this. I’m sick of it,” he muttered, and then he straightened and stepped down from the carriage, and at once became Sir Anthony Peters, only his dark blue eyes retaining a vestige of his distaste for the role.

“Now Murdo, you will carry our trunk up to the room the footman shows you to,” he said, fussily arranging his lace and smoothing his wig. “And you must take the greatest care that you keep it upright. It would be an absolute calamity if our clothes were to become creased!”

This time they had been warned that the lavish dinner and card party was to be preceded by a game of rounders in the garden, and the Peters had dressed accordingly, but taking a leaf from Helen’s book, had brought along a change of clothes this time.

Prince Frederick and most of the other guests were already assembled on the lawn, where he had been explaining the rules of the game they were about to play and allocating them to teams.

Sir Anthony scanned the group, then drew Beth to one side.

“You see the two small boys?” he said softly.

She looked. Standing by the prince, arm in arm, were two little boys, aged around seven and five, dressed in miniature versions of adult costume; breeches and stockings, tiny embroidered brocade waistcoats and frockcoats. They even sported miniature powdered wigs.