The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (56 page)

“Mediaeval ladies did not wear corsets, my lord,” Beth smiled “I have chosen comfort over aptness. And it is always better to hide one’s light under a bushel. It gives one the element of surprise.”

“Yes, well, you certainly had that with Daniel. If you won’t accept my apologies, then at least accept my thanks for not killing him. Anthony tells me you’re remarkably accurate with a knife.”

Beth shifted uncomfortably. How much did her husband tell Highbury?

“How is Daniel?” she asked.

“Healing. And licking his wounds over in France. Or possibly Switzerland by now.”

“Oh, my lord!” cried Isabella. “Surely you have not let your only son travel abroad in these dreadful times!”

Lord Edward and his sisters, considering it beneath their dignity to adopt costume, but wishing to attend the party, had paid lip service to the spirit of the masquerade by wearing normal attire and adopting black velvet masks which covered their faces and were kept in place by a button held between the lips. Isabella’s voice was somewhat muffled as a result, and it took the earl a moment to interpret her utterance.

“Ah, no, it is perfectly safe,” he said after the requisite pause. “Travel is never affected by something as trivial as warfare, Isabella. The French are perfectly courteous towards the British in their own country, unless one dons a scarlet coat and waves a sword around. I doubt even Daniel will be indiscreet enough to do that.”

“You really would call this little skirmish warfare?” asked Lord Winter, sweating heavily in the fur-lined robes of a judge.

“Good God, no, I was referring to the war in Flanders,” replied Highbury. “That pack of ragged Highlanders will soon be seen off by General Cope, as you so wisely said. Why, he has over fourteen hundred men under his command, does he not?”

“Oh, no, my lord, he has far more than that,” said Lord Winter proudly. “You should have been in the Lords today when we were discussing it. I have it on authority that Cope has now a total of three thousand, eight hundred and fifty men at his disposal.”

“As many as that?” trilled Sir Anthony, appearing from nowhere, jingling merrily and delivering the lord a smart smack on the back of the head with an inflated sheep’s bladder.

“He, at least has come in suitable costume,” muttered Lydia Fortesque to her father under her breath, causing Beth, who was standing within earshot, to grin.

“For God’s sake, Anthony, it’s a masquerade, not a bloody play!” shouted Lord Winter, rubbing his abused head. “You’re only supposed to look like a fool, not act the part too.”

“Why break the habit of a lifetime?” said Beth nastily. “He spent enough on the costume, he might as well live up to it.”

Sir Anthony shot his wife a withering look. The red and yellow belled jester’s hat drooped over one eye.

“I thought you were retrenching, Sir Anthony,” said Lady Winter. “No more fun, that sort of thing.”

“Second-rate claret, no redecoration of the drawing room, no…”

“Oh, but my dear ladies! There is fun, and then there are clothes!” cried Sir Anthony, cutting off his wife’s protests. “One must keep up appearances, you know. I am only economising on luxury items. Like newspapers. What were you saying about Cope, Bartholomew? I am sorry if I hurt you, do please accept my most profuse and heartfelt…”

“I was saying that he has a much larger force than is generally known at his disposal,” Lord Winter interrupted.

“Ah, but that force will be to no avail if the Highlanders vanish into the mountains, as men of that craven type have always done when asked to stand and fight,” pointed out the baronet.

“They will have no chance to. Cope is going north to meet them. He has already consulted with the Lord President and others who know the country well, and is assured of help from the clans loyal to the crown, who of course also know the territory. Initially he wanted to meet the rebels in the lowlands…”

“If they get that far,” said Highbury disparagingly.

“Indeed,” smiled the lord. “But the Marquis of Tweedale insisted Cope march north. He is heading for Fort Augustus, which is near to the seat of the rebellion, you know, and has a considerable number of arms to give to the loyal clans.”

“Is this common knowledge?” asked Lord Edward.

“No, of course not,” said Lord Winter, with the important look of one who is privy to all manner of secret information. “But I am sure I can rely on you not to spread the word. I only tell you so that the ladies will not be unduly worried about what is only an insignificant, trivial matter.”

“Indeed,” said Sir Anthony. “It is well known that peers of the realm spend the bulk of their days in the Lords debating insignificant, trivial matters. I am joking, sir,” he said, seeing Lord Winter’s imminent explosion. “If I am later to endure my wife castigating me over my expenditure, you will at least allow me to enjoy my costume to the full now.”

He swung his bladder once more at Lord Winter, who ducked, with the result that Lord Edward received a faceful of sheep’s innards, and then bowed, extending his parti-coloured leg to the company before prancing off into the crowd of revellers that thronged the pleasure gardens.

“How on earth you endure him I have no idea, Elizabeth,” said Lord Edward in a rare moment of sympathy with his cousin.

“Neither do I, Edward,” she replied. “I sometimes wish I had allowed you to force me to marry Lord Redburn instead of Anthony, after all.”

“Was it important, what Bartholomew told us today?” Beth asked later. The merry hat drooped on the bedpost; its formerly merry wearer drooped on the bed.

“Aye, it was. If Charles kent about it tomorrow, it’d be verra useful to him in planning whether to face Cope or avoid him. But while I’m at least five days hard riding away from him, no, it’s no bloody use at all.”

Today he had received his first letter from Duncan, saying that he had raised the clan, and fifty men were marching with him to join the prince and see how the land lay. She knew that Alex was torn between wanting to lead his men himself, as was his duty and desire, and knowing that he was in a unique position to hear possibly crucial information here.

She went over and sat next to him on the bed.

“It must be very frustrating, hearing all this news and knowing that by the time you can get it to Charles, it’ll be worthless.”

“It is,” he admitted, “I canna wait to be wi’ my men, fighting, but right now it’s necessary that I bide here. And I did find out some other useful information while I was cavorting about hitting people. Iain’s on his way to Foley with it as we speak, and wi’ luck it’ll be in Scotland by the week’s end.”

“What’s that?”

“The Duke of Newcastle’s taking the rebellion seriously. And the Elector’s starting to. He’s going to cut short his visit to Hanover and come home. And he’s asked for six thousand Dutch troops to be sent to Scotland. They’re due under treaty anyway, and if they’re as useless here as they were at Fontenoy, we’ve nae need to fear. Cumberland’s written to Newcastle asking for command of the home forces if the Jacobite invasion becomes serious, but for now George wants him to continue losing in Flanders.”

“And you found all that out today?” Beth asked incredulously.

“Aye,” he grinned, pulling her close to him. “It’s amazing what people will tell a ridiculous fool covered in bells, or rather what they’ll say in his presence. There’d be no point in telling him directly of course, him being too stupid to comprehend the import of what they say.”

“But clever enough to ask lots of questions to draw them out.”

“Exactly. People love to be the first to ken momentous information. It makes them feel important. And in telling other people, they feel even more important. That’s why spies are usually discreet, apparent nonentities. It’s because they ken well when to keep their mouths shut.”

“Discreet. Like Sir Anthony,” Beth laughed.

“Aye, like Sir Anthony,” Alex agreed. “And when he’s gone, as I hope he will be verra soon, everyone will remember the clothes, and the patches, and the paint. And no one will recall a damn thing about the colourless forgettable man hiding inside.”

“Hardly colourless,” Beth said, fingering the soft curls of bright russet hair growing in a place normally well and truly hidden from everyone. He sighed happily, then turned over suddenly, trapping her underneath him.

“Nor forgettable, either, I hope,” he murmured, and in the next hours proved to his wife that whatever adjectives could be ascribed to him, and there were many, forgettable was definitely not one of them.

Early September 1745

When Beth awoke, Alex was still fast asleep, curled on his side. She lay and watched him sleeping for a few minutes, then slid slowly out of bed, hoping not to disturb him. For a moment she thought she’d succeeded, but then his eyes snapped open, instantly alert for any danger.

“Shhh,” she said softly. “It’s early. Go back to sleep for a while.”

He smiled, sighed, and then his eyes closed again, and he was instantly asleep.

Throwing a dressing gown over her nightgown, she left the bedroom and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. He could sleep as late as he wanted to this morning. They had no visits planned for today.

Last night he’d been at Highbury’s club and hadn’t returned until the early hours, exhausted and smelling of brandy and tobacco. She’d half-roused when he came in, and had been vaguely aware of him yawning and removing his makeup by the light of one candle so as not to disturb her too much, before sliding into bed next to her, wrapping his arm round her waist, and falling immediately into a deep sleep.

He was spending more and more evenings out at various gentlemen’s clubs these days. Beth understood why; they were the best places to hear about the latest military manoeuvres. She also understood that she could not accompany him to these exclusively male domains.

Understanding was not, however, the same as liking. She was seeing a lot less of him as he strove to learn as much as possible about the Hanoverian reaction to the increasingly serious threat the Jacobite rebellion was now posing. Any useful information was immediately put into code and relayed, via Iain and Gabriel Foley, northward to Scotland, where more and more men were joining Prince Charles.

It was necessary. But she missed her husband. It was as simple as that. However today, she determined, would be theirs. He needed some relaxation and she intended to ensure that he got it, if only for a few hours.

Maggie and Iain had gone shopping for provisions, so after a solitary breakfast she repaired to the library, intending to write a letter to Thomas and Jane, but instead was distracted by the unusual title of the book someone, presumably Iain, as Maggie was not much for the reading, had left on the table.
The Sofa – A Moral Tale.
Leafing through it, she noticed the unusual chapter headings too:
Chapter I –
The least tedious chapter in the book.
Intrigued, she curled up in a corner of the sofa and started to read, soon becoming caught up in the story, which appeared to be about a gentleman whom, upon dying, had been reincarnated as a series of sofas, and was now telling stories to a Sultan, who bore more than a passing resemblance to King Louis of France, about the people who had sat upon him, and, it seemed, had proceeded to do a great deal more than merely sit.

After a while she heard Iain and Maggie return from their errands and head for the kitchen. She stretched and yawned, and looked out of the window. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, a perfect day for a walk. Not for the first time she longed to do what Iain and Maggie took for granted; to dress in casual clothes, and go for a stroll, hand in hand with her spouse. A simple pleasure, but not one she could enjoy whilst they continued to live in this Godforsaken city as Sir Anthony and Lady Elizabeth.

She sighed. If she was feeling frustrated at the restrictions of her current life, how much worse must it be for Alex? Now that his clan had joined Prince Charles, Alex was growing increasingly impatient with the endless round of society calls and meetings, desperate to be with his clan, fighting for the Stuarts. Soon, he kept telling her, and himself, soon they would pack and leave, and when they returned to London, it would be with a victorious army, and as Alex and Beth MacGregor.

She wondered if there had been any mail. Iain called in at the coffee house twice weekly, where any letters for Benjamin Johnson would be held. She finished her chapter and then headed down to the kitchen to find out. Alex was probably up by now. If any letters had arrived, they’d be in code, and it would take him a good few minutes to decipher them anyway.

She was halfway along the corridor which led to the kitchen when a masculine expletive followed by a sudden crashing sound made her quicken her steps, and she almost ran into the kitchen, skidding to a halt in the doorway at the sight which met her eyes.

Alex, dressed only in breeches, was leaning over the table, breathing heavily, his hair falling over his face, his arms braced on the scrubbed wood. The crashing noise had presumably come from the table being swept clean of crockery and cutlery, which was now scattered across the floor. Beth exchanged a glance with Iain and Maggie, ascertaining by their expressions that they were no wiser than she was as to what had caused this outburst of violence against the breakfast utensils.

For a full minute no one spoke, the only sound being that of Alex’s breathing as he sought to bring his emotions under control.

“What’s wrong?” Beth finally broke the silence, unable to wait any longer to find out what the hell was going on.

Alex remained as he was, and after another few moments, Beth opened her mouth to ask again, when he suddenly looked up at her, and to her horror, his eyes were brimming with tears.

“There was a letter,” Iain said. He looked down at the floor, and Beth, following his gaze, saw the single sheet of paper lying amongst the broken crockery. She bent to pick it up, intending to read it, but as she had expected, it was in code.

“What’s wrong?” she repeated, frantic now. “Have we lost? Did Cope win? Are Duncan and Angus…?”