The Rebel's Promise (7 page)

“Mayhap you will reconsider your indulgence in that regard once you have had the opportunity to peruse a very interesting document I have in my possession, Mr Delacourt.”

With a flourish reminiscent of a conjuror, Sir Clive withdrew a rolled parchment from his capacious coat pocket and presented it to Mr Delacourt, adding, with a note of satisfaction,

“In case you should be tempted to destroy the account while you hold it in your hands, let me point out that ‘tis but a copy made by my clerk. The original is, even now, on its way to my lawyer in London.”

Mr Delacourt’s instinct was to send him packing, but those words forestalled him. Sir Clive was certainly behaving like a man deranged, but he had clearly gone to a great deal of trouble over this slim parchment. It behoved Mr Delacourt to read it and then send the obnoxious man, once and for all about, his business. His growing fear, as he read the words Harry had written in his ‘memoirs’, was masked by the inscrutable expression he maintained. Sir Clive, unable to contain his anticipation, paced agitatedly up and down.

When Mr Delacourt had finished reading, he handed the document back to Sir Clive and, without speaking, returned to his seat. With apparent unconcern, he began to tidy away the backgammon board.

“Well?” Sir Clive blustered.

“I do not know by what means you coerced my son into writing those words, Sir Clive,”

Mr Delacourt’s voice was quiet, his busy hands steady. In complete contrast was the erratic pounding of his heart.

“Suffice to say, your actions have only served to convince me that, were you the last man on this earth, I would never allow my daughter to marry you.”

Sir Clive loomed over him, his fists clenched, eyes starting furiously from his head.

“But I can ruin you …” he expostulated, waving the document, “… and with you your precious son and daughter! When she is clapped up in prison awaiting her sentence for treason – the whore of a known traitor – I trust you will remember your words, sir!”

Mr Delacourt shrugged, “In a traitor’s prison she could still hold her head high,” he stated, again with that unnatural calm, “A thing I fear your future wife – whoever that unfortunate lady might be – will never be able to do.” He met Sir Clive’s gaze levelly, “Do your worst, you evil bastard.”

With a strangled cry of fury, Sir Clive turned on his heel and stalked out. Mr Delacourt waited quietly until he heard the heavy door slam. Then, slumping forward in his chair, he pressed a shaking hand to his chest, drawing in a ragged breath as excruciating pain seared through him.

***

Rosie was curled up on the window seat, watching the sweeping drive with an almost painful expression of expectation. How strange that she had somehow missed the first signs of Spring this year! Suddenly, the gardens had come alive with a vibrant carpet of colour. There were reminders of new life and bustling activity everywhere. Although a few wintry clouds lingered stubbornly, the sunlight peeped between them so that their shadows dappled the hillsides like carelessly spilt paint. In the distance a horse trudged across a rolling field. It was pulling a heavy cart and a plume of bluish smoke from one of the labourer’s cottages hung still in the mid-day air.

She had always loved this time of year, delighting in the sounds and smells of the countryside around The Grange as winter faded. Now, the beauty of the scene twisted a sharpened knife into the constant ache of her sorrow. Today her father was being laid to rest – finally reunited with her mother – in the family crypt. In the three short months since she had found Jack at the roadside her life had changed beyond all recognition.

Harry came and joined her on the padded seat and she slid an arm about his waist, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. His young face was pale and drawn, the turbulence of his emotions reflected in his troubled eyes. They sat in silence until, at last, the sound of hooves on the gravel made them both sit up. Rosie was surprised to see two riders and her slender frame stiffened as she recognised Tom’s companion. Sir Clive Sheridan! She did not know what had transpired between him and Mr Delacourt on his last visit. Only that, following their conversation, her father had suffered a heart attack so violent it had killed him.

Harry, pale and strained, excused himself and Rosie envied him the luxury of escape. Sighing, she rose and – pale but dignified in a dove-grey gown edged with black ribbon - awaited her guest. He bustled into the room and bowed low over her hand, murmuring condolences. Rosie turned to Tom, who assured her that the service had been a fitting tribute and that most of her father’s tenants had been present to pay their respects to a much loved landlord.

Sir Clive cut across what Tom was saying, “I would have speech with you alone, Miss Delacourt,” he informed her imperiously and she regarded him with astonishment.

Tom turned, distaste written across every feature, and looked him up and down briefly. Clearly deciding he was not worthy of his attention, he addressed himself once more to Rosie.

“As I was saying, even old Arthur Scoggins was there, and he must be close to eighty. He talked fondly about how your father helped him and his wife when their youngest grandson was left lame after an accident. He asked me to pass on his regards.”

Rosie expressed her appreciation. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sir Clive almost hopping with impatience.

“I think, Tom, that I had best grant Sir Clive a few moments in private as he has requested,” she might as well get it over with.

Tom nodded grimly, “If you are sure?”

He asked pointedly, and Rosie assured him that she was. With a final look of contempt in Sir Clive’s direction, he left the room.

“Well, sir?” Rosie’s voice was haughty, and she pointedly did not invite him to be seated. “You will forgive me for wondering what could be so important that you must say it to me on the very day my father is laid to rest?”

“Don’t you dare look down your nose at me!” The words were uttered with such venom that she stepped back in alarm. “Yes, you may well stare! I’m tired of treating you with kid gloves, Miss-high-and-mighty-Delacourt. Tis time you learned a lesson and, by God, I’m the man who will teach it to you.”

Rosie moved towards the door but he was there before her, barring her way.

“Aye, you would love to call your tame ape back and have me man-handled out the door, would you not? But before you do, I suggest you read this,” he threw a parchment down onto a side table, “Your father found it most interesting, I can assure you.” Replacing his tricorn hat, he gave a mock-courteous bow, “I will return shortly, at which juncture I will expect a most favourable answer to my renewed proposal of marriage. For now, however, I must bid you a good day.”

With a growing sense of dread, Rosie sank into a chair and began to read the document he had left. Her emotions exactly mirrored those her father had experienced a matter of days ago in this very room. Several passages in Harry’s account leaped out at her, the words searing themselves on her consciousness and driving thoughts of her father, even of Jack, from her mind.

‘… my father, a lifelong Jacobite sympathiser, agreed that the Earl of St Anton, injured while fighting for Prince Charles Edward Stuart, should be sheltered in our home, Delacourt Grange ...’

‘… the Earl of St Anton was most taken with my sister and she with him. I believe they will marry when he returns. They have already shared a bed ...’

Oh, Harry! Rosie covered her eyes with a shaking hand. What have you done? A movement at her side made her look up, and Harry was standing beside her. Fear and concern were writ large on his young features. Beau, sensing her cares, rested his chin on Rosie’s knee his gentle eyes shining lovingly up at her. Rosie held out a hand to Harry and he took it. Exhaling the breath he had been holding as the tears began to flow. He dropped to his knees beside her chair and she held him close, rocking him as she had done when he was a baby.

“I did not know what I was doing,” The words came tumbling over themselves, fast and furious, and Rosie had to bend her head to catch what he was saying. “I thought he was being kind, he bought me food and gave me ale. I began to feel strange … lightheaded …Then he said I should write my memoirs … for posterity. He told me what to write – even that bit about you and Jack, about sharing a bed,” Harry hung his head in shame. “Then, once I had written it and signed my name on it, he laughed. Told me it was a confession and that I could hang as a traitor with you and my father alongside me. Please say you forgive me, Rosie.”

Automatically, Rosie soothed him and, eventually, exhausted from weeping, he made his way upstairs, a sad, drooping figure. Beau, always responsive to his moods, adopted a similarly woebegone attitude. Tom appeared in the doorway, wondering what was going on.

“I need you to find Jack for me, Tom.”

The stricken look in Rosie’s eyes worried him. She looked worse now than when she had found her father’s body slumped in his chair.

“Harry and I are in trouble and we need him … more than the prince does.”

***

The fickle Scottish weather had done its worst while Tom travelled steadily northwards. But, as he approached the town of Inverness, the driving rain finally ceased. A weak April sun tried briefly to warm him before the low, trundling clouds descended once more.

The Prince’s retreat into Scotland had been marked by a series of skirmishes. Although he had won a victory at Falkirk, there was a sense, from the newspaper reports – which Tom avidly scoured each day – that the Jacobites were being driven relentlessly further and further from their goal. King George had sent the Duke of Cumberland, the Young Pretender’s own cousin, to take charge of the government armies. His tactics of relentlessly haranguing the Jacobites seemed to be paying off. When Tom had set off on his quest, it was widely reported that both the Prince and the Duke were close to Inverness.

Tom’s subsequent journey further north was punctuated by a series of encounters with people travelling in the opposite direction, all of whom were full of news. It became clear that a major battle had taken place at Drummossie Muir near Culloden. The Jacobite forces were in chaos having been convincingly defeated by the red coats. The prince himself had fled. Horrific stories emerged of the Duke of Cumberland’s determination to ensure there could be no further rebellion by those loyal to Prince Charles. With that end in mind he had given his men an order to give the Jacobites ‘no quarter’ and any wounded or fleeing rebels were speedily put to death. Tom was sickened to hear of the atrocities committed by the king’s soldiers against the men, women and children of the highland clans. In any other circumstances, Inverness, at such a time, would be the last place he wished to visit. But, in addition to the news he was getting of the battle, he remembered that Jack’s mother was a Scotswoman and that her family home was close by.

The outskirts of the town were surprisingly quiet. The citizens going about their business in a peaceful way which belied the awful events which had just taken place. Although there were red-coated soldiers about, Tom was not challenged by them. He rode into the courtyard of an inn and slid gratefully from his horse. Every bone in his body ached and he was damp, cold and mind-numbingly tired.

He was gratefully tucking into a bowl of hearty beef stew mopped up with thick chunks of bread when a commotion near the door caught his attention. The landlord was talking in an urgent undertone to a fierce looking man, clad in the tartan of his clan, who was leaning against the door jamb. It appeared that the landlord did not want this visitor to enter the taproom.

“I’ve not spent the last few days hiding in the shadows, avoiding the redcoats just to have my own brother turn me away.”

The brutish man complained, ignoring the frenzied efforts of his companion to shush him. Eventually, talking in undertones, they seemed to reach an agreement. The rebel was hustled unceremoniously up the back stairs and emerged again half an hour later, dressed in more conventional attire. Sitting opposite Tom on a rough-hewn bench he too began to devour a huge plate of the thick, steaming stew.

Catching Tom’s eye on him, he paused warily, “Good,” he indicated the food with a nod of his head and Tom agreed. “Travelled far?”

“From Derby,” Tom informed him, and the other man studied him thoughtfully, “In search of a friend.”

“Aye?” the tone was neutral, his eyes watchful.

Tom decided it was a case of ‘nothing ventured’. “My friend was with the prince,” his companion cast a quick look around the tiny taproom. They were alone, “And I travelled here to discover what has become of him.”

“Aye?” It was remarkable how much expression could be packed into that single syllable. “If your friend was with the prince at Drummossie, he is dead or has fled. There’s nought left of the prince’s forces.”

“He is Lord St Anton …”

“Lord Jack?” the clansman quickly stifled his exclamation and continued in a quieter voice, “’Tis Lord Jack ye seek?” At Tom’s nod, his companion grinned, “He is well known in these parts, his lady mother was born and bred in yon Fort Kilcroath. ‘Tis many a time I’ve seen him wear the clan tartan. Why, I was with Lord Jack at Swarkestone Bridge!”

Offering up praise for this piece of good fortune, Tom decided to deflect him from his reminiscences. “How fared your clan at Drummossie?”

The other man’s brow darkened and he shook his head, “We fought a desperate fight but we could nae match their muskets and lances with our broad swords. When we got up close we even threw stones at them - so wild were we! But Cumberland was prepared for us this time,” he shook his head bitterly, “They slaughtered those who lay wounded. But we’ll pay yon fine duke back in his own coin, you mark my words.” Glancing up towards the open doorway, he noticed a small group of soldiers in the courtyard and rose swiftly to his feet.

“Tell me … did Lord Jack survive Drummossie?” Tom asked in an urgent undertone.

“Nay …” he shook his head joylessly but, before he could finish, one of the soldiers entered the taproom and the clansman slipped speedily back up the stairs.