The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)

by Julia Brannan

  Yes, you condescending pig.

  “I think so,” she said. “It is all very exciting. But you said earlier that the French were defeated. What of Saxe’s fleet, and those of Roquefeuil that you did not engage?”

  “Ah, yes. If we needed proof that God is on our side, we have it now. The weather has done most of our job for us. Saxe’s troops were loading at Dunkirk when a terrible storm arose, which destroyed eleven transports and countless other ships, along with all their supplies, and rendered it impossible for them to sail. Indeed, the same storm damaged several of Norris’s ships, too. And some of Roquefeuil’s as he sailed back to Brest. But it is now reported to be impossible for the invasion fleet to sail, although our ships are still ready for them if they do foolishly attempt to. And we have four detachments of Dragoons searching the river from London to the estuary. If they do succeed in getting any ships through, which is doubtful, they will find no one to navigate them up the Thames.”

  Across the room Beth saw her husband clap his hands and exclaim in joy at the ruination of all their hopes. King George had been explaining events in much more detail to Sir Anthony than Cumberland had to her, punctuating his torrent of German with stabs at the maps.

  On their way home, her husband filled her in on the details, and also gave her the joyous news that the long-postponed Handel concert was to take place in two weeks, and they were invited. The coach was filled with gloom.

  “Do you think it’s as bad as the Elector and Cumberland have made out?” Beth said, lowering her voice.

  “Yes, it probably is,” the baronet replied. “I must send Angus as soon as we get back, to warn Foley about the search parties. He probably already knows what’s happened, but just in case….he said the weather was getting up, and if the French fleet has been damaged, it’ll give Louis the perfect excuse to call the whole thing off. I’m starting to think William was right.”

  “William?”

  “Highbury. When he said it was just a feint to distract the British. If it was, and Charles finds out, he’ll be livid. I just hope he keeps his head. But there’s not much I can do about that. I can’t risk going to France at the moment, and I’m probably better off here, trying to find out what I can. He has advisors there. I just hope they know how to handle him.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  On the fifteenth of March 1744, King Louis XV officially declared war on Britain, giving as his reason that the King of England had persecuted France under the pretext of defending Austria. In Louis’ opinion, the abortive invasion attempt had been successful, in that it had, as intended, diverted a great many British and Dutch troops to England to await the French attack, leaving the Low Countries vulnerable. Louis now started the redirection of his coastal troops to Flanders and Germany. Then he promised to allow the Stuart prince to gain valuable military experience by fighting with the French in Flanders if he did as he was told, which was to leave the coast, make his way incognito to the rural house of the bishop of Soissons and lie low there until sent for.

  Charles Edward Stuart, being a prince of the blood royal, was accustomed to giving orders, not obeying them, and had never laid low in his life. He had no intention of doing so now, either. Instead he remained on the coast at Gravelines, raising several pertinent and uncomfortable points with Marshal Saxe regarding the failure of the first invasion, and encouraging him to attempt another. Then, when he realised this was not to be, he looked around for alternatives. Recognising that the flames of British Jacobitism were burning brightly at the moment, and not wishing to lose the impetus generated by recent events, Charles suggested sending the Irish Brigade, currently fighting for France, to Scotland. Or, if all else failed, he would go to Scotland himself, alone. The clans had assured him of a hearty welcome whenever he arrived. They at least would rise for him, he said.

  His advisor, the aloof and imperious veteran Jacobite Earl Marischal, poured cold water on every exuberant suggestion. What Charles needed at this time was empathy and tactful understanding. What he got was unrelenting gloom and defeatism. Marischal found only fault with everything Charles suggested, and expressed his doubts in the way most likely to alienate the prince. Their relationship had never been good; now it became catastrophic, his attitude bringing out all the rebellious qualities in Charles that Alex had hoped would be contained. In the midst of this, the prince discovered that King Louis had ridden off to Flanders without him, having never intended to allow Charles to fight with him. It had been a sop to keep him quiet, no more.

  Turning his back on Marischal, and ignoring Louis three-times-repeated command to travel to Soissons, Charles, now justifiably convinced that the king had just been using him to accomplish his own political ends, did, finally, leave the coast. He did not, however, take quiet refuge in a country retreat as Louis wanted, but instead rode straight to Paris.

  If Alex had known what was going on in France, far from thinking he would be of more use in England, he would have swum the Channel unaided if necessary to get to his prince and attempt to limit the damage. But, news travelling slowly, he was unaware of what was going on until it was too late, and was currently engaged with other matters.

  “I had no idea ye hated Anne that much,” he said.

  “I don’t hate her at all,” Beth retorted. “I feel sorry for her. How could I not feel sorry for someone who has to depend on the Winters for her livelihood? This is a chance for her to escape. I’m trying to help her.”

  “Ye’re mad,” he said, with Marischal-like pessimism. “Dinna waste your time. It’ll never work.”

  “It could,” she replied enthusiastically, “if I have your help. And Caroline’s. And Edwin’s.”

  “Well then, go ahead and ask them. If they agree, I’ll go along wi’ ye. But they’ve more sense than you have. They’ll say the same as me.”

  “Hmm. You know, it might just work,” Caroline said thoughtfully. “But it won’t be easy.”

  “Are you mad?” said Edwin, echoing his friend’s words of the previous evening. The friend in question was now lolling in his favourite spot on the sofa, eating tiny strawberries from a plate by his side.

  “My sentiments exactly, my dear boy,” he said, chewing blissfully. “I can’t believe you’ve managed to acquire strawberries in March, Caroline. Wherever did you get them?”

  “From Aunt Harriet,” she said. “She’s the one with the enormous pile in Hertfordshire.”

  “How very uncomfortable for her, poor dear,” Sir Anthony remarked, disposing of another strawberry.

  Caroline shot him a withering look.

  “She’s the one with the enormous mansion in Hertfordshire,” she amended. “And a huge hothouse. And nothing better to do with her days than force strawberries for gluttonous and vulgar acquaintances of mine to devour in March.”

  “Aunt Harriet didn’t disown you then, when you married Edwin?” Sir Anthony asked. Caroline’s extremely aristocratic family had turned their backs on their wayward relative when she had, upon reaching the age of twenty-one, blithely announced her intention to marry a mere untitled MP, against all their wishes. They had been even more annoyed when Caroline had shown complete and genuine indifference to their attitude. She was in love with Edwin, had married him, and had never had any reason to regret her decision.

  “Aunt Harriet couldn’t care less about anything or anyone,” Caroline said. “As long as I show an interest in her exotic plants, she wouldn’t care if I’d married the pope. She’s very sweet, but quite mad.”

  “Clearly it runs in the family then,” Edwin said. “You can’t really think that marrying Lord Redburn off to Anne Maynard is a sensible proposition. He’s a ridiculous, drunken old fool, and she’s…” he trailed off, unable to think of a suitable adjective.

  “Colourless,” Sir Anthony supplied. “But I still wouldn’t try to foist Redburn off on her, poor child.”

  “You’re being unfair,” Beth said. “The ‘poor child’ is the same age as you, Anthony. And he’s not that bad. He
’s just a lonely old man who needs someone to look after him in his declining years.”

  “That’s not what you used to think, dear heart. After all, you even went to the desperate measure of marrying me to avoid being forced into a union with him.”

  Beth coloured.

  “Yes, I did,” she said, trying to sound as though she regretted her choice. “But I’m not cut out for looking after an invalid. Anne is. Don’t forget, she nursed both her parents through their last illnesses. It would make her feel wanted, which she needs. And when he dies, probably quite soon, he’ll leave her stinking rich, and with a respectable widow’s status, unlike her parents, who left her in penury. It’s perfect. He’s desperate for a wife, she’s desperate for a husband. No one else will have them.”

  She did have a point.

  “If you’re so eager to marry her off, why not consider Edward?” Edwin suggested. “At least he’s younger, and better-looking. And could give her a child. After all, the Cunningham estate needs an heir desperately, and Richard shows no sign of marrying.”

  Beth and Caroline both looked at Edwin with disgust.

  “I wouldn’t wish that pompous fool of a cousin of mine on my worst enemy,” Beth said. “I’m trying to get her away from Lord Winter, not shackle her to a younger version of him. God, she’d just fade away completely. No, I think caring for Lord Redburn will bring her out of herself, give her some responsibility. I can take care of Anne, with Caroline’s help. But I need you two to extol her virtues to Redburn, and make sure he doesn’t get incapably drunk at his next ball.”

  “Which is in only two weeks,” said Sir Anthony. “Three days after the tiresome Handel concert.” He sighed dramatically.

  “Don’t you want to go, Anthony?” Edwin said. “There are plenty who would willingly take your place.”

  “Are you volunteering?” the baronet asked hopefully.

  “No,” came the hasty reply. “I know how dull the Court can be. You could always make an excuse though, surely?”

  “One cannot refuse the monarch, Edwin,” replied Sir Anthony, expressing deep shock at his friend’s lack of patriotism. “Besides, Beth wishes to pursue her torrid affair with Cumberland, and who am I to refuse her anything?”

  “You want to refuse your assistance in my matchmaking plans, though,” Beth pointed out, ignoring his jibe about the duke.

  “Au contraire, my love. If you wish to waste your time, far be it from me to prevent you. I agree to all you ask. I will sing the praises of Miss Maynard to the highest heavens. I am sure Edwin will assist me. But it will be a waste of time, I do assure you. Even when drunk and desperate, Redburn has never so much as noticed the invisible Anne before, let alone been inclined to propose to her.”

  “Would you like to make a wager on that?” said Beth, with conviction.

  * * *

  The plot gathered pace. Beth, visiting the Winters, wore a particularly close-fitting woollen jacket she had recently purchased, which drew, as she had hoped, a great deal of admiration from both Lady Winter and Anne, who exclaimed at length over its military cut, with its brass-buttoned mariner’s cuff and tasselled frogging.

  “It is quite the latest thing,” Beth said, in conscious imitation of Sir Anthony. “All things military are, and of course it keeps one in mind of our brave soldiers fighting in Europe.”

  “It’s lovely,” said Anne sincerely. She would never have the courage to wear such a garment.

  “Here,” said Beth casually, handing her the jacket and coming to the point of the whole exercise. “Try it on.”

  Anne recoiled as though being offered a large and particularly hairy spider.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” she said. “It is too…” Masculine was the word that came to mind, but that would be offensive. “Small,” she finished timidly.

  “Nonsense. We are not dissimilar in stature,” Beth said firmly. “It will pass, I think. Go on, try it on.”

  Anne tried it on.

  “Although she’s only an inch or so taller than me, she’s a lot longer in the body and shorter in the leg than I am,” Beth said to Caroline later. They were casually arranged on cushions on the floor, surrounded by a rainbow of silks and velvets. “She has a remarkably small waist, as small as mine, we can maybe make something of that, but the jacket was loose around the chest. It fitted perfectly on the shoulders and arms, though. She’s really quite dainty.”

  “She hasn’t got a chest,” Caroline remarked candidly. “But with careful positioning of lace, we should be able to conceal that. If we can persuade her to wear heels, that will make her legs look longer. Now, what colour do you think? The burgundy? Purple? Blue?”

  The two conspirators examined the materials.

  “I don’t know,” Beth said after a while. “I never really think about what colour to wear. To be honest, in Manchester I only had two formal gowns. One of them was a hideous shade of yellow, and about thirty years out of date.” She laughed. “I still remember Isabella desperately trying to think of something nice to say about it the first time I visited her, after Richard came home. Before that I spent most of my time in loose-fitting woollen dresses. They were lovely. Really comfortable.” Comfort was the most important quality in a garment, to her mind. Most of her current wardrobe failed to meet the mark.

  “Yet you always look the height of fashion,” Caroline noted. “It must be being married to Anthony, I suppose. You wouldn’t dare look otherwise.”

  An idea occurred to them both at the same moment. They looked at each other, and smiled.

  “The emerald green,” he said after a cursory glance at the fabrics. “And the silk, not the velvet.”

  “That was a quick decision,” said Caroline suspiciously. “You’re not just saying anything so you can get back to your chess game with Edwin, are you?”

  “Not at all. I’m losing. And Freddie’s just woken up. Edwin’s walking around with him, trying to get him off to sleep again. Although the bottle of burgundy is a temptation…” Sir Anthony shrank back in mock terror at the ladies’ threatening looks. “No, I know how much this ridiculous plan means to you both. The green. It will bring out the colour of her eyes. They are not really mud brown as everyone thinks, you know, but more hazel, like yours, Caroline. It’s the hideous colours she wears that deaden them.”

  Beth looked at her friend’s beautiful almond-shaped hazel eyes, and then incredulously at her husband.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  Two days later, the silk dress now taking shape on the dressmaker’s dummy, Beth paid a further visit to the Winters’, where the conversation was carefully steered onto the subject of shoes.

  “Really,” she said, sinking gratefully into a chair. “I wish Anthony wouldn’t insist that I wear such ridiculous heels.” She lifted her skirt gracefully, displaying a shapely ankle and a pair of red leather shoes with a three-inch heel. “He thinks I am short.”

  “Oh, no,” said Anne, looking at the delicate foot with admiration, and the height of the heel with horror. “You are petite, and Sir Anthony is tall. You look perfect together.”

  “I wish you could convince him of that, Anne,” Beth replied. “You cannot believe the agony I am in half the time, just to please him. Here, put these on and take a turn around the room. You will see what I mean.”

  “She could hardly even get her toe in the shoe. She has the most amazingly big feet,” Beth said later.

  “Lk mn?” Caroline mumbled through a mouthful of pins. Beth looked at the foot placed before her for her inspection.

  “Well, yes,” she admitted. “They are like yours. But your feet are in proportion to the rest of you. Anne is six inches shorter than you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Caroline more distinctly, having deftly pinned up the hem of the new dress. It was looking very promising. The dark green silk brought out the colour of Caroline’s eyes, anyway. Beth hoped Anthony was right. “Her feet will be hidden under the dress. And if they’re the same size as
mine, then I have a pair of shoes she can borrow.”

  “I don’t think even we’ll be able to persuade her to wear heels,” Beth said. “I’ve never seen anyone look so horrified at the sight of a mere shoe.”

  “Oh we will, believe me, if I have to strap her into them. I’m not going to all this effort for nothing.”

  “What’s he interested in?” said Sir Anthony thoughtfully, repeating his wife’s question of a moment before.

  “Food,” said Edwin unhelpfully. “And claret.”

  “And brandy,” added the baronet. “And food, and more claret.”

  “Oh come on,” said Beth, exasperated. “You’re supposed to be being helpful. He must have some interests, something we can coach Anne in, so they can have at least a brief conversation before he proposes to her.”

  “You’re very confident, aren’t you?” Edwin said. “Have you told Anne what you’re up to yet?”

  “God, no, don’t be ridiculous,” said his wife. “She’d never agree, if we did. And even if we did manage to get her to the ball, she’d be a complete wreck if she thought someone was going to propose to her. She’d ruin the whole thing.”

  “You mean you’re not going to tell her at all?” said Edwin, appalled.

  “Gout,” said Anthony suddenly. “He’s always looking for cures for the gout. And all the other illnesses he thinks he’s got.”

  “What illnesses would those be, then?” Beth asked.

  “Oh, I am sorry to hear that,” said Anne, strolling through the Winters’ garden with Beth. “The gout is such a painful thing. My father was a martyr to it. Your friend really ought to consider a milk diet. It is quite effective, if persevered with. It involves drinking one third of milk mixed with two thirds of water, twice a day. And of course no liquor…”

  “Oh dear, my friend…James… would never agree to that. You know what men are like with regard to alcohol,” said Beth. “Is there nothing else?”