The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)

by Julia Brannan

  “Well, yes, a rub of the feet and legs with a woollen cloth before going to bed and again in the morning helps to relieve the pain. Quinine or laudanum should only be used sparingly, of course.”

  “I never would have thought of that,” said Beth admiringly. “You are very knowledgeable about health matters.”

  Anne blushed patchily.

  “I cared for my parents for many years,” she said shyly. “It is the only thing I know anything about. I’m afraid I can add nothing to general conversation. People are not interested in discussing ailments.”

  “You would be surprised,” replied Beth. “Now, could you recommend anything for piles?”

  “She could be a physician,” she informed her husband and friends that evening. “Honestly, she knows an awful lot more about illnesses than any doctor I’ve ever met. And where to get all the potions. And how to make up the ones you can’t buy. They’re made for each other, I’m convinced of it.”

  “I think we’d better try to steer her away from telling him about the milk diet for gout though,” Caroline said. “At least until after they’re married.”

  “I do wonder what sort of tyrants her parents were,” Beth mused. “She’s got absolutely no self-confidence at all. I’ve never met anyone so timid in my life. But she’s very sweet-natured. She hasn’t got a bad word for anyone. Lady Winter must find her extremely tiresome.”

  “I find you extremely tiresome, my dear,” said Sir Anthony, glowering . “Did you really have to tell her I’m a martyr to piles? I’ll have to remember to wince every time I sit down for the next month.”

  Beth smiled nastily.

  “Serves you right for making fun of Caroline’s poor Aunt Harriet. And eating all the strawberries, without offering me one. Now, the dress is ready, the three of us have an appointment with Sarah on the morning of the ball, and she knows what it’s all about. The next step is to start praising Anne to Lord Redburn. That’s up to you two,” Beth said, looking at the two reluctant male conspirators. “I suggest you pay him a call tomorrow, share a bottle of wine or something, then introduce the subject of the delights of marriage.”

  “You’ll have to tell me what they are,” said the baronet gloomily. “I can’t think of any at the moment.”

  Edwin nodded in morose agreement.

  “We can’t visit him tomorrow though, at any rate,” he said, brightening suddenly and looking at Beth and Anthony.

  “Why not?” asked Caroline.

  “You two have got this musical do at St James’s, haven’t you?”

  Now it was Beth’s turn to look miserable.

  “Oh, damn,” she said. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

  Beth stood politely by the side of the Duke of Cumberland, listening with half an ear to an anecdote he was telling her about training country boys to ride horses, the rest of her mind absorbed by the forthcoming ball. What should she and Caroline wear? They had to look as plain as possible. Beige, or grey, perhaps. She half-wished she still owned the hideous yellow affair. The dress she was wearing now, although, or perhaps because, it was the latest fashion, was hideously uncomfortable. The lace at the elbows was particularly rough. Her arms would be raw by the end of the evening. Still, at least the insane width of the skirts was keeping Cumberland several feet away from her. It was worth the discomfort for that. She realised belatedly that the duke had stopped speaking, and was waiting for her response.

  “My wife would understand the need for novice cavalrymen to initially learn to ride bareback, I am sure,” Sir Anthony said, coming to her rescue. “She is a most remarkable horsewoman, herself.” His hand circled her arm in a seemingly affectionate gesture, his fingers tightening warningly. Concentrate. Give him your full attention.

  “Are you really?” the duke said, seemingly surprised that this beautiful flower could know anything about horses.

  “Yes,” she replied, taking the warning on board. “It does teach you to control your mount perfectly. I learnt to ride bareback myself, in fact.”

  “Good God,” exclaimed the duke.

  “Do not be deceived by the apparent fragility of my wife, Your Highness.” Sir Anthony smiled. “She is as tough as any man, in many ways. She is much like the Princess Emily.”

  “Emily?” asked Beth. She could think of no princesses of that name.

  “My sister Amelia,” explained Cumberland affectionately. “Emily is our pet name for her. She’s an excellent woman, loves the hunt, riding, that sort of thing. She calls a spade a spade. Has an informed opinion on any topic of importance.”

  For topic of importance read military affairs. Beth wondered idly if the duke would speak affectionately of her if she called a spade a spade. Or an ass an ass. No, probably not. And he wasn’t an ass at all, as Alex had reminded her. Just devoid of charm, which was not the same thing.

  “Of course, I learnt to ride as a child, on a docile pony,” she said. “It must be quite a different matter to be faced with a warhorse as your first mount. Do many recruits refuse?”

  “No,” Cumberland replied. Clearly no one dared to, if he was around. “It is a requirement of every soldier to face danger and obey orders without question or hesitation.”

  “Yet it must be terrible to be a young boy coming from a village or a farm, and to be expected to leap fearlessly onto a charger. Are many injured or killed, learning?” Sir Anthony asked. The duke shot him a look of distaste. He did not share his father’s favourable opinion of the baronet, finding the paint he wore ridiculous. One would think the man a molly, were he not married. Perhaps he was anyway.

  “Yes, some are hurt,” he said indifferently. “But one should not enlist, if one is a coward. The army soon sorts the wheat from the chaff.”

  Poor boys. Sir Anthony made his excuses and drifted off in search of Lord Edward. He had managed to secure his cousin-in-law an invitation for this evening, to the lord’s delight and gratitude, but he needed to be carefully monitored, if he was to make a favourable impression.

  “The concert was quite wonderful, very stately,” Beth said, changing the subject before the duke could continue expressing his contempt of fearful country boys, who deserved sympathy rather than derision, in her view. “Mr Handel is very talented. The kettledrum was particularly rousing.”

  “Indeed. Of course the Dettingen Te Deum was composed to celebrate my father’s victory last year, in the battle of the same name.”

  Beth sighed inwardly, smiling up at the podgy prince. Every conversation was steered with unerring accuracy back to war. She gave in to the inevitable.

  “In which of course you played no small part yourself, I believe, Your Highness. Are you planning to lead your forces in the Low Countries this summer?” she asked. She might as well try to find out something useful.

  “Of course my father and I would be delighted to. But the threat from the Pretender’s son is not yet over. We must look to our own shores as well.”

  “Really?” she said, trying to sound worried rather than hopeful. “You told me the French invasion force had been defeated. Are they planning another attempt?”

  “No, I do not think so. Louis is moving his troops away from the coast. But the Pretender’s son has not returned to Rome. In fact our informants tell us he is still at or near Dunkirk. We must therefore assume he is plotting some action of his own. A landing in Scotland seems most likely. If I had my way…” He hesitated, and she wasn’t sure whether he wondered if he was boring her, or had been about to commit an indiscretion.

  “Don’t leave me in suspense, I beg you,” she said sincerely. “What would you do?”

  “What should have been done after the ’15 rebellion,” he replied, seeing she was genuinely interested. Quite a remarkable woman. He warmed to her. “My grandfather was far too magnanimous in dealing with the rebels then. They should have been crushed, not given pardons and allowed to continue their treasonous plottings. The whole country is a hotbed of Jacobitism.”

  “Yet are not severa
l Scottish regiments fighting for His Majesty?” she pointed out. “Pulteney’s and Campbell’s, for example?”

  He beamed down at her. She did know her stuff.

  “Yes, you are quite right. But they are in the main lowland regiments. I should not have said Scotland as a whole, but rather the Highlands. The Highlanders are illiterate lawless barbarians, operating to their own ridiculous savage codes, looting and massacring each other on a whim. It is high time they were taught the ways of the civilised world, and brought in line with the rest of Britain.”

  “Although if they are massacring each other on a whim, surely if left alone they will solve the problem by exterminating themselves?” she commented innocently.

  “Yes, if they didn’t breed like rabbits, they most likely would. And if they did not persist in their support of the Stuarts, it would probably not be worth the cost of sending an army to pacify them.”

  “You plan to lead an army against them, then?” she said.

  “No, it is not possible at the moment. Our forces are all committed in Europe. But if I have my way, once the war is over we will have to look closely at the problem of North Britain.”

  “God, the man’s insufferable!” she exploded later, at home. “I’ve never known anyone so sure of himself. He knows everything. I’m sure he believes he can walk on water. He’s unshakable.”

  “Ye didna try to shake him, did you?” said Alex.

  “Of course not. I’m supposed to be an admirer. No, I just fluttered my eyelashes and looked enthralled while he insulted my countrymen and told me of all his brave deeds at the front, which he hopes to repeat at the earliest opportunity. I wish him luck, and I hope the man who shot him at Dettingen repeats his brave deed as well, but aims a little higher next time.”

  Duncan smiled, and handed her a glass of brandy. Alex reached down her back and undid her laces.

  “Thanks,” she said to both of them, deftly collapsing her hoops and trapping them under her armpits so she could sit down, almost disappearing altogether in a billowing cloud of lilac silk. She pushed it down impatiently. “I shouldn’t drink this, really,” she said, taking a mouthful. “I’ve had enough already tonight. But I deserve it, I think. He tested my acting skills to the limit. I don’t know how I kept my temper.”

  “Ye did verra well,” Alex said sincerely. “I was proud of ye.”

  She smiled.

  “Thank you. But I doubt I can keep it up for much longer. I can’t stand the man, Alex. Please tell me I don’t have to see him again. He makes my skin crawl. Do you know you’re an illiterate savage, by the way?” she said to Duncan, who had stopped reading a copy of The Iliad to pour her brandy.

  “I couldna care less what the German lairdie’s son thinks of me,” he replied amiably. “Myself, I think it isna a bad thing when the enemy underestimates you. He’s going tae feel an awfu’ fool when he finds out he and his father have been taken in by one of those illiterate savages and his wife.”

  Beth hadn’t thought of it like that. It made her feel a lot better.

  “Aye,” said Maggie. “As long as he finds out after James is on the throne and no’ before.”

  “If we all continue to do as well as we are, there’s no danger of that,” replied Alex. “I’m sorry though, Beth, I canna promise that you’ll no’ see him again. He likes you. And you’re finding out useful information.”

  “His opinion of my kinsmen, and what he intends to do about it,” she said. The other useful, relieving thing she’d found out was that Cumberland was in no way another Henri. This enemy, at least, was easy to hate. She did not mention this.

  “Aye, but other stuff too. Like the fact that he and Geordie intend to go back to Europe as soon as they can. If we find out exactly when, we can let Charles know in advance. If he can persuade the French to assist him again after the recent mess, the best time to do it would be while the Elector and his son are abroad. But there is something else ye need to bear in mind, Beth.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Some of what you said about the duke applies equally to Charles. He’s also over-confident, and would be very surprised if more than his shoes got wet when he was halfway across the lake. It’s a common fault among princes. The difference is that Charles has the looks and charisma to carry it off, and Cumberland doesna.”

  She kept in mind what he said. But she didn’t believe him, not then.

  The concert over, attention reverted back to the imminent ball and the crown of all their matchmaking hopes. Or Beth and Caroline’s, anyway. Their spouses were far more doubtful that the enterprise would succeed.

  “Seeing as you managed to worm your way out of visiting Lord Redburn the other day,” Beth said to Sir Anthony as he was assisting her on with her cloak on the afternoon of the ball. “You’d better both do a good job this evening. And don’t let him get falling-down drunk.”

  “If your enterprise fails, my sweet,” replied her husband. “It will not be due to any failing on mine or Edwin’s part. We will play it to the hilt, I assure you.”

  “You know, I really think that Sir Anthony is starting to exert a positive influence on his wife, at last,” Lady Winter was saying at the same moment, sipping tea at Isabella’s. “She has visited us numerous times in the last weeks, and has shown a great interest in clothing and hairstyles and other subjects far more befitting a baronet’s wife than her former interests. She is cultivating quite a friendship with Anne, too. They are at this very moment attending Miss Browne’s establishment, in preparation for the evening’s entertainment at Lord Redburn’s.”

  “Do you think she was perhaps shocked by the dreadful occurrence in Paris?” Isabella asked.

  “I think Sir Anthony was more shaken by that, poor thing,” said Lady Winter. “It must be terrible to kill a man by accident.”

  “Indeed, he reminds me of my poor dear Frederick,” sighed Charlotte.

  Her companions stared at her. They had all known poor dear Frederick, and someone less like the baronet would be hard to imagine. Diminutive in stature and personality in life, he had been elevated to greatness only in his widow’s mind.

  “In what way, Charlotte?” asked Clarissa kindly, before Lady Winter could say something tactless.

  “He also abhorred killing of any sort. And he was once challenged to a duel, in his youth.”

  “Was he?” said Lady Winter, wondering if he had perhaps stood on a box to fight his challenger. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Charlotte sadly. “He would not talk about it. He said duelling was not a fit subject for feminine ears.”

  This was most unsatisfactory, thought Lady Winter. One should not embark upon a potentially interesting story unless one could finish it.

  “Yet he rode to hunt on his little horse, did he not? He could not have abhorred killing that much,” she retorted spitefully.

  Charlotte had never thought about the connection between the sport of hunting, and killing, before. She fluttered, confused.

  “Perhaps Beth has realised the consequences of her flighty actions,” Isabella interposed hurriedly, “and has been persuaded to behave in a more restrained manner. She did have a rather free childhood. And Sir Anthony is such a refined man. It would be impossible to live with him for any length of time and not be influenced by him.”

  This was true, although she was not being influenced in quite the way that Isabella envisaged. Beth was, of necessity, learning the arts of duplicity and manipulation, and was currently attempting to use them in as altruistic a way as possible. Anne, having been manipulated into a chair at Sarah’s slowly flourishing beauty house, was gazing shyly at herself in the looking glass.

  “It’s amazing!” she said breathlessly, raising a timorous hand to the shining brown confection of hair piled elaborately on top of her head, about a third of which was her own, the rest consisting of padding and hairpieces. But it appeared to be all her own, which was the main thing. “How did you do it?” she aske
d.

  With a great deal of skill and effort, Sarah’s expression said.

  “It is not difficult, when one has such lovely raw material to work with. Your hair is very lustrous.” And thin, and mousy coloured. “Now,” she continued, “we must see what we can do to enhance your beauty.”

  “Oh, I could never make any claims to beauty,” Anne said. “Indeed, Mama always said she could never understand where my plainness had come from, as both she and her sister were quite lovely.”

  Beth could have killed Mrs Maynard on the spot, were she not already dead.

  “Papa said it was a blessing that I was ugly, because of course, both being infirm, they needed someone to look after them and my lack of looks ensured that I would not be tempted away from my duty by a procession of suitors.” There was no trace of sadness or self-pity in Anne’s voice. She was merely stating facts, had accepted her fate as an ugly spinster. Well, she can just unaccept it, the three women standing around her thought.

  Sarah reached for the glass pots in which she kept her cosmetics.

  “Oh no!” cried Anne. “I never wear paint. Great-uncle Bartholomew says that only harlots wear paint.”

  “I do not intend to use it in the way your uncle means,” Sarah said, tipping two small carmine balls into a dish and expertly pulverising them to powder with a spoon. “Excessive use of paint only makes you look ridiculous.” She caught Beth’s eye and repressed a laugh with difficulty. Sir Anthony did look ridiculous. “But a little subtle use of creams to bring a becoming colour to the cheeks and lips and enhance the beauty of your eyes is a different matter altogether. If you do not like it, you can wash it off immediately.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” wavered Anne.

  “Your eyes are a lovely shade of hazel,” continued Sarah, adding a quantity of pomad and briskly stirring. The powder slowly dissolved into the wax and rosewater mixture, producing a smooth crimson cream. The three women watched, fascinated. “What colour is your gown for the evening?” Sarah asked.