The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)

by Julia Brannan

  * * *

  The members of Highbury’s club met every Wednesday in a coffee house near St. Paul’s. A table was provided, with apple pasties, wine and punch, and a large fire burned in the grate. The floor, though bare wood, was clean, and sufficient candles burned to drive the shadows to the corners of the room. The walls, originally painted cream, had now darkened to a light brown due to years of tobacco smoke.

  It was an eclectic club, and the conversation was therefore more varied than in clubs whose members held a profession or a pursuit in common. Nevertheless, as Sir Anthony had informed Beth, a considerable number of military men frequented its environs, and as he entered he was gratified to see not only the newly promoted Captain Cunningham, but also his colonel, ensconced by the fire with a number of other uniformed men. The earl had told him that Colonel Hutchinson frequented the club regularly when not on campaign, and as Richard had been admitted as a member only a few weeks ago, there had been every likelihood he would be present too.

  Ignoring the calls from the huddled group in the corner to come and join in the discussion on Aristotle, the earl and baronet made their way over to the fire on the pretence of warming themselves.

  “Uncommonly cold night tonight,” said Highbury, standing with his back to the fire and lifting the skirts of his coat to enable the warmth to penetrate. “Blowing a gale. I nearly lost my wig twice between the carriage and the club.”

  Sir Anthony pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “Captain Cunningham,” he said. “Delighted to see you here. You managed to tear yourself away from the loving arms of your bride, I see.”

  “Shilling in the pot, Anthony,” barked a large man opposite before Richard could answer. “No titles allowed here, you know the rule. And he’s your brother-in-law, for God’s sake!”

  “Ah, yes, I’m sorry. I’d quite forgotten,” said Sir Anthony ruefully, delving into his pocket.

  “Does captain count as a title, John?” asked the earl.

  “Of course it does!” replied the large man. “Mister counts as a title here. No excuses. Everyone is equal.”

  “I’m surprised to see you here tonight, Richard,” continued the baronet, flicking a silver coin with perfect accuracy into a pot on the mantelpiece. “I thought you’d be spending as much time as possible with your dear wife, as you will soon be sundered from each other.”

  “I told Anthony your orders are through,” interpreted Highbury.

  “Ah,” said Richard. “Yes. At last. We have to be in Gravesend and ready to embark by the thirty-first.”

  “Oh my dear boy!” cried Sir Anthony. “That is a mere ten days away! You must be devastated.”

  “What rot you talk, Anthony,” said the colonel amiably. “He’s ecstatic. We all are. We can’t wait to get to Flanders and teach those damn Frenchies a lesson. With luck we’ll have the whole war over and done with by autumn.”

  “We were just discussing the forfeiture law for those accused of treason, and whether it’s unfair or not. There was an article in the Magazine about it a few weeks ago,” said John, a captain in the horseguards.

  “Yes, I read that,” put in Richard. “It said that the law was too harsh, as it punished innocent women and children. Ridiculous, in my view. A man will think twice before committing treason if he knows his whole estate will be forfeit if he does.”

  “Don’t you think that hanging, drawing and quartering is a sufficient deterrent?” said Sir Anthony, shuddering delicately.

  “Not for some, no,” put in another man. “Some of them consider it an honour to die for their misguided principles. But if they know their wives and children will be reduced to beggary as a result, they will think again. Wouldn’t you think seriously before you risked Daniel’s inheritance, William?”

  “Daniel’s inheritance would be safer with the king than with him, though,” laughed John. “He’d gamble the whole lot away in a week.”

  The earl shot the horseguard captain a look that made him fall immediately silent and squirm uncomfortably in his chair.

  “It does seem somewhat heartless, though,” Sir Anthony commented, “to punish the innocent. After all, a wife can hardly prevent her husband from committing treason if he wishes. And his children certainly can’t. And it breeds resentment too. Such disinherited children are hardly likely to grow up with warm feelings towards the king and his government.”

  “Not all women are innocent of blame. I believe many encourage their men into folly,” said Richard confidently. “And as for it breeding resentment, you only have to look at the aftermath of the ’15. We were too soft on the rebels then. Most of them were pardoned and left to continue plotting in their castles, and were they grateful for such lenient treatment? No. Instead they and their sons are all rising again for the Pretender.”

  “Are they?” asked Sir Anthony in mock alarm, looking fearfully round the room. “Where? I see no Jacobite hordes marching on the Capital, Richard. Or are you privy to secret information?”

  Richard flushed angrily and tried to think of a witty retort.

  “If anyone was privy to secret information, Anthony, it would be you, with your finger in every pie, as you well know,” said Highbury.

  “I see your point, though, Richard. You take a severe view,” said Colonel Hutchinson. Richard smiled. He had known his colonel would think this way. “But I think on the whole Anthony is right,” the colonel continued. “This law is patently unfair. It is a man’s duty to protect and cherish his wife and children, who are weaker than him, both in body and mind. If he callously abandons them, then it is for the authorities to protect them in his stead, not to penalise them further for a crime they have not committed. You said that many women encourage their men into folly, but any man who allows himself to be governed by women, who, for all their charms, are deficient in intellect, is not worthy to be called a man.”

  Sir Anthony watched with great satisfaction as Richard’s confidence crumbled away.

  “It is quite obvious you speak as a bachelor, Mark, if you think women are deficient in intellect,” said John moodily, to a chorus of laughter.

  “True,” the colonel conceded with a smile. “But I also agree with Anthony that the forfeiture law will encourage resentment. It will also encourage false accusations by those who stand to profit from the forfeiture. And of course the mob will take the fact that the government feels it necessary to enact such laws as evidence that the country is full of Jacobites, ready to rise for the Pretender, which is clearly ridiculous. It creates unnecessary fear, and may even encourage the Pretender and his son to invade, thinking they have more support here than they actually do.”

  “What is the Pretender’s son up to at the moment?” asked Highbury.

  “Prancing round Paris, attending balls and seducing French noblemen’s wives, the last we heard,” said John dismissively. “No danger there, if you ask me.”

  “Hmm,” said the colonel. “Even so, what we need is a decisive victory over the French – keep them occupied over in Flanders, and they’ll never think about assisting Charles again.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult, if the fiasco of an invasion attempt last year is a measure of their martial ability,” said Richard, in a tone markedly less confident than his previous one.

  “Is it not already the law that convicted criminals forfeit their goods?” said Sir Anthony, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the conversation had moved on.

  “Yes, but it’s not the same thing at all,” said Highbury. “Many men who commit treason are educated, men of fortune. Whereas common criminals usually have little or nothing to forfeit anyway. Their families are relatively unaffected by the law.”

  “Apart from losing the breadwinner of the family, of course,” said Sir Anthony thoughtfully. “But I suppose sometimes the wife and children are better off without such a husband. I have heard that many criminals are drunks and wife beaters too.”

  “You’re naïve if you think that such behaviour is only c
onfined to the poor, Anthony,” replied his friend. “Why, only the other day I heard the most appalling story of a very wealthy man who beats his wife regularly.”

  “That’s hardly an appalling story, my lord…damn!” said the colonel.

  Sir Anthony flicked another coin into the pot.

  “Have that one on me, Mark,” he said generously.

  “Thank you. A man must keep his wife in line, William.”

  “You’re right, of course. But this woman is a most docile lady and also in her last month of pregnancy. One could not imagine her disobeying her husband, or so I’ve heard.”

  “Ah,” said the colonel. “Well, that is quite a different matter, if the lady is in a delicate state. One must indulge women at such a time. I have heard that they can become quite emotional, even more so than normal. Perhaps the man is a brute. Does he beat her very badly?”

  “I’m not personally acquainted with the gentleman, Mark, but I believe he does, although he is endeavouring to keep it quiet. He has not considered, I think, that if she loses the child her friends will be most distressed and of course the whole story will then be made public.”

  “And serve him right, too,” said Mark. “Such men deserve a flogging, in my opinion. It is a man’s job to protect his wife, and reason with her if she is in error. Violence should be the very last resort. Women are such fragile creatures.”

  “Am I right in suspecting you to be in love, Mark? You are waxing very lyrical,” said the baronet slyly.

  The colonel flushed scarlet.

  “Certainly not!” he lied. “I am, as John said earlier, a committed bachelor.”

  “What do you think of this story? After all, you are but recently married and your wife is also pregnant, is she not?” said Highbury to Richard, who had gone very quiet. He coloured slightly, and a small muscle in his cheek twitched.

  “Well,” he hesitated. “I could not condone a man beating his wife without reason…” He looked at his colonel, who was engaged in lighting his pipe, but was nevertheless listening. The room seemed to have suddenly become very warm.

  “Or even with reason, at such a delicate time, surely?” persisted Highbury.

  “No, of course not,” he said. He shot a deeply suspicious look at Sir Anthony, who smiled innocently back at him.

  “You have been very fortunate in your choice of wife, dear boy,” he said. “Anne is the most delightful, inoffensive creature. Her only aim in life is to please. I am sure you will never have the slightest cause even to reprimand her, let alone beat her.”

  “Yes, I met her at the regimental dinner last night,” said the colonel, unwittingly hammering another nail in Richard’s coffin. “Very pleasant young lady, timid even. The sort that rouses all the protective instincts in a man. We talked for a couple of minutes. She noticed I had a slight cold, and advised me to take a tea of elderflower, yarrow and peppermint, I think it was.”

  “That is Anne all over. Considerate to a fault!” sighed Sir Anthony. “If only my wife were half so docile.”

  “Ah, but Elizabeth is an extraordinarily beautiful woman, isn’t she?” said Highbury. “And very spirited.”

  “Spirited, yes, that’s the word,” the baronet replied. “I indulge her terribly, but I cannot help it. When one is in love one can deny one’s darling nothing, as I’m sure you will understand, Richard. All I have is utterly at her disposal.” He smiled at his brother-in-law, but his eyes held no warmth.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Anthony, that should be at least a guinea in the pot,” said John in disgust. “Is there no club rule against making your friends vomit?”

  “Thank you, William,” said Sir Anthony as the two men walked home together later. They had sent the carriage on, as it was a fine night. “I owe you, again.”

  “It was an absolute pleasure,” said the earl. “I don’t like Richard at all, I must confess. It was nice to see him squirm a little. Did you know the colonel was in love, and therefore likely to feel particularly sentimental towards women at the moment?”

  “Certainly not,” said Sir Anthony, smiling. “His affair with Lord Eastwood’s wife is a well-kept secret, known only to the lady and her beau. Even Lord Eastwood is unaware of it.”

  “You’re unbelievable,” said Highbury admiringly. “Do you think Richard’s taken the warning on board?”

  “I hope so,” said the baronet. “Because it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stop Beth charging round to his house and threatening him. She has no common sense where her brother’s concerned. He’s not a pleasant man by any means, but Beth hates him far more than his treatment of her deserves, in my opinion. After all, it all worked out for the best. We’re very happily married.”

  The earl smiled.

  “He doesn’t look like a man who would respond well to confrontation, especially from a woman,” he commented.

  “No. But he is very ambitious. He has the chance now to stop hitting Anne, if he is doing, without losing face, because we didn’t confront him head on. But he knows that if he doesn’t, and it comes out, his colonel won’t be impressed, which will hardly help his career, and he also knows I’m likely to indulge Beth in any revenge she wants to take. He’s not stupid. I can’t make Anne happy in her marriage, poor girl, but I have a feeling she’s about to be cured of her dizzy spells, at least.”

  * * *

  Anne was still awake when Richard returned home, although she pretended not to be. He was not fooled. He knew the pattern of her breathing when she slept and this was not it. He lit the lamp, and sat down heavily on the side of the bed to take off his boots, letting them fall to the floor with a clunk. He stood up and took off his coat, before turning to face her. Her eyes were open, wide awake. He took off his waistcoat. Then he went back over to the bed and sat down. She was sitting up now, smiling uncertainly, and he reached across to capture her hand.

  “Why did you tell Sir Anthony that I’d beaten you?” he said very softly.

  Her eyes widened immediately.

  “I didn’t!” she gasped.

  “Then who?” he asked, turning her hand over in his and stroking it gently, his eyes remaining fixed on her face.

  “No one!” she cried immediately, close to tears. “I swear I haven’t told anybody!”

  She was telling the truth, that was clear. She would not dare lie to him, he knew that, especially when he was looking at her so intently. He let go of her hand and stood again, pulling his shirt over his head, deliberately flexing the heavy muscles of his chest and back in the process so that she would be reminded of how powerful he was, and how helpless she was by comparison.

  “Who have you visited in the past days?” he asked pleasantly.

  She thought for a moment.

  “I haven’t visited anyone since I started having my…dizzy spells,” she said. “I went to see Miss Browne yesterday, that’s all, and then to the dinner with you last night.”

  Miss Browne. Sarah. The whore who was devoted to his bloody sister.

  “Why did you go to Sarah’s?”

  “I had to get something for this bruise on my face. I didn’t know how to cover it, and I knew you wouldn’t want your friends asking me how I’d got it.” She was gabbling in her fear. “I told her I’d fainted and that I hit the mantelpiece as I fell. I swear I did! You must believe me, Richard, please!”

  Ah, what a transformation, from devoted ecstatic bride, to terrified cringing wreck, in just three weeks! It had been almost too easy to be pleasurable. Yet she still desired him. He could feel her eyes admiring his body even as she cowered in the bed. Beth had not been so easy to tame.

  Beth had not been tamed at all.

  His face hardened. She was still there in the background, interfering. And that ridiculous popinjay was taking her side, that was clear. He would have to be careful, for a time at least. One of the minor reasons he had married Anne was that Beth had a soft spot for her. He knew that if he hurt Anne, he would hurt Beth, and that she would be impotent to do anyth
ing about it.

  Except that she was not, and tonight through the mouthpiece of Sir Anthony and the Earl of Highbury, of all people, she had shown him, subtly, that she would act if he gave her cause. Well, he could be subtle too.

  He reached across and stroked Anne’s cheek with one finger, smiling as she flinched instinctively from him.

  “I can see I have been a little hard at times,” he said. “I am a soldier; perhaps I have been a bit too rough with you. But I am not used to being argued with.”

  “I never meant to argue with you,” she whispered. “I only want to make you happy, you know that.”

  He stripped off the rest of his clothes quickly, and climbed into bed.

  “Good,” he said. “Then you can make me happy now. Turn over.”

  She obeyed him, turning onto her side, her back to him; but she stiffened as he slid his arm round her, pulling her into his chest and roughly squeezing her breasts.

  “Richard,” her voice was trembling. “Please…the baby…”

  He entered her roughly, heard her gasp of shock, and then he thought only of his own pleasure as he thrust into her, aroused by her fear both of him and for the safety of this child she wanted so much and which he already hated. Finally he emptied himself into her with a grunt of pleasure and lay still, one hand still lazily massaging her swollen breast, his dark hair falling softly over her tear-stained cheek.

  “If you want to make me happy,” he said when his breathing had returned to normal, “then hurry up and drop this brat you’re carrying, and make sure it’s a girl. Then I can get one of my own on you. That’s why I married you, after all.”

  He moved away from her, turned over to sleep, and smiled as he heard her trying to stifle her sobs in the pillow.

  He would not hit her again, not for the time being anyway. But there were other ways. And about those Beth and her effeminate fop of a husband could do nothing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN