The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)

by Julia Brannan

  He set off to accomplish his task. He felt sorry for the poor cow, whoever she was going to be, but the sergeant was a practical man; whores were whores, and better one of them be beaten half to death than him for failing to provide one.

  In his room, Richard had already forgotten the sergeant. He sat down at the escritoire, scanned Anne’s letter again, and picking up a sheet of paper and a quill, prepared to reply to it. It was most annoying that he couldn’t write what he wanted to, and instead would have to send the sort of letter that everyone would expect a loving new husband parted from his dear wife for the first time to write. She might show the letter to others; she would certainly keep it, along with all the other ridiculous souvenirs she was already accumulating; a lock of his hair, a pressed flower from her wedding bouquet.

  He sighed, adjusted position slightly to take the weight off his injured leg and settled down to write.

  * * *

  “So obviously she feels a great deal happier now, and the christening will go ahead next week,” said Caroline. Her voice was coming out a little jerkily, as she was bouncing Freddie on her knee as she spoke. The little boy chuckled with delight, waving his chubby fists about.

  “Good,” Edwin murmured into his brandy.

  “Have you listened to one word I’ve said?” his wife asked.

  Edwin started and looked up.

  “Yes!” he said. “Of course I have. Richard wrote to say he thinks that George William is an excellent patriotic name for the child and…er…”

  Caroline shook her head in mock despair.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just a bit preoccupied, that’s all. I’m not sure it’s wise for us to commit another six thousand troops to Flanders. It leaves us terribly vulnerable at home.”

  “There’s no choice, though, is there?” said Caroline. “We have to replace the men who were killed at Fontenoy last month.”

  “Yes,” said Edwin. “But if there were to be a Jacobite rising now, we’d be unable to defend ourselves.”

  “Do you really think there will be?” she asked. “The French army’s as tied up as ours, and the Pretender’s son is still whoring his way round France, isn’t he? We’re hardly in any immediate danger.”

  “Hmm,” said Edwin moodily.

  “Edwin, you have to relax at some point,” she said with concern. “Worrying yourself into an early grave isn’t going to solve anything.”

  “You’re right,” he agreed, putting his glass down and reaching over to relieve her of the child. “So, the christening, then. Are we invited?”

  “Yes, although the whole thing was nearly delayed again when Anne realised she’d forgotten to ask Richard who he wanted for godparents. I honestly think he couldn’t care less. He’s just been in a battle, and he was wounded; he’s probably got a lot more on his mind than the christening of a child he’s not that interested in.”

  “Who did she ask?”

  “She asked Anthony and Beth, and Bartholomew Winter.”

  “Really?” Edwin raised one eyebrow. “Did Anthony agree?”

  “Of course he didn’t. He gave the same excuse he gave us for not being Freddie’s godfather. Beth refused as well, but I think that’s more because she knows Richard would be annoyed if he knew Anne had asked her, than because of any superstitious beliefs. She suggested Charlotte might be a better choice, as she helped Anne so much after Stanley died. Charlotte nearly died on the spot from excitement.”

  “I bet she did,” said Edwin. “It must be the most exciting thing that’s happened to her since poor dear Frederick died.”

  “The only exciting thing, I should think. What is it about the Cunningham men that they have to make sure they’re surrounded by feeble women, and then still feel a need to trample all over them?”

  “Insecurity,” said Edwin. “It takes a man of great strength and personality to marry a firebrand and survive intact.”

  “Or not so intact, if you’re referring to us in that statement,” warned his wife.

  “Not at all,” said Edwin, with the polished insincere candour of the born politician. “I was thinking of Anthony and Beth.”

  “Of course you were. Anyway, it’s nice to see Anne relaxed and happy again. She was terrified that Richard wouldn’t forgive her for nursing the baby herself, but he seemed fine about it. Beth still thinks that he was trying to murder the baby by insisting Anne hand-rear it, but she always does think the worst of him. He had no idea it was so dangerous; he said as much in his letter.”

  “He did, actually,” said Edwin.

  “Did what?”

  “Know it was dangerous,” said Edwin, cradling his son, who was desperately trying to keep his eyes open, with diminishing success. “I told him myself one night, just before he left for Gravesend.”

  “Did you now?” said Caroline, a strange tone in her voice.

  “Yes. We were playing cards, at the Winters. I can’t recall how the topic came up, but I remembered all the statistics and stuff I got for you, because I found it appalling, to be honest, that it hasn’t been made more public that you’re effectively sentencing your child to death if you hand feed it. I’m trying to get the House to take some action over it, in fact. Anyway, I thought I’d mention it to Richard. It was a pretty noisy party, though. I expect he didn’t hear me properly, or forgot.”

  “Yes, maybe he did,” said Caroline. “I’m sure you’re right.” She leaned across and rang the bell for the nurse to come and take Freddie to bed. “I assume you can be present on Sunday, then? Only the most tedious and superficial people will be there, guaranteed. And the firebrand and Anthony, of course.”

  “And us,” said Edwin. “And if you tell Beth I said she’s a firebrand, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

  “I’m sure you won’t,” said Caroline. “Don’t worry, I’ll spare no expense on your funeral.”

  * * *

  Late June, 1745

  “Mhic an Diabhal! I still canna believe it,” said Alex, half to himself. “Why would he do such a thing? Has he turned traitor?”

  The fact that Alex was breaking his golden rule of always remaining in character when he was dressed as Sir Anthony was a measure of how disturbed he had been by Murray of Broughton’s letter, received today. In it Murray had said that the letter which he had entrusted to the Earl of Traquair four months ago, stating that the clans were unanimously against any rising in Britain without French support, had never been delivered to Prince Charles. He could be planning anything, assuming the clans would rise for him when they had no intention of doing so.

  “Do you really think Traquair has turned traitor?” asked Beth.

  “I dinna ken,” said Alex moodily. “But what other reason could he have for holding on to Murray’s letter for four months before returning it to him? If he couldna find anyone to deliver it as he says, he should have tellt us long since. Maybe he wants Charles to fail.”

  “Or maybe he thinks that if Charles waits for French support there will never be a rising,” Beth suggested.

  “Aye, possibly, but it’s no’ up to him to decide for us, or to keep information from his prince, either, the bastard.”

  “Still, at least the letter’s on its way now, isn’t it?” said Beth, trying to reassure Alex, although she was worried too. She looked out of the carriage window. They were close to Kew now; within a few minutes they would be entering the driveway of the White House. “Murray said Glengarry’s taking it to Charles in person.”

  “Aye, I just hope it gets there this time, that’s all.” He sighed.

  “Why shouldn’t it? You don’t suspect Glengarry, do you?” Beth asked.

  “No, I’m just worried, that’s all. And angry.”

  “Well, you’ll have to stop being angry, and stop being Alex too,” she said softly. “We’re there.” The coach rattled to a halt and Duncan jumped down to open the door.

  Alex closed his eyes for a moment and took a couple of deep breaths.

  �
�Christ, I hate this. I’m sick of it,” he muttered, and then he straightened and stepped down from the carriage, and at once became Sir Anthony Peters, only his dark blue eyes retaining a vestige of his distaste for the role.

  “Now Murdo, you will carry our trunk up to the room the footman shows you to,” he said, fussily arranging his lace and smoothing his wig. “And you must take the greatest care that you keep it upright. It would be an absolute calamity if our clothes were to become creased!”

  This time they had been warned that the lavish dinner and card party was to be preceded by a game of rounders in the garden, and the Peters had dressed accordingly, but taking a leaf from Helen’s book, had brought along a change of clothes this time.

  Prince Frederick and most of the other guests were already assembled on the lawn, where he had been explaining the rules of the game they were about to play and allocating them to teams.

  Sir Anthony scanned the group, then drew Beth to one side.

  “You see the two small boys?” he said softly.

  She looked. Standing by the prince, arm in arm, were two little boys, aged around seven and five, dressed in miniature versions of adult costume; breeches and stockings, tiny embroidered brocade waistcoats and frockcoats. They even sported miniature powdered wigs.

  “They’re his two eldest sons, George and Edward. You must remember they’re princes. Also George is a little backward. He can’t read or write, and he clings to his brother all the time. Edward’s odd too.”

  Beth was about to ask in what way, but then Frederick had seen them and was beckoning them over.

  “Ah! Sir Anthony and Lady Elizabeth! So glad you could come! Hopefully we’ll see more of you now that my father has departed on his annual jaunt to Hanover. Are you familiar with the game of rounders?”

  “I am, Your Highness, although it is some time since I’ve played,” said Sir Anthony, leading his wife across the grass. “But my wife, alas, has never even seen the game before.”

  “No matter,” said the prince, waving his hand dismissively. “We are not playing too strictly by the rules today. You will learn as you go along. Now, Sir Anthony, if you would care to field this time, and Lady Elizabeth can join the batting side.”

  Sir Anthony trotted obediently off, disappearing to a distant part of the field, where several other brightly-dressed figures were dotted about at intervals. Beth could see Percy and the arrogant David, and surely that could not be Lord Daniel over by the tree? She strained her eyes to see, and then was distracted by a hand pulling at her skirt. She looked down.

  “Papa says I must take care of you, and explain things,” said Prince George from the level of her waist. “It’s really easy though. When it’s your turn to bat, Papa will throw the ball to you and you must hit it as hard as you can, and then run round those posts.” He pointed to four posts set in the grass at intervals of about fifteen strides to form a large square. “We sometimes have five or six posts, but today we only have four. If you watch the others, you will see how it is done.”

  He led her across to where a line of people displaying various degrees of lack of enthusiasm were waiting to bat. Prince Edward trailed silently along in their wake, looking around him at the players.

  “Are you going to play as well, Your Highness?” Beth asked.

  “Oh, yes,” the little boy beamed. “Edward and I both play. It is one of our favourite games.”

  “I prefer cricket,” said Prince Edward. “But it has a lot of rules and isn’t any good for people who don’t really want to play.”

  Beth looked down at the top of the boy’s head in surprise. Before she could think of a suitable response to this remark Prince George was talking again.

  “Now, you see, the Lady Helen is going to bat.” He lowered his voice. “Watch her, because she isn’t very good and you can learn from her.”

  Beth grinned. The boy might be backward in academic matters, but he was clearly on the ball when it came to sport, and people. She watched as Helen took her place and gripped the bat. Prince Frederick waited until she was ready, and threw the ball. She swung the bat lazily and missed. Earl Francis, standing a few yards behind her, caught the ball and threw it back to Frederick.

  “You can miss twice,” explained George, “But on the third time you must run, whether you hit the ball or not. She doesn’t hold the bat firmly enough, see.”

  “She doesn’t look at the ball. She looks at the men instead,” put in Prince Edward in his piping voice, which carried some distance. Helen frowned. Beth laughed.

  “Edward!” whispered George. “Remember what Papa said.”

  Presumably Papa had tried to teach the remarkably astute five-year-old the rudiments of diplomacy, and had failed.

  Philippa, a few places in front of Beth, turned round and grinned a greeting.

  “Hello again. Not played before?”

  “No,” said Beth. “But I have good tutors here, I think.”

  Prince George glowed. Prince Edward looked distractedly around the field, seeming unable to concentrate on anything for more than a couple of seconds. Most of the men had taken their coats off and rolled their shirt sleeves up, and he proceeded to do the same.

  “Damn good game. Better than digging. Got the right dress on, too.” Philippa had obviously borrowed the blue and white striped muslin dress off someone who was of normal height. Tall as she was, the dress was too short for her, and the consequent display of neat ankles was not lost on the men. She followed Beth’s gaze downwards.

  “Practical,” she said. “Intend to win. Bloody Percy, David and Daniel on the other side. And Papa. Obligatory to win.”

  Suddenly it was. Beth concentrated, watched as Helen clipped the ball with the bat and was caught out. The next player stepped forward, hit the ball and ran. The ball bounced once and Percy caught it, throwing it quickly to David who was already running towards the third post. He caught it, threw himself full-length and touched the post with the ball just before the unfortunate batter reached it.

  “Oh bad luck, James!” shouted Prince Frederick.

  “See, he is out now,” said George. “The fielder can also get you out by hitting you with the ball while you’re running between bases. It’s called a stinger, because it hurts sometimes. James should have stayed at the second base. Then he would have had a chance to run on when the next person batted. He would not have scored a rounder, but he would have had another chance later. Now we have lost him.”

  Beth wondered how many of the players were deliberately getting themselves out so they could lie on the grass in the sun and watch. Certainly Helen looked deeply relieved, although James was scowling.

  Philippa moved up into place, took the bat and braced herself, locking her gaze belligerently with the prince. He raised his arm.

  “That man don’t like you at all,” came a small voice from beside Beth. She looked down, and then followed Edward’s gaze to Daniel, who was still lounging nonchalantly by the tree. He was so far away she could hardly make out his features at all, let alone whether he was wearing a hostile expression. “He’s going to hurt you,” the child added indifferently, screwing his eyes up and focussing on the young lord.

  Edward’s odd, Anthony had said, and now Beth had an inkling of what he meant. The boy had been making a casual observation. He didn’t seem to expect a reply. There was a crack of leather on wood and Beth looked up to see the ball sailing off into the distance. Philippa dropped the bat, hauled her skirts up to her knees and ran like the wind, careless of decorum. There was a flurry of activity on the field, but she had made it round the posts before the ball had been recovered.

  “Damn!” said Frederick. “I knew I should have had you on my team, Philippa. Well done.”

  She walked to the back of the line, flushed and pleased, and sat down.

  The game continued. To Beth’s surprise no one made any concessions for the age of the little princes, apart from the fact that they had their own small bats. Their father bowled almost as
hard as he had to the adults, and both of them did well. George scored a rounder; Edward made it to third base.

  It was Beth’s turn. She moved into position, feeling far more nervous than she should over a mere game. It didn’t really matter whether they won or not, but Philippa was right. Winning, or at least doing your best, was important.

  She braced herself as she’d watched Philippa do. Prince Frederick drew back his arm and threw, kindly aiming directly at the bat. She moved and the ball sailed past her into the earl’s waiting hands.

  “Bad luck,” said the prince. He threw again. This time she clipped the ball as Helen had done, sending it straight forward. Frederick caught it.

  “Oh,” she said, feeling astonishingly disappointed. “That means I’m out, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” said the prince, smiling. “It means you’re improving. We’ll allow you another go, as it’s the first time you’ve ever played.”

  He threw the ball, and this time she hit it, so hard that she felt the reverberation all the way up her arms. She watched ecstatically as the ball went sailing over the heads of Anthony, David and, oh yes! Daniel, and then someone shouted “Run!” and she remembered what she was supposed to be doing, dropped the bat, grabbed her skirts and ran as fast as she could. It was a lucky strike, but as she tore past the last post to a round of applause she felt invincible.

  She was not. The next round of batting got her out, and then it was the other team’s turn to bat.

  “Haven’t a hope, really,” Philippa commented as they moved to fan out across the field. “Helen will slope off somewhere, Papa lie down under a tree, and the boys aren’t big enough to throw the ball any distance. Up to us, and James. Anthony and Daniel bloody good, too. Shame. Still, proper food tonight. Changing?”