The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  “But without cattle . . .” she said.

  “Without cattle, there’ll be mass starvation in the Highlands. Whole families, entire villages, will die long and painful deaths.”

  Flora wanted to say something, but she wasn’t capable of speech. The prince continued, “And it’s said that the denuded land will be filled with Englishman and sheep, that the English will be offered cheap farmland and will build their farms on land where once Highlanders lived for a hundred generations. It’s a tragedy that needs to be stopped. I started it, and it’s my duty to put a stop to it,” he said. She barely heard his last remark, which was said almost as a whisper.

  Flora, too, remained silent as she tried desperately to absorb the extent of the English Duke of Cumberland’s brutality. But try as she might, the images wouldn’t come into her mind. As Prince Charles talked more to her of the death and destruction that the duke was meting out to the Highlanders, Flora closed her eyes and tried to envisage a land on fire, a land devoid of the horned long-haired cattle, a land where the mountains were forever silent, a land where the white bodies of men and women, naked and shriveled, lay dead in valleys beside streams that were crimson and black with their fluids. But she couldn’t. All she could see when she closed her eyes was the white and purple of the heather, the regal crown of the thistle, and a distant piper wearing a clan tartan standing on a rocky ledge above a sparkling loch, piping a lament. She could imagine Scotland no other way.

  She tried her best not to laugh, for she knew that if she ridiculed him, he might object to wearing the clothes she’d brought. Then her own life would be in as much peril as would be his. Instead, she turned away from him and bent down in order to pretend to find some article of undergarments so that she could stifle her laughter.

  She turned back, but when she saw that the prince was grinning all over his face, it caused her to explode and guffaw. He was wearing nothing but his pantaloons and a large petticoat and looked more like a plucked and dressed chicken than a prince in a royal household.

  “You look wonderful, Your Highness,” she said, still in hysterics. “Were I a man, I would . . .” But she stopped short of telling him what she’d do and glanced down at the ground in embarrassment.

  “If you were a man, ma’am, I wouldn’t be dressed like this, for the danger of your misinterpreting my intentions would be too great. There are enough gentlemen in the courts of Paris and Rome, not to mention in the Vatican, who have attempted liaisons with me, for me to be exceedingly wary about being in a state of undress in the presence of another gentleman.”

  She stopped laughing, and carried a bodice over to where he was standing. “So am I to gather that Your Highness in no way inclined toward a liking for gentlemen,” she said, knowing the statement to be impertinent. But the situation was so extraordinary that she didn’t mind saying it.

  “That is precisely what you might gather. I enjoy the company of men in gaming and sports and martial pursuits, and there’s nobody better to be drunk with or to beat at cards than a gentleman of similar persuasion; but in my bed chamber, I am definitely inclined toward the shape and aroma of a lady and disinclined to know the crude and muscular form of a man.”

  She helped him put his arms through the holes in a bodice, and when she’d tightened the strings of the stays at the back, she saw that the front would immediately be perceived by an observer as being far too flat for a middle-aged lady.

  “I’m afraid that we’re going to have to fill your . . .” Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to say the word.

  “Bosoms?” said the prince.

  Flora smiled and nodded.

  “Some straw, perhaps?” he suggested.

  She bent down and picked up two handfuls of straw. Then she pushed it down the front of the bodice to fill the area where a woman’s breasts would normally fill out the garment. As she touched the soft skin on his chest, she fancied she could feel his heartbeat, until she flushed with the realization that it was hers.

  The prince saw that she had suddenly blushed crimson red and said gently, “Tell me, ma’am, when will you and Mr. Macdonald be wed? I would very much like to send you a wedding gift.”

  She stepped back and said, “It’s our intention to marry within the next two or three years. I know in France and Italy and the hot countries, weddings follow shortly after engagements, but in Scotland, it’s long been the custom for young couples to enjoy much longer engagements. Then we know for certain that the man we’re supposed to be marrying is the right one. At any time during the engagement period, either party can withdraw without penalty. But neither party can have knowledge of the other, for fear of a baby born out of wedlock. The Kirk of Scotland is very strict on this matter.”

  Now he tried on the dress. It was one of her more drab dresses, a dress that she wore to go into town and to the shop when she needed supplies. It was brown and heavy and worn with a cloak, ideal for the cold winter winds that blew over Skye. In the height of summer, it was warm to wear, but it was the least impressive dress that she’d brought with her and a dress suitable for a lady’s maid.

  The prince struggled into the garment, and Flora helped him smooth it over the petticoats. She put the cloak over it and raised the hood to cover his entire head so that only his face was able to be seen. Flora pulled the hood even more forward so that only the most keen observer could perceive the eyes and nose and mouth of a Prince.

  She fussed and adjusted the dress to fit the prince’s body, pulled here and pushed there, until she was satisfied. But no matter how much he hid his face, his growth of beard was apparent. Flora said, “You’ll need to attend to your ablutions before you step out. One look at a woman’s face with those whiskers and the next step will be up to the hangman’s noose,” she told him.

  “Yes, but aside from my face, how do I look? Will I pass muster in this outfit?”

  She walked back over the loft until she was far enough away to see him from the perspective of distance. She smiled and nodded. “You’ll do, Betty Burke. You’ll do fine. Tell me, would you like to shave now, for my brother Angus sent over a razor and a bowl and some soap.”

  The prince told her that it would be good to wash. Flora climbed down from the loft and retrieved the razor, sharpening strop and a bowl, which she filled with rainwater from the barrel outside.

  When she climbed back, she handed the implements to the prince, who looked at her strangely. “Forgive me, ma’am, but do you expect me to shave myself?”

  Flora smiled and said, “of course.”

  “But I’ve never shaved myself. I’ve always had servants to do it.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “But you’ve been a fugitive for the past many months. How have you shaved?”

  He grinned, somewhat sheepishly, and said, “One of the party always did it for me. Sometimes, I would implore the wife or daughter of a crofter, who would take pity on me. I know that men here shave themselves, but I have no idea how.”

  Amazed, she said, “Dear God, man, you just soap up your face and run the razor over it.”

  But he looked so downcast, like a scalded puppy, that she sighed and said, “Take off your hood and your dress, and I’ll do it for you.”

  He sat on the floor of the loft, and Flora lathered up the brush and the soap and applied it generously to his face. Carefully she shaved off the growth from his cheeks, then underneath his chin, and finally beneath his nose. She toweled him clean and dry and examined her handiwork, running her hand over his face to ensure its smoothness. As she did so, he looked up at her, and she looked down at him. Again, she flushed but was annoyed with herself for being silly. She was a Scottish country girl; he was a Prince of the House of Stuart. She was the daughter of a crofter; he was the son of a king in waiting. He was a nobleman with a bevy of aristocratic mistresses; she was engaged to be married to a good and decent farmer who was of her clan. To even contemplate a liaison was too silly. Yet her heart was beating so fast that she was breathless. It was jus
t too silly, and she determined to control her girlish emotions.

  She stood back and said to him, “Now you look particularly handsome, Your Highness.”

  “You’re very good to me, Flora Macdonald. I know I must seem utterly useless to one such as you, a woman who is so self-reliant, but as a Prince of the House of Stuart, I have servants to do everything for me, and except for my military training, I could no more look after myself than swim from one end of the ocean to the other. That’s the cost and benefit of being a Prince, I’m afraid.”

  She replaced his bodice and dress, and then finally put the bonnet and hood over his head. And then she smiled and whispered something conspiratorial. Something that would infuriate her father and brother and fiancé, but would ensure her own peace of mind. She needed to see whether her family could be fooled by the subterfuge, for if they accepted the prince as a woman, then there was hope.

  Sometime later, Hugh saw two women walking along the road, chatting and nodding to each other. Even from a distance, one of the women could easily be seen as Flora, but Hugh wondered who was the woman she was walking home with. He watched them as they came to the croft and then turned and walked into the pathway.

  When she saw her father, she smiled and said, “Father, how nice to see you. I met Mistress Macduff, all the way from Fife, here to visit her daughter-in-law’s family. I’ve invited her for tea. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Hugh smiled and said, “Of course not. How do you do, ma’am. I welcome you to this house.”

  Mistress Macduff nodded and said a quiet thank you. Then she repaired to the front of the room and sat in a seat. “It’s such a hot day, I hope you’ll forgive me for sitting in your presence,” she said.

  “Of course, ma’am. May I fetch you a drink of water. Or ale? Or whiskey to ease the burden of the day?”

  “Sir, ale would be grand,” she told him. “My, but you’ve a lovely daughter. She saw me in the road and took pity on me. And she a Macdonald. I find it very gratifying, sir,” the old lady said.

  “Yes,” said Hugh, “she’s a lovely young woman and will soon be married to one of her clan. She’s as good a daughter as you’d wish.”

  But Flora couldn’t any longer hold in her laughter and burst into hysterics, to the amazement of Hugh. “Father, bow down in the presence of His Royal Highness, Betty Burke.”

  Prince Charles Edward threw off his hood, removed his bonnet, and smiled broadly. Hugh gasped.

  “Do you think the disguise will work, father?” asked Flora.

  But all Hugh could do was to nod in agreement. And even before the prince could say anything, Hugh gasped, “It’s a wonder to behold, daughter. Now for God’s sake, get His Highness back into hiding before we all become victims of the English Butcher.”

  Chapter Eight

  THE ISLAND OF SOUTH UIST

  JUNE 27, 1746

  Neil MacEachan was a gruff man. Tall and muscular, he towered over both the prince and Flora. Yet for all his Highlander diffidence and restraint in the company of strangers, it was apparent from his manner that the red-haired Celt was fully in command of the situation, and regardless of the rank and privilege of the two passengers he was rowing over to Skye, both of them knew instinctively that on the sea, he was captain and they would listen to his advice.

  After having been formally introduced in the house near to the coast where they had journeyed the previous night, Neil told them, “They say that there are English boats patrolling these waters. We’ll wait for both the right tide and for a clear passage before launching the boat and pushing off from the shore. Last thing we want is for the fly grub English to spot us before we’re in deep waters.”

  He remained in the house and waited and watched patiently as Flora again dressed the Prince of the Stuarts in a woman’s dress in preparation for their journey down to the shore and then in the rowboat to take them to Skye. Once more, she shaved him to ensure that there was no growth of hair to be seen should a trooper remove his bonnet. Adjusting the ties and bows of the dress, she smoothed it over the broad petticoats, and stepped back and admired her handiwork. Unlike on the previous occasion in the barn, this time there was no frivolity, for his disguise was a matter of life and death for them all.

  But she was interested in Neil’s opinion of her handiwork, because if the dour and skeptical Scotsman could be fooled, then so could an English trooper. “So, Neil MacEachan, what do you think of Mistress Betty Burke, my seamstress and maid? Do you think she’ll do?”

  Neil shrugged laconically. “She’ll do for you all right; mistress, but she’ll nary do anything for me. I get no stirring in the groin looking at her. She looks worse than a knotty-pated skainsmate, but then I’m not going to wed or bed her, and so long as she passes scrutiny by the Englishmen, who wouldn’t know a Highland cow from the nether side of a barn, why does it matter what I think?”

  It was exactly what Flora wanted to hear. Neil would have told her soon enough if the disguise wasn’t working. When Neil was ensured that the path to the coast was clear, the three walked cautiously down to the water’s edge beyond the rocky foreshore and the line of vegetation. The site for departure had been chosen because of the proximity of large rocks and trees close to the stony beach, behind which the trio could hide in the event of an English patrol. For his part, Neil barely spoke a word on the short journey, but the prince noticed that the man’s eyes were everywhere, seeking out the shapes of shadows and rocks in case they hid an enemy.

  They arrived at the shore of the sea. It was a sparkling and clear day with a zephyr breeze and a hint of the perfume of heather in the air. The prince couldn’t help but smile at the feeling of freedom, having spent the past many months hiding in filthy fields and dismal barns with companions who had drifted away, leaving him with just a small core of loyalists. Now, to see the clean and gloriously beautiful sea, to feel the wind of freedom on his face, and to hear nothing but the distant screams of gulls, was overpowering his emotions.

  But caution was the watchword as Neil painstakingly trod a path to the beach through the rocks, ensuring few if any footsteps were left behind. After nearly fifteen minutes of complete silence, Neil turned back to them and whispered, “I’m told that General Campbell and his men are in the area. They must have got news that you were close by. They’ll do everything in their power to prevent you leaving the Island.”

  Flora looked at him in shock. “But we were told that Campbell was on the other side of the Island and to the North. How in the name of all the saints could he have known to have come to such a remote place as this?”

  Neil shrugged. Such matters didn’t concern him. Only the reality of the moment.

  “Mistress Macdonald,” said the prince, “I think if that’s the case, then it would be safer for you to leave now and return to your Hugh and Alan. I could not countenance any danger imposing itself on your person.”

  “I wouldn’t hear of such a thing, Highness. I’ve come this far, and I’m not turning back now,” she insisted.

  She was about to say more, when suddenly Neil turned back to the sea. He listened for a long moment and then faced the prince and Flora, looking sternly at them. They knew to desist immediately from any more conversation. The prince looked at the Islander and wondered what he could see or hear. He looked over the sea and neither saw nor heard anything.

  Suddenly, Neil turned to them and hissed, “Away and hide behind the rocks at the top of the beach. Boats.”

  The prince and Flora Macdonald immediately ran back up the beach and hid behind a huge boulder. Her heart was thumping and she was terrified. The game was over. Now her life hung by a thread.

  Panting in fear and terror, Flora risked sneaking a glance around the rock behind which they all hid and saw nothing but the open sea, the waves, and the seagulls. She continued to scan the horizon, then she stole a glance at Neil who still seemed to be concerned, and then she looked back out to sea in case her eyes had deceived her. But no matter how long she waited and
looked, she could see nothing but an unchanging skyline and the waves gently washing the shore.

  And then in the distance, soft at first but growing steadily louder, the harmony of the sea’s voice was disturbed by the sound of oars straining against the current. And then, around the headland, the prow of a boat slowly came into view. As the troopers rowed, more and more of the long boat became visible. It was a coastal ferrying boat, used by the Islanders when the sea was too rough for large sail to safely put into the harbor. It was containing fifteen soldiers, all heaving on oars. And it was followed in short succession by another, and then another, and finally a fourth boat. In each, there were fifteen troopers, all heaving on oars; and in the prow of each, clinging to the forward flagpole, was an officer with a spyglass, peering at the land for any sight of the prince and his party.

  “How in God’s name did you hear them so far away?” Flora whispered.

  Neil shrugged.

  “Thank God he did,” whispered the prince, “for had he not, we’d have been spending the night in a dungeon.”

  The three watched the troopers in the rowboats go past, but even though they slowly rowed and disappeared beyond the headland on the opposite side of bay, the three remained hidden, just in case there were more boats, or the four that had just passed by turned around and returned in their patrol.

  They remained in hiding for a further half an hour, watching the sea with intensity until Neil MacEachan said, “I think that it would be folly to put to sea during the daylight hours. I suggest that we wait until evening, say about ten o’clock when it’s sufficiently dark in these parts, and then we’ll be able to slip past them unnoticed.”

  Flora and the prince agreed with his suggestion. But what they didn’t realize, and what he didn’t tell them, was his concern over the sky. Flora might have recognized the signs, being born and bred in the islands of the Outer Hebrides, but the prince certainly wouldn’t have known that the high and hazy wisps of clouds in the sky presaged the coming of bad weather within the next day or so. The sun was shining, the sea was relatively calm, and the man born in Italy, claiming kingship in Scotland believed that the sea would continue to be as smooth as a millpond well into the future. But Neil knew that they were in for a rough crossing, and had it not been for the urgency of getting the prince off the Island, he’d have urged them to delay for a couple of days.