The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  Again, Sir Francis wanted to say something, but Mr. Franklin continued, “Don’t you get the feeling that there is a change in the air, Sir Francis? That monarchy has become so hidebound, so set in its ways that it is incapable of bending to the will of the people. You had a king beheaded and a commonwealth begun because the monarchy was at loggerheads with the people it was employed to rule . . .”

  “Yes,” said Sir Francis, “but the Commonwealth didn’t last. That scoundrel Cromwell . . .”

  “You made the wrong choice of Lord Protector. That’s all. Had you chosen somebody else to put paid to the monarchy, then England today would be a republic, just as in the glorious days of Greece and Rome. Had you chosen a Thomas a’ Becket or a Thomas More, you’d still be a commonwealth, they’d be no ruling family, Great Britain would enjoy the privileges of a meritocracy instead of an aristocracy, and all England would be a better place.”

  “But rid England of its aristocracy, and you’ll rid the nation of me . . .”

  “You are now and will always be, one of the great men of England. But your fellow aristocrats’ right to rule is based on birth and not on ability. For a nation to succeed, it must be ruled by men of wisdom, not men who happened to have been born in a silken crib.

  “No, Sir Francis, I believe that monarchy and the aristocracy have had their day, and great nations are inclining to breeding Republicans like our ancient forefathers! You might think I’m talking about a revolution, sir, but I think that much can be accomplished by diplomacy and negotiation. Oh, I’m not so fanciful in thinking that any monarch will willingly give up his privileges; but the will of the people, as they did in the time of Oliver Cromwell and the Commonwealth, will soon put an end to the power, if not the presence, of a monarchy.

  “The people of France, of Scotland, and perhaps even America are building up a profound inclination to limit the power of those monarchs who wield right of life and death merely because of the fortune of their birth and through no will of the people. I tell you, sir, that the time is rapidly approaching for the people to make a stand against autocracy and in favor of a republic. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, or maybe in twenty or thirty years’ time, but the voice of the people cannot be silenced by such as King George and his nepotistic brood. If they maintain their attitude that they rule by divine right, then they’ll soon find that democracy cannot cohabit with monarchy. The two are alien systems. One abolishes the other. And if there is to be an Armageddon, a battle between the Sons of Liberty and the aging Sons of Autocracy, the people shall win. Mark my words, sir. The people will win.”

  They approached the Old Bailey in silence, but the thoughts flooding through Sir Francis’ mind was the extent to which the people of Scotland had been winners in the battle between the Sons of Liberty and the aging Sons of Autocracy. With Scotland awash with Highlander blood and the bones of clansmen bleaching in the meadows, how would other Sons of Liberty fair against those Sons who commanded vast armies and munitions?

  THE ROAD SOUTH FROM DUNVEGAN TO DRYNOCH ISLAND OF SKYE

  JULY 7, 1746

  The two ladies walked the length of the island avoiding the roads, preferring to travel through the fields and woodlands. But when the trees became too thick and the fields too boggy from the recent drenching they’d received in the storm, they were forced to return to the road and expose themselves to prying eyes.

  Both of the ladies were tall and dressed in the costumes of modesty. From a distance, they could easily be identified as the wives or daughters of merchants or prosperous farmers. From close up, it was obvious that one was the mistress, one the servant. The difference between the two women was that the mistress had a dress engaged with attractive bows and embroidery, whereas the servant’s dress was somewhat more drab and ordinary as befitted her station in life. The other indication of the difference in status was that the servant trod in the footsteps of the mistress, her head bowed, her eyes cast down in deference.

  The guards, who attended the road at the point where it branched left to Portree, saw the women coming from far away. Instructed by General Campbell before he left for the Uist islands to be particularly attentive to any travelers, they moved from their shelter and stood in the middle of the road, their rifles loaded and ready to be fired in case this was some form of ambush.

  The two women walked up to the troopers, and the woman leading nodded and said “Good afternoon,” as they neared.

  “Just a minute, Miss. Where do you think you’re going?” asked the Lieutenant.

  “I’m going home,” she said. She was an attractive lady with gleaming black hair freshly washed in a stream and the open face of a Highlander. The woman behind her, though, was anything but attractive. She was tall and thin and walked with a stoop and an uncommon gait.

  “And where’s your home” demanded the trooper.

  “Why,” chuckled the lady. “Do you intend to visit me? Now what would my fiancé, Mr. Alan Macdonald, think about that?” Seductively, she continued, “if it’s your intention to search me, I’ll have to scream very loud. I hope that somebody will hear the cries of a maiden in distress . . .”

  Flora looked at him, winked, and walked onward full of confidence and buoyancy. The two women were walking casually past, when one of the troopers asked, “And who’s this?”

  The lady stopped and opened her bag, taking out a bottle of water. “This,” she said before taking a draft, “is my seamstress. Mistress Betty Burke.”

  Flora said in Gaelic, “Say hello to the Englishmen, Betty.”

  Betty looked up and nodded at both the men, saying in high falsetto Gaelic, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  “She’s from Ireland and has worked for me these two years past. She speaks not a word of English, but you’ll be pleased to know that she just wished you a good afternoon. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have five miles to walk before we reach Roskhill where there’s an Inn at which we’ll be spending the night.”

  “Dear God, but she’s ugly,” said the other trooper.

  “Shut your mouth,” snapped the Lieutenant. “You know I don’t hold with antagonizing the locals. Forgive me, madam, but have you any identification. What’s your name? Where do you live?”

  She reached back into her purse and took out a Letter of Pass written by her father Hugh before they left South Uist. He had given one to each of them as well as one to Neil MacEachan, who’d used it when he had left them to go to the nearby inn.

  “My name is Miss Flora Macdonald. I and my seamstress, Mistress Betty Burke, live in Milton, which is a village far to the south of Skye, which is where we’re returning. We’ve just been to Trumpan where I have been assisting my ailing aunt, who I’m pleased to say is now much recovered. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us, we must be on our way.”

  The guardsmen put up their rifles and allowed the two women through. As they passed by, the junior trooper whispered to Flora out of the side of his mouth, “If you’re spending the night in Roskhill, when I get off duty, would you permit me to buy you a drink?”

  “Sir,” she whispered back, “three drinks it’ll have to be. One for my fiancé, Mr. Alan Macdonald, who’s waiting impatiently for my return, one for me and one for Mistress Burke here, who has a terrible thirst. But be assured, trooper, that Mr. Macdonald will greatly appreciate your generosity.”

  Smiling, she and Betty walked on silently until they were out of earshot, but still they refrained from talking, knowing that the guards would be looking at their retreating backs. It wasn’t until they were a good mile away, and after the road curved toward the East, that they felt secure enough to speak to each other, though Betty still walked respectfully in Flora’s footsteps.

  “You were magnificent. Brilliant. Oh Flora, you are such a treasure of a girl. I’d be lost without you.”

  She laughed. “You would indeed, for I only barely know these northern roads myself, and I’ve lived on Skye almost all my life. But I must congratulate you on your Gaelic accent, Charlie dar
ling. You sounded just like a lady. My training worked, for you fooled both the troopers and me. I almost continued to converse with you.”

  They walked on a further mile or more before Charlie said softly, “Have you decided on an answer to my question?”

  She sighed deeply. It was the answer he’d anticipated.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because I’m not the type of woman who could become a royal mistress. Oh, I know how exciting the life would be, and I really feel extremely grateful that you’ve asked me, but you must understand my situation, Charlie.”

  “Is it because of your religious beliefs? Does the Kirk burn that strongly in your heart?”

  “No,” she said, laughing. “Oh, I go to Church once a month and listen to the preacher and occasionally I try to do as Almighty God demands. But no, that isn’t the reason I’ll not go with you to France and Italy. I’d give my right arm to spend even a night inside a grand palace and have servants and drudges attend to my every need. And I’m not so naïve that I don’t understand the reality of the situation for a woman like me. I’m well aware that I’d only see you once in a month or thereabouts. But there are two solid and unalterable reasons why I have to say no.”

  She thought for a minute, and then corrected herself. “No, three unalterable reasons. The first is because if I did go, I’d have to accept that you were marrying another woman. Yes, I know that it would be a political marriage, but a marriage nonetheless in the eyes of God and all of Europe, and every night you spent with her in your bed, and not with me, would be like a dirk stabbing into my heart. The second reason is because of respect for my father and mother, who would be shamed by the fact that their daughter is living outside wedlock with a man, albeit that he’s a prince of the realm of Scotland.”

  “And the third reason?”

  “I couldn’t do it to Alan Macdonald. It would shame him too greatly, shame my clan, and cause an innocent man to be the butt of ridicule and snide glances. He’s done nothing to merit such an episode, and I will not be the one who makes him more miserable than he need be,” she said. And from her tone, he knew that her decision was final.

  “But we’ve spent two extraordinary nights alone together, Flora and three blissful days. We’ve behaved as man and wife, and we were even married in the holy altar of the fireplace. Isn’t that a betrayal of Mr. Macdonald, even if only in your heart?”

  She sighed again. This time, her sigh was deeper than before. “Yes, it is, Charlie. And he’ll never find out because neither you nor I will ever hurt the dear man sufficiently by telling him. He will be in ignorance of our transgressions, but all my life, I’ll have to bear the burden of my conscience. But do I regret the nights we’ve spent together? No, not a bit of it. I’ve loved and relished them, every moment of them. But it’s a secret which I shall take with me to my grave. As will you, Charlie. As will you.”

  And they continued to walk in silence toward Roskhill.

  ARMADALE, SKYE

  AUGUST 3, 1746

  She needed to familiarize herself with her possessions one more time before she realized that the strains of the past two months were finally over and done with, that she was back home in her own room, and that her father Hugh, her mother Anne and now her fiancé Alan had all enveloped her in their embrace and would protect her.

  The warmth of their welcome had been overpowering. They had kissed and hugged and kissed and hugged again and again. She hadn’t even entered her house and already they were demanding of her and Mistress Betty Burke how things had transpired. It was Hugh who led the demands for answers, followed in short order by Alan. Only Anne had remained silent, looking at her wonderful daughter in admiration and respect.

  Hugh demanded to know everything. And his questions tumbled out one after the other until Flora’s head was spinning. What dangers did you confront? What routes did you take? Why had it taken so long to travel from the north to the south of Skye? Why was it that Neil MacEachan had returned to South Uist nearly a month earlier and yet it had taken that long for the two of them to reach Armadale? Did they realize how terrified the family had been not to have heard a single word of their fate in all that time?

  It took the prince to intervene, and say in a magisterial voice, “Lady, Gentlemen, there’s much time for answers, but what Mistress Macdonald needs now is rest. The journey has been long and painful and not the least frightening. We’ve walked far, but we were forced to travel cross-country because of the English troopers. Sometimes we had to double back because going ahead was impossible and we had to traverse the island just to find a way south.

  “But be assured, my friends, that you can be extremely proud of your brave daughter. I tell you, Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald, and you, Alan Macdonald, that Flora Macdonald acquitted herself with incredible gallantry and courage. Now, please let her sit down, for she’s probably exhausted.”

  It wasn’t until an hour after they’d returned that Anne declared their dinner was ready. Flora left her room and walked along the narrow but comforting corridor to where the entire family had gathered. As she entered the compact parlor, she was suddenly overwhelmed by its sense of order and cleanliness, of normality and wonderful ordinariness. For so many weeks, her existence had been pressured and pained, life spent in fields and hiding in barns, or sharing a room in an Inn with her lover whom she had to pretend in public was nothing more than her maidservant.

  She walked over to her place at the table and saw that it had expanded to include not just her fiancé Alan, but also His Royal Highness the Prince of the Stuarts, now wearing proper men’s clothing given to him by Alan and looking lean and tanned and utterly exquisite. She compared the way her prince looked with the way in which Alan looked, and became annoyed at herself for being so gauche as even to consider comparing the two men. Alan was a good, decent, honest, and honorable man. Prince Charles was an ethereal being whose world was in the clouds, and there was no comparison between him and Island men. Yet this ethereal being, this God-chosen man who would be king, had loved her and begged her to return to France with him. And he had forced her to choose chose between a prince and a man of the land, between Bonnie Prince Charlie and Alan Macdonald, farmer of Skye. Flora became faint just thinking about the situation in which she found herself.

  But she was brought into a sudden reality as she entered the room when everybody at the table, including Prince Charles, stood as she approached, and raised their glasses in celebration of her. She flushed in embarrassment.

  “Flora,” said Hugh. “Brave and wonderful girl. We, your parents, your fiancé, and most importantly His Royal Highness, salute you for being a true woman of the Highlands, a true Scotswoman, and a true friend to our cause.”

  Everybody shouted out Flora’s name and drank their ales. She smiled in gratitude and deference at everybody and unsteadily sat down while Anne served her a delicious meal of beef stew, dumplings, freshly baked oat bread, and cakes and a pot of ale. They all waited for her to take the first mouthful, even Prince Charlie, in deference to her courage. Her head was swimming and she didn’t know how to react to the sudden and overwhelming praise. But normality returned immediately when she tasted the rich aromatic flavors of Anne’s stew. This was food! So different from the dreadful fare they’d been subjected to in the Inns and roadsides of their travels.

  She looked up and said softly, “God, but it’s good to be home.” Which made her mother beam a smile, and Alan to put his arm around his girl and squeeze her.

  “You make it a home, darling,” he said.

  She stole a glance at Prince Charles, but his eyes were downcast, studying his stew.

  The following morning, four men came to the house. All appeared at different times so as not to cause suspicion. Each bowed respectfully before the prince and shook his hand. Hugh explained to Flora that these were the men who would lead the prince to where the French ship was expected a month hence. They said that it returned on the third Tuesday of each month at the high tide and
stayed for three days, then returned to France until the following month. It was more important than ever that His Highness continued to hide himself in the many friendly houses along the western coast of the Island so as not to be too conspicuous in case of a turncoat and traitor on the Island who might very well alert the troopers. Staying too long in one place would greatly add to their suspicion and increase the danger to the residents of Skye.

  His bag packed and three of the four strangers leaving the house at different times, the fourth to accompany the prince, Charlie came looking for Flora. She was in the garden, examining her flowerbed and cutting some blooms.

  “Mistress Macdonald,” he said.

  She looked up in surprise and smiled at him.

  “Flora, have you forgotten your promise?”

  “Promise?”

  “You promised me a sprig of heather which you would wear next to your heart. You promised you’d give it to me when we fared each other well. And my promise to you is that I shall treasure it, and instruct the best jeweler in all of Italy to cover the tender fronds with a patina of gold, which I shall then wear on a chain next to my heart and which I shall never remove, even on the day I die, when it will be buried with me as part of the Stuart coat of arms. Have you forgotten, ma’am?”

  “I have not, sir,” she said and reached inside her bodice, withdrawing a sprig of the plant that she’d taken from the northern-most fields of the Island of Skye. She handed it to him, but he refused to take it.

  “You promised that you’d kiss it for me and that I too would embrace your lips in all eternity.”

  She kissed the leaf, and he took it from her hands, kissed it himself, and wrapped it in a silk kerchief.

  “I shall be going now, my lovely Flora. I shall be returning to France in September, God willing. But I promise you that I shall return at the head of a great army, and when I do, I shall defeat the English. Upon my father’s death, I shall be crowned king of England and Scotland, and when I am on my throne, I shall invite you to St. James’s where we will dine and remember our wondrous adventure together.