The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  “Darling, have you ever wondered why you look so different from your brothers?” she asked.

  He stared at her for long, agonizing moments. She could barely speak the next few words; yet just as she’d been forced to tell her husband Alan that her unborn child wasn’t his, so she would have to tell Jamie the truth.

  “Bonnie Prince Charlie is your father, darling. Not Alan Macdonald, although he loves you fiercely and you are, and always will be, his.”

  She held her breath, waiting. And she continued to wait as he stared first at her, and then beyond her out to the sea.

  “When?” he asked. “When did he . . . you and he . . .”

  “In a small Crofter’s house in the north of Skye. We were alone.”

  “Did he . . . was he . . .”

  “No, darling. He didn’t force me or rape me. I was young and not yet married. It was the danger and the excitement of being alone with him. I resisted, but . . .”

  “So he did rape you.”

  “No!” she said. “Don’t think that, for then you’ll hate him.”

  “Or I’ll hate you!”

  It was like a knife cutting into her very flesh. But it was what she deserved. She tried to calm herself and said to him gently, “you may hate me for lying to you all these years. Yes, Jamie, you have a right to hate me. For betraying your father, you have a right to hate me. But you have no right to hate me for loving you and for being a good mother to you. You may hate me for any sins you believe I have committed, but I have never committed the sin of abandoning you, nor refusing to accept you as my very own son. I have never knowingly hurt you or belittled you or treated you any differently from my other children. Hate me if you will, darling, but never hate me for being a good mother who loves her son and would lay down her life for him.”

  “How could you?” he whispered. She could barely hear him over the seagull’s screams and the voice of the wind. “How could you betray father? How could you do such a thing?”

  “I offer you no explanation, other than an apology. I was a young woman. I was your age. I was alone with a man in a house in a remote part of the Island, and we were both in great danger. Our lives could have been extinguished at any moment. With all those pressures, my sense of decency and morality left me and the moment overtook and nullified my principles.”

  She had no idea what reaction to expect. Only once before in her life had she been in a situation where she had not been able to anticipate a loved-one’s response. And that was when she told Alan about her pregnancy to Bonnie Prince Charlie. Now, Flora waited to see whether she would be as estranged from her loving son as she had recently become estranged from her loving husband. She sighed and wondered why, at the end of her days, her life had become such an unholy mess. She hoped that one day Alan would understand her reason for returning to England and Scotland and trying to avoid the deaths of thousands of Americans. Now she had to hope and pray that her son, Jamie, forgave her for a youthful indiscretion. She realized that she was barely breathing.

  Jamie looked out over the white-capped waves and gazed into the far distant horizon. But he remained silent. Then, without even looking at his mother, he walked away along the main deck and climbed the quarterdeck to be alone in the furthest reaches of the ship. Alone, bereft, knowing that she had ruined the lives of people she loved the most by the one act of unchastity in her life, she turned away from her son and returned to the tiny cabin.

  Flora Macdonald waited for much of the afternoon and into the early evening. She just sat on the bed and stared at the door, praying for it to open. It kept sullenly closed. She couldn’t read or eat or walk or sleep or even think. All she could do was to wait until her son returned and gave her the verdict with which his mind was wrestling. Would he ever talk to her again? Would he curse her immorality now and forever? Would he . . .

  She reacted in shock to a rap on the door. She tried to say ‘enter’ but her voice failed her. It opened, and Jamie walked in, looking wan and tired and windblown.

  They looked at each other, mother and son, neither smiling, neither giving the slightest sign of an emotion. And then Jamie said, “Are you coming to the galley for some supper, Mother?”

  She swallowed to try to regain her voice and said softly, “No, darling. I’m not the least bit hungry.”

  “Neither am I. Will you come for a walk on deck? It’s cold and you’ll need a scarf and a cape.”

  She dressed and ascended the steps in the wake of her son, and into the dark early evening October sky. There were half a dozen crewmen in the riggings and on the deck and they paid the two not the slightest attention. Jamie walked over to mid-deck and stood by the railings. Flora followed sheepishly.

  “Did you love him?”

  “At the time, yes. I was swept over by him. He was intelligent, charming, and very handsome.”

  “So you don’t love father? Not as much as Prince Charles.”

  “I love your father dearly; I’ve loved him since we were young. I’ve borne five of his children and proudly call him husband. I’m devoted to him.”

  “But how can you love two men?” he asked.

  “You loved Sarah McIver who lived with her aunt on Skye, and then you fell out of love with her and fell in love with Jenny Roberts. Love when you’re young can be transient, darling. It can seem perpetual, but just as it begins quickly, it can last just as long as the heart flutters. My love for your father, your real father Alan, not the father who made me pregnant with you, has lasted all my life. My love for Charlie lasted weeks, if that.”

  “Who else knows?” he asked. “Do my brothers and sisters know? Or is it only me that’s been made to look like a fool?”

  She bridled at the gratuitous insult but fought to restrain her temper. “No, the only people in the entire world who have any knowledge of my sins, are you, me, Alan and Mr. Benjamin Franklin, who guessed.”

  “And my father? My real father? Prince Charles? Does he know?”

  Again, Flora shook her head. “According to Mr. Franklin, Prince Charles returned to France but since then has lived the rest of his life in Italy. He has taken to drinking large volumes of wine. He is no longer the man I met and loved.”

  “But does he know about me?” he asked, a sternness in his voice.

  She shook her head. “Not once did he write to me or ask after my welfare. Not once even though he promised me eternal friendship. So he didn’t even know that I was carrying his child.”

  “So not even he knew that to him had been born a son. And what of my . . . the man I used to call father?”

  Now she became angry. “And father is what you’ll still call him. He’s a blessed man who could have spurned me when I told him that I was pregnant by another man. But instead, because of his love for me, he treated me as wife and accepted you as much his son as though you were his own flesh and blood. He has never once looked upon you with anything other than the eyes of a devoted father. Curse me as you will, Jamie, but never dare damn your father for my sins.”

  The young man breathed deeply. He looked out to the darkened sea, illuminated in patches by wraith wisps of phosphorescence. Then he turned to Flora and nodded. It was an acknowledgment, an apology. He asked simply, “Why are we going back to Scotland?”

  It was the moment Flora knew that her son forgave her and that their relationship would eventually continue on as normal. She smiled, hugged him, and held his arm.

  “When Charlie and I were together in the Crofter’s house, we made a vow to each other. A vow of marriage. We went through a ceremony. At the time, I thought it was just a piece of nonsense. But when I told Mr. Franklin, he told me of something called the ancient Salic Laws which used to govern much of France and Germany and other countries. He told me that under these ancient laws, I could be deemed to have been lawfully married. And when you were born, your father Alan made me promise to have no more of any other man, which I willingly accepted. That, according to Mr. Franklin, was a divorce in the Salic Laws, a
nd so it made you the legitimate heir of the Prince of the House of Stuart, and the next in line to the throne of Scotland, for you are not Charlie’s bastard son, but his real and proper son, born in wedlock according to the Salic Laws. Laugh as much as you want, lad, but you’ve got royal blood in your body.”

  And laugh he did. “But I can’t be the heir. Bonnie Prince Charlie doesn’t even know me . . .”

  “But don’t you see, darling, that as Charlie has no male children, you have a valid and legitimate claim to be known as the rightful male successor to the throne of Scotland and because of the ceremony we went through in the Crofter’s cottage, you’re not illegitimate, but his right and proper heir. It’s my intention to go first to London and have you crowned as king of Scotland on the Stone of Scone in Westminster Abbey. Then I shall return with you to Scotland and there I shall petition the lairds and noblemen to have you accepted by them as the rightful king of Scotland, assuming that they won’t accept Charlie as their monarch. He’s tried three times, and I doubt they’ll give him another chance. So I will then beg King George III for an audience, present you as the king of Scotland, and ask him to create a commonwealth of Nations of the British Empire.”

  Jamie looked at his mother Flora and again burst out laughing. She looked at him for an instant, and then she burst out laughing as well. They hugged each other and had to hold on to the railings to prevent themselves from falling in the swell.

  “And what hope do you think you’ll have of doing all these things?” he asked, hugging her.

  “Very little,” she said. “But none at all unless I try. And if there’s one thing which sets me apart from every other Scottish woman alive, it’s my determination. God help any king or prince of England who tries to stop Flora Macdonald in her tracks.”

  They nearly fell about the deck of the ship in hysterics. Captain de Villiers, who had finished his evening meal and just ascended to the quarterdeck to ensure that all was well, looked at the distant figures of the mother and son passenger hugging each other in uproarious amusement. He nodded in satisfaction, thinking that any tension that might have been between them at the beginning of the voyage had disappeared, as so often happened, in deep water. He never ceased to be amazed at the miracle of the sea for putting all human problems into perspective.

  Chapter Sixteen

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  NOVEMBER 29, 1774

  The funeral procession wound its way from his home in Berkeley Square toward Grosvenor Street. The cortege was preceded by twelve white horses draped in black, pulling a gun carriage on which the coffin was centrally positioned and covered in the flag of England. Following the gun carriage were hundreds upon hundreds of black-clothed mourners, a line that stretched around the corner of Berkeley Square and out of sight.

  The huge procession prevented Flora and Jamie from crossing the road and they stood in respectful silence for over fifteen minutes as it passed them by.

  “Who was that?” asked Jamie.

  The gentleman who accompanied them, James Boswell, said softly, “That, sir, was the late Robert Clive, our man in India, the First Baron Clive of Plassey. A great man, sir. A very great man, done to death by the little men of England. So outraged was he of the abuse of his name and reputation, that he committed suicide some days ago. The whole of England is shocked by his demise. And all on account of the little men of England. I tell you, Mr. Macdonald, that this nation is going to the dogs. The little men will have us one day, sir. You mark my words. We shall be submerged by the petty jealousies and inconsequential thoughts and insignificant posturings of silly little men like politicians and third-rate pamphleteers and the second sons of Peers of the Realm. They’ll bury all the great men of England and Scotland with their carping and harping and moaning and envy. You see if they don’t.”

  Eventually, the last of the mourners passed them by and they were able to cross the street toward Mayfair and the house where they would be meeting Dr. Samuel Johnson. Jamie had a dozen questions to ask Mr. Boswell but refrained, for this was a meeting arranged by his mother, and although he was instrumental in her plans, at this stage, he was very much a follower rather than a leader. Mr. Boswell said little as they paced toward the meeting.

  “Do you live in London, Mr. Boswell?” Flora asked as they rounded a corner.

  “No, ma’am. I live in Edinburgh where I am employed as a lawyer, an execrable profession. It was Shakespeare who thought that before society could improve, first we had to kill all the lawyers, which is why my favored profession is that of a writer. You, I know, have visited Edinburgh, and you will know its provincial charms, but I am able to travel to London regularly on vacation and in the holiday terms of the courts. It gives me a good amount of time to spend in company with my very dear friends here, first-rate minds, men of letters, and also to continue my major goal, which is writing of the life and times of Dr. Samuel Johnson, the gentleman you are about to meet.”

  “Is he so famous that a book is being written about him whilst he’s still alive?” asked Jamie.

  Boswell smiled. “Oh yes, young man. Dr. Johnson is our foremost man of letters. He is perhaps the greatest scholar and intellectual in all of England. When I sought your mother out at your lodgings last week, only that very morning, I had just put the finishing touches to the first part of the first section. I intend to write ten sections. Dr. Johnson is an astounding man, as you’ll see. And I assure you that when you meet him, he will be very sympathetic to your cause. While he is no longer a supporter of the Jacobites and will not assist you in any endeavor you may harbor to replace King George or his issue, be assured that he has no love for the House of Hanover. Had Bonnie Prince Charlie succeeded, Dr. Johnson would have been the first leading the dancing in the streets. But sadly, history tells us that it wasn’t the case, and now Dr. Johnson considers it too late to replace the Hanoverians. He says that they are ensconced for the duration until they die out from disease, inbreeding like the Egyptians or exhaustion. Unfortunately, with their Germanic fecundity and the amount of children they have already produced, an Egyptian plague seems the only way they’ll come to an end.”

  Flora was about to comment, when Boswell continued, “Of course, that’s not to say that Dr. Johnson won’t support your very interesting plan to petition for a monarchical commonwealth under the aegis of the king of England. I’m pleased that you explained it to me, for I think that when you tell Dr. Johnson of your reason for seeking an audience with the king, he’ll share my reaction and support you fully. Frankly, ma’am, it’s a sensible and timely invention, and one which will save countless lives and vast sums of money, provided the king can be made to see sense.”

  “What are the chances of gaining an audience with the king,” asked Flora.

  Boswell thought for a moment and said, “None at all without going through the prime minister, and fortunately Dr. Johnson is a friend of that very gentleman.”

  “And if we get to see the king, what chance do you think there is of his agreeing to my mother’s proposal?” asked Jamie.

  “Impossible to say,” said Boswell, “but at least we’re ruled by a man who understands what we’re saying and whom we can understand. King George III is the first ruler of this realm since the reign of Good Queen Anne who speaks passable English. His grandfather, George II barely understood a word of what was being said to him. Imagine that, ma’am, a nation ruled by men who don’t understand what we’re talking about. A paradox which hasn’t existed since the time of the early Plantagenets.”

  He chuckled to himself at the absurdity of monarchy as he walked at a rapid pace. They rounded yet another corner into a street of grand houses, avoiding the mud and puddles from a recent rainstorm and the liquid horse droppings, and after they’d passed by four houses, Boswell suddenly turned into number twenty-two and ascended the steps into the portico. He rapped on the door with the iron handle, and moments later, a liveried servant replete with white gloves and white wig opened it, bowed, and welcomed
them inside.

  Well known to the household, Boswell invited both Flora and Jamie to follow him as he climbed the sweeping curved staircase, past several rooms filled with bookshelves carrying volumes of books from floor to ceiling, until they came to a room with another liveried servant standing outside.

  Without even a nod of acknowledgment, the servant knocked discreetly on the door and opened it to admit the newcomers.

  Jamie was stunned by the opulence of the room. It was vast, seeming to be at least as big as his entire house in North Carolina. On all walls except for the wall containing the huge casement windows were books. Books of every shape and size. Leather books, books in red and dark green and black coverings, books standing in military rows in their shelves, books opened at particular pages and strewn around the floor as though tossed aside in a frenzy, books that lay horizontal on shelves and on chairs as though they had been haphazardly discarded in a moment of drunken forgetfulness, and books that teetered against other books at an angle.

  And in the middle of the library stood a huge circular globe of the world in its brass spherical stand. The globe was positioned directly beside the gargantuan oaken desk of a heavy middle-aged man who sat there in his long dirty gray wig looking as though he’d only just risen from his bed. Despite their entry into the room, the fussy gentleman remained hunched over his papers, quill in hand, tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, mumbling to himself. He was concentrating so intensely that he simply had no idea that anybody had entered the room.

  Flora looked at the gentleman in amazement. This was not the London she’d expected, where men and women of society took hours dressing in the very finest of apparel. This man, whom she assumed was the renowned Dr. Johnson, was wearing little but shirtsleeves, trousers, and an open waistcoat. His utter oblivion to their presence was both amusing and annoying. Were it anybody other than a man with his reputation, she’d have viewed it as pretentiousness. But being Dr. Johnson, whose literary and intellectual output was prodigious, she found the situation amusing. A battle could rage in the room between competing armies, guns and cannon could explode, and it didn’t seem as though anything would disturb him from his labors.