by Godman, Jane
“I know,” he muttered, “I would have happily stayed a while longer, too.”
Stopping in Newcastle on his way back to Derbyshire, Tom purchased a copy of the Newcastle Courant. He read its account of the battle and the subsequent rout of the Jacobite forces. Any hopes he might have still cherished that Kirsty was wrong were swiftly put to flight. The newspaper confirmed that all high-ranking members of the Kilcroath clan had indeed been slaughtered at Culloden.
Chapter Four
Rosie steadfastly refused to listen to Tom. It simply was not true, she explained patiently. She would know if Jack was dead. She would feel it. She didn’t feel it … so he must be alive. In the face of all of Tom’s evidence and calm reasoning, this remained her stance. She spent long hours each day curled up on the window seat watching the wide sweep of the drive. But the only person who came to call – and he with relentless inevitability – was Sir Clive.
Rosie’s recalcitrance had worn his patience to the point where it was threadbare. The witless chit appeared not to comprehend that danger she and Harry were in. More importantly, the difficult position in which Sir Clive found himself. He must secure her promise to marry him, and do so quickly. Only his betrothal to an heiress would satisfy the demands of his creditors – some of whom were less than scrupulous in their dealings with tardy clients – and buy him some much needed breathing space. And then, who knew what might happen? He was due a run of luck. The dice could not remain so steadfastly against him forever …
Preparing to enter Delacourt Grange through the long French windows, which opened from the drawing room onto the garden, Sir Clive overheard a very interesting exchange between Rosie and Tom. “Miss Rosie, you must accept the truth,” Tom’s voice was infinitely gentle, “Jack is dead …”
Rosie sighed, “Tom, I know what you heard and what you read, but I cannot believe it to be true …” she broke off, hearing Sir Clive’s slight movement, and he stepped fully into the room, with a bow. Tom, throwing him a glance of intense dislike, went about his business.
“Sir Clive, if you have come to renew your threats …” Rosie’s voice was weary.
“Not at all, my dear,” he informed her blithely, “I merely came to ask how you will feel when your brother’s head adorns a spike on Tower Bridge.”
She stiffened in distaste and, pausing for effect, he added, “A fate which your lover has at least escaped by being killed in battle. Luckily for you, since, once the true depths of your own treachery are known publicly, you might well have been taken to view his severed head. Even, perhaps, have been forced by the mob to kiss those cold, grey lips. There is not much sympathy shown to those who take a traitor to their bed.”
That strange, other-worldly streak in him surfaced now. As it always did when he was excited or blood-thirsty thoughts stirred his passions.
“I take it you are referring to Lord St Anton?”
Rosie hid her shaking hands in the folds of her wide skirts, “You seem to know a great deal about his lordship’s fate, Sir Clive?”
“Oh, ‘tis well known that your fine beau died a hero’s death on Culloden field, my dear. You seem doomed to lose the all of the men in your life this year, do you not?” He counted on his fingers, “First your dear father, then your beloved St Anton,” he smirked and she wanted to slap him.
Which was a good thing, she reflected, since it was the first real emotion she had felt since Tom had returned from Scotland.
“And now you are about to condemn your brother to a traitor’s execution … But I am keeping you from that task. I will bid you a good day.”
He bowed low and, smiling to himself at her stricken look, departed back through the French window. He would return on the morrow, at which point he anticipated that he would finally receive a favourable answer to his proposal of marriage.
***
Jack paused awhile on Swarkestone Bridge, marvelling at the tranquillity of the scene on this sunny morning. Although there was a faint chill in the air, the sky was bright and a light wind scattered powder puff clouds across the clear expanse of blue. The scent of fresh cut grass and damp woodland reminded him that he was home – back in England – and for good this time. The thought made his pulse quicken.
He dismounted and walked his horse over the long bridge, pausing to look into the calm waters below. According to legend Swarkestone Bridge was built in the thirteenth century by two beautiful, noble sisters who had been betrothed to a pair of handsome knights. One evening, the knights attempted to cross the hazardous River Trent on horseback at the fording point. They were swept away and drowned whilst the helpless sisters looked on. Devastated by their loss, the sisters were rumoured to haunt the bridge on stormy evenings when the water was high. It was difficult to reconcile the serenity of the scene with the ghost story or the horror of his own memories. He lingered at the spot where he had been shot by a young redcoat and where, in that brief horrific moment, the course of his life had been altered. Suddenly impatient with himself for wasting precious time on this nostalgic divergence, he leapt back onto his horse and began the final stage of his long journey.
It was over six months since he stole away in the middle of an icy January night, a fugitive wanted for that most heinous of crimes … treason against his king. Tom Drury had escorted him to the Scottish border. From there Jack had made his way to Falkirk to seek an audience with Prince Charles, the beleaguered Young Pretender. He had explained his plight to his commander and friend. However disappointed Prince Charles had been by the defection of one of his most senior officers, he had graciously released him from any obligation to serve him and wished Jack well. The prince was somewhat distracted by battle plans which were already underway. When Jack arrived at his mother’s family home at Kilcroath, there were celebrations underway to mark the Jacobite victory at Falkirk.
He had stayed just a short time at Kilcroath, as his only business there had been to gather together funds for his journey to France. Also to compose a letter to his father’s brother, William Lindsey, a wily and wise diplomat who had the ear and the confidence of King George II. In it, Jack expressed his penitence and asked his uncle to intervene on his behalf with the king. It cost him a pang to write those words. His pride was dented by the need to beg a monarch he secretly despised … but Rosie was worth it. The pain of being away from her was physical. He needed to assuage the hollow ache in his gut, and he knew the only cure would be to hold her in his arms once more. The Jacobites were on their way north when Jack secretly made the crossing to France. He was saddened that he was unable to tell his friends and family at Fort Kilcroath where he was going. But it was too dangerous to allow anyone to know of his whereabouts or destination. His head would be a prized trophy for the King’s supporters.
There followed a long, frustrating exile holed up in a friend’s chateau near Paris, waiting, hoping and corresponding with his uncle. The news from Scotland was depressing. Cumberland appeared to have the rebel forces on the run. Finally, word of the dreadful rout and subsequent massacre at Culloden reached him. He bowed his head in pain at the thought of the brave men – his friends and his clan – who had thrown down their lives for the prince’s cause. A hopeless cause, it was now clear.
Then, at last, the letter he had longed for arrived. Because he had played no part in the events after Derby, and because of his uncle’s devoted services to the crown, King George II – accepting his assurances of penitence and allegiance – had graciously granted John Lindsey, fifth Earl of St Anton, a full pardon. Jack was free to return home.
Jack paused again, an hour later, on an incline at the edge of dense forest, looking down on the large, golden manor house that slumbered below him. It was set like a jewel in the green tapestry of well-ordered farmland. The soft, aromatic breeze stirred his memory and Jack’s heart beat a little faster. Delacourt Grange at last! He had dreamed of this homecoming throughout the intervening months and now he felt like a nervous teenager, coming to call on his sweetheart. His
mind easily conjured up a vision of Rosie, his darling, laughing love. He had promised to come back for her and now, at last, he was here! And a free man. A short laugh escaped his lips. Eagerly he nudged his horse onwards, down into the valley.
Riding up to the wide front porch, he dismounted. He used the heavy knocker to rap out a tattoo on the door, waiting impatiently and tapping a booted foot against the worn sandstone of the step. When his summons was not answered quickly enough, he knocked again, louder and longer this time. The door was opened slowly to the accompaniment of a woman’s grumbling voice. The complaints stopped abruptly as Mrs Glover beheld the visitor. Her rosy cheeks blanched as she stared at him in shock.
“Mister Jack … my lord!” The housekeeper stepped back in obvious shock, her voice scarcely above a whisper. It was only when Jack’s familiar, teasing grin appeared that she permitted herself a shaky smile in return. Then, as he stepped inside and caught her up in a hug, twirling her round and round, she gasped for him to stop.
“Oh, sir, it is you indeed!” Mrs Glover dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her apron, while Jack glanced around him in dismay.
“Really, Mrs G!” Jack laughed at her reaction, “Anyone would think you had seen a ghost!”
The laughter died on his lips as he looked around. The house had a quiet, dull feel – quite unlike its usual warm atmosphere. He could see into the main drawing room where covers shrouded the furniture and the curtains were drawn to keep out the sunlight. A strange silence hung over the place, a silence that would never have been allowed to exist had his beloved Rosie and the over-exuberant Harry been here. If they were at home this stillness would have been banished by their laughter and vibrancy. Jack turned questioning eyes to Mrs Glover, who avoided his gaze nervously.
“Where are they?” a note of fear tinged the words.
“I’ll fetch Tom, Mis … my lord, best you speak to him,” Mrs Glover scurried away; glad that she would not be the one forced to explain.
Jack waited in the hall but glanced into some of the other rooms. Motes of dust hung in the air and there was an all pervading stale scent of disuse. His heart sank as he realised that the house bore all the signs of having been empty for some time. The drawing room was so cold that he shivered, and found it hard to reconcile it now with his memories lingering there with Rosie to talk late into the night. Only Mr Delacourt’s study seemed to have been in recent use, a circumstance which offered him a slight crumb of comfort.
He was surprised to see Tom descend the wide staircase. As Mr Delacourt’s trusted estate manager, he had occupied his own rooms above the stables but now, it would appear, he lived in the house itself. Jack did not have time to assimilate the implications of this circumstance before his friend – the man who, with Rosie, had saved his life – stood before him, an amazed smile lighting his eyes.
“Forsooth! It is you,” unconsciously, he echoed Mrs Glover’s words, “I thought Mrs Glover had run mad when she told me!”
The slow, rumbling voice swept Jack back and he grasped Tom’s hand briefly, before uttering.
“Damn it, Tom,” and embracing as much of the larger man as he could.
Tom returned the embrace, almost crushing the life out of him, before indicating the study. They entered the room together. Jack was aware of Tom studying him in some bewilderment.
“Lord, Tom, I may be a prodigal … but I did promise to return!” Jack raised a bemused brow, “You need not look quite so surprised!”
Tom hesitated, “’Tis just that I did not recognise you in all your finery, Jack. I have been used to seeing you wear Mr Delacourt’s cast-offs.” He indicated Jack’s practical, but fashionable, riding gear of buff coat, buckskin breeches and gleaming top-boots.
“And I appear to have timed my return badly, Tom,” Jack tried, but failed, to keep the question light. “It seems that the family is away from home?”
Tom went over to a side table and, unstopping a decanter, poured two glasses of port. He handed one to Jack and, taking a sip from his own glass, perched on the edge of the desk before answering,
“Mr Delacourt is dead, Jack. He died barely six weeks after you left.”
Jack closed his eyes briefly, remembering the scholarly, kindly man who had taken him into his home and accepted him as part of his family. He was almost afraid to ask the next question and, try as he might, he could not get his voice to rise above a whisper.
“And Rosie? Tell me she is not ...?”
Tom shook his head quickly, “She is alive. His heart failed … that’s what took Mr Delacourt. Miss Rosie and Master Harry are unharmed.”
His expression was lugubrious, and it was clear he was not enjoying this conversation.
“Where is she, Tom?” something told him he was not going to like the answer.
“You need to talk to her ...”
Tom’s words were interrupted as Jack’s voice cracked out like a whiplash, “For God’s sake, man, just tell me what has happened here while I have been away?”
“Very well, but ‘tis a long tale and one you will not enjoy,” he warned. “Mr Delacourt, as I have said, passed away in April. Rosie, thinking you had gone to Scotland to be with the prince, sent me to find you. She was in some trouble … Jack, we heard you were dead. I travelled to Inverness, actually into the castle at Kilcroath, and was told you had been killed in battle at Culloden. Then I read a newspaper report which confirmed that all high ranking members of the Kilcroath clan had been slaughtered. It seemed the case was hopeless. Nevertheless Rosie waited and waited in case by some miracle, you had escaped and you managed to return to her. But with each day that passed, I could see her hopes fading. It was a harrowing time for Rosie. I thought her heart would break. Were it not for the need to stay strong for Master Harry’s sake … In the end, she accepted a marriage proposal …” drawing a breath, he plunged on. “She is to be my lady Sheridan …” he broke off in consternation at the look on Jack’s face.
“What?” the word rang like a gunshot.
Tom reached out a hand to place it on his shoulder but Jack shrugged it off. Turning his back, he went over to look out of the window. There was something in the set of his shoulders which spoke of his devastation. Tom waited a moment to give him time to collect himself.
“Try to understand how it happened, Jack …”
“Understand?” Jack whirled around, raw hurt etched in every line of his face, “It’s you who don’t understand, Tom. She promised … we promised …”
“And she kept that promise, until she was convinced you were gone. She was all alone …”
“Not for long, evidently!” A tormented smile twisted Jack’s features so that they became a bitter mask, “One has to admire her; Rosie is a quick worker, as I well know.” He took a deep breath, “But why him? Of all people? Lord, Tom, the man did his best to send me to the gallows! And she chose him?” He collected himself with difficulty and dashed off another glass of port.
Tom wondered how much to tell him. Even he did not know the full truth, but he knew that Sir Clive had some sort of hold over Rosie, which he had used to blackmail her into accepting him. He also knew that it was the same information which, when revealed to him, had caused Mr Delacourt’s heart to fail him. That it had something to do with young Harry, was all Tom knew with any certainty. If he shared even a breath of these suspicions with Jack, he risked that hot-headed gentleman flying off to London with the intention of choking the life out of Rosie’s betrothed on what was, after all, mere speculation. On balance, Tom decided the wisest course of action would be to keep his peace.
Jack did not speak Rosie’s name again during his stay, even though he spent the night in his old room and lingered over dinner with Tom. Instead they talked of politics, of the nightmarish events at Culloden and the systematic destruction of the Scottish clan system. If Tom was unusually garrulous in his praise of Kilcroath castle and its occupants, Jack was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice. And, if Jack’s eyes strayed
occasionally to Rosie’s habitual chair, or a stricken look crossed his face now and then, neither man mentioned it.
Jack left early the next morning. “Where will you go?” Tom viewed his younger friend with no little concern. Some of the light had left those remarkable eyes, the handsome features were strained, his face pale. Tom had already penned a letter to Rosie at Drummond Park – home of one of Sir Clive’s aunts – a difficult enough task, giving her the shocking news that Jack was alive and back in England. He hoped that Jack was not about to do anything foolish. It was a coil to which he could not see an end.
Jack shrugged as he mounted his horse.
“Who knows?” he tugged on the reins so that his steed faced the open road, “To the devil, mayhap?” Then, with a short, humourless laugh as he spurred his horse on, he threw back over his shoulder.
“Or to London, belike. ‘Tis the same thing, after all.”
***
Rosie watched her brother fondly as he rode the young horse along the sweeping drive which led to the fine manor house of Drummond Park. The ever faithful Beau trotted behind him, grinning amiably and panting with his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth. Noticing Rosie, however, he promptly abandoned Harry and rushed to greet her as if he had not seen her for years. He seemed to forget that he had persistently begged her to share her breakfast with him not an hour since.
