The Jacobite's Wife

by Morag Edwards

  ‘I have only recently learned that our financial affairs are not secure and that my husband’s spending is a problem.’

  Charles nodded. ‘I fear that William isn’t here because he owes me money. Had I not lent it to him I cannot imagine how he would have paid his debts. Terregles is a fine little estate, it’s not grand but it should make you all a good living. You will have to learn the business, Winifred, before Lucy passes away. It won’t be good for your marriage but you must set a limit on William’s spending.’

  ‘But I don’t know how to do that,’ I protested.

  ‘You’ll find a way. You have a responsibility to your child and all your tenants to make the estate pay. I will help you where I can.’

  Disappointment flushed through me. I wanted what Mary had, to be an adored child. But this kind, thoughtful man said I had to be mature and clever, so I straightened my back and shoulders and whispered my thanks for his advice, my unspent tears binding my throat like a vice.

  I left the next day, anxious to see my son, but Lucy decided to remain at Traquair to help her daughter. Time spent travelling on rough tracks gave me the chance to think about how I would become the person that Charles expected and yet hold onto the love and respect of my husband. However, I arrived home irritable and dirty, with no plan. William was there and he lifted me from the carriage by my waist, holding me up and swinging me round as if I was as light as air. He put me down and pulled me close, kissing my cheeks, then led me by the hand to the stable yard, where a small white pony tossed his head in greeting. A lad was busy harnessing the pony to a pretty carriage with high, light wheels and leather seats. Alice stood in the shade of the stable arch, dressed in a bonnet and travelling cloak, with Will in her arms. The child saw me and pulled away from her, opening and closing his hands. I carried him over to William, stroking his head with my lips. The smell of his hair made my newly weaned breasts ache.

  William gestured towards the pony and cart. ‘Aren’t they lovely? I bought them for you in Edinburgh. We can go out for days together, take Will out.’

  I saw the delight in my husband’s face and felt sense desert me. I kissed him, this generous, impetuous young man and felt the happy anticipation of days to come, roaming the countryside together. I pushed my worries into a cold, empty place and didn’t question how they would be paid for.

  ‘Let’s go out today, Win, down to the coast. The baby and his nurse are ready. There’s food in the cart.’ William’s eyes were bright with excitement.

  ‘I’m filthy,’ I argued but there was laughter in the protest.

  William bent to kiss my neck. ‘You smell perfect.’

  On the coast, the sea foamed and churned between jagged, slate rocks that leaned towards the land as if they had been thrown down like a pack of cards. We found a sheltered patch of sand, cut into the dunes and huddled on a rug, looking across to the brown hills of England. Will crawled around us, exploring the shingle. Tiny shells stuck to his fingers and he held out his hands, like starfish, to share this new mystery. Alice held him by his hands to explore rock pools with his bare feet and when they were out of sight, William pulled a blanket over our heads and kissed my lips, ignoring the baby’s howls of fear as icy water rushed over his toes. Worn out by so much that was new, the child slept after we had eaten and we left him with Alice to walk along the beach. William picked a flower and kissed the petals before he tucked the stem into my hair.

  ‘My darling Win, I love you more than life itself. I missed you so much. I was afraid you wouldn’t come back to me. Can you ever forgive me?’

  I leaned into his chest and murmured, ‘Of course I can, I said some awful things too. But William …’ I pulled back so that I could see his eyes, ‘Charles says that we owe him a lot of money.’

  William studied the seascape, avoiding my gaze. ‘He shouldn’t have told you, that’s men’s business.’

  I placed both hands on his upper arms and faced him. ‘We must live within our means and pay back everything we owe. I’ll help you.’

  But William’s eyes dropped to his feet and I let go. We walked on together side by side, back towards our sleeping child, our hands not touching. The joy of the afternoon washed from us and the only sound was the crying from the gulls above.

  Chapter 13

  This was my fourth Christmas at Terregles. I knew it wasn’t possible to have a Christmas like those of my childhood. As the Kirk frowned on celebrations, there would be no decorations or music. My mother-in-law insisted that we follow the same rules as our neighbours, so that we didn’t draw attention to ourselves. I had fought her at first, resenting a creed that seemed steeped in misery rather than harmless fun.

  It was early evening and we sat together in the panelled drawing room that became warm and comfortable in the winter months, with its low ceilings and small, narrow windows. I placed my hand on my stomach, confident that another child would be born in the summer. Grace and Lucy sat by the fire, talking in low voices about the possibility of snow. My son was asleep, unaware that tomorrow he would be given some nuts and dried fruit. Although it was a working day, we would have a special meal as Lucy had fattened a goose through the autumn and I had made a pippin pie from the last of the apples. The itinerant priest we shared with other families had already visited and there would be no mass on Christmas Day.

  Lucy’s only concession was to maintain the Scots tradition of placing a candle in every window, to light the way of the holy family. Tonight, we lit the way for William too as he had promised to be home on Christmas Eve. I worked at the table on the accounts, the ledger lit by a rush light at my elbow and the candle in the window behind. I listened, in part to the murmurs of the other woman and in part for the crash of the gates and the ring of hooves in the courtyard. My additions showed that we were in credit by the smallest margin. Our difficulties in finding a market for our cattle, wool and linen were as severe as for any other Scottish farm. Our tenant farmers struggled to pay their rents and the fit, young men from the villages were taken to fight as mercenaries, rather than work the land. I sighed and threw my pen down, smearing ink across the page, recalling my argument with William about his spending.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ he’d shouted at me, ‘I need to be able to maintain a position in Edinburgh as the Earl of Nithsdale. That takes money.’

  ‘No, William, you must understand about living within our means. The more you spend in Edinburgh the less we have here. We thought we were frugal at St Germain but that was nothing compared to the savings we have to make now.’

  ‘Ah, St Germain, of course. I’d forgotten your perfect life at St Germain. You’re as mean as your father and, from what I’ve heard, as controlling as your mother.’

  ‘That’s so unfair, William. I’m simply trying to make sure we live without debt. And you are nothing like your mother, more’s the pity.’

  ‘Don’t bring my mother into this.’ William had swung his cloak around his shoulders and walked out, calling to me from beyond the parlour door, ‘I’ll return at Christmas and not before.’

  My mother-in-law interrupted my thoughts. ‘Are you alright, Win? Come and sit by the fire. Leave those until tomorrow.’

  I joined them by the hearth and warmed my hands. Lucy spoke to us both in a low voice, as if she feared being overheard. ‘Our neighbours have asked a few questions about William’s activities. I’ll talk to him once he’s home and remind him to take care. We don’t want trouble.’

  I rose and pushed at my stiff back and felt my bodice tighten over my breasts. I yawned, covering my mouth. ‘William says that since James II died and the French king recognised his son, the Jacobites are more hopeful of a restoration.’

  ‘Aye and that’s stirred everything up, made people around here angry.’

  ‘Whenever I visit our neighbours I hear nothing but respect for you, Lucy, so I’m sure it’s safe. I’m feeling very tired and a little sick, so I’ll go to bed and wait for William there. I’ll be so glad when this
nausea passes.’

  ‘He’ll be with us soon, don’t you fear. You get some rest. I’ll check on the little one for you before I go to bed.’

  I kissed her and Grace and climbed the narrow stone stairs to my room, the candlelight creating a tunnel of light with nothing but emptiness behind. I felt a prickle of fear and a surge of unexpected loneliness. I slipped into the room that my son still shared with Alice and held the candle close to his face so that I could see the fine blue veins in his eyelids and the dreams flickering behind. I watched his chest rise and fall and the candlelight shift against his breath. Alice snorted from her bed beside the wall and I left. I needed to check they were alive but I didn’t want them awake.

  In my room, I was irritated to see that the little girl who tended to the fires had allowed mine to burn low and knelt down to add more logs and gently blow on the grey embers. Satisfied that the wood had caught, I crossed to the window to close the shutters, shivering and pulling my shawl tightly around me. I could see nothing outside except night and heard only the cry of a fox but still I watched. He would come back tonight. He had promised.

  I thought I saw a light but it was only a moth dancing outside the window, then I saw it again, a light on the brow of the hill. Then many lights, dancing lights, moving. Men with torches. The men with torches were here again. I stopped breathing. I thought the blood from my heart would burst through my ears. I stumbled to the door and called out, ‘Alice! Grace! Lucy!’

  My voice sounded hollow and distant. I ran to scoop Will from his bed and shook Alice roughly. ‘Wake up! Wake up!’

  I stumbled down the staircase and burst in on a startled Grace and Lucy. ‘Bring blankets to the game larder, as many as you can, we’re under attack!’

  Time slowed. We secured the heavy door to the larder, which was one of the few rooms in the house with a lock. Between us we dragged the oak table across the flagstones and turned it so that even if the lock were forced, the door would not open. There was no window, only a small hole to allow air to circulate. We huddled on the floor, wrapped in blankets, shaking with cold and fear. Will clung to me and sucked his thumb. I prayed he wouldn’t cry.

  Suddenly, I sat upright and whispered into the dark. ‘We’ve forgotten the kitchen girl!’ No more than eight years old, she had been among the many children that roamed our countryside, stealing what they could to survive or dying, quietly and forgotten in the ditch, picked over by crows until their bones sank into the undergrowth. William had told Lucy to throw her out but Lucy refused and she slept in the kitchen by the fire, without a name, learning simple tasks and hiding stolen food under her blankets until the smell forced us to steal everything back from her and throw it away.

  ‘We have to leave her, it’s too late,’ Grace spoke. ‘We can’t risk fetching her. I hope she’s got the sense to hide away.’

  The waiting was the worst. The cold seeped into my bones through the stone floor and I retched at the smell of dead meat and blood from the game birds hanging above us. I heard everyone’s breathing above my own pounding heart and the click, click of Lucy’s rosary as she prayed for our lives.

  Like a storm in the night, the mob hit the house with a hail of breaking glass and splintering wood. Footsteps stamped above and we heard the sound of our heavy furniture being tossed aside in anger. We listened to the braying laughter of men beyond control, drunk on power and rectitude. I smelt the sweat of fear in our cell and urine that may have been from Will but might have been from any one of us. We clung together and I pressed my child to my breast, covering his ear with my hand. This would pass. It would be over. There would be morning. I closed my eyes and thought of waves crashing onto rocks, I thought of forcing a child from my body, I thought of the squealing anguish of the pig as he died. I began to tremble and then shake. My stomach cramped and I groaned with the pain. I felt a hatred for these men that rose in my throat like vomit. I would not stand for this.

  Feeling for Alice in the dark, I passed Will to her and pushed myself up from the floor. My stomach cramped again. I breathed until it passed then brushed down my robe and smoothed my hair. I was mistress of this house and the mob were only villagers who sold me food and worked in my fields. I heaved the table away from the door, feeling the strain on my belly and squeezed into the narrow space to unlock the door.

  Lucy and Grace spoke together, their voices trembling from the darkness. ‘What’s happening? Are they breaking in?’

  ‘No, it’s me. I’m going to speak to them. They’ve no right to be here. Lock the door behind me.’

  ‘Win please,’ Lucy pleaded, ‘think of the baby.’

  ‘I must go. If I don’t, we’ll always be afraid. Push the table back behind me.’

  I strode through the wreckage, most of the destruction hidden from me by the night. In the drawing room I found a straggler, helping himself to candles and I slapped him soundly on the back of the head. He startled and turned around, his eyes burning with panic and then he ran. I followed the sound of voices to the hall, where the men were gathered. In the light from their torches I saw that there were four ministers of the Kirk, waiting to address the mob. I recognised the minister from Torthorwald. I had only recently helped his wife with a potion for her child’s fever.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen, I hope you are pleased with your night’s work.’ My voice rang out, sharp and clear, and I heard my mother’s cold authority. In the shadows the men huddled, small and thin-faced. I was taller than most and pulled myself to my full height. Some of them turned away, afraid that I would see their faces. Others, out of habit, removed their hats and nodded to me. I heard some at the rear of the pack shuffle out of the hall, muttering. The ministers of the Kirk looked at me with contempt as if I was horse muck on their boots.

  ‘And what purpose did this serve, frightening women and children, left alone? You should be ashamed of yourselves, to treat your neighbours so.’

  ‘We believe that you are harbouring a priest and conducting idolatrous worship. We are within our rights to search your house.’

  ‘And did you find a priest? Did you find evidence of worship?’ I spoke with icy clarity.

  ‘You know that we did not. You have hidden the evidence. But we will be watching you and we will come again. Your husband’s father,’ this last word was spoken with contempt, ‘persecuted the families of these men for their beliefs. Now it is their turn. An eye for an eye.’

  ‘And does your righteousness include this,’ I gestured to the faeces smeared on the walls, ‘or this?’ I held up the arm of a broken chair. The men stepped back as if I was about to hit them. There was silence. We stood facing each other, uncertain who should move next. I heard a small child cry. A high, keening, wail, like a rabbit caught in a trap. I pushed through the men. They parted to let me pass as if I might strike them dead if they touched me. At the back of the hall, leaning against the stone arch to the kitchen, I found our stray child. She was dressed in a white shift that Lucy had cut down for her, so that she might learn not to sleep in her clothes. She lifted her shift and her cries deepened when she saw me. Her thin legs were streaked with blood. She had been raped.

  I lifted her into my arms, smelling the fluids of men who had torn her for their pleasure and carried her to the front of the crowd. I pointed to the blood so that all of them could see her violation. ‘And is this part of your righteousness?’ I heard more men leave from the back of the crowd and those trapped at the front shifted from foot to foot and loosened the cloths around their neck.

  One of the ministers took on a pulpit voice and addressed the remaining men. ‘The men who did this vile act will be caught and punished. Go home now, all of you.’

  The remaining men disappeared into the night and an incongruous group remained, the four ministers and the child cradled by me. The minister from Torthorwald turned towards me and spoke, still using the tone of a preacher. ‘Far worse than this was meted out to the people of these parts by your husband’s family and those like him. Yo
u have no friends here. Go back to England, or better, to France. And warn your husband that scheming to restore a Catholic king only serves to unite those who would impose upon us a union with England. He cannot win. Goodnight, Lady Nithsdale.’

  William arrived just before midnight and I had to hold him back from riding out to the ministers’ homes and seeking revenge. Instead, he paced the rooms that we had attempted to set right, pushing furniture aside and kicking anything that lay in his path. He filled our home with more male anger and we had already had our fill. I saw the look that passed between Grace and Lucy. They were waiting for me to deal with him.

  ‘Shut up, William, and sit down,’ I shouted. ‘Or help us to clean. If you can’t do either of those things then go to bed.’

  William looked at me, puzzled and uncertain, and fell into a chair, holding his head between his hands. Lucy and Grace slipped from the room.

  ‘Can’t you see how I feel?’ he pleaded, not raising his head. ‘My wife, child and mother attacked while I’m not at home. I could kill them with my bare hands. We know who they are. Surely you must let me gather some men and right this violation.’

  I pulled a heavy chair to his side and felt, again, a deep, low ache in my belly. I was drained of feeling. I didn’t want to have to look after him, suffering the shameful anger that arises from guilt. He deserves to feel this pain, I thought. I tried to keep impatience from my voice and spoke with a measured and reasonable tone that I hoped would keep my scorn in check.

  ‘If you do that, more harm will come to us. You might be hurt. If you kill one of them, you will be arrested and hanged. Despite the evidence I see around me, I believe that this is a civilised land. You must go to the law.’

  ‘And what would have happened if they’d done to you or my mother what they did to that kitchen maid, or if they’d killed you?’