An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  “A wild scheme!”

  “Daring if you like,” Colonel Brett said, “but not wild. You gentlemen here know as well as I do that we have for months now, nay years, been trying to get in touch with the present Duke. The old Duke, his father, died in ’45. He was eighty-one and on his deathbed when Prince Charles landed, therefore the Clan MacCraggan took no official part in the Rising, although several members joined individually.

  “The present Duke was abroad, and as he did not return to Scotland until our armies were defeated and our Prince forced to take refuge overseas, we do not know where his sympathies lie. You, gentlemen, and I both know what the support of the MacCraggan’s would mean to our plans for the future, but at the moment we are unable to say whether they will be for or against us.

  “Twice during this past year we have sent messengers to Scotland with instructions to get in touch with the Duke. The first was caught by the English and beheaded before he got to Skaig Castle, the other has never been heard of since. We have heard rumours of all sorts. The old Duke was supposed to have been in touch with the Hanoverian Usurper of the British throne but it is difficult to know if this is the truth or no. He inherited from his uncle and was therefore not important enough for us to have a record of his sympathies in the Rebellion of ’15.

  “The present Duke has great power. He has increased his territory since he inherited the title, his Clan, unlike many others, has not been persecuted. We want him on our side, but if he is to be our enemy, then let us know it and be forearmed.”

  “And this lady will undertake such a dangerous quest?” one man asked.

  “When I have finished Iona shall answer that for herself,” Colonel Brett replied. “There is one more thing. You all know of the ‘Tears of Torrish’, those fabulous diamonds that were given to our Prince before the Battle of Culloden. For safety they were sewn inside his bonnet, but when His Royal Highness was forced to fly from the battlefield, the wind blew his bonnet from his head. Thus the ‘Tears of Torrish’ were lost. For years we have been making what inquiries we could. The bonnet may have been trampled in the mud or someone who is still loyal to the Prince may have preserved it as a precious keepsake. We had almost given up hope of hearing of the diamonds again, when three months ago a rumour reached us – that the MacCraggan's knew something of the gems. If Iona goes to Skaig Castle, that is the second thing she may discover for us.

  “There is no need for me to tell you what the ‘Tears of Torrish’ would mean to the Prince at this moment. Five years ago they were valued at fifteen thousand pounds, today they may be worth a great deal more.”

  Colonel Brett drew a deep breath and laid both his hands face downwards on the table.

  “That, gentlemen, is my story. You have seen the miniature, you have seen Iona. If she will undertake this adventure with all its risks, with all its dangers, with all its penalties, I can tell you she will do it for one reason and one reason only – because she believes in our cause. She believes, as we do, that Charles Edward Stuart should reign over England and Scotland – as now and for all time he reigns in our hearts.”

  There was a sudden silence, a silence in which Iona knew they were waiting for her to speak. Her eyes went to the miniature, to the tiny gold bracelet, somehow pathetic in its very smallness, and then suddenly she got to her feet. She stood there in the candlelight looking so fragile and so delicate that for a moment those watching her felt that she had not the strength to undertake anything, not even to make the speech for which they waited. Then suddenly her eyes were open and they saw the fire within them, a fire that seemed suddenly to light her whole body as if it were a light shining through her.

  “You have spoken of this, Colonel,” she said softly, “as if what I have promised to attempt is a very great undertaking. Surely it is but a small thing to do for the Prince we love?”

  There was a little sigh from the assembled company, a sigh of relief as Iona spoke. Then from the shadows of the fireplace someone came walking towards the table. He stood for a moment behind his empty chair. The gentlemen rose and Iona looked across the table. Though she had never seen him before, she knew him even as she had known that he had been all the time listening in the darkness.

  In silence the men drew aside to let her pass, and then she was beside him, sinking at his feet in a deep curtsey, her lips against the hand he extended to her. Then he drew her to her feet, and she looked up into his blue eyes and saw in his handsome, whimsical countenance that strange, compelling charm which made men even against all logical conviction be ready to fight and to die for him.

  “Thank you, Iona,” he said, and at the sound of his voice her heart swelled within her with a joy that she could neither explain nor contain. Still holding Iona’s hand, the Prince turned towards the assembled company.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “if this lady will undertake such an adventure on our behalf, then we can only offer her both our blessing and our faith in her success.”

  His fingers tightened for a moment on Iona’s and then he released her hand.

  “A toast, Colonel,” he said, and lifted from the table the glass of wine which had stood in front of his empty chair.

  Five men lifted their glasses and turned towards Iona. She felt full of an excitement such as she had never experienced before. She felt a power within herself to achieve whatever was asked of her, because it was for his sake she attempted it and because of his faith in her.

  She clasped her hands together tightly. This moment was beyond happiness. The glasses were raised.

  “To Iona – the Little Pretender!” His Royal Highness said softly.

  2

  A church clock struck six as Iona got out of bed and pulled the curtains. The window of the hotel bedroom looked out over the grey roofs of houses hardly distinguishable from the sky.

  There was something drear and sombre about the scene and Iona shivered before she turned hastily to the room and began to dress. It had been after sunset the night before when the little French shipping packet La Petite Fleur had nosed its way slowly up the Moray Firth and into the harbour of Inverness.

  Iona had stood on deck since the first moment when she was told that the coast of Scotland was in sight. She had felt excited beyond expression at the thought of seeing the land, which, since her earliest memories, had been a part of her heritage. And then when she beheld the mountains rising peak upon peak against the crimson splendour of a setting sun, she had felt such a soul-stirring elation sweep over her that she could only stand trembling with the sheer intensity of her feelings, her face reflecting some of the glory which shone in the sky.

  The spray of the waves breaking against the bow of the ship glistened in her hair and on her cheeks, but she felt neither the damp nor the sharpness of the wind, and was so enthralled that she was unaware that Hector MacGregor, coming in search of her, watched her for some moments before he spoke.

  “Is it what you expected?” he asked at last softly.

  She turned to him with an effort as if he dragged her spirit back into the confines of her body.

  “Scotland at last!” she said softly. “My land, your land – and his land!”

  She spoke the last two words softly and it was a physical pain to think of their Prince exiled among foreigners, eating his heart out with yearning for the mountains and the heather.

  “Four years since I was here last,” Hector said gruffly, “and God knows it’s lovelier than ever.”

  There was so much pain in his voice that Iona threw him a quick glance of sympathy. She knew his story only too well, how his father and his two brothers had been killed at Culloden and a price put on his own head.

  After months of privation and incredible hardships he had managed to escape and join the Prince in France, but of all the exiles in the Royal entourage Hector MacGregor was the most restless, the most untiring in his plans and plotting for a triumphant return.

  Lean and wiry, his big bones and sandy head making it impossible for him
to disguise his nationality, Hector was only twenty-seven though he had acquired in those years experience enough to last the average man a lifetime. He had a natural severity of expression which was transformed by his smile, and which changed him from a taciturn Scot into a charming young man. A man, moreover with an irrepressible spirit and an unquenchable optimism. In a tight comer, in an odds-against fight in all times of danger, Hector was an invaluable companion and a partner without compare.

  It was the Prince who had insisted that someone should escort Iona from France to Scotland. She had been willing to make the journey alone, but His Royal Highness had been adamant on the point that someone must accompany her until she was safely on the Scottish shore.

  His chivalry had touched Iona, but she had lived in France long enough to know the dangers which would beset any young and pretty girl setting forth alone on a French packet which did not ordinarily carry passengers. Although she was prepared to brave whatever the dangers might be, it was with a sense of relief that she heard that Hector MacGregor had offered himself as her escort.

  It was dangerous for him, she knew full well, to go to Scotland and should he be recognised, there would be only one ending for the journey – the executioner’s axe. But when she spoke to him of her fears, he laughed.

  “I have taken graver risks,” he said, “and what’s more, it would be almost worth dying to see Scotland again, to smell the wind blowing across the moors and to hear people talking in a civilised tongue.”

  Iona laughed.

  It had not taken her long in their acquaintance for her to realise with what bitter contempt Hector, like many other of his countrymen, held the French. Nevertheless her fears for his safety increased as they grew nearer to the Scottish shore and she begged him to be careful.

  “I’ll be careful enough,” he answered. “Do not trouble your pretty head about me. I have friends whom I must see and work that I must do for the Prince before I return. Nevertheless, remember that from the moment we leave this ship we know nothing of each other. Speak of me to no one or if by any unfortunate chance you learn that I am in any predicament, deny any knowledge of me. To admit an acquaintance, however slight, would be to draw suspicion on yourself and your enterprise which, as you well know, is of the greatest import.”

  Iona had not needed Hector’s confirmation of what she already knew. Colonel Brett had spoken without undue emphasis of the task before her, but in the days that followed, when she had seen much of the Colonel and the gentlemen surrounding the Prince, she had begun to learn just how much value they put on the information she might obtain for them regarding the Duke of Arkrae.

  Expressions of loyalty reached the Prince continually from the Clans who had supported him four years earlier in his ill-fated march South. Many any of them were ghosts of their former selves, their leaders beheaded, and those of their clansmen that lived after the terrible Massacre at Culloden were hunted relentlessly and continuously by the victorious English troops.

  The Duke of Cumberland had countenanced the most bestial cruelty. Wounded Highlanders had been dragged from their hiding places and tortured or clubbed to death, their crofts had been burned to the ground and their women and children left to starve. In some cases a Clan had to all intents and purposes been wiped out, in others the survivors, scattered and impoverished, lived pitiable lives under the tyranny of the English Governors who watched their every movement with suspicion.

  The Clan MacCraggan, strong and wealthy, with its lands untouched and its Clansmen intimidated could, the Prince’s advisers thought, be strong enough, should they prove loyal, to carry His Royal Highness to victory.

  Iona had tried to imagine what the Duke of Arkrae would be like, but failed because no one could give her any clear details of him. The men who had been exiled after the Rising in ’15 as her guardian had been, had, of course, never met him, and the younger men who had fled to France after the defeat in ’45 were equally ignorant. Hector MacGregor, whom she had questioned on the journey over, could tell her little more than she knew already.

  “His Grace is of consequence,” he said, “firstly because of the strategic position of his land. Secondly, from all I hear he is the rising power in Scottish affairs. So many of our great men are lost to us – Kilmarnock and Balmerinoch executed, Keppoch and Strathallan killed in battle, Lochiel and Elcho in exile. If Arkrae is of the right way of thinking it may be the saving of Scotland.”

  “And if he isn’t?”

  Hector made a grimace.

  “Then let us know the worst,” he said. “’Tis better than hoping against hope.”

  He looked at her, shook his head, and she sensed the pity in his eyes.

  “They have set you a herculean task, my girl,” he muttered. “I’m not sure that I approve, it’s too risky.”

  Iona raised her head proudly and smiled at him.

  “I am not afraid,” she said, then hesitated, and added honestly, “Well – not very.”

  Hector MacGregor put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Of course you’re afraid,” he said. “We are all afraid when we go into battle and that’s what you are about to do, and the Lord knows I hate to see women fighting.”

  “But not in a battle of wits,” Iona replied.

  “There’s more to it than that,” Hector retorted. “What if you are caught? If they find out who sent you on this journey, it will be prison and perhaps worse.”

  “Torture?” Iona asked, her eyes wide.

  “Maybe,” Hector answered. “The English would give a great deal to know where the Prince is at this moment. He is, as you know, banished from Paris since King Louis signed the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, but most Frenchmen have a sneaking fondness for the Stuart cause and would look the other way if they met him. But the English would make trouble if they could. They’re afraid of another rising and so long as they’re afraid, they will do everything in their power to keep a check on the Prince’s movements.”

  “I am thankful I know so little,” Iona said. “His Royal Highness may have left Paris by now and be anywhere in Europe. How am I to know where he is?”

  “To be a Jacobite is enough to damn you!” Hector said. “But let us look on the bright side – even if all goes well, you will have to get away before you are proved an imposter. I suppose you have made plans for returning to France?”

  Iona nodded.

  “Colonel Brett has given me the name and address of someone I can trust in Inverness.”

  “Then let’s pray they are trustworthy and will be able to help you. Brett’s all right, but he is always full of schemes and ideas, many of which are impracticable when it comes to putting them into operation. Don’t rely on him too completely when it comes to details, Iona, check up where you can on your own. It’s your neck you’re risking, not his.”

  Iona looked startled.

  “But of course I trust the Colonel,” she said. “I have known him for many years and he lives only to serve the Prince.”

  “Yes, Yes,” Hector said testily. “I’m not questioning his loyalty, I’m just saying that sometimes he is so carried away by his grandiose schemes that the details are often forgotten or ignored. But attention to detail is often the difference between success and failure. Take, for instance, this plot in which he has involved you. The Colonel sees a miniature, decides that you resemble the lady in question and without further inquiry packs you off as a claimant to the title and identity of a child who he has been told was drowned seventeen years ago. Has he made absolutely certain that the girl was drowned? How does he know that the miniature is a picture of the child’s mother? Suppose the Duke carried a portrait of his favourite mistress with him, where do you find yourself then?”

  Hector spoke vehemently, but Iona threw back her head and laughed.

  “Oh, Hector! Hector!” she said, “What a basket of bogies you are carrying! I swear that your imagination easily exceeds the Colonel’s. Why, the old woman, Jeannie MacLeod, said that the child died in her
arms and they buried her at sea. She would not have lied on her deathbed. And the child had red hair! Someone said – I can’t remember who – that it is a characteristic of the MacCraggan’s, so the Colonel’s assumption that I might be accepted as the Duke’s sister is not so wild as you would pretend. After all, the drowned child would be just my age if she had lived.”

  “Yes, that’s true enough,” Hector said reflectively. “And the MacCraggan’s are red-headed – but there are many redheaded folk in Scotland.”

  “I won’t listen to you,” Iona declared. “You’re trying to frighten me, but what purpose will it serve? The adventure has begun and I must go through with it to the end.”

  “I know that,” Hector said, “but be on your guard. Promise me?”

  “I promise you,” Iona answered with all sincerity.

  She did not really underestimate the dangers that would be waiting for her at Skaig.

  Now in the chill of the morning Hector’s words came back to frighten her. Her hands trembled as she dressed herself and she knew it was not only with the cold. She had made inquiries the previous night and they had told her that there was a stage coach leaving at seven o’clock for Fort Augustus, which would bring her within some ten miles of Skaig Castle.

  Iona put on her travelling dress of dark green silk and arranged a clean white fichu around her shoulders. She had but few clothes. Colonel Brett had given her a small sum to fit herself out for the journey, but although Iona had expended it with meticulous care, her wardrobe was limited and the trunk in which it was carried was light enough to cause comment along the porters at the hotel.

  Such frugality was fitting, she thought, for a girl who was supposed to have been brought up by an impoverished nurse. All the same, she was feminine enough to wish that she could have arrived at Skaig Castle beautifully and fashionably garbed in gowns which would have given her courage and been a fitting background to her pretension to ducal lineage. She thought sadly of some of the lovely things she had owned before her guardian died, not that her gowns and manteaux had been exceptionally expensive, but she had been able to dress as befitted the cherished ward of a gentleman.