Flora frowned at her mending. Cumberland was also in peril from those who resented the heavy hand of allies such as Argyll, not to mention from those who would curry the favor of the new regime. By now half the island would know he was lodged at her stepfather’s house.
Allan chuckled, but there was little humor in his voice. “You would have done better to have surrendered yourself to Prince Charles, who would have treated with you honorably and sent you home alive and whole.”
“Surrender my sword to the Old Pretender’s whelp, a puking boy barely out of the nursery?” Cumberland bellowed, overlooking the fact that he and the Prince were the same age. “The Young Pretender is under petticoat patronage, I hear, his supporters stirred up by their women, wanton Jacobitesses. Like the lovely Miss Flora, perhaps? A pretty little chit, ripe for the taking, eh, MacDonald? Have you had the use of her?”
The needle stabbed deep. Flora thrust her wounded forefinger into her mouth and looked in horror at her mother. Marion was already on her feet. But before she could take a step toward the dining room came the sound of a chair crashing back and a glass breaking.
Allan’s voice trembled with rage. “My family and I offer Your Grace hospitality, and this is how he repays it?”
Campbell’s voice murmured of misunderstandings, Scott’s of unwitting slurs and apologies on offer.
Another chair scraped. Cumberland snarled, “You call this hovel, this swill, hospitality? Why, I have banqueted with kings, you boor.”
“You pile insult upon injury,” said Allan coldly. “I have no choice but to demand satisfaction according to the Code Duello. Name your second, Your Grace.”
Flora tasted blood. Her stomach went hollow. Marion sank back into her chair, her complexion milk-white. “Oh Allan, no.”
“So the bumpkin plays at being a gentleman?” sneered Cumberland.
“My father is factor to Lord MacDonald, Your Grace. I have but lately served in His Majesty’s militia. I am a gentleman.”
“Then Captain Campbell will second me. And I offer you the services of Lieutenant Scott. They will provide us with their pistols.”
More soothing murmurs came from Scott and Campbell, along with the clink of glass on glass. Flora suspected that additional punch and claret would not assist a peaceful resolution of the situation, but she had no idea what might do so. Should she try to persuade Allan out of his rash enterprise? Hardly. He’d look at her as though she’d lapsed into a tongue that he did not recognize. He could rightly claim that whilst he played the host here, this was not his house and he was not bound by hospitality to overlook such an infamous slur.
He was not bound by common sense, either, Flora told herself.
“As to duelling,” Marion said weakly, “there is no case where one or other must die. If you have overcome your adversary by disarming him, your honor or the honor of your family is restored.”
“Will either of these men stop at disarming the other?” returned Flora. “There is no rationality in dueling. Nor legality, come to that.”
“No.” Marion looked into her sewing basket, as though the answer were concealed there.
“For all his recklessness,” Flora went on, “I do not wish Allan dead. But either the Duke will kill him or he will kill the Duke. And if he kills the King’s son here, within reach of Argyll and the Royal Navy, then he is as good as dead. If the matter were tried in a Scottish court, with feelings running as they are now, he might be acquitted of the charge of murder. But not in an English court. They would inflict upon Allan the penalities they have been thwarted of inflicting upon the Prince himself.”
In the dining room Cumberland and Allan were still exchanging insults, somewhat slurred now but no less bellicose. Campbell’s voice said something about dawn. Scott expanded upon the issue. “The wind may be in the man’s face . . . he may fall . . . many such things may decide the superiority. In the daylight, though, such a matter of honor . . .”
Flora had little hope that in the morning the men would have forgotten the words exchanged in their alcoholic fever. “We must spirit His Grace away before he brings disaster upon us, unwittingly or no.”
“He might be recognized upon the road by someone who has taken up the Prince’s cause,” protested Marion. “Unless he is returned safely to his countrymen, we can expect reprisal. Better to have him wait here, and send his aides to Argyll asking for a troop of men.”
“But then he would insist on settling his matter of honor with Allan, as Allan would with him . . .” Faintly but distinctly Flora heard shouts and the sharp discharges of firearms. She rose to her feet, but before she could peer cautiously out between the window shutters the rotund figure of Betty appeared in the doorway.
“What is happening?” asked Marion.
“A wedding party in the village.”
“No one has married this week.”
“Aye,” said Betty, her voice dropping into a husky whisper and her eyes glancing toward the dining room. “I’m knowing that, and you’re knowing that, but he’s not knowing that, is he now?”
Flora had to smile, if half-heartedly. The villagers wished to celebrate the Pretender’s—the Prince’s—victory without attracting the attention of Cumberland or any other Hanoverian supporters. How clever, to themselves pretend . . . Suddenly she knew the answer. Looking from Marion’s sewing basket to Betty’s furrowed countenance, she asked, “Has Donald returned from making his enquiries?”
“Oh aye. Argyll and his men are not to be found in these airts, but an English ship is sheltering in Loch Eishort.”
“There you are, then!” Flora knotted her hands into fists. “Mother, I will convey the Duke to that ship.”
“How?” Marion demanded.
“To begin with, there are many ways of interpreting shouts and the discharge of weapons in the night. I imagine the villagers have a bonfire as well?”
“Aye, that they do,” said Betty.
“Then this must be our strategy.”
Mistress and maid shared a long speculative glance as Flora spoke, and offered more than a few words of dissent, but in the end they had to agree that of all their choices, Flora’s plan was the only possible one.
The voices in the dining room rose. Chairs scraped. “I shall linger in this company no longer,” said Allan. “Good night, Your Grace. Until the dawn.” Uneven footsteps crossed the hall and mounted the stairs.
“Good,” Flora said. “Allan has gone to his bed. May he sleep the deepest sleep of his life.”
“Leave him to me.” Marion slipped catfooted up the stairs, her passage marked only by the swish of her skirts.
Betty sat down, opened Marion’s sewing basket, and threaded a needle. Squaring her shoulders, Flora marched into the dining room.
The three men stood together at the end of the table, inspecting a brace of pistols. The air was thick with the scents of food and sweat. Spilled claret stained the table linens, red as blood. That would be a difficult stain to eradicate, Flora told herself with a weary sigh. But first things first. “Listen,” she said.
The three faces turned abruptly toward her. Scott’s and Campbell’s were tight and pale, Cumberland’s swollen with self-righteousness. “Listen,” Flora said again, and walked across to the window.
Another ragged volley of gunfire drew a similarly ragged response from the nesting seabirds. Now that they were silent the men also heard the sounds. They exchanged looks of apprehension.
Flora opened one of the shutters. A distant fire tinted the night orange. Praying silently that God would forgive her her lies—they were for the greater good, after all—she said, “Cameron’s clansmen have braved the Sound, Your Grace, and are hot upon your heels. As yet they are contenting themselves with sacking the village, but soon . . .”
“Barbarian rabble,” stated Cumberland.
Allan would know that Cameron of Lochiel would never allow his men to plunder—at least not until their mission had been completed. But Allan was not here to say so
. Flora said, “Before long someone will tell them that you are within these walls, Your Grace. A ship of the Royal Navy is only a few hour’s walk away. I will take you there. But we must leave now.”
“I shall only leave after I teach your impudent puppy of a cousin his lesson.”
Flora made a demure curtsey. “The truth of the matter, Your Grace, is that Allan is no cousin of mine. He is one of our servants. I beg your pardon on behalf of my family, but surely you will understand our predicament, three women alone in the house and brigands abroad.”
Cumberland gobbled indignantly. “He is no gentleman? And I shared my repast with him!”
“Under such circumstances, Your Grace need have no scruple about abandoning this affair of honor.”
Outside a single shot was followed by the concerted shout of several voices. Flora clung to her bashful mien even as her mind raced ahead. What if men from the village, encouraged by liquor, decided to raid the house and drag Cumberland away? She hoped they did not know about the reward.
“Your Grace,” Campbell said, “I beg of you, heed this young lady, your loyal subject, and leave this place forthwith. In disguise, if at all possible, as we were seen arriving here. Miss MacDonald . . .”
Flora never thought she’d find cause to bless a Campbell, but she did so now. “An excellent idea, Captain.” She heard Marion walking back down the stairs and edged toward the door.
“Disguise?” demanded Cumberland. “Infamy!”
“Greater infamy,” Scott said, “to be taken by such a rabble. They are not even regular soldiers! Why, they might return us to Edinburgh, there to kneel before the Pretender.”
Flora spared a blessing for Scott as well. “I should think these—irregular soldiers—would care less for your sword, Your Grace, than your person. Imagine the smile upon the Young Pretender’s face when he sees your head spiked above the gates of Edinburgh Castle. He would not then regret losing the opportunity to accept your sword in surrender, for you would have made an even more profound surrender to him and his house.”
From the village came the brave skirl of bagpipes. The scarlet hue drained from Cumberland’s porcine face.
“I know you find your own safety of little moment, Your Grace,” Flora went on in her meekest voice, “but as a prince of the blood surely you will grant this house protection from reprisals by wearing a disguise.”
“Very well then,” said His Grace, with little grace indeed. “What is this disguise you have settled upon?
“Come with me,” Flora said. And to the two aides, “You must hide your weapons away. Just now we cannot afford to call attention to ourselves.”
She shooed the Duke toward the parlor as though he were a particularly difficult sheep.
* * * * *
Ord, Isle of Skye, April 20, 1746.
The chill morning seemed as uncertain as the night, the light of the rising sun masked by cloud and mirk. Flora leaned forward, half-dozing in her saddle, then jerked awake at the sudden call of a flock of oyster catchers flying up from a field beside the road.
Several people dressed in their best walked by, no doubt on their way to Sunday services. “Good morning,” said the patriarch with a tip of his hat.
Flora returned the greeting. Her maid, walking beside her as was the custom, did not.
Several steps further on the man murmured, “Upon my word, that’s the ugliest lass I have ever seen.” His wife shushed him.
Flora tried not to smile. William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, was not particularly handsome as a man. As a woman, his face would sink a thousand ships. It had not abandoned its scowl since they left Armadale. Now it creased even deeper, his constant complaints of a sore head from the previous night’s intake of liquor and lack of sleep overwhelmed by mutterings of dignity denied and position perverted. Flora pretended not to hear.
She, Betty, and Marion had sewed an extra length of cloth onto the lower hem of Betty’s old calico gown and added a quilted petticoat on top, to camouflage the change from one sprigged flowery pattern to another. A large cloak and hood after the Irish fashion helped to conceal the Duke’s petulant features. Nothing could disguise his stride. His legs and feet, clothed in stockings, garters, and suitable shoes, moved in long ponderous steps, as though he wanted to proclaim to the world that he was not actually a woman.
If they were stopped and searched the pistols beneath his dress would give the game away. But he had refused to leave the house without them, coming so close to an inconvenient fit of rage that Flora at last acceded to his demand. She could only suppose that if he were searched thoroughly enough to reveal the pistols the fraud would be revealed in any event. She glanced around, her saddle creaking.
Campbell and Scott walked several paces behind, wearing Donald’s and her stepfather’s cast-off clothes covered by loose plaids. She had told them more than once to walk proudly, as members of the clan, not humbly, prepared at any moment to knuckle their foreheads. Still the young men slouched along in the manner that they no doubt expected of their own tenants.
Flora looked ahead. There, the Cuillins were appearing through the mirk. Their dark stone seemed more storm cloud than rock, save for the line of razor-edged peaks which etched the sullen sky.
Below the mountains lay Loch Eishort. And yes, thank the Good Lord, an English ship rose and fell to slow leaden surge of the waves. From a mast fluttered the Union Jack, the emblem created by combining England’s flag with those of Wales, Scotland, and Ireland—the latter as much a thorn in the English side as Scotland itself. Now, Flora wondered, would the Scottish saltire be removed from the brave red, white, and blue banner?
The party made its way down a steep, muddy slope to a rocky beach. The horse slipped and scrambled. So did Cumberland. At one sloppy patch he went sprawling, his skirts riding up to his plump, breeks-clad thighs. Cursing, he gained the beach, splashed through a tidal pool, and clambered upon a rock. His emphatic gestures earned no response from the ship’s crew, although Flora caught the dull gleam of a telescope trained upon them from the quarterdeck.
Campbell and Scott waved their plaids up and down. Cumberland hitched up cloak and dress, produced a pistol, and fired it into the air.
Flora’s horse started at the sudden report. She reined him in and peered toward the ship, hoping that the men’s actions would not be interpreted as provincial insolence and thereby attract a cannonade.
Many men were now gazing over the ship’s gunwales. Officers gestured. Sailors lowered a boat. Others pointed weapons toward the shore.
“You have returned to your own,” Flora told the Duke. “I shall take my leave.”
Captain Campbell stepped forward with a bow. “Please make our compliments to all those to whom we have given trouble.”
“Indeed,” added Lieutenant Scott, with a bow of his own.
Cumberland laid his meaty hand on Flora’s knee. His wig had been left behind, and his hair hung lank around his face. His eyes, half concealed in folds of flesh, gleamed up at her. “If you should happen to find yourself in London, Miss MacDonald, I should provide you with a small establishment of your own and as fine an assortment of gowns as any female could wish.”
She opened her mouth to offer a polite response, realized just what he was offering, and shut it again. A tug on the reins and she was free of his presumptuous hand, with the bonus that her horse’s hoof pressed Cumberland’s foot into the sand—not, alas, against a rock. He jerked back with a vicious oath.
“You are very welcome,” she said to the other officers, and to the Duke of Cumberland she said, “I hope, Your Grace, that you will never find cause to appear in this part of the world again.”
“God forbid, woman, God forbid.”
Amen, Flora added to herself.
He turned toward the approaching boat, favoring his foot, but shook away Campbell’s supportive hand. Ripping off his outer clothing, the Duke stamped them in disgust into the sand and seaweed. No hope of returning the dress to Betty, then.
Flora urged her horse toward the path. Behind her she heard the boat’s keel scrape against the sand, and the voices of Campbell and Scott identifying themselves and their superior. In return came the greetings of the ship’s officer, and then something she had not expected to hear at all, laughter, quickly shouted down.
She gained the top of the hill, prodded her horse into a trot, and did not look back.
* * * * *
Armadale, Isle of Skye, April 20, 1746.
Her mother greeted Flora at the door, the candle in her hand guttering in the wind. “Come sit yourself down by the fire. I’ll tell Betty to bring bread, cheese, and porter.”
In the parlor Flora found Allan waiting. Politely he stood up and offered her his chair. She folded her aching limbs into it and extended her icy hands toward the fire burning hot and fragrant above the stack of peats.
“I’m pleased to see you returned safely,” he said.
“I fell in with a troop of MacLeods, and they escorted me home.”
“Our—guest is now safely aboard ship?”
“Aye. He is that.”
“And not grateful for our help, I daresay.”
“Not especially.” She did not tell Allan about the Duke’s last offer, or else her cousin would have hunted him down and shot him where he stood. “And you? I trust you slept well?”
“Much too well. When I awoke the dawn was past. But when I hurried to make my appointment on the field of honor I found the door locked. Your mother would only open it when I gave her my word not to follow you.” Allan shook his head. “There was no need to lock me in, Flora. If Cumberland chose to flee this battle, just as he fled the battle at the Spey, it is no reflection upon me.”
“Very true.”
“However, it would be better if we never told anyone that part of the story.”
Flora considered the leaping flames reflected in Allan’s eyes. Please God he would never realize that her entire plan had been intended to protect him from himself, even to denying his rank to the Duke and his men. If she could hardly bear to see her dashing cousin humiliated, neither could she tolerate his anger. And he would be irrational enough to be angry, not grateful. “I shall never speak a word of it. Although I daresay no one will have enough interest in the story for me to speak at all.”
The Muse and Other Stories of History, Mystery, and Myth Page 21
