Two Crowns for America

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Justin, what on earth?” Arabella murmured as she came to sink down on a stool before the hearth.

  “This one is from Saint-Germain,” he said, extracting the length of thong until the small leather pouch at the end appeared. “He put it around my neck in Leipzig and said to let no one remove it unless I were to die in the process.” After looping the thong off over his head, he handed the pouch to Andrew with a profound sigh of relief.

  “There. That duty is accomplished, at least. He—laid some kind of—compulsion on me about it. I have no idea what it is. I couldn’t even bring myself to feel it through the bag. But you know what it is, don’t you?” he added accusingly, as the old man and his sister exchanged knowing glances.

  “Not—precisely,” Andrew replied, fingering the pouch. “But I know what its purpose is. Let us see what form it has taken, shall we?”

  Bending his attention to the object in his hand, he loosened the drawstring that held the pouch shut and reached inside. A wad of wool emerged between his fingers, like the one cushioning the glass eye, and he unfolded it to reveal a scrap of sky-blue silk wrapped around a beautiful moonstone, the shape and nearly the size of a pigeon’s egg. Two flat, narrow bands of polished silver encircled the stone, intersecting at the two ends. The smaller of the ends also had a small silver ring soldered at the crossing. Closer inspection revealed mystical symbols engraved on each of the bands, with more engraving on the undersides, visible through the stone.

  “Alchemical symbols?” Arabella murmured, not touching the stone itself but raising Andrew’s hand, so that candlelight shone through it from behind.

  “Hmmm, in part,” Andrew agreed. “Some are zodiacal signs, though, and others come straight from the Cabala.” He adjusted his monocle and brought the moonstone closer, then fished a magnifying glass out of a waistcoat pocket to inspect the underside of the bands.

  “The inside engraving is in Latin. That should present an easier starting point than the symbols. Or perhaps Saint-Germain has already done this for us.” He laid the moonstone back in its nest of silk and wool and handed it and the magnifying glass to Arabella before breaking the seal on the second of Saint-Germain’s letters.

  “Go ahead and see what you can make of it. You, too, Justin—see what you were carrying all these weeks. It won’t hurt you.”

  While they examined it, Arabella quite clinically, Justin with rather more caution, Andrew read his letter. When he had finished, he read it again, then folded it carefully and put it in his inside coat pocket.

  “An interesting proposition, and a challenging one,” he said, touching the fingertips of one hand to his breast. “I shall need to think more on this. May I see the stone again, please?”

  Arabella held it out to him, still in its cocoon, and he plucked it out with bare fingers, nodding as he looked at it again—though Justin had the impression that whatever Andrew was learning came as much from touch as from sight.

  “Yes. I think I understand—or will, when I have done as the Master commands. Meanwhile, I shall need to raid your work basket for some silk, Arabella.”

  “I’ll get it,” she said, rising to retrieve the basket from its place beside the fireplace. “Are you to wear the stone, then?”

  “On occasion.”

  She grimaced, lifting the lid to rummage inside. “I’m afraid the silk I have is very fine. Would a chain not be better?”

  He shook his head. “No, it must be silk. Blue would be best, but red or white will do nicely. Or purple, if you have it. Anything but black.”

  “Very well, here’s red,” she said, extracting a small ivory spool and unreeling a few inches of scarlet thread. “It’s even finer than I remembered, though. Silk is strong, but I doubt one strand will hold the weight of that stone safely.”

  As she gestured toward the gem in his hand, her face lit with an alternative idea. “How, if I were to crochet you a chain of the scarlet? It would be much stronger, and far less likely to tangle. Or ribbon? I have some narrow blue ribbon in here, I’m certain!”

  As she produced it triumphantly, a pale narrow length perhaps a yard long, Andrew smiled and lifted a hand to brush her cheek gently with the back of his fingertips.

  “There’s my clever girl!” he murmured. “The ribbon will be splendid. And thank you for not asking questions I cannot yet answer. Be assured, both of you, that I shall tell you what I may, as soon as I know myself.”

  His words brooked no further discussion on the subject, though both he and Arabella then proceeded to pump Justin for further details about Charles Edward Stuart. Justin shared what he could as they moved into the kitchen and Arabella set about supper preparations, but he found his tongue oddly uncooperative when he even thought about the things Saint-Germain had forbidden him to discuss.

  Sometime not too long after that, Prince Lucien joined them, making certain they heard him clumping down the stairs, appearing apologetically in the kitchen doorway with a quilt bundled around his shoulders.

  “I hope I have given you long enough to accomplish what needed to be done,” he said, “but it was colder than I realized. May I join you?”

  Any remaining awkwardness quickly disappeared this time, as Andrew made inquiry about the health of the prince’s father and then shifted deftly into a discussion of how the planned meeting with the Bostonians should be accomplished.

  “My original mission has been somewhat complicated by this additional task the Master has set for me,” the prince said when Andrew had pointed out the need to keep his presence secret, even among most of the Bostonians, if he planned to stay on afterward as a Jacobite agent among the British. “Now that you have had opportunity to read his instructions, how do you suggest we proceed?”

  Andrew considered his answer as Arabella ladled out steaming portions of lamb stew with dumplings for the four of them.

  “We shall need to consult with Simon first, of course,” he said, “but I think it wisest if your ‘official’ visit is confined to one meeting with a small, carefully selected group of local Jacobites. Ramsay’s offer was premature, as you know, and only a small faction within the Bostonian Party were privy to it in the beginning, but you can imagine the excitement as word has spread that you were coming—discreet within our number, I assure you, but they all are eager to meet you. Fortunately, I’ve been able to make them understand why too many would be dangerous.”

  The prince nodded gravely. “I appreciate your caution.”

  “In any event,” Andrew went on, “once you have made your official appearance, and ‘Count Rohan’ has departed for France, we shall do our best to shelter you until Dr.—Saint-John, is it?—is ready to infiltrate the British Army. I take it that the Master has instructed you in how you will pass information back to us while you play Saint-John, and how you’re to avoid being taken as a deserter, once it’s time to slip away and return to France?”

  The prince nodded. “To a certain extent I shall be relying upon Justin and Major Wallace for that—and General Washington.”

  The eyebrow arched above Andrew’s good eye. “He will need to know something about you, if you’re to act as his agent behind the British lines. But not who you really are, I take it?”

  “No—and not even of the Saint-John persona until after I have concluded my business with the Bostonians. A meeting is to be arranged before I go over. Justin has letters for Major Wallace that will clarify his part in this, and how he is to expedite my access to the General.

  “Also following my work with the Bostonians,” he went on, “there is the matter of a Master’s Lodge to be convened for Justin’s raising. Saint-Germain was most insistent that I be present. I would suggest that several of your Bostonians also should be included among the brethren invited, as their knowledge of Count Rohan’s presence and approval will strengthen Justin’s future credibility for our cause, despite his youth. Obviously, this must occur before Rohan returns to France, since I cannot return to Cambridge in any capacity once I have taken th
e Hanoverian shilling.”

  Justin frowned. “You won’t simply enlist, will you?”

  The prince smiled and shook his head. “No, I have letters of introduction that will secure me a respectable commission without any questions being asked. But that is Dr. Saint-John’s mandate. Meanwhile, Count Rohan has much to do. First of all, I shall need to meet with Major Wallace, the sooner the better. Then we must make arrangements for the meeting with the Bostonians. As you can see, a great many details will need to be worked out.”

  They discussed more of those details while they ate, gradually shifting back to Andrew’s reminiscences of the Forty-Five and the prince’s retelling of stories his father had told him about that last stand at Culloden. By the time they were ready to retire, the prince had put them all at their ease, and even Andrew felt far more reassured about his presence.

  The next morning dawned cold and clear. The prince was still deeply asleep, so Justin dressed quietly and went downstairs for a quick breakfast of porridge and ale before heading off to Vassall House, where General Washington had moved his headquarters in mid-July. He was not yet commissioned, so he wore civilian attire, but he had Simon’s letters on him and came proudly to attention as his brother-in-law entered the room where he had been asked to wait.

  “Brevet Lieutenant Carmichael reporting for duty, sir,” he said.

  “Justin, welcome back!” Simon came to pump the younger man’s hand enthusiastically and thump him on the back. “When did you arrive?”

  “Last night.” Justin grinned as he reached into his coat to produce Simon’s mail. “There have been some new permutations of what we thought was going on, however,” he said. “If you’ll read these first, it will probably save a lot of explaining.”

  When Simon had skimmed through the two letters addressed to him, he folded them and slid them into his inside pocket.

  “I shall give these my fuller attention later,” he said, “and I shall arrange to come home for supper this evening. What is he like?”

  Justin nodded speculatively. “You’ll like him, I think. I do. He isn’t at all what I expected. But, then, this whole situation isn’t what any of us expected, is it? Incidentally, I wonder if I might see the General for a few minutes, while I’m here. On the voyage over, I had some very informative conversations with a Hessian officer that I think he ought to know about.”

  When Simon had heard a brief account, he agreed.

  “Wait here, and I’ll ask if he can see you now,” he said. “I’ve already seen to your commission, but this will clinch it.”

  Ten minutes later Justin was entering the General’s office with Simon, standing stiffly to attention.

  “General, Mr. Justin Carmichael,” Simon said.

  “Please be at ease, Mr. Carmichael,” the General said, leaning back in his chair to appraise the new arrival. “Major Wallace speaks very highly of you. Please stay, Major. Now, what’s this about German mercenaries being hired by the British?”

  After five months of command, Washington looked every one of his forty-three years, the craggy face drawn with fatigue, though he also looked every inch the General. As Justin recounted what the German officer had told him about negotiations between the British government and the Landgrave of Hesse, he found himself focusing on the blue riband across the great man’s chest that identified him as the Commander in Chief, even if the three stars on the epaulets had not also proclaimed that fact. It was very like the King’s Garter riband, though of a darker blue. The desk in front of Washington was covered with dispatches in various stages of preparation; and as Justin finished telling everything he knew, the General jotted down a few notes and turned his attention to Simon, waiting attentively a few feet behind Justin.

  “Your young aide has made a fine beginning to his military career, Major,” he said with a nod. “I think you’d better give him his commission and see that he gets into proper uniform as soon as possible. And, Lieutenant Carmichael—thank you for bringing this to my attention. Dismissed.”

  “Sir!” Justin said, unable to control a grin as he snapped to attention and saluted.

  A brief return to Simon’s office produced the promised commission, backdated to the day Washington had taken command. Simon swore him in, calling in Thomas Mifflin as witness, then sent him home briefly to don the blue and buff Continental uniform that Arabella had ready for him. Justin then remained with Simon for the rest of the day, catching him up on further details of his absence whenever the opportunity presented itself and preparing him to meet the prince later that evening. Simon still was somewhat dubious by the time they left Vassall House, just after dark, but he was prepared to be convinced that the prince was, indeed, the powerful piece in the game that Justin now believed him to be.

  At Andrew’s direction Arabella had laid supper in the library for him, Simon, and the prince. She had already put the children to bed by the time Simon and Justin arrived, and laid two more places in the kitchen. Andrew and the prince were waiting in the parlor, and the latter came gracefully to his feet as the master of the house entered.

  “You must be Major Wallace,” the prince said, offering his hand. “Lucien Rohanstuart. I believe we have much to discuss.”

  “So Justin has informed me,” Simon said with a smile, taking the prince’s firm handclasp. “A belated welcome to my home, sir. I must apologize for my fellow Bostonians who have precipitated matters so as to require your presence. Justin has told me something of your—enhanced mission.”

  The prince smiled. “I had hoped that he would—and that he will not be offended if we excuse him from our meeting this evening,” he added, glancing at Justin. “He will not mind dining with your goodwife, I hope—who has prepared us a very fine meal—for I think that in the last few months he has heard quite enough of what I have to say regarding the Stuart cause. Besides that, other matters requiring discussion this evening are best kept among Master Masons, regarding how and when he is to be made one himself.”

  Justin’s momentary disappointment at being excluded was quite overshadowed by Simon’s appreciative chuckle.

  “Now I see why the French are noted for their diplomacy,” he said easily. “Allow me to compliment you on your handling of the language, Prince.”

  Their visitor smiled again. “Please, no such titles among brethren,” he said. “May I suggest that you refer to me as Brother Lucien, if title you must use, for both my surnames are apt to fall awkwardly upon the tongue in this context. And if I may, I shall call you Brother Simon, since otherwise there should be two Brother Wallaces to confuse the issue. You will pardon me, I hope, Brother Andrew, if I occasionally slip and refer to you as Chevalier, since that is the way my father has always spoken of you.”

  On this note of informality and genial fraternity, the three retired to the library and remained behind closed doors for the rest of the evening.

  Chapter Eight

  It did not take long for word of Justin’s return to Cambridge to reach interested ears. The next morning Andrew was enjoying a bowl of porridge oats with his youngest grandson and his daughter-in-law when a determined knocking called Arabella to the door. Simon had stayed the night, but he and Justin had already set out for Vassall House; the prince was still abed.

  “Why, good morning, Dr. Ramsay,” Andrew heard his daughter-in-law exclaim, rather louder than would have been necessary. “Yes, Justin arrived home the night before last, very late, I believe he intends to call on you this afternoon. He said something about a letter for you. But do come in and have a bowl of tea.”

  Her warning gave Andrew time to compose his thoughts, so that by the time she ushered James Ramsay into the kitchen, Andrew was wearing a bland, indulgent smile.

  “Good morning, James,” he said easily, though he did not get up. “I’m afraid you’ve missed Simon and Justin. The General scheduled an early staff meeting. Say good morning to your namesake.”

  Ramsay’s pale gaze had darted around the kitchen as he entered behind
Arabella, but he flashed a forced smile in the direction of young James Wallace, who was feeding porridge to a small painted horse with red wheels.

  “Good morning, Jamie-lad. Andrew, may I have a word with you in private?”

  “Of course.”

  Taking his time, and leaning far more heavily on his stick than was necessary, Andrew led Ramsay into the library and closed the door.

  “Well?” Ramsay whispered. “Is he here?”

  “Is who here?”

  “The prince!” Ramsay replied. “Don’t try to tell me that he didn’t come back with Justin. I know that someone did. He calls himself Dr. Rohan.”

  “Very good,” Andrew said, sitting down and easing his bad leg onto a footstool. “Please sit down. Did you get the name off a ship’s manifest?”

  “One of my agents did,” Ramsay said sourly. “Is he the prince?”

  “Actually, it’s Count Rohan, for our purposes,” Andrew replied. “Do sit down, James, or I shan’t tell you anything more. No one is trying to keep him from you, but the poor man was exhausted after his journey. You know what the weather has been like. I believe Arabella already told you that Justin had planned to call on you this afternoon.”

  Ramsay subsided onto a chair with a sigh, rubbing both hands across his face. His pale hair was almost the same shade as his fawn-colored coat and was tied back with the white silk ribbon that was his personal badge of loyalty to the Jacobite cause.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s just that we’ve waited so long.…”

  “Not nearly long enough,” Andrew replied sharply. “We’re fortunate, indeed, that the King was willing to send his cousin as a gesture of his continued goodwill, when our offer was so woefully premature. But I will not dwell on the past,” he added as Ramsay looked up resentfully. “Count Rohan requests that a meeting be arranged as soon as possible and suggests that its number be limited to no more than a score.”

  “Why not all?” Ramsay demanded. “Surely all of us have a right—”