Beth wondered whether the mirrors had been removed to prevent her going into a fit of hysteria about her ruined beauty, or whether her jailors had realised that, if smashed, a piece of silvered glass could be a formidable weapon or a means to end one’s own life. Probably not; her enemies had always underestimated her, judging her by her physical attributes rather than her mental ones.
The highlight of her week was receiving a new book. She could now manage to read for several hours at a time, although occasionally the words would start to dance across the page, and then she would close her eyes for a time to rest them. She had no idea what was causing this, but assumed that there had been some slight damage to her brain after all.
She did not get to choose the weekly book, and her requests to read the newspapers went unheeded. She didn’t know whether this was because her jailors wished her to feel isolated from the world in general, or because the supposed Hanoverian victory had not been as complete as they would like her to believe. She prayed for the latter to be true, but did feel isolated. She longed for news, any news, but all her questions and entreaties to the servants were rewarded with silence.
She knew she was in the house of a warder, but had no idea what he looked like, because he never visited her, although she knew he had a family because once, about a week before, there had come a knock on the door and a child had called a greeting to her and had attempted to turn the doorknob before being dragged away by an adult, his voice high-pitched and complaining as it receded down the corridor.
In the last two weeks she had established a routine. She would rise as late as possible, wash, braid her hair, put on a clean shift and her dressing-gown, and then eat breakfast, after which she would alternately read, walk around the rooms for exercise, or sit by the window looking out. In the evening she would eat her dinner and sit by the fire gazing into the flames until she felt tired enough to sleep.
Last week the much-awaited book had been Paradise Lost. She had read the first few pages and then had been transported to the opulence of Versailles, had felt again the lips of King Louis of France on hers as he had attempted to claim her as his mistress in front of the whole Court, had remembered Alex’s explosion of rage in their room later, and her hot reaction to it. She remembered the sun on her face as she sat in the gardens, the smiling green eyes of her companion as they debated Milton’s treatment of women, the prickly feel of the bushes she had hidden in as she watched those same eyes gaze into the icy sapphire depths of Sir Anthony’s, before glazing over in death.
And then she had sat for a while, vacantly staring out across Tower Green, had put the book aside, and had spent the time she would normally have occupied by reading in exercising her arms as best she could with the materials to hand.
This afternoon she would be brought another book, which she awaited with great eagerness as it was the only thing she had to look forward to in a sea of ennui, although she betrayed no emotion whatsoever in front of her attendants, another skill she was practising, ready for the day when she would need it, which would come soon.
She hoped it would come soon, not because she was looking forward to her interrogation, but because she knew it was inevitable and wanted it to be over with. She was, and always had been, a woman of action, and the waiting, now she was almost healed, was driving her insane, as her jailors no doubt intended.
Patience. She must practice that too, and if she could not master it then she must appear to have done so.
And so it was that, when a new volume was brought for her that evening along with her dinner, she ignored it completely and concentrated on eating her lamb chop and vegetables whilst the servant bustled about closing the shutters, lighting the candles and making up the fire. After she had finished eating, she casually picked up the book to look at the title written in gold lettering on the spine.
Pamela by Samuel Richardson.
She replaced the book on the table disinterestedly and went to sit in her accustomed place by the fire, staring into the flames until the maid had left and she knew she would not be disturbed again that evening.
Then she retrieved the book and sat down again. She did not open it; instead she ran her fingers lightly along the spine and cover, feeling the slightly raised surface of the gold tooled lettering, while she remembered another time when she had needed, or thought she had needed to hide her emotions and feign indifference, a time when she had had to endure the presence of the hideous and superficial Sir Anthony as he simpered about the room while her most treasured possession at the time was burning to cinders in the library fireplace. Or so she had believed.
Beth closed her eyes and allowed herself to become completely immersed in the past, just for a short time. She saw again the twin of the book she was now holding, far too high for her to reach on a shelf in her cousin’s library, and the baronet effortlessly reaching to lift it down for her. She smelt the cloying fragrance of his violet cologne, which had nauseated her at the time and which she would do almost anything to smell again now. She looked up, and saw his eyes smiling down at her as he talked about the book, revealing in doing so that he had heard the argument she had had with her brother earlier. He had such beautiful slate-blue eyes, with tiny gold flecks scattered in the irises, fringed by impossibly long lashes, in a face made hideous by lead paint and rouge.
She saw the same face, handsome this time without its makeup, the slate-blue eyes closed, the long lashes resting on his cheeks as he slept on Drumossie Moor the morning of the battle, his head resting on her lap, his arm flung out to the side, fingers lightly curled. She remembered pushing his chestnut hair back off his face, and seeing in the relaxed features what he must have looked like as a boy, innocent and carefree. She remembered looking around, seeing Duncan and Angus similarly sleeping, and her heart contracting with a love that was physical.
Frantically she tried to pull her mind back into the present, but it was too late; in her imagination she saw Alex as she never had in life, broken and dying on the same moor, the long lashes closing over slate-blue eyes that would never smile or see the beauty of an April morning again.
She stood abruptly, the book falling to the floor, and drew in a huge shuddering breath before doubling over as the agony of grief and loss consumed her, an agony far more painful than her physical wound had been, an agony that would never leave her, until she joined him in death.
He must be dead, for if he was not, why had he not come for her as he’d promised he would?
She could not bear it, to be without him, forever. But she had to. Somehow she had to pull herself together, to stay strong, to show no weakness, under any circumstances. She heard a low keening noise in the room, and realised with horror that it was coming from her mouth, and that she could not stop it. Hot tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over, pouring down her cheeks as she threw herself into bed, pulling the covers over her head and burying her face in the pillow as she wept, the sobs racking her body and making her head throb. She had to stop the occupants of the house hearing that she had given way, that she cared, that she could be broken. That she was already broken, irreparably.
* * *
By the next morning she had recovered her equilibrium. She had finally cried herself to sleep, waking in the early hours of the morning, her throat sore and her pillow drenched in tears. She had risen and bathed her swollen eyes with cold water from the ewer, had drunk some wine, and then had picked the book that had inspired the torrent of memories and emotions up from the floor where she had dropped it, and had placed it under her pillow before lying down to try to get a few more hours of sleep before the servant came with breakfast.
After breakfast Beth sat calmly by the window as usual, staring out at the grass below. She would sit there for an hour or so and then would do some exercises, she decided. It was a fine day, and she would have loved to open the window and feel the air on her face; but it had been nailed shut, presumably so that she could not make a rope from her bedsheets or gowns and attempt to e
scape from the room. Even if she had, she would still be in the Tower grounds, and there were guards posted at all the exits.
There was a knock on the door, which made Beth jump; although she had no clock she could tell by the position of the sun that it was not lunchtime. After a moment the door opened and a maid entered accompanied by two soldiers who stood stiffly to attention in the doorway while the maid approached Beth and curtseyed, then cleared her throat nervously.
“Excuse me, my lady, but there is a gentleman who wishes to see you, and these men have come to take you to him.”
Beth’s pulse immediately quickened, and she felt the rush of adrenaline surge through her. So, here it comes. Stay calm, she admonished herself.
“Which gentleman?” she asked coolly, as though it was of no real matter to her.
The maid flushed.
“I don’t know, my lady,” she said. “I was sent to help you dress.”
For a moment Beth was tempted to go as she was, her hair still tangled from sleep, in her shift and dressing gown; it would show her contempt for the ‘gentleman’, whoever he was. But if she did she would lose the possible advantage that her aristocratic background could give her. It might also give the impression that she was sexually available.
She stood.
“Very well. Please sit down. I will not keep you waiting long,” she said to the soldiers, who looked surprised to be addressed by her. One of them smiled and even made a move to sit, but his companion coughed and the young man shot to attention again.
It did no harm to show kindness to a soldier; it might come in useful in the future.
* * *
Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle, sat behind a large desk in his office in Whitehall, awaiting the arrival of the prisoner he had been asked to question. Whilst he waited he read again the letter from his superior, which had not only requested him to conduct the interrogation, but had also given guidelines as to how it was to be done.
He hoped that the prisoner, who he had been informed was almost healed from her injury, had had time to consider her situation and was sufficiently grateful for the treatment she had received so far. He also hoped that she had spent the journey by water from the Tower to Whitehall preparing herself to behave in an appropriate manner, and that as she approached his office via a long carpeted corridor lined with alcoves from which statues of Roman Emperors frowned down imperiously on her, she would be impressed and intimidated enough to enter the room in a submissive and pliant frame of mind.
There was a knock on the door. The duke folded the letter and placed it in a drawer, issued the order to enter; the door opened and the prisoner entered, flanked by two soldiers, who came to a stop once inside the room.
“You may wait outside,” the duke ordered, and the soldiers bowed and withdrew. The door closed, leaving the prisoner standing alone.
“Good morning, Miss Cunningham,” he said. “Please take a seat.” He indicated a chair on the opposite side of his desk, and she moved forward and sat down, carefully arranging her skirts around her while the duke observed her carefully.
By God, but she was beautiful! Newcastle had heard of her beauty, of course; it was renowned in high society, and the Duke of Cumberland had expounded on it in detail, both in person and in his last letter. He had thought the reports to be exaggerated. But now that she was sitting mere feet away from him, he was rendered momentarily speechless by her ethereal, breathtaking loveliness. She was dressed in a rose-coloured silk gown which fitted her perfectly, emphasising the creamy swell of her breasts and tiny waist. The colour complemented her flawless complexion and the delicate coral of her lips. Her incredible hair had been brushed back from her face and loosely braided, revealing the whole of the unsightly scar from her injury, which ended a mere fraction of an inch from her eye. But even that, hideous as it was, could not spoil the utter perfection of this woman.
The perfect woman, her skirts arranged to her satisfaction, now folded her delicate hands in her lap and raised her beautiful cornflower-blue eyes to his, her face impassive.
With some difficulty the duke pulled himself together. It was a long time since his head had been turned by a woman, and he was not about to be affected by this one either, lovely as she was.
He looked at her, examining her for any sign of nervousness, but saw none. Her expression was calm, neutral, and her hands were still. She gave the impression of having been invited to attend a tea party, perhaps. Well, he would soon put her straight on that.
“So, Miss Cunningham, I trust you are being treated well, and that all your needs are being met?” he began.
“I cannot complain about my accommodations, or my treatment so far. I presume that not all supporters of King James are being treated so well,” Miss Cunningham replied. “Although I could wish for more diverting reading material than that with which I am provided.”
Newcastle chose to ignore the reference to the Old Pretender as King James.
“I believe you are permitted to receive a book every week at the moment, but I can of course allow more. It is up to you.” If she was cooperative, that was.
“No, I am referring to the fact that I am not allowed any newspapers or periodicals,” she said. She smiled at him. “From which I can only infer that the war is going badly for the Elector,” she finished.
“How on earth do you infer that?” he retorted.
“I would think that if it was going well, the papers would be full of the details, and that you would want me to read about it.”
The duke leaned forward across his desk suddenly, expecting the prisoner to flinch, but she continued to sit calmly, waiting for his reply.
“Let me assure you, madam, that the ‘war’, as you call this little rebellion, is over. The rebels were thoroughly defeated at Culloden, and the prisons are now full of the survivors. King George has never been more secure on his throne than he is now. And the newspapers are full of praise for both His Majesty and Prince William, who led his troops to such a glorious victory.”
She considered this for a moment.
“Is Prince Charles then dead?” she asked, as though enquiring after the health of an acquaintance suffering from a minor illness.
“The Pretender’s son will be brought to account for his attempt on the throne, as will all the leaders of this ridiculous rebellion,” he replied.
“Ah. Then is he held also in the Tower?” she asked. “That is where prisoners of consequence are kept, is it not? Will I see him executed on Tower Green then, or will you murder him here at Whitehall, as Cromwell murdered his great-grandfather?”
The duke reddened and opened his mouth to retort, then checked himself. What was he thinking of, about to justify himself to this chit?
“May I suggest, madam, that you concern yourself no longer with the defeated rebels, but rather consider your own situation and how you may repay the kindness of His Royal Highness, whose express wish it was that you be accommodated as befits the niece of a lord.”
“Cumberland is very kind,” she replied coolly. “But I am sure I will be unable to reward his consideration.”
The door opened and a footman entered bearing a tray of tea. He placed it on the table, and at a signal from his master poured two cups of the beverage from an ornate china teapot, and handed one to Beth, who accepted it graciously. He held a plate of cakes out to her, and she chose an almond pastry, which she ate delicately, without dropping a crumb. She really did give the impression of making a social call. Did she have no idea how serious her situation was? Probably not. No doubt she had led a sheltered life, had always been worshipped and treated with deference due to her beauty, and was used to her every wish being fulfilled.
The duke decided to make use of the interruption to steer the conversation in another direction. She was a woman, and women, having far less wit than men, were susceptible to flattery and could be persuaded to almost anything by it. Her head had no doubt been filled with romance and nonsense by this monster Peters
, and by the charismatic Charles, who had certainly wooed her in Rome. And she was very young. Newcastle softened as he looked at the young woman sipping tea on the other side of his desk. Poor deluded creature. He felt sorry for her.
“Miss Cunningham, I really do not think that you appreciate the seriousness of your situation,” he began. “I have no wish to distress you. I am sure that you had no idea, when you agreed to marry Sir Anthony Peters, that he was anything other than what he appeared to be; a wealthy and fashionable man of society. Is this true?”
“It is,” she replied. She replaced her cup in the saucer and took another dainty bite of her cake.
“And I am sure that when he, no doubt assisted by the Pretender’s son, persuaded you to accompany him on his treasonous undertaking, he led you to believe that it would be a wild, romantic adventure, and that coming from a rural background you believed it to be merely that – an adventure, something to amaze and impress your friends with in the future.”
He paused, expecting her to comment, but she did not. Perhaps she was waiting for him to ask a question.
“It is understandable that your head was turned by such an accomplished, duplicitous liar. Indeed, he fooled far wiser people than yourself, my dear. No doubt he protested undying love for you, said he would protect you, and never desert you. Was that the case?”
“Yes, it was,” she agreed.
“Well, then, I have no wish to be the bearer of bad news, but I must speak plainly. The man is a rogue and a traitor, madam. He cared nothing for you. He merely used you for his own purposes, made you his whore, and now he has no further use for you has abandoned you to your fate, caring nothing for the fact that you are now ruined.”
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 11
