by Nina Mason
Still swiving her with the bottle, Maggie said with a laugh, “Are you not enjoying Monsieur de Vin’s efforts on your behalf?”
“I have no complaints, but believe I would enjoy the footman’s ample girth all the more.”
“Then I give you leave to arrange an assignation, if the gentleman is willing.”
“Oh, here we are. I do believe Lady Churchill has reached the summit. Her head is thrown back, her eyes are closed, her lips are parted, and her expression is one of blissful agony.”
“Enough! Enough! I must have my turn—with the peephole as well as Monsieur de Vin.”
Gemma’s descriptions had filled her with such ungovernable longings, she could hear no more. Withdrawing the bottle, she pulled Gemma away from her post, and positioned her own eye at the spyhole.
Before her, Sarah Churchill was just rising off Lady Fitzhardinge, whom the footman continued to fuck with fervor. To the rear, Gemma lifted Maggie’s petticoats and, with busy fingers, fell to caressing that part of her now aflame with desire. Her touch, coupled with the sight of the young gentleman’s climactic shudders, built her passions to a fever-pitch.
“Please, please,” she begged her friend. “Finger-fuck me or I shall go mad.”
Gemma, ever-accommodating, pushed three digits into her, tipping Maggie over the edge. Her loins convulsed, her body shook, and she let out an ecstatic cry, the sound of which was conveniently masked by a chorus of similarly rapturous noises from the other side of the wall.
Chapter Nine
In the several days that followed, Robert continued to struggle with all the Lord, the Devil, and the King had heaped upon his plate.
The ships were heading toward Campbelltown on the east side of the peninsula at Cantyre, having set sail from Orkney the day before after much heated debate over the fates of their captured colleagues. In the end, Argyle agreed to leave the prisoners behind, but not before taking several hostages and killing a man.
Robert was just glad they were finally underway. The sooner they got on with it, the sooner he could return to his wife and son.
He’d taken to playing cards until late in the evening with Argyle and some of his closer associates in the hopes of learning something useful. The price he paid for this subterfuge was Argyle’s constant ribbing about Juliette.
“What’s wrong, Armstrong? Does your wife not want to share her bed with you, either?”
He deduced from these irksome jeers that the earl’s dogged attempts to seduce Juliette had so far come to naught. Robert almost wished she would acquiesce, for chastely lying beside her when he so desperately missed his wife was a nightly trial of Herculean proportions.
After cards, he would flog himself and say a rosary in the hopes Mother Mary might show herself again, either to rescind her prophecy or explain its meaning. So far, to his great vexation, she had stayed away.
At the card table, Robert learned Argyle’s plan was to send forth the fiery cross to summon all the Campbells to join under his standard before marching through the Lowlands, where the majority of Monmouth’s Scottish supporters resided.
Robert made no attempt to talk him out of his scheme, as it seemed sure to fail. The promise of a Protestant monarch might motivate some to fight, but no clansman with a lick of sense would risk his life to settle a personal score for a deposed laird with a price on his head, especially with the threat of harassment by Captain Claverhouse’s dragoons hanging over them.
The downside of Argyle’s plan was the delay. The sooner they reached the Lowlands, the sooner Robert might hire a courier to deliver his reports to King James. An army messenger seemed his best bet, if he could somehow make the arrangement without getting caught by either side.
Meanwhile, he kept his encrypted intelligences beneath a loose floorboard in his cabin, along with his rosary and flogger. If his stash were discovered, he would almost certainly be shot or strung up. Thus, he’d revealed his hiding place to no one, including Juliette. For, as the old proverb so wisely stated, two can only keep a secret if one of them is dead.
* * * *
Eleven days after the engraftment, Maggie found red spots across wee Jamie’s chest and stomach whilst changing his morning napkin. Though she had expected the bumps to appear sooner or later, she was nevertheless troubled by their appearance. Biting her lip, she felt his little forehead. He was warmer than usual, but not to a worrying degree, God be praised.
Taking a deep breath to calm her fears, she finished diapering her son and readied herself to nurse him. Her milk had helped Robert recover from smallpox and might, therefore, help wee Jamie as well. Dr. Wakeman—Gemma’s father—had prescribed ass’s milk for Robert, but Maggie had given him her breast milk instead. She could not say why she thought its healing powers superior, she simply did—with all of her heart—and the results had only strengthened her convictions.
As the baby sucked, more feebly than usual, Gemma came in, wearing the green silk wrapper Maggie had loaned her. The color matched her eyes and was extremely flattering against her pale skin and dark hair.
“How does he do this morning?”
“Not well,” Maggie told her, ready to cry. “He’s developed spots and a mild fever, and also seems weaker than is normal.”
“It sounds like the first signs of smallpox, just as we expected. If we are lucky, he will not grow much worse.”
Maggie bit her trembling lip to hold back her tears. “And if he does? What can I do?”
“Nothing, I fear, apart from praying.” Gemma, looking grave, came and sat beside where Maggie was propped on the pillows. “You must let the disease run its course, dearest, for better or for worse. But take heart, your son was infected with a mild case, and even the more threatening strains are less harmful to infants and children than they are to adults.”
As her tears started to fall, Maggie dashed at them with one hand while continuing to support her son with her other arm. “Tell that to all the poor mothers who’ve lost their babies to the disease—like the queen, whose young son was cruelly taken from her little more than a month after his birth.”
“I am aware of the circumstances surrounding the death of that particular child.” Gemma’s expression grew even graver. “My father was the queen’s physician, remember. Not this queen, mind you, but the last one, who prevailed upon him to treat your half-sister Anne. At the time, she had a bad case of the smallpox and was quarantined. When she was better, she visited the baby, unaware she was still contagious. It was Anne, therefore, I believe, who contaminated little Charles—and not entirely by happenstance.”
So astounded was Maggie by the apothecary’s allegation, her mouth fell open. She knew Princess Anne to be a snake in the grass, but could not believe she would stoop so low as to kill her own half-brother!
“The scheme to kill the young Prince of Wales was not Anne’s, however,” Gemma went on, vindicating the princess. “She was but a child at the time, and could not have known she was still contagious. But the court was teeming with those who would sooner murder an innocent babe than tolerate a Catholic line of succession.”
As much as Maggie wanted to believe no one could be so cold-hearted, she knew very well that many people were. Hugh, for instance. Hugh, Robert’s younger brother, who she’d thought so good at one time. Hugh, who’d treated her no better than a slave and a whore. Hugh, who plotted to kill his own brother so he could claim the duchy for the Covenanters. Hugh, who threw her down the stairs, hoping she’d lose the child she carried, who would have replaced him as Robert’s heir.
Her brother-in-law’s cold-bloodedness still made her physically ill. It also made her aware of the lengths to which some people would go to get what they wanted—or to stop something they did not want from taking place.
Thus, she knew the Whigs would stop at naught to secure the throne for a Protestant dynasty. Already, they had enacted laws and plotted murder to keep her father off the throne—all to no avail, thank the Lord. It was whispered around court
that they had convinced King Charles to declare the Duke of Monmouth his rightful heir just before he so suddenly and conveniently perished. It was also alleged that her father, knowing this, caused his own brother’s death with an undetectable poison.
Were the rumors true?
Maggie’s heart recoiled at the thought. She did not want to think her father capable of such villainy, but neither was she gullible enough to believe he was not. The most she could say was this: what he lacked in ethics, he made up for in the courage of his convictions—unlike his brother, who had acted more often to appease his detractors than to serve his own principles (if indeed he had any).
Unfortunately, these convictions included the perilous belief he was the rightful king in the eyes of God and could, therefore, do no wrong. As astonishing as it seemed, the man honestly believed the Heavenly Father’s own hand had put the crown on his head after clearing his path to the throne.
Was the Lord the great ally her father supposed? Maggie had her doubts. Yes, her father was Catholic, but he also had the worst luck ever. His wife could not bear him an heir, his nephews and daughters were plotting against him, and he had no talent for dissembling. Everything he felt showed on his face, no matter how tactfully he’d scripted the words.
He also surrounded himself with self-serving sycophants (like Lord Mulgrave) and turned a deaf ear to the few advisers who had the country’s best interests at heart (like Robert). If he did not awaken soon from his delusions of divine protection, he stood an excellent chance of following in his own father’s footsteps straight to the executioner’s chopping block.
And even were he lucky enough to keep his head, he stood a very good chance of losing his crown.
Maggie’s musings about her father dissolved when the baby stopped sucking and started to fuss. After burping him, she lay her son down on the bed between herself and Gemma. As the apothecary examined him, he flailed and mewled. Maggie longed to comfort him, but, all at once, felt unwell. Her head ached, her limbs were weak and leaden, and her womb was cramping something awful.
She had experienced the same symptoms too many times not to know what they meant. Heartsick, she turned to Gemma. “I fear I may be losing the child I am carrying. Is there aught you can give me to stop it from happening?”
“Oh, Maggie.” Gemma, appearing distressed, touched Maggie’s arm. “I am truly sorry. And yes, there are preventatives we can try. A poultice of eryngo applied to the belly can sometimes prevent abortion, as can a decoction brewed from various botanicals. I must, however, go to my shop to get my provisions, and would rather not leave you alone just now.”
“Pray, do,” Maggie implored her, clutching her aching belly. “But do ask one of the palace guards to hire carriers for my sedan chair. It will be infinitely quicker than waiting for a carriage to be readied.”
“Fine, I shall go, but only if you promise to stay abed and rest.”
“I shall. I promise. Now go, before I begin to bleed.”
Gemma went, albeit reluctantly. In her absence, Maggie prayed to the Virgin Mary for protection and intervention. She also made up her mind not to tell Robert about the pregnancy, if she should lose the child. The last time she miscarried, he avoided her bedchamber for weeks on end, out of fear he’d put another baby in her they’d only lose again. He had grieved the losses as deeply as had she, the poor man. She could not take the chance he would avoid her again. When he returned, God willing, she hoped they might enjoy a passionate reunion.
By the time Gemma returned with her physicks, Maggie had started to hemorrhage. Overcome by hopelessness and despair, she wept. Wee Jamie was ill, Robert was gone, and now she was losing her baby. All at once, she seemed to be in danger of losing everyone she cared about.
Except Gemma, of course.
Maggie dried her tears on the pillowcase when Gemma came into the room carrying a steaming mug of some concoction or other. As she reached the bedside, Maggie said, “Promise me we will always be friends.”
“Of course we will.” Gemma offered her the mug, which Maggie now saw contained hot brown liquid that smelled rather like dirt. “Here, drink this.”
Taking the cup from her, Maggie gave the brew a sniff and screwed up her nose. “Pray, what is in this?”
“Salep, red raspberry leaves, lobelia, and wild yam,” Gemma told her, “all of which can help stop a miscarriage. Lobelia will also help expel the fetus if your condition cannot be reversed. I call it a thinking herb, because it seems to know what to do whichever way things go.”
Maggie smiled and said nothing. Under different circumstances, she would have been fascinated by the flower’s seemingly magical properties, but was much too distraught right now to care about botany.
Leaving Maggie to drink her brew, Gemma put wee Jamie in his cradle and left the room. A few minutes later, she returned with some rags and a slice of buttered bread sprinkled with spices.
Taking the bread from her hand, Maggie gave it a sniff, detecting notes of caraway, aniseed, and cinnamon.
“Pray, what will this do?”
“Strengthen your heart, which is good for both you and the child.”
Maggie drank and ate while the apothecary used the rags to staunch the bleeding and applied a poultice to her belly. The brew tasted as bad as it smelled, but she drank it without complaint. She would drink liquefied dung if there was a chance it would preserve her pregnancy.
Chapter Ten
18 May
Last night, Argyle sent out the call of the fiery cross. Two thousand clansmen, give or take, responded, but no noblemen, gentlemen of rank, or volunteers from the neighboring Lowlands were among their numbers, gravely disappointing the earl’s hopes. Today, at the insistence of his War Council, he left his ships and stores behind and marched his troops southward into the Lowlands.
19 May
Meeting with little support in the Lowlands, we have turned back with the goal of returning to Campbelltown. The Camerons in our ranks, however, have refused to march farther north than Inverary.
20 May
Today, word arrived that the stores were captured and all three ships burned by the king’s troops. I presume this means Juliette, who was left on board, is either dead or in the custody of the royal army. For her sake, I hope for the latter and that the soldiers treat her with all the respect she deserves.
10 June
There has been a change of plans. With the clansmen now deserting in droves (and absconding with their weapons and ammunition in the process), Argyle is marching what is left of his army toward Glasgow, where he plans to attempt a surprise attack. We marched all day, but were repeatedly harassed by the royal troops gathering around us. Argyle proposed we attack them, as they appeared to be mostly newly raised militia, but was met with the usual stonewalling from the commissioners. It was, therefore, hastily determined to attempt, under cover of night, to slip through the line and make for Glasgow with all due speed.
11 June
The night march provided the perfect opportunity for me to thwart the revolt. When the guides, losing their way in the darkness, led the troops into some boggy ground, I circulated a report that they had been betrayed. In a panic, the rebels disbanded in all directions. Some were captured whereas others were allowed to get away in the hopes they would carry news of the earl’s defeat back to the Highlands and Islands. The night march also afforded the opportunity for me to switch sides. I am now with the royal army on the hunt for Argyle and the other rebel leaders, who I can readily identify. Since joining them, I have learned that Lord Monmouth has landed at Lyme-Regis and is presently marching toward London amidst crowds of cheering supporters. In light of Argyle’s failure, it would seem the duke’s chances of prevailing are extremely slim, but only God knows how things will turn out.
17 June
Earlier today, we captured Argyle, disguised as a carter, and are now on our way to Edinburgh, where he will likely be executed without a trial. Fortunately for him, they employ a device called
“The Maiden” to execute traitors in Edinburgh, a much more effectual method of beheading than the oftimes off-mark executioner’s axe. I will not repeat the blasphemies the earl uttered upon learning of my betrayal, but I will own that they stung as acutely as the knots of my scourge. To add injury to insult, I fear my efforts have all been in vain. Even if I were to dispatch my reports at this juncture, they would do the king no good. I cannot help but wonder for the umpteenth time why His Majesty felt it necessary to send me upon this futile errand. Does he truly have such little regard for my life or his daughter’s happiness? Judging by events, I can only presume that he would willingly sacrifice anything and everything for his cause.
25 June
Today, I learned two things of import.
Firstly, by the captain of the division that burned the rebel ships, I was told that Juliette was indeed taken prisoner, but later escaped—a happy circumstance for her, given the punishment awaiting the captured rebels. Those who are not hanged will be disfigured before their transport to Virginia and the West Indies, where they will be forced to work as slaves on the sugar and tobacco plantations.
Secondly, I heard the earl’s execution will take place in ten days’ time. Tempted though I am to stay to witness the proceedings, I am more compelled to return to London and my family. How has Maggie fared in my absence? How is wee Jamie’s health? These questions eat away at my peace of mind. So does Mother Mary’s visitation. Try as I might, I cannot get her words out of my head. She has to be referring to wee Jamie, as I have no other son. Will we lose him to smallpox? Though I do not see how that can possibly further the greater good, I cannot think what else it could be! Therefore, I feel I must do all in my power to hasten my return, lest in delaying I miss my chance to gaze upon his dear face one last time. I must also be at hand to comfort Maggie in her grief. My poor darling girl. She has already lost so many children, it seems unfair that God should take this one from her as well. But, alas, the Lord seems to show little mercy in such matters, as many women lose child after child after child.
