Tearing his gaze from the sea, he walked aimlessly for a time, the pebbles crunching softly beneath the soles of his fine leather boots, his mind soothed by the soft susurration of the waves. He waited until the sky turned from black to dark grey, then to a lighter pearl-grey, which transformed the sea into a restless sheet of rolling burnished silver.
He turned a pebble over with his toe, marvelling at its smoothness, evidence of the relentless, patient power of the sea, which in time subdued all things, and which could, at a whim, scatter whole navies, driving kings to ruin and despair. A frown etched the fine aristocratic brow briefly, as he thought of the famed ill-luck of his family which had brought so many of his forebears to disaster and a brutal early death.
It would not be so this time, he thought, his brow clearing, the optimism of youth outweighing the legendary superstition of centuries. It was his destiny to change the luck of the Stuarts. He had known that since he was a small child and had first heard the stories, whispered to him by his nurse, that at the exact time of his birth a new star had been seen in the sky, whilst a storm had simultaneously wreaked havoc in Hanover, the home of his despised enemy. The enemy which now sat so smugly and complacently on his father’s throne, across that stretch of silver sea.
But not for long. For the time had come at last, the time he had been waiting for, for over twenty long years. It was what he had prepared himself for, putting his body through a punishing regime of diet and exercise, honing his muscles, practising with sword and pistol, with bow and arrow until no one could match his accuracy. He had driven his aching muscles beyond the boundaries of exhaustion and fatigue until his pampered aristocratic companions had whispered in awe that the young prince must indeed be superhuman. Had he not been born on the very eve of the new year, when the old was swept aside and in the depths of winter new hope was born?
He was that new hope, and as he stood on the shore, gazing out across the sea towards his father’s kingdom, his kingdom to be, a surge of exhilaration bore him up and over the waves to England. He saw himself, so clearly that it must be a premonition, at the head of an army, riding into London, the cheers of the people resounding in his ears, rose petals falling like velvet rain upon him as the people, his people, went wild with joy at the return of the Stuarts to their rightful place.
A seagull called mournfully and the spell was broken; he was once again standing on the windswept shore, the only sound the gentle shushing of waves on pebbles.
He turned his gaze towards the north-east, where all his hopes were even now being brought to fruition, as the provisions, cannon and the barrels of gunpowder were loaded onto the multitude of ships that would bear the French army and himself to England and to victory. Last night he had disguised himself, and had ridden into Dunkirk, although King Louis, fearful of British spies, had expressly forbidden him to go there. He had gazed in wonder at the multitude of ships, their masts tall and bare like a forest of trees in winter. It was not possible that such a fleet could fail. He had spent the evening in the taverns, drinking with the sailors and soldiers who were now pouring into the town, enriching the pockets of the whores and innkeepers. They had flocked round the charming, generous young Frenchman from Paris, eager to tell him tales of their bravery in combat, which grew ever more extravagant as the alcohol flowed. It had been a good evening, one to amuse his courtiers with from the comfort of St James’s Palace, from the throne where his grandfather had sat, where his father would sit, and where he too would be enthroned, when the time came.
He was Charles Edward Stuart, eldest son and heir to King James the Eighth of Scotland and Third of England. He would use his looks, his strength and above all his enormous charismatic powers of persuasion to regain the throne for the Stuarts. He had friends, many friends in England, and even more in Scotland. The clans were loyal to him. He was, after all, one of them, a Scot by blood if not birth, and they did not cast aside the bonds of kinship lightly. If this French invasion failed, which it would not, could not, then he would call on the allegiance of his kinsmen.
His whole life had been lived for this single purpose. This was his destiny, and by God, he would fulfil it, if he had to row across the channel single-handed to raise his subjects. They would rise for him. It was unthinkable that they would not. In all his young life, he had never been denied, and he would not be denied now. The crown was his, if his father did not want it, and he would win it, or die in the attempt.
CHAPTER ONE
Late February 1744
Alex and Beth managed to keep the fact that they had returned to London a secret for a whole week, until Beth was unfortunately seen looking out of her window, after which the calling cards began to trickle in, forming a small pile on the table in the hall. The trickle quickly became an avalanche as the rumour that Sir Anthony Peters and his wife were apparently reconciled spread like wildfire among society. It was unbelievable. After all, hadn’t Lady Peters engaged in a passionate affair with both King Louis of France and his servant? And hadn’t Sir Anthony, in a fit of jealous rage, challenged the servant to a duel, where he had accidentally killed the man? It was also rumoured that the baronet had intended to call Louis himself out, had the king not had him thrown into prison before he could do so. It was so exciting! Everyone wanted to be the first to interview the couple and find out the truth of the affair.
Beth and Alex ignored the mountain of cards, unwilling to return to the empty whirl of concerts, dinners and card parties. Then Beth received a somewhat wordy letter from her cousin Isabella, in which she expressed a wish to visit the following day to discuss the arrangements for a dinner party she intended to hold next Wednesday to welcome her dear cousins home.
They bowed to the inevitable, and while Beth penned an insincere reply, stating that she and her husband were delighted at the honour Isabella was according them, Alex gloomily combed and curled his wig, and unearthed his cosmetics from the bottom of his travelling trunk.
At Smith Square, the Cunningham sisters were beside themselves with joy. Their dinner party would be the first occasion on which Sir Anthony and Lady Elizabeth would appear in public since their return from France, and everyone wanted to be invited. Isabella pondered the enormous list of would-be guests for a time, then tentatively approached her brother for his advice.
Lord Edward was no help at all, declaring that he would have nothing to do with the organisation of this ridiculous dinner, being neither partial to his cousin or her husband, although he did agree to be present at the meal itself. After all, Sir Anthony had promised to put in a good word for the peer with the king, and a dinner would be an excellent opportunity to remind him of his promise. He just hoped that Sir Anthony had made it very clear to his wife that he would not tolerate such wanton behaviour as she had engaged in in France, if all the rumours were true. It was almost impossible to imagine that ridiculous apology for a man actually challenging anyone to a duel, let alone killing him. Hopefully it had given him the courage to tame his headstrong wife. She certainly needed it.
Left to her own devices Isabella, with an unerring talent for the inappropriate, invited all the people Beth would least want to spend an evening with, only adding Edwin and Caroline to the list after Beth insisted quite forcefully that they be included. Sir Anthony, resplendent in royal blue satin, an ingratiating smile plastered on his chalk-white face, said that he would be quite happy to attend any dinner of Isabella’s, no matter who was invited, as he was on good terms with almost everybody he could think of, and for himself he would trust to the excellent Cunningham taste to ensure the guests were of a suitably eclectic mix to provide an entertaining evening.
The three sisters had beamed, and the sycophantic Sir Anthony had then been dragged straight round to the Harlows’ house by Beth to personally deliver the invitation, which was for six o’clock, three days hence. And to see the sweet, docile angel of a baby with the most beautiful blue eyes and most endearing smile, that Sir Anthony had enthused about to Isabella.
When they were shown into the drawing-room, Caroline was pacing up and down the carpet, rocking the tiny angel in her arms, now christened Frederick John, Sir Anthony having had no objections to her using his middle name, which was common enough not to cause problems later, although he had steadfastly refused to be a godfather. She looked up at her guests.
“Now might not be the best time to visit,” Caroline roared to make herself heard over the sweet, docile baby’s furious screams. “He’s got wind, and he’s not in the best of moods. And neither am I, to be honest.”
“Nonsense!” shouted Sir Anthony amiably, arranging himself gracefully on the sofa. “It’s never a bad time to visit friends.”
Caroline hoisted the baby impatiently onto her shoulder and tapped his back wearily. His roars doubled in volume, his face turning bright red and his tiny fists waving angrily about in the air. Beth looked at her husband uncertainly.
“Isn’t he gorgeous?” Sir Anthony enthused, with absolute sincerity.
Both Caroline and Beth looked at him with disbelief.
“Yes, he’s beautiful,” Beth agreed lamely, thinking she had never seen such a hideous crumpled thing in her life, although she would not have admitted that to Caroline, even under torture. She sat down next to her husband. “We’ve come to invite you to a dinner next…”
“What?” cried Caroline. “I can’t hear a thing, I’m sorry. God, I love him dearly, but he’s driving me mad today. At times like this I wish I had hired a nurse, as everyone keeps telling me I should.”
“Here,” said Sir Anthony, to Beth’s surprise. “Let me try. You sit down for a minute.” Without waiting for Caroline’s permission, he deftly removed the screaming bundle from her arms and cradled it to his chest, the tomato-coloured face resting on his shoulder.
Caroline plopped herself down next to Beth, watching with interest as the baronet paced slowly across the room, alternately patting then rubbing the baby’s back with a firm circular motion. There was something very endearing about a large man holding a tiny infant with such infinite tenderness, as Sir Anthony was doing. The two women watched him for a short while, mesmerised. The racket continued.
“I’m sorry,” Caroline said into Beth’s ear. “This isn’t a good introduction to him. He’s normally quite placid.”
“Yes,” said Beth doubtfully. “Anthony said he was a very quiet child.”
The cries stopped abruptly, replaced by a loud burp and an ominous sound that Caroline recognised immediately. She leapt up, just in time to see a copious trickle of white liquid emerge from the child’s mouth and pour thickly down Sir Anthony’s immaculate royal-blue back.
“Oh, God!” said Caroline. “I’m sorry. I’ll get a cloth.”
“It’s all right, my dear. Stop apologising, it’s natural,” he reassured her. “There, there now, that’s better, isn’t it?” he crooned to the child, whose cries had subsided to whimpers now the source of pain had gone. Its face was changing slowly from red to pink. The baronet continued to pace slowly round the room, crooning to his charge, unfazed by the mess on his coat. He used the proffered cloth to carefully wipe the child’s mouth and chin.
“Er…we came to invite you to a dinner party,” Beth said, eyeing her husband with continued amazement. She had never seen him with children before, had no idea he was so accustomed to them.
“Oh,” said Caroline, “you’re throwing a party! Of course I’ll come. I’m not sure about Edwin though. He’s virtually living at Parliament at the moment, with the French crisis.”
“No, it’s actually Isabella’s dinner party, but she wants you to come.”
“Does she?” Caroline asked. “Really?”
“Well, she doesn’t have any objections, anyway,” Beth revised. “But I want you to come. You have to come. She’s throwing it for me and Anthony, and you can’t imagine the people she’s invited.”
“I think I probably can,” Caroline said with a grimace.
“Please, you must come. I’ll need some respite from the endless questions about my affair with King Louis, and the duel. I assume you know about the duel?”
“As much as I need to, yes. Yes, I’ll come,” Caroline replied, looking at Sir Anthony. He had stopped pacing now, and the baby had ceased crying completely, his eyes drooping, ready for sleep.
“There you are,” Sir Anthony smiled, placing the child in his startled wife’s arms, before straightening and carefully removing his coat. He eyed the damage, which had now soaked into the expensive satin. Caroline winced.
“Oh, I think that can be cleaned,” he said carelessly, hanging the somewhat smelly item over a chair in the far corner of the room, before coming back in shirtsleeves and waistcoat to take a seat adjacent to his wife.
Beth was sitting preternaturally still, the infant held awkwardly in her arms. Now relieved of wind and excess milk, he did actually look rather cute, she thought, with smooth rose petal skin and a tiny pursed mouth. His ears were like little shells, but his eyes were more green than blue. She smiled, and looked up from the baby to see Caroline and Anthony watching her with amusement.
“He’s not a bomb, my dear,” said Sir Anthony. “He won’t explode if you make a sudden move.”
“I don’t know,” said Caroline. “He might. He seems to spend half his life exploding, from one end or the other. If he suddenly screws his face up, prepare yourself.”
“He is beautiful, isn’t he?” Beth said, with such astonishment in her voice that Caroline burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” Beth said, blushing. “I didn’t mean…”
“That’s all right, I’m not so easily offended. He is ugly when he’s crying. And I should have expected your reaction anyway, Beth.”
“You should? Why?” asked her friend.
“Because one thing you two have in common is unpredictability. Men are usually very uncomfortable with babies. I should have expected, therefore, that Anthony would be relaxed with them, but it still came as a surprise. Whereas women are usually accustomed to children and know exactly what to do. But you look as though you’ve never held a baby before in your life. Have you?”
“Yes,” said Beth, a little put out. “Once or twice. But you’re right. I haven’t had many dealings with babies. I didn’t have any younger brothers or sisters, or any other relatives with children, as you know. I like them, but I’m a bit frightened of them, too, to be honest.”
“Whereas I had three younger sisters,” said the baronet smoothly. “And I lived in France for a time. The French are very child-orientated.”
Beth thought of a marble headstone in an icy country churchyard in Switzerland, and then of a baby Angus with slate-blue eyes and ridiculous eyelashes, and a fuzz of fair hair, gazing mischievously up at his eight-year-old brother, anticipating the volatile, action-packed years to come.
“Didn’t one of your servants have a baby?” Sir Anthony asked, breaking into her thoughts. She realised she was smiling foolishly, and bestowed the smile on the infant in her arms, where it would be understandable.
“Martha,” Beth said. “Yes, she did, but when she got pregnant she was disowned by her father, and went away to her aunt’s to have the child. It was over a year before Thomas managed to track her down, and Ann was nearly two before Martha could get away from her aunt. She was a horrible woman, insisted that Martha owed her a lifetime of slavery because she’d allowed her to have her bastard child in the house. Children are quite different when they’re two,” she pointed out.
“So I assume Martha’s not gone back there then,” Sir Anthony asked.
“No, that was the first place Thomas asked. She’s just vanished. It’s very odd.”
As Caroline was looking confused, Beth explained about Martha’s resignation after an altercation with Richard, and her inexplicable disappearance.
Little Frederick, or Freddie as Edwin was already calling him, had now gone to sleep on Beth’s knee.
“I’d like to get accustomed to babies,” she said wistfully, looking d
own at him.
“My advice is to take your time,” Caroline said. “Get to know each other first. Because once a baby arrives, you’ll have no time for anything else.”
“Unless you hire a nurse,” Anthony said.
“Yes. But I didn’t want to do that, not straight away, at any rate. Your attitude is a relief, to be honest, Beth. I thought I was the only woman in the world who didn’t know much about babies. I’ve been learning as I go along. It’s fun, but exhausting, too. I though Edwin would be able to help more than he has. He really wants to, but what with the gin tax, all the argument about whether England should be paying for Hanoverian troops who are doing nothing at the moment, and now the imminent invasion, we hardly see each other.”
“How is the invasion?” Sir Anthony asked, as though enquiring after the health of a mutual acquaintance.
“Still imminent, as far as I know,” Caroline answered. “I’ll worry about it when the French are hammering on the door. To be honest, by the time Edwin gets home he’s too tired to talk about it, and I’m too tired to listen. But there was a letter from a spy at Louis’ court which pretty well detailed the whole plans, and gave a list of Jacobites who have since been rounded up. A lot of troops are being mobilised, and the navy is preparing. Or is prepared, probably, by now. Oh, and the king has written to Louis to demand the removal of the Pretender’s son from French soil.”
“Louis will like that,” Beth said.
“He did. He’s written back, basically saying ‘go to hell’. Something on the lines of ‘you abide by your treaty with us, and we’ll abide by ours with you,’ you know the sort of thing. And more than that I don’t know, but I’m sure you’ll find out at the dinner. I thought you’d already know everything anyway, Anthony. You’re normally very well-informed.”
The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) Page 2