The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)

by Julia Brannan

  “Indeed,” said Sir Anthony. “It is well known that peers of the realm spend the bulk of their days in the Lords debating insignificant, trivial matters. I am joking, sir,” he said, seeing Lord Winter’s imminent explosion. “If I am later to endure my wife castigating me over my expenditure, you will at least allow me to enjoy my costume to the full now.”

  He swung his bladder once more at Lord Winter, who ducked, with the result that Lord Edward received a faceful of sheep’s innards, and then bowed, extending his parti-coloured leg to the company before prancing off into the crowd of revellers that thronged the pleasure gardens.

  “How on earth you endure him I have no idea, Elizabeth,” said Lord Edward in a rare moment of sympathy with his cousin.

  “Neither do I, Edward,” she replied. “I sometimes wish I had allowed you to force me to marry Lord Redburn instead of Anthony, after all.”

  “Was it important, what Bartholomew told us today?” Beth asked later. The merry hat drooped on the bedpost; its formerly merry wearer drooped on the bed.

  “Aye, it was. If Charles kent about it tomorrow, it’d be verra useful to him in planning whether to face Cope or avoid him. But while I’m at least five days hard riding away from him, no, it’s no bloody use at all.”

  Today he had received his first letter from Duncan, saying that he had raised the clan, and fifty men were marching with him to join the prince and see how the land lay. She knew that Alex was torn between wanting to lead his men himself, as was his duty and desire, and knowing that he was in a unique position to hear possibly crucial information here.

  She went over and sat next to him on the bed.

  “It must be very frustrating, hearing all this news and knowing that by the time you can get it to Charles, it’ll be worthless.”

  “It is,” he admitted, “I canna wait to be wi’ my men, fighting, but right now it’s necessary that I bide here. And I did find out some other useful information while I was cavorting about hitting people. Iain’s on his way to Foley with it as we speak, and wi’ luck it’ll be in Scotland by the week’s end.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Duke of Newcastle’s taking the rebellion seriously. And the Elector’s starting to. He’s going to cut short his visit to Hanover and come home. And he’s asked for six thousand Dutch troops to be sent to Scotland. They’re due under treaty anyway, and if they’re as useless here as they were at Fontenoy, we’ve nae need to fear. Cumberland’s written to Newcastle asking for command of the home forces if the Jacobite invasion becomes serious, but for now George wants him to continue losing in Flanders.”

  “And you found all that out today?” Beth asked incredulously.

  “Aye,” he grinned, pulling her close to him. “It’s amazing what people will tell a ridiculous fool covered in bells, or rather what they’ll say in his presence. There’d be no point in telling him directly of course, him being too stupid to comprehend the import of what they say.”

  “But clever enough to ask lots of questions to draw them out.”

  “Exactly. People love to be the first to ken momentous information. It makes them feel important. And in telling other people, they feel even more important. That’s why spies are usually discreet, apparent nonentities. It’s because they ken well when to keep their mouths shut.”

  “Discreet. Like Sir Anthony,” Beth laughed.

  “Aye, like Sir Anthony,” Alex agreed. “And when he’s gone, as I hope he will be verra soon, everyone will remember the clothes, and the patches, and the paint. And no one will recall a damn thing about the colourless forgettable man hiding inside.”

  “Hardly colourless,” Beth said, fingering the soft curls of bright russet hair growing in a place normally well and truly hidden from everyone. He sighed happily, then turned over suddenly, trapping her underneath him.

  “Nor forgettable, either, I hope,” he murmured, and in the next hours proved to his wife that whatever adjectives could be ascribed to him, and there were many, forgettable was definitely not one of them.

  * * *

  Early September 1745

  When Beth awoke, Alex was still fast asleep, curled on his side. She lay and watched him sleeping for a few minutes, then slid slowly out of bed, hoping not to disturb him. For a moment she thought she’d succeeded, but then his eyes snapped open, instantly alert for any danger.

  “Shhh,” she said softly. “It’s early. Go back to sleep for a while.”

  He smiled, sighed, and then his eyes closed again, and he was instantly asleep.

  Throwing a dressing gown over her nightgown, she left the bedroom and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. He could sleep as late as he wanted to this morning. They had no visits planned for today.

  Last night he’d been at Highbury’s club and hadn’t returned until the early hours, exhausted and smelling of brandy and tobacco. She’d half-roused when he came in, and had been vaguely aware of him yawning and removing his makeup by the light of one candle so as not to disturb her too much, before sliding into bed next to her, wrapping his arm round her waist, and falling immediately into a deep sleep.

  He was spending more and more evenings out at various gentlemen’s clubs these days. Beth understood why; they were the best places to hear about the latest military manoeuvres. She also understood that she could not accompany him to these exclusively male domains.

  Understanding was not, however, the same as liking. She was seeing a lot less of him as he strove to learn as much as possible about the Hanoverian reaction to the increasingly serious threat the Jacobite rebellion was now posing. Any useful information was immediately put into code and relayed, via Iain and Gabriel Foley, northward to Scotland, where more and more men were joining Prince Charles.

  It was necessary. But she missed her husband. It was as simple as that. However today, she determined, would be theirs. He needed some relaxation and she intended to ensure that he got it, if only for a few hours.

  Maggie and Iain had gone shopping for provisions, so after a solitary breakfast she repaired to the library, intending to write a letter to Thomas and Jane, but instead was distracted by the unusual title of the book someone, presumably Iain, as Maggie was not much for the reading, had left on the table. The Sofa – A Moral Tale. Leafing through it, she noticed the unusual chapter headings too: Chapter I – The least tedious chapter in the book. Intrigued, she curled up in a corner of the sofa and started to read, soon becoming caught up in the story, which appeared to be about a gentleman whom, upon dying, had been reincarnated as a series of sofas, and was now telling stories to a Sultan, who bore more than a passing resemblance to King Louis of France, about the people who had sat upon him, and, it seemed, had proceeded to do a great deal more than merely sit.

  After a while she heard Iain and Maggie return from their errands and head for the kitchen. She stretched and yawned, and looked out of the window. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, a perfect day for a walk. Not for the first time she longed to do what Iain and Maggie took for granted; to dress in casual clothes, and go for a stroll, hand in hand with her spouse. A simple pleasure, but not one she could enjoy whilst they continued to live in this Godforsaken city as Sir Anthony and Lady Elizabeth.

  She sighed. If she was feeling frustrated at the restrictions of her current life, how much worse must it be for Alex? Now that his clan had joined Prince Charles, Alex was growing increasingly impatient with the endless round of society calls and meetings, desperate to be with his clan, fighting for the Stuarts. Soon, he kept telling her, and himself, soon they would pack and leave, and when they returned to London, it would be with a victorious army, and as Alex and Beth MacGregor.

  She wondered if there had been any mail. Iain called in at the coffee house twice weekly, where any letters for Benjamin Johnson would be held. She finished her chapter and then headed down to the kitchen to find out. Alex was probably up by now. If any letters had arrived, they’d be in code, and it would take him a good few minutes to dec
ipher them anyway.

  She was halfway along the corridor which led to the kitchen when a masculine expletive followed by a sudden crashing sound made her quicken her steps, and she almost ran into the kitchen, skidding to a halt in the doorway at the sight which met her eyes.

  Alex, dressed only in breeches, was leaning over the table, breathing heavily, his hair falling over his face, his arms braced on the scrubbed wood. The crashing noise had presumably come from the table being swept clean of crockery and cutlery, which was now scattered across the floor. Beth exchanged a glance with Iain and Maggie, ascertaining by their expressions that they were no wiser than she was as to what had caused this outburst of violence against the breakfast utensils.

  For a full minute no one spoke, the only sound being that of Alex’s breathing as he sought to bring his emotions under control.

  “What’s wrong?” Beth finally broke the silence, unable to wait any longer to find out what the hell was going on.

  Alex remained as he was, and after another few moments, Beth opened her mouth to ask again, when he suddenly looked up at her, and to her horror, his eyes were brimming with tears.

  “There was a letter,” Iain said. He looked down at the floor, and Beth, following his gaze, saw the single sheet of paper lying amongst the broken crockery. She bent to pick it up, intending to read it, but as she had expected, it was in code.

  “What’s wrong?” she repeated, frantic now. “Have we lost? Did Cope win? Are Duncan and Angus…?”

  “No,” Alex interrupted. “No, they’re fine. We havena lost. Well, no’ as far as I ken. Charles is riding to meet Cope now. I’m sorry,” he continued. “I shouldna have…” He waved a hand at the mess he’d made.

  “Nae bother,” put in Maggie. “I’ll clean it up.”

  “To hell with that,” Beth said hotly. “If everyone’s alright, and we haven’t lost, then what’s going on?”

  “He wants me to stay,” Alex replied. He’d regained some measure of control now, had blinked away the tears, although his breathing was still a little ragged.

  “Stay? Who wants you to stay? Where?”

  “Charles. He wants me to stay here, as Sir Anthony.”

  “We know that already,” she said, puzzled. “We’re staying for a few weeks, and then we’re off to join him in Scotland, as soon as we can.”

  “No,” Alex broke in. “He wants me to stay here. He’s worried about the lack of good information about troop movements and suchlike, and he’s asked me to continue gathering and passing information on. He says I’m in a unique position to find out intelligence crucial to the success of the cause, that no one else can do it.”

  Prince Charles had a point. Beth sat down at the bench, and put the letter on the table.

  “How long does he want you to stay for?” she asked.

  “Until he arrives in London to take the throne for his father,” Alex replied desolately.

  They abandoned the kitchen as it was, and repaired to the library with a bottle of wine to discuss the matter further. Alex picked up the book that Beth had abandoned on the sofa and glanced from it to her. It was not the sort of reading matter she usually chose.

  “It was on the table,” she said by way of explanation. “I was just passing time until you woke up.”

  He sat down and flicked through the opening pages whilst they were waiting for Maggie to bring some glasses for the wine.

  “’…my soul entered that of a young man,’” he read aloud. “’And as he was an egregious fop, a busybody, a scandal-monger, a vain butterfly, an authority in trifles, serious only about his dress, his complexion, and a hundred other vapid nothings’…Christ!” he exclaimed, throwing the book down. “Is this what I’m tae be? When Angus and Duncan are telling their bairns about their great deeds in the glorious battles of the revolution that put Jamie back on the throne, am I tae tell mine about how I pranced around London dressed as a fucking molly? I’m sorry,” he said.

  That he’d used such a word in front of her and Maggie, who had now appeared with the glasses, told Beth more than anything just how upset he was.

  “Charles does have a point,” she ventured. “Lots of people can fight, but not many can do what you’re doing. I think it takes a lot more courage to spend every day putting on an act, walking a tightrope, never knowing if you’re going to be discovered, than it does to charge across a battlefield when your blood’s up, hacking at the enemy.”

  “I was reared tae charge across battlefields and hack at the enemy, Beth,” Alex countered. “There’s nae glory in sitting in drawing rooms drinking tea and eating cake while ye blether on about the latest fashions. I canna tell ye how tired I am of it. The only thing that’s kept me going these last weeks is knowing that it’d soon be over. I dinna think I can keep this up much longer.” He looked across at his wife. “Is that how ye feel about what we’re doing?”

  “Well, I’ve never hacked at the enemy on a battlefield,” she admitted. “I expect that takes a lot of courage, but only for a few minutes at a time, and then once the battle’s over, you can go back to doing whatever you do afterwards, marching about and suchlike. With all your friends, who are doing the same as you. What we’re doing is a lonely thing, and dangerous all the time. Or most of the time, anyway. We have to think about every word we say.”

  “Beth’s right,” Iain put in. “I ken ye’re upset, Alex, and what ye’re about may no’ make such a good story, but it’s important to the cause.”

  “Are ye no’ wanting tae be fighting yourself, laddie?” Alex asked.

  “Aye, of course I am, but there’s nothing tae be done. We canna go against the prince.”

  From the look on Alex’s face, it was very clear that he’d been intending to do just that. Maggie filled the glasses and handed them round. They all drank in morose silence for a few minutes as they variously contemplated months of formal visits, gentlemen’s clubs, evenings alone with books entitled The Sofa, and dashing cross-country in all weathers with coded messages.

  “Well,” Alex said finally, “I might have to stay, and you too, Beth, but I see nae reason why you and Maggie canna go and join the rest o’ the clan.”

  “Are ye mad?” Maggie asked bluntly. “Who’ll take the messages tae Foley if Iain’s no’ here? Who’ll do all the cleaning and cooking if I’m no’ here?”

  “I’m no’ happy wi’ Iain taking the messages as it is,” Alex replied. “He’s a Scot and he canna pretend otherwise, which puts him under suspicion straight away. If he’s caught wi’ a coded message on him, he’ll hang, after they torture him tae find out what’s in it. I’ve never been happy with it, but I thought it was worth the risk for a week or two, a month at most. But now…we could be here for months. I canna expect ye to keep taking such a risk. I’ll take the messages from now on. It’s safer. I can be any nationality I want.”

  “What?” Beth cried. “Just when exactly are you going to do that? You’re already exhausted as it is, staying out most of the night, and then going half-blind writing coded letters by candlelight! You’re not getting more than four hours sleep a night now! I’ll do it,” she continued. “Foley knows me, and if I’m stopped I can pretend to be a maid carrying a letter from my mistress to her lover.”

  “Ye canna ride across country alone in the middle of the night!” Alex countered hotly.

  “I won’t do it at night. I’ll do it in the morning, or in the afternoon, after we’ve visited,” she said. “We can send out to a pie shop for dinner, that’ll save some time, and I can do a bit of cleaning in the evenings when you’re out at the clubs.”

  Alex tore his fingers through his hair.

  “Ye’ll no’…”

  “Will the pair of ye haud yer wheesht?” Iain shouted. “I’m no’ going anywhere. I ken what I’m doing, and I ken the danger. I dinna need tae be telling my bairns about my brave deeds on the battlefield. Tae hell wi’ that. Charlie’s my prince, and you’re my chieftain, and if he wants ye tae stay here, then I’m stayi
ng here with ye. And so is Maggie. For as long as it takes. And there’s an end of it.”

  He banged the glass down on the table, stood, and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving the other three occupants sitting open-mouthed at this uncharacteristic display of temper.

  “Aye, well,” said Maggie calmly after a few moments. “That’s settled then. I’ll away and see tae the dinner.” She rose and followed her husband, closing the door quietly.

  Silence reigned for a minute or so.

  “Is that how ye feel?” Alex repeated his earlier question. “Are ye afraid and lonely?”

  “No,” she replied. “I didn’t say that. I said it’s a dangerous and lonely thing that we’re doing, and it is. But I knew what I was getting myself into when I married you. Well, just after I married you, anyway. The only time I’ve felt lonely was when I thought you didn’t trust me, after Henri. But we’re past that now.”

  “Ye didna think that we’d be staying here forever, though, did ye?”

  “We won’t be staying here forever. Once this is all over, we’ll go home. To Scotland,” she clarified. “And if we have children…”

  “When we have children,” he corrected her.

  “…when we have children, I’ll be proud to tell them what their father did to restore King James to his rightful place, and to allow the MacGregors to use their rightful name. And if we’ve brought them up properly, they’ll understand that there’s more than one way to win a war, and that their father’s a great hero, every bit as brave as any soldier on the battlefield. More so, in fact.”

  He smiled then in spite of himself, and reaching across the sofa, took her arm and pulled her on to his knee.

  “I’m no’ the only great hero in the room tonight,” he said softly. “When ye put it like that, I can see that ye’re in the right. But I wanted so much tae fight at my prince’s side. I’ve spent my whole life waiting for this moment, and I’m sore disappointed, Beth. I canna pretend otherwise.”

  She put her arms round his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, inhaling the fresh, clean male smell of him, this man she adored.