“I do, more than life itself,” Alex said.
Edwin nodded.
“Then don’t go yet. I will do what I can to find out what the governor does with the prisoners. How can I make contact with you when I do?”
“He’ll be staying with me,” Sarah said immediately, “as my cousin.”
“No,” Alex countered. “You’ve already done far more than I expected you to. I may have to stay in London for a few weeks, and during that time I think it’s safer for all three of you if I keep away from you, in case something goes wrong. If you find anything out, send word to Adam Featherstone at Sam’s Coffeehouse on Exchange Alley. Don’t write openly though, in case someone reads the letter. Just tell me that the parcel is where I expected, or is in Fleet Street if it’s France, or is being returned to the sender if she’s being sent back here. I have to go out of London for a few days, but when I get back I’ll go to the coffee house every day until I hear from you. In the meantime I’ll make preparations to leave for Martinique.” He looked from Caroline to Edwin, and smiled. “When I came here today, I didn’t know what your reaction would be, but even in my wildest dreams I would never have expected you to help me as you have offered to do. I can never repay you for this.”
“You don’t need to,” Caroline said. “You are our friend. But please be careful.”
“I will be very careful, but you must promise me something, you as well, Sarah. If you hear that Sir Anthony Peters has been arrested, do not make any attempt to contact me in any way. Just forget that I ever existed.”
“I can’t do that—” Sarah began.
“You can’t expect us just to leave you—” Caroline said at the same time.
“No!” Alex interrupted, his expression earnest, verging on desperate. “You must promise me this. When I left London as Sir Anthony, I never expected to return, except under one circumstance, which has not come to pass. Every day I stay here increases the risk that someone will discover me.”
“But you don’t look at all like Sir Anthony!” Caroline said.
“Even so, it’s possible something may go wrong. If it does, then I would ask you to do as you were going to, try to help Beth to get to a safe place where she can live out her life in peace. But you absolutely must not attempt to do anything for me, no matter how small. You will not be able to save me, and will only put yourselves at risk.”
Edwin nodded.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “We will do as you say.”
“Thank you,” Alex said. He stood. “I’ll leave now. Will you ensure that Sarah and Mary get back safely tomorrow?”
“No,” Sarah said, standing as well. “We’ll go back to London with you. People saw us come here together. If we leave separately it may cause suspicion. Once we reach London I won’t try to contact you again, I promise.”
She had a point. He smiled and nodded.
“You have all been wonderful friends, to me and to Beth,” Alex said. “Whatever happens, I will never forget that.”
“Anthony,” Edwin said. “I can see now that you took a huge risk today, because we now know exactly what you really look like, and you did that only to apologise to us. That tells me more than any words could. You may have terrible judgement where monarchs are concerned, but not only have you been our friend, you still are. Do not get yourself arrested, not at this late stage. I don’t think any of us could bear that, least of all Beth.”
“I will do my utmost not to,” Alex said, smiling broadly.
On the way back to the village Alex and Sarah walked in silence, each pondering the events of the last couple of hours. Màiri sat on Alex’s shoulder, chattering happily to herself in baby talk.
“They are wonderful people,” Sarah said after a time.
“Indeed they are,” Alex agreed. “And so are you.”
She smiled at this, and they carried on in silence for a little longer.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“Of course.”
“Do you trust them?”
“Of course I do,” Alex said. “They have the means to have me arrested, as do you. Yes, I trust them.”
“Why didn’t you speak to them with your proper accent, then?” she asked.
“How do you know that the English accent is not my proper one?” he replied.
She looked at him wryly, and he laughed.
“I trust Caroline and Edwin,” he said, “but you’re family. There’s a difference, ye ken.”
For a moment she thought he was referring to his fictitious relationship as her cousin, but when she looked at him he smiled down at her with the same curve to his mouth that Màiri had, and looked at her with the same long-lashed eyes as Màiri’s, save only the colour, and she knew that he was, in his own way revealing to her what she had suspected all along; that he and Murdo were closely related. He reached out his hand to her, and shyly she took it.
It was transitory, she knew that. When they got back to London he’d leave her, and she would probably never see him again. But right now it felt very good to be part of his family. She lapsed back into silence, intending to commit to memory every remaining second she had with him, and they continued on their way hand in hand.
CHAPTER NINE
Martinique, July 1747
Once the harvest was over, as promised Pierre took Antoinette and Beth to Saint Pierre for a few days. Beth would have enjoyed the journey more if she had been allowed to ride in the fresh air and take in the scenery along the way, but everything had to be done with great pomp, so they travelled in a stuffy carriage which bounced its way along the bumpy, badly maintained road, while several liveried footmen, including Raymond, rode on the front or back of the coach, and other slaves were either sent on ahead to prepare the rooms their owners would stay in or ran behind the coach as it travelled.
At the speed the coach was travelling, ‘running behind it’ was actually no more than a leisurely walk. Beth, sitting inside the overheated carriage, with the velvet curtains firmly closed so as to keep out any light which might bring on one of Antoinette’s megrims, longed to leap out and walk with Rosalie and Eulalie, who were bringing up the rear. But of course that would never do, so she gritted her teeth and bore it, and by the time they arrived at their spacious apartments in the town, she ached far more from the jouncing of the coach than she would have done from walking.
The first evening they went to a concert and listened to Bach’s Goldberg Variations. To Beth’s delight, both Pierre and Antoinette declared themselves to be great lovers of music, and as a result she could allow herself to become completely absorbed in the delicate melodies without them being rudely interrupted by her companions.
However, in spite of the undoubted skill of the harpsichordist, the luxurious surroundings, and the comparative silence of the appreciative audience, she did miss a few of the variations completely due to reliving the first time she had heard Bach’s music, at Versailles, when Lord Winter had been a most uncongenial companion, and Sir Anthony had, during the interval, challenged Henri Monselle to a duel. Had it really been over four years since that night? In some ways it felt like yesterday; she could still see the shock in Henri’s eyes as Sir Anthony’s blade drove through his chest, could feel the hurt and despair that had clutched at her heart as she realised that the man she loved did not trust her. And yet in other ways it felt as though centuries had passed since then; so much had happened in the intervening period, both good and bad.
That life is over, she told herself fiercely as she felt tears prick her eyes, and she forced herself to concentrate on the music again. Henri is dead, Sir Anthony no longer exists, and Alex… No. She would not think of him. She would think of the future. That was all that mattered now.
The following day Beth was hoping they might go for a walk along the wide tree-lined roads of Saint Pierre and take in some of the beautiful European-style buildings; but instead they clambered back into the stuffy coach and went on a round of social calls, at which there seemed to
be two main topics of conversation; slaves and disease. At every house the company talked about the laziness and lack of gratitude of the slaves and the resulting punishments that had to be meted out, the potential for a slave uprising, and who had died recently.
Beth was wondering if every other plantation except Soleil was composed of slaves who just sat around all day doing nothing, until Antoinette joined in, saying that it was the same everywhere, and that Monsieur Armstrong had to wield the whip constantly to get the negroes to do any work at all. Having seen first hand how the Delisles’ slaves laboured, Beth then allowed her mind to wander, as she had learned to do so well in her early days with her Cunningham cousins. It was the only way she could be sure not to say something offensive.
As for the second topic of conversation, it appeared that several people of their acquaintance died every week. She was about to dismiss that too as ridiculous exaggeration until she remembered that all six of Antoinette’s children had died, and that every household they visited had lost more than one member of the family as well as a large number of slaves to some illness or other; mainly either vomito negro, which could carry people off in a day, dysentery, or ague, also called intermittent fever because it came and went, some victims surviving for years, some dying very quickly. That, combined with the fact that even the wealthy planters rarely lived beyond fifty, told Beth that her chances of being reunited with Alex reasonably soon were pretty good. It was a cheering thought.
In the evening they went to a dinner in a luxuriously appointed salon which would not have looked out of place in Paris itself. As Beth entered she was announced as ‘Lady Elizabeth Peters’, after which numerous guests were presented to her, curtseying and bowing obsequiously, their expressions conveying that they considered it a great honour that the beautiful English aristocrat would condescend to speak to them. She played along, smiling graciously and uttering meaningless pleasantries while she wondered what the Delisles had told their acquaintance about her to make them behave in this deferential way.
Within five minutes of sitting down to dinner she found out.
“I am so excited to be seated next to you, my lady,” the elderly woman to the left of Beth said, once she had managed to manipulate the vast skirts of her dress into place and sit down. Beth fanned herself vigorously and smiled at her neighbour, whose white paint and rouge were already starting to run in the heat of the room. All the doors and windows were open, but there was not a breath of wind; the flames of the many candles in the sparkling chandeliers were all vertical, those on the table only flickering due to the movements of the diners. “Pierre tells me that you have been to the Palace of Versailles at the express invitation of His Majesty the King!” the woman continued excitedly.
“Indeed, er…”
“Do please call me Louise!” the old lady trilled.
“Indeed, Louise, I did have that honour when I visited France with my husband four years ago.”
Louise clapped her hands with joy.
“Oh, do tell me what the Palace looks like! Is it as beautiful as they say?”
Obligingly Beth launched into a description of the beauties of the Palace; the glorious Hall of Mirrors, so named because it boasted over three hundred prodigiously expensive mirrors, the War Room with its ornate marble panels glorifying the great deeds of the present king’s great-grandfather Louis XIV, the incredible decorations by the gifted artist Le Brun, and the Royal Chapel, with its beautiful vaulted ceiling. As she spoke she became aware that everyone in the vicinity had stopped talking and was listening avidly to her. She was just about to continue on to describe the gardens, when Louise interrupted her.
“And is it true that His Majesty became a particular friend of yours?”
Further down the table Pierre beamed at her, basking in the reflected glory of his beautiful and aristocratic house guest, who was, it seemed, not only on first name terms with the King of France, but was a particular friend.
Beth sighed. It was clear where this was leading. The Delisles had already invented their own version of her history, and their friends obviously believed them. She knew how society gossip worked; denying outright that she had been Louis’ mistress would only convince them all the more that she had shared his bed.
Pierre had been good to her; although technically her employer, not for one moment had he treated her as anything other than an honoured guest. The allowance he was paying her was extremely generous, and he had shown her nothing but kindness. Partially falling in with what appeared to be his exaggerated account of her relationship with King Louis was the least she could do. For the rest she would employ one of Sir Anthony’s weapons for such situations.
“Indeed,” Beth said. “I will never forget the first time I caught sight of His Majesty. My husband and I had been invited to attend mass in the Royal Chapel, and I became so engrossed in the paintings on the ceiling I was just telling you about, that when King Louis entered I quite forgot to lower my gaze to the ground, with the result that I found myself staring straight into his eyes! A terrible breach of protocol! I was mortified!”
“Oh, how romantic!” a pretty young lady on the other side of the table cried. “And was it then that you—”
Her question was interrupted by the arrival of the first course, oysters and crayfish in a spicy sauce, of which large platters were placed at strategic points along the table, from which the diners could then help themselves. Once everyone had chosen what they wanted both the eating and conversation resumed, and Beth was within a few minutes asked the inevitable question, which although delivered sotto voce by the questioner, might as well have been bellowed across the room, judging by the number of necks craning to hear the answer.
“And was it then that you became the lover of the king?” the pretty young lady asked.
Well, that was a little more direct than she’d expected.
“Of course not! We were in the chapel, madame! We were there to hear mass, a most solemn occasion. No, I kept my eyes to the ground and my thoughts on Heaven for the rest of the service.”
“Of course,” her questioner said, annoyed that the directness of the question had not inspired an equally direct response.
“Is it not true, Lady Elizabeth, that your husband challenged the king’s personal servant to a duel due to jealousy, because he could not challenge the king himself?” Louise asked.
“Why on earth would he wish to challenge the king?” Beth responded, utterly astonished. “We were honoured to be invited to the Palace! But yes, he did challenge Monsieur Monselle, which was quite ridiculous. He and I were merely acquaintances. We shared an interest in the works of John Milton, nothing more. It was a most unfortunate and tragic situation. Ah! Here is the soup course. I had never tasted sweet potato until I arrived here, and I confess to having quite a weakness for it.”
She dived into the soup, completely entranced by it, so entranced that she did not hear the next three questions aimed at her from further down the table, but did, oddly, hear the fourth, which coincidentally was not about the King of France.
“I am learning to,” she replied in response to the question about whether she was acclimatising to Martinique, “although I think it will take me a little time to adjust to the climate. It is so different from that of England.”
And Scotland. She would give all of this luxury, her safety, even her life, if she could be sitting on a log by the side of Loch Lomond right now, her thumb tucked in Alex’s swordbelt, his arm heavy on her shoulder as they watched the sun go down over the water. For a moment the fine table, the crystal, the silver, the guests, faded away as she leaned into her husband, feeling the warmth of his body against the length of her side…
Stop it, she told herself fiercely, dragging herself back to the present. You will go mad if you let yourself live in the past. It is over. It. Is. Over.
“I’m sorry?” she said, aware that someone else had asked something that everyone was clearly hoping she would answer.
“I
asked if the king’s bedchamber was also decorated by Le Brun?”
Oh, for God’s sake…
“I really couldn’t say, madame,” she replied sweetly. “After all, visitors are not allowed to enter the King’s and Queen’s private apartments, as I’m sure you know.”
After another few well-deflected questions, people gave up. It was very clear that King Louis had chosen Lady Elizabeth Peters to be his mistress not just for her beauty, but for her discretion, or possibly stupidity, too.
The rest of her time in Saint Pierre was in the main a copy of the first two days. Only the entertainment differed. Sometimes it was music, sometimes a play or an opera, all of which Beth enjoyed. But she came to dread the inevitable dinners with variations of the same questions to be fended off.
Eventually, on her final evening in Saint Pierre, someone came up with a question which no one thought she could evade.
“Do tell me, my lady, is the king’s member really as large as it’s reputed to be?” It was asked by a middle-aged rakish man with a long face and a hooked nose who Beth had met three times, and towards whom she had developed an antipathy. The question was greeted by gasps; whilst possibly an acceptable question to be put to a whore, Lady Elizabeth, royal mistress or no, had been a paragon of virtue since arriving on the island.
Lady Elizabeth looked the gentleman up and down with obvious disdain, and then smiled.
“I hate to disappoint you, Monsieur Duval, but I don’t believe King Louis is enamoured of buggery. Indeed I think it may be illegal in France – it certainly is in England. However, as you are so interested, I shall write to His Majesty this very evening, giving him your details and informing him of your desire for him.”
For the rest of the evening no one asked her any questions that were even vaguely related to King Louis, and the unfortunate Monsieur Duval gave her a very wide berth indeed. Beth reflected that if someone had asked her that question on her first evening in Saint Pierre rather than the last, she might have at least enjoyed the meals more.
Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6) Page 21