Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6)

by Julia Brannan

  “Have you forgotten your cousin Adam so quickly?” he joked in a Mancunian accent. “If I’m your cousin, then it follows I’m hers too.”

  Sarah didn’t pursue the matter. She knew better than that.

  “I sometimes wonder if…no, it doesn’t matter. It’s silly,” she said.

  “What? Ye can tell me, an ye want.”

  “I…since you told me about Murdo…I wonder if maybe he knows somehow, about Màiri. There used to be an old woman in my village who said that the spirits of the dead would come back to watch over their families sometimes, and that very young children could see them because they were sensitive to such things.”

  Alex smiled.

  “I dinna rightly ken, but I’m sure of one thing; if he knows of her he’ll come to see her, and you too.”

  “Sometimes she looks into space and smiles, as though she can see someone there. Once she lifted her arms, like she does when she sees you. But I thought you were a Catholic,” she added.

  “Who tellt ye that?”

  “No one. But I know that Beth is, and your cook…Sir Anthony’s cook Maggie, she is too. So I thought you probably were as well. Catholics don’t believe in ghosts, do they?”

  “Aye, well, I daresay if you tellt a priest that Màiri had seen a ghost, he’d warn you that Satan sends such demons in the guise of loved ones to tempt you into sin. But then he’d also tell you that there’s no such thing as the second sight, but I’ve seen proof of that for myself. There are a lot of things we canna explain, but that doesna mean they’re evil. If the wee one here sees her father, then that can only be a good thing. There wasna an evil bone in his body.”

  Sarah smiled, but her eyes were soft and sad.

  “My father said the old woman was a witch and in league with the devil. He tried to bring a prosecution against her, but he couldn’t get anyone to take him seriously. Everyone knew she was just a harmless old woman whose mind was a bit weak.”

  Alex raised his eyebrows and Sarah caught the look.

  “He was a preacher,” she said, “and a vicious bastard who knew a lot more about the devil than any silly old woman.”

  “Is he dead?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t know. I hope so. And if there is a God and a devil, I’m sure he’s burning in hell right now, and Richard Cunningham with him. Oh! I forgot to tell you, Anne had a letter from Richard’s colonel. It seems Richard died during the execution of his duties. He was very brave, and it was very quick. He didn’t suffer at all.”

  Alex’s mouth twisted.

  “Aye, well, he was brave, that much is true. The man was evil, but he was never a coward, even at the end. Was Anne upset?”

  “Of course she was! She’s an idiot. No, that’s not fair. She’s tender-hearted. But she was also very relieved. He was trying to take Georgie away from her. Caroline told me that Beth asked her and Edwin about the law and Edwin said it was possible Richard would win. I think that was one of the reasons why she told Newcastle that Richard was a traitor. And I think another reason she did it was because of me,” Sarah finished in a small voice. She put her knife and fork down, even though she’d only eaten a small amount of her meal.

  “You?” Alex said.

  “Yes. I’ve been thinking about it ever since Caroline told us what Beth had done. Just before Beth went to see Newcastle I visited her, and we were talking about Richard. I told her that I had a pistol and that if he ever came to the shop again I’d blow his brains out. She told me I couldn’t do that, because he was a soldier, and I’d hang. And I told her that I’d take my chance, but I would never let him anywhere near me again. I’m so sorry.”

  “You shouldna be sorry. You’d have been right to shoot him.”

  “I know, but if I hadn’t told her maybe she’d still be here. She did it to protect me, and I feel terrible about it.” Her eyes filled with tears. Alex put his own cutlery down and leaned across the table, capturing one of her hands.

  “Sarah, dinna blame yourself. Beth would have gone to Newcastle anyway, to protect Anne and to get revenge for herself and our bairn. It isna your fault. You mustna think that way, no’ for a minute. The fact that she was protecting you and Màiri too would have been a consideration, I’ll no’ lie, but it was no’ the only reason.”

  Sarah looked down at his hand enfolding hers. It was large, long-fingered like Murdo’s, but unlike his there was a ridge of scar tissue across the back of it. A tear splashed onto the table.

  “She doesn’t know about Màiri,” Sarah whispered. “I never told her. I couldn’t bear to tell her the lie that she was my sister’s baby, and I…I thought she might be disgusted with me because I’d lain with Murdo without being married to him. Every time I saw her I determined to tell her, and every time I lost the courage.”

  “She wouldna have been disgusted with you, any more than I am,” Alex reassured her. “I’m glad ye did lie with him, for there’s something of him left behind and that’s a comfort to me, and would be to Beth too.”

  “I know that now,” Sarah said. “When you find her, will you tell her for me? And let her know I’m sorry I didn’t tell her myself?”

  He could not promise what he wanted to, that he would bring Beth to see Sarah, so she could tell her herself. That would be too dangerous.

  “I will. And when I do I’m sure ye’ll be getting a letter of some kind, from somewhere, about it. Maybe no’ from Beth, though. Maybe from your cousin Adam’s new wife.”

  He winked, and in spite of herself she smiled.

  “I do like you, Cousin Adam,” she said. “I wish you really were my cousin.”

  He nodded, then squeezed her hand and let it go. They carried on eating in companionable silence, each wrapped up in their own thoughts.

  * * *

  Another two weeks of excruciating boredom passed, in which Alex went for long walks, read more books and finally wrote to Angus, something he’d intended to wait to do until he had more definite news to relay. He had already been away from home for over two months, and it seemed unfair to make his brother wait any longer. So James Drummond’s Uncle Archie wrote to him, telling him that the package he had gone to retrieve had unfortunately been mislaid, but he had high hopes of being able to locate it soon and would notify his dear nephew as soon as he had more news of it.

  The next morning he took the letter to the post and then headed off for his regular morning coffee. Mr Featherstone was now a familiar face, calling in as he did every day to read the periodicals and enjoy a beverage. Although he was not a gregarious man he’d become embroiled in a number of discussions, and had made a few acquaintances in the weeks he’d been patronising the establishment. It was impossible to frequent a coffee house and not become engaged in conversation; that was after all the primary purpose of them.

  “Found anything to invest in yet, Featherstone?” a fellow customer called as he saw the newcomer signalling for coffee. Mr Featherstone made his way over to join the man, a portly butter merchant who dropped in periodically to get a little respite from his wife and ten children. He usually came early in the morning, as by noon the place would be full of people and the ensuing debates would become lively and sometimes aggressive. At the moment, although at another communal table a group of men were already engaged in a heated debate about the War of the Austrian Succession, the merchant was the sole occupier of this table on the opposite side of the room.

  “No,” Featherstone replied. “Everything seems either to promise too little return, or too much. The last thing I want is to lose all my hard-earned money on something like the South Sea disaster, or that Darien venture the Scotch lost everything on. I’ve no wish to lose my independence due to greed, as Scotland did.”

  “I take your point, sir,” the butter merchant said. “But I think it was more than the failure of the Darien enterprise that led to the Act of Union.”

  “You say so?” Adam commented. “I don’t know a lot about the Scotch myself. A strange heathen nation, I’ve been tol
d, although I believe they’re coming into line now, since the rebels were routed.” It would do no harm, were Mr Featherstone ever to come under suspicion, for it to be reported that he knew little and cared less about the fate of the North British.

  “Indeed sir, you have it. Things are changing there, and all to the good I think. If you ask me—”

  The waiter arrived with the coffee, and a paper, which he handed to his customer.

  “Letter came for you about half an hour ago, Mr Featherstone,” he said. Adam took the proffered missive, glanced at the seal, and then put it in his pocket.

  “Don’t mind me,” his companion said. “Read your letter if you want.”

  “No, it’s from my aunt, who lives down in Sussex. She writes the most tedious news, how many eggs the chickens have laid, that sort of thing. It will wait. You were saying about Scotland?”

  “Ah, yes. I really do believe, now that the Highlands are being brought into line, that Scotland will become civilised. Of course it will take some time, but…”

  Alex listened patiently while the genial merchant unknowingly maligned his country, his clansmen and his ancestors, occasionally dropping in a question to keep the man talking until he could finish his coffee, order another as was his custom, and enquire as to whether there was any news worth reading in the Gazette.

  After an hour, which was the normal amount of time he stayed, Mr Featherstone made his farewells and set off for his lodgings at a leisurely pace. When he got back he exchanged a few pleasantries about the weather with his landlady and then made his way up to his room.

  Only then did he show the urgency he had felt for the last two hours, pulling out the letter which had been burning a hole in his pocket since he’d received it, and breaking the seal. He unfolded it, to be confronted by a single line of writing.

  There is news. Please call at your earliest convenience.

  There was no salutation, and no signature. He could glean no hint as to whether the news was good or bad. Damn.

  His first urge was to run back down the stairs, hire a horse and gallop to Summer Hill immediately. But if he did that he would attract a lot of attention, not least from his inquisitive and gossipy landlady. Sir Anthony Peters had never been apprehended, because Alex MacGregor knew the importance of reining in his impulsive nature and attending to details.

  So he waited in his room for the longest hour of his life, until the landlady went out to market, after which he made his way to the nearest inn with horses for hire, hired one for a week, mentioning in passing that he was going to visit an aunt in Oxford who had been unexpectedly taken ill, then trotted out of London along the Oxford road for a couple of miles before deviating off it and heading in the direction of Sussex.

  Only then did he give the horse its head, arriving in the late afternoon at a different inn to the one he had stayed at with Sarah. As much as he wanted to ride straight to Summer Hill, Sarah’s cousin Adam was not the sort of person to be able to afford a horse.

  So he paid for a room and stabling under the name of Oliver Price, then advised the landlord with a wink and a lewd expression that if his luck was in he might not need the room, but was happy to pay for it, just in case the lady in question was not as accommodating as he hoped.

  An hour of very brisk walking saw him standing in the driveway of Summer Hill. He paused just long enough to send up a prayer that all was well, walked up the steps and knocked deferentially at the door, removing his hat and twisting it in his hands while he waited for someone to answer his knock. Anyone observing would have thought that perhaps he was asking for work and was somewhat nervous of the response he would get from the master or mistress.

  After a minute a maid opened the door.

  “Ah, Mr Featherstone is it?” she said.

  “Yes, miss,” he replied, bowing.

  She grinned and blushed, obviously both amused that this handsome young man was ignorant enough to think he had to bow to her, and flattered as well.

  “You’re expected. If you follow me,” she said, sashaying ahead of him in what was clearly meant to be an enticing manner. She knocked politely on the library door, then opened it. “Mr Featherstone is here, Sir Edwin, Lady Caroline,” she said.

  So, they were both waiting for him. It was important news then. Alex felt the adrenalin surge through his veins, but gave no outward sign as he moved into the room at the maid’s signal. He bowed clumsily to Edwin and Caroline, keeping in character because the maid was still there but noting that they both looked tense, Edwin especially so.

  “My lord, my lady,” he said.

  “You may go, Emily,” Caroline said to the hovering maid.

  “Yes, my lady. Shall I fetch tea?” she asked hopefully.

  “No, thank you. That will be all,” Caroline replied in a tone that ensured they were alone within seconds. “Please, Mr Featherstone, take a seat,” she said, before walking past Alex to the door, opening it and looking out into the hall. She closed it again.

  “We can speak freely,” she announced. “Anthony, how are you? Your face has healed!”

  It had. As Sarah’s cousin had not told Lydia that his facial disfigurement was permanent, he had allowed it to heal naturally, once the need to be a one-legged battle-scarred army veteran had passed.

  “I received your message this morning,” he replied, too anxious to hear the news to engage in small talk. “You have news of Beth?”

  Edwin and Caroline exchanged a look.

  “Sit down, Anthony, please,” Edwin said.

  Alex put his hat on the back of the sofa and sat down on the edge of it. Edwin and Caroline sat opposite him.

  “Perhaps tea would be a good idea after all?” Edwin said. Caroline made as if to stand.

  “No, tell me the news first,” Alex replied, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  “A letter arrived this week, from the Marquis de Caylus. He’s the—”

  “Governor of Martinique,” Alex interrupted. “I’m sorry. Go on.”

  “The prisoners who were on the Veteran have all been released,” Edwin continued. “The Duke of Newcastle has written a letter demanding that they be returned, but the marquis’ letter is dated the end of May, so it isn’t a reply to that. It doesn’t say anything about whether the prisoners will be sent back, or where they are right now.”

  Alex ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and disappointment. This was no news at all, in his view. He had known that the governor would not just send the prisoners back to Britain of his own accord. Although they had been released, rather than being held awaiting negotiations, which was something.

  What would Beth do? He sat there, thinking furiously. She thinks I’m dead, he reminded himself. Would she come back to Britain, in that case? If she did, she would go to her friends in Manchester, or to the MacGregors. But then she would risk capture, and possibly bring danger to her friends too. No. She would not do that. Maybe…

  He looked up, aware that both Caroline and Edwin were staring at him anxiously.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said.

  Edwin had a rolled-up paper in his hand which he was twisting, much as Alex had twisted his hat on the doorstep when he was being the nervous Adam.

  “Er…the marquis said that all the prisoners…ex-prisoners were being treated well, and were free to—”

  “For God’s sake, man, tell me what it is!” Alex interrupted, his voice rising.

  Edwin blanched.

  “Edwin, he needs to know. Beating around the bush isn’t going to make it any easier,” Caroline said.

  “Needs to know what?” Alex asked.

  “She’s dead,” Caroline said bluntly.

  “Caroline!” Edwin cried in distress.

  “I’m so sorry,” Caroline said, her tone softer now. “The marquis enclosed a list of those who had died during the voyage or shortly after landing. Her name is on the list.”

  “Is that the list?” Alex said, very
quietly.

  “Yes,” Edwin said. “Anthony, I—”

  Alex held his hand out.

  “Let me see,” he said.

  Edwin handed it over. Alex unrolled it carefully, then scanned down the list of names. It was a short list, comprising only eight names. Hers was at the bottom and had obviously been added after the others, in a different hand.

  Lady Elizabeth Peters.

  He looked up at the two worried faces across from him.

  “Was she listed on the original ship’s manifesto as Lady Elizabeth Peters?” he asked.

  “No,” Edwin replied, clearly taken aback by the unnatural calmness his friend was showing at this catastrophic news. He had paled, but otherwise showed no reaction. “No, she was listed as Elizabeth Cunningham.”

  Alex nodded.

  “She arrived there alive, then,” he said softly. He placed one finger on his lips, kissed it, then very gently ran it along her name. He rolled the paper up and placed it on the table.

  “Thank you,” he said. Then in one quick movement he stood, turned, and walked out of the room, leaving the library door open.

  He was halfway across the hall before Caroline caught up with him.

  “Anthony,” she said, in her distress forgetting he was supposed to be Adam, “you can’t leave like that. I’m sorry, but there was no easy way to tell you.”

  “I needed to know. You did right,” he said without turning back or stopping. She followed him across the hall and gripped his arm to stop him as he opened the front door.

  “Please,” she begged. “Please, don’t leave, not yet.”

  He froze, his body rigid, trembling with suppressed emotion.

  “Let me go,” he said, in a tone that brooked no refusal.

  She lifted her hand from his arm and he carried on immediately, walking down the steps that led to the drive without looking back.

  Caroline went back into the library and joined Edwin at the window, where he was watching the man whose identity he did not know, but who he loved anyway, walk purposefully, not down the drive as one would expect but across the lawn at the front of the house, as though incapable of going in any direction except straight ahead. Edwin glanced at his wife, saw the tears welling in her eyes, and put his arm round her, pulling her in to his side.