by Deryn Lake
And now she was angry with him and, for once, he was bored. If she wanted to play the minx with him, let her. To Hell with her! He could have Arabelle if he so much as raised his little finger to beckon, for she still gazed at him adoringly with vapid blue eyes.
And now this! Summoned on the instant to see a John Weston who had not thawed in his manner at all. If it had come to her father’s ears that Melior Mary had lost her virginity...For, no doubt, John was full of the idea of uniting the houses of Weston and Wolffe in marriage. If Melior Mary should die without issue her heirs were the two Williams — father and son. How neat to tie the inheritance back into one. But who would want a wild-blooded girl who had once given herself to a stable boy?
The knock on John’s door and the following ‘Enter’, rang in Matthew’s ears like a funeral bell. His master was standing with his back to him, facing one of the windows, in his hand a letter which he was reading with some apparent excitement. For a second or two he did not look up and Matthew stood waiting for retribution. He even opened his mouth and said, ‘Sir, I...’, in order to break the silence, but John suddenly turned round with determination.
‘Matthew, damn you, I am furious with you for the beating of my nephew Beavis. I nearly threw you out of service...but now...’
He tapped the document with his other hand.
‘Sir, I know it was wrong. That she...’
‘What the devil are you talking about? Matthew, you have been sent for!’
‘Sent for?’
‘Don’t stare at me witless! This letter is from the King’s emissary — Captain Charles Wogan. He wants you to travel to Europe immediately. Have you the stomach to do a service for King James?’
Dumbfounded, Hyacinth nodded.
‘Well, it’s this. You know Lady Derwentwater who calls here from time to time? — she whose husband was executed after the ’15 uprising.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you recall curing a lame horse of hers with one of your special ointments?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Well, she had apparently written of it to Wogan. And now he wants you to join a rescue party.’
Hyacinth could do nothing but stare as John continued, ‘King James wishes to marry Princess Clementina Sobieski but she and her mother are prisoners at Innsbruck. On their way to Rome from Silesia they were captured and the British Government has now brought direct pressure to bear on the Austrian Emperor who is only too anxious to please. So, the royal bride is in a convent, guarded night and day. It is the Captain’s plan to lift her out of it and for this he must be sure that every horse in his team can run. You will travel to Strasbourg under the name of Captain O’Toole and take orders only from Charles Wogan. You must leave in the small hours of tomorrow and sail on the morning tide, in order to catch them up.’
Hyacinth nodded. He was more excited than he had ever been in his life before.
‘I shall ride with you to Dover and see you aboard.’
John’s voice took on a rather wistful note. ‘Further than that I dare not proceed for fear of contravening the Captain’s wishes. But you shall have two hundred guineas and I want you to hire a stout coach to take you to Strasbourg. Trust nothing ramshackle or ancient. Speed and reliability are of the essence.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hyacinth found himself at a loss for words.
‘You are fluent in French?’
Hyacinth nodded again.
‘That’s all to the good. Now Captain O’Toole — forged papers accompany this letter as proof of your identity — not a word of this to anyone. Particularly Melior Mary.’
John turned to stare out of the window and his voice was measured as he said, ‘I don’t want her upset. She is considering a proposal of marriage from her cousin William, and you know what a headstrong, flighty Miss she can be when she puts her mind to it.’
‘Now, you will find a uniform belonging to a captain in Dillon’s Irish Regiment hanging in my dressing room. A tailor from Guildford — a loyalist — will be here as soon as it gets dark to ensure that it fits you. Go to the chamber known as Sir John Rogers’s room. You will find that your personal things have already been put there.’
‘So it is all arranged?’
‘Yes.’ John turned and looked at him very directly. ‘Matthew, I am sorry that there has been bad feeling between us. I was angry with you not just because of Beavis — who deserved a whipping, for a more snivel-mouthed repellent boy I have yet to meet — but also on account of Melior Mary.’
Hyacinth’s heart sank again.
‘Melior Mary?’
‘I know her temperament and once she has her mind set on something — or someone...’ He paused then added slowly, ‘It is imperative that, with the responsibility of this great inheritance, she marries — wisely. Do you understand me?’
‘Are you saying it would be better if I did not return from Austria?’
‘Yes.’
There was a hardness in Matthew’s eyes as he answered, ‘Then so be it.’
In the silence that followed, the rustle of another human being in the corridor outside made them jump. But, though John hurried to the door, all he found was Melior Mary on the point of knocking. Ignoring Hyacinth she said, ‘I am sorry to disturb you, Father. I had just come to say goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, my child. Will you not bid Matthew the same?’
The eyes were the colour of amethyst as they gave Hyacinth a cool glance. A pale hand extended itself.
‘Goodnight, Matthew.’
And with that she was gone.
The moon was up and skittish, as the small fast chaise — unmarked with the Weston crest — turned out of the great gates and headed for the coast. Beside the coachman Torn rode shotgun for, though both John and Matthew were armed they were, with no postillions or accompanying servants and travelling in such dark hours of the morning, a tempting target for gentlemen of the road. And sure enough as they left the village of Sevenoaks in Kent there was a distant thud of hooves behind them. Turning, Tom could vaguely make out a black figure but it melted into a clump of trees as he peered at it. To be on the safe side he fired a couple of warning shots and, thankfully, no more was seen of the villain.
They arrived at Dover just after eight o’clock on a fine spring morning, with the tide running at full swell and the ships, waiting to carry those wishing to journey across the Channel, already swarming with passengers. Hyacinth had only time for one large nip of brandy at the post house that stood on the quayside, before he too embarked. Then it was anchors up, canvasses into the wind, and hats off to wave at those left on shore. Turning his face into the morning, realizing that he was probably seeing John for the last time, Hyacinth pulled his cloak about him and leant on the rail. He was returning to the land where he had been born with no further clue to his identity, no real progression in his life, and it was bitter gall. He was just making his way to the cabin below, where he might sit with others and drink himself into a stupor, when there was a touch at his elbow. A black cloaked figure, hidden by its hood, stood before him.
‘Do I know you?’
Matthew felt vastly irritable.
With a laugh the figure threw off its covering. Gun metal taffeta was the riding habit, wild lilac the laughing eyes.
‘I should sincerely hope so,’ said Melior Mary — and she dropped him a curtsey.
*
The Hotel Coq d’Or which, though larger than its more humble rivals still remained only a posting inn as far as the average traveller was concerned, was — for the time of year — very heavily booked indeed. In fact there were no available rooms left at all and those journeyers who arrived late on the evening of April 16, 1719 were told that they would have to content themselves with the floor and a blanket or, if that did not please them, go on and cross the French border that night.
And a motley collection the party of guests — who all seemed to know one another — were, as they sat down to dine on that chilly spring nig
ht. First there was a loud contingent of three Irishmen — all officers — who drank a great deal of champagne and slapped each other on the back. The leader of these appeared to be a Captain Wogan, the only army man to have brought a servant with him — a Scotsman with a great gashed scar running down his left cheek to his jaw and an accent that the landlord found totally incomprehensible. As well as the other two — Major Gaydon and Captain Missett — a fourth officer, Captain O’Toole, was expected that evening and his room was being jealously guarded against all would-be hirers. Nor was the gathering exclusively male for Mrs Missett had accompanied her husband — and this despite the fact that she was expecting a child — and she, in turn, had brought a maid.
By ten o’clock the meal was cleared, brandies were drunk, and the carefree chatter told the landlord that the next day he would receive a handsome tip. Therefore it was with an ominous feeling that he handed Wogan a note — brought a few minutes before by a boy from the village. Something about the very look of it told him that the message did not contain good tidings. The Captain, too, seemed to sense this for he ripped it open without ceremony and scanned the contents. Then he screwed the paper up into a ball, said ‘Mother of Christ!’, and threw the offending pellet into the fire. The landlord, guessing that he had been right, bowed over the greasy white cloth that hung from his extended arm, and discreetly withdrew.
But before he could even close the door Mrs Missett had said, ‘What’s the matter Charles?’ and Wogan had answered, ‘It’s O’Toole — he’s got a woman with him.’ Fortunately for the maitre the rest of the conversation was lost to him.
‘Wha’?’ said the Scotsman — whose role as a servant seemed to slip from him as the room became private to the assembled company — ‘Has he gone oot his head?’
And Major Gaydon put in, ‘What the devil’s he playing at? Who exactly is he, Charles?’
On top of which Captain Missett had boomed, ‘Is he to be trusted? Who recommended him?’
They all leant forward as they spoke, head inclined towards head, and at that moment — on that particular date in that particular year — they were, without doubt, the most exciting group of adventurers in Europe. Gaydon — grey and distinguished — from his years of active fighting service; Missett — tall, humorous, the sort of man who would laugh while he killed; Wogan — the Anglo-Irishman whose family had fought for the Catholic Kings since time immemorial; the man-servant Mitchell, probably the most interesting of them all — he who had assisted the Jacobite Lady Nithsdale in the rescue of her husband from the impregnable Tower of London after the 1715 Uprising; Mrs Missett — considerably younger than her husband, tall for a woman, but bright-eyed and quick, ready to serve her King even though a child kicked within her; Jeanneton the maid, known as Jenny, born sulky and with a certain large-toothed aggressiveness; yet included in this enterprise because she was to play a vital role — a role the truth of which would never be properly explained to her. All-in-all a strange collection of humanity, yet not so if one realized the common wish — to see the House of Stuart re-established upon the throne of England. To see the German Elector gone from British shores and an Englishman take his rightful place in the land that by ancient heritage was his.
‘The note says she’s John Weston’s daughter,’ Wogan went on.
‘Who?’
‘John Weston of Sutton Place. He is a loyalist and active supporter. O’Toole — alias Banister — is his servant and comes on Lady Derwentwater’s say-so.’
‘But why bring anyone — least of all a young woman?’
In reply Mrs Missett laughed and rolled her pretty eyes, saying, ‘Oh, la la!’ to Major Gaydon. But Wogan answered him shortly, ‘She will have to remain here. There is no way that she must be allowed any further.’
They relapsed into a brief and worried silence broken only by the fall of charring logs in the fireplace. And into that ember glow, into that crimson light, which warmed the faces of King James’s most loyal subjects and transformed their clothes to shades of flame, walked Melior Mary. She stood before them with the shimmer of opal, the watered silk of her dress reflecting pinks, blues and mauves, her hair gleaming like fire on snow. There was not one of them that did not catch a breath, even the tough and scar-faced Scot. In fact there was, for him, a strange tightening in his chest that he had, up to now, only associated with danger and challenge.
‘My name is Melior Mary Weston,’ she said quietly, curtseying humbly before Major Gaydon as the most high-ranking officer in the room, ‘here to explain my unwanted presence among you — and to make amends.’
Into the shocked stillness Mrs Missett spoke, yet no-one else moved or made a greeting.
‘Jeanneton, would you take Miss Weston’s trunk to my room if you please. Is it outside, Miss Weston?’
She smiled and nodded, her eyes a-tilt.
Apparently inconsequentially Mrs Missett said again, ‘Jenny, see to Miss Weston’s things.’
‘And while you’re there ask Captain O’Toole to step inside.’ It was Charles Wogan speaking.
The girl bobbed and went out and as soon as the door closed behind her Wogan said angrily, ‘I don’t know how much you know of our enterprise, Miss, but nothing must be discussed in front of Jenny. She is not party to the plot.’
He had been frowning, gazing down at the toe of his boot, but now he looked up and into the eyes that were fast becoming the toast of the day. Despite himself, despite all the trouble that she was causing, his twinkling Irish grin burst forth, creasing his nose.
‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘you’re as pretty as a flower in the morn I’ll grant you that. But I’ll wager you could be a devil given half a fighting chance. God help us!’
He shook his head, laughing, and she smiled back; there was an instant affinity between them. Yet still she chose to remain silent, saying nothing as she swept another deep curtesy and looked slowly from one to the other. Beneath the dazzle of that splendid gaze each one capitulated. Gaydon fatherly; Missett amused; his wife pleased; Mitchell afraid. Afraid of the lurch in his heart which made him unable to look at her and forced him to turn his scarred face away after a moment or two.
Mrs Missett, who suddenly seemed bold and not worried to any great degree if she spoke out of turn, said, ‘For myself, I’ll be glad of your company, my dear. It is difficult for me not being able to converse freely before Jenny and yet longing to talk to another woman. These men, they think they’re brave. But let one of them go on such high adventure with a babe kicking their ribs and we’d soon hear a moan, I’d warrant.’
For answer Melior Mary, in that strange unashamed way of hers, put her hand on Mrs Missett’s stomach and felt the rounding that lay hidden beneath the fully-cut skirts.
‘I’d be proud to be the companion of you and your passenger, ma’am,’ she said.
But now all attention was on Mitchell who cleared his throat and addressed himself to Wogan in particular, and the assembled company at large, though all the while keeping his eyes averted from Melior Mary’s face.
‘It’s my feeling, sir, that you should tell Missie...It’ll no be fair on her, nor on Mrs Missett neither, if you don’t.’
His influence over the others was considerable — the hero of the Nithsdale escape commanded respect wherever he went in Jacobite circles.
‘I am thinking of it,’ said Wogan. ‘What do you feel, Major? Missett?’
The two Irishmen nodded in agreement and as if he had been listening at the door — which indeed he had — Hyacinth chose this moment to come in. And with him into the room, like a physical presence, came everything that they loved and cherished and sought in the Jacobite cause. Youth, vitality, that consuming interest in life all rekindled by this, his greatest adventure. He was the son for which the Missetts longed; he was Wogan’s brother; Gaydon’s lost youth. Only Mitchell felt the old deep Celtic stirring of hatred and knew that his soul was dark against this man.
Without preamble, as if he had known them always, Hyacint
h said, ‘Madam, gentlemen; I have come here to help you. What is your plan?’ And, strangely enough, it was Mitchell who told him that the Princess and her mother were in desperate straits; that they lay imprisoned in a convent at Innsbruck with nobody to help them but a gentleman usher.
‘There is nothing we can do except snatch her away and substitute someone else in her place. If we simply abduct her without covering our tracks we’ll all be done for. We must get out of Austrian territory and into Venetian before the alarm goes up.’
It was Gaydon who spoke.
‘But who will you substitute?’
Hyacinth had questioned and Captain Missett answered him.
‘My wife’s servant, Jeanneton. She has agreed to do it in exchange for rewards. But she believes that you, O’Toole, are eloping — rescuing your light-of-love from an odious marriage. She has no idea of the true identity of the Princess.’
‘If it works,’ said Hyacinth, ‘this will be remembered as one of history’s greatest escapades.’
Wogan bellowed a laugh.
‘What do you mean if? I’d like to know the name of the bastard who can stop me now. I’d kick his arse from here to the Ring of Kerry.’
The next morning saw the party up and about early. As soon as a repast had been snatched, bills were settled and a heavy berlin, acquired by Wogan, was trundled round into the courtyard. Mrs Missett, Melior Mary, Jenny and Major Gaydon climbed inside and into the pillion went Hyacinth — the shortest of the men. Mitchell coiled a great lash of rope to the coachman’s seat and then took up his position on the box. Captains Missett and Wogan rode escort, leading the two spare horses.
They had never endured anything so tortuous. The enclosed coach — essential to shield the escaping royal bride from prying eyes — lumbered through the mountains like an ox, and eight days had passed by the time they at last came within sight of the Austrian border at Kempten.
Tamsin Missett, accepting every jolt with as much of a smile as she could muster, occasionally exclaimed ‘Odds Zlife!’ and once she growled to herself, that, ‘the wretch would be born in the hedgerow’; but she escaped without mishap and sailed serenely into the inns at night, where she would wash herself and then go straight to bed; her supper being brought to her on a tray and her evenings being devoted to cards or reading with Melior Mary. She was a great laugher and a great flirt; full of mischief, despite her condition, and ready for any jollity or diversion. She had found in herself a fondness for the wayward heiress, and during one of their more intimate conversations said, ‘What is there, my dearest, between you and O’Toole? In my romantic way I had quite cast you as the heroine in an adventure — running away with the groom in order to avoid a forced marriage.’