The Pretender's Lady

by Alan Gold

  Flora could barely quell her own excitement. She and Alan had made the decision that at some stage in the future, they would take their six children to America and follow in the general migration that the Scots had begun many years earlier. The question was all about timing. He wanted to leave immediately, but he couldn’t persuade his wife to go. She refused to leave Skye, despite the difficulties created by the damnable English until her mother Anne had passed away. Exhausted, sick, and bed-ridden these past seven months, Anne had not been the same since her beloved Hugh had died of a fever three years earlier. As he was lowered into his grave, Flora was certain that she had seen Anne’s spirit and will to live disappear into the cold earth with him. Since his passing, Anne had barely smiled, and her grandchildren, for whom she lived, no longer gave her the pleasure they once did. It was only a matter of time, and Anne’s spirit was finally exhausted, and her body had passed away the previous month. After a suitable mourning period, Alan and Flora announced their decision to abandon their house in Armadale and leave for the New World.

  As Skye and the Highlands were being denuded of Scots and replaced by Englishmen and sheep, America was filling up with expatriate Scotsmen and women. Tens of thousands had migrated across the water to seek freedom from the oppression of the Lord North, a penny-pinching madman who had been appointed prime minister by King George III in England. He and the English Parliament were oblivious to the privations they were causing in Scottish life. Industry and commerce had come to Scotland thanks to the English, but it was the English in Scotland who were enjoying the benefits, and not the Highlanders, who were becoming a poor servant class, little more than slaves to their English overlords.

  The sailors heaved again in unison and the rowing boat surged forward further up the river and against its seaward flow. The banks were so fertile, the trees and the grass so green, the sky so luscious and blue, that Flora was nearly overcome by her senses. In the distance there was a field, planted with a tall crop that she’d read about in the pamphlet on vegetation and agriculture in America; she looked at them as carefully as her aging eyes would allow; they could be tall wheat or even taller corn, or maize or . . . or . . . she would have to wait and become more experienced in the nature of the farmland of North Carolina rather than make wild assumptions.

  Again, her body was pulled and pushed by invisible forces as the oarsmen rowed up the river. She’d been assured that it wouldn’t be much longer before they would sight Halifax, which was only another three miles away.

  She enjoyed being in a rowing boat. And although the circumstances were vastly different, she remembered how she and Prince Charles escaped the English in a rowing boat from South Uist to Skye all those years before. What an irony! She was still escaping the English. What was it about the English that made them so rapacious? Colonies that didn’t share in the wealth of the mother country but were treated as a treasure store to be robbed at will, would soon rebel against the exploitation. She’d wanted to see it happen in Scotland; please God that it didn’t happen in her new home, she prayed

  As the rowboat took Flora and her family deeper and deeper into America, she mused on the past quarter of a century of her life. No! Twenty-six years. Almost to the day. She couldn’t remember the month, but the year was 1746. It was a sunny month, so it must have been June or July. They’d been lucky to remain afloat in the storm and not all be drowned. She remembered climbing a cliff. She remembered the crofter’s hut. She remembered oh so clearly the night the boatman, Neil MacEachan, had gone into town leaving them alone, not even suspecting for a moment that there was anything that would happen between the Prince of Scotland and the daughter of a farmer.

  But it had, and she looked lovingly at her son Jamie. Was it just a coincidence that Jamie was exactly the same age today traveling by ship to conquer the kingdom of the New World, as was his father Prince Charles when he’d come from France by ship and landed on Eriskay in the Outer Hebrides to claim his kingdom? She looked at him long and lovingly. He was so very different to her other children. He was taller and fairer and with prouder features. Her other children, by Alan Macdonald, were stockier and more like Highlanders. But only Alan Macdonald knew the truth. And just like Hugh had treated Flora as his own child when she came to him at the age of two after the death of her natural father, Alan, God bless him, had treated Jamie as his very own bairn since the moment he was born.

  And in all that time, Flora had not heard a single word from Prince Charles. Not a letter, not a messenger, not a greeting. Nothing. She didn’t know whether he was alive or dead, whether he was going to return and claim his land as he’d promised, or whether he’d accepted the reality that King George III, the first of the Hanoverians to be born in England, would be king for many years to come, and his son would take over the throne from him. Yet when she’d left Scotland to travel to Liverpool in order to catch the boat to the New World, the last thing she’d done was to pick a sprig of heather that she’d encased into a piece of parchment and wore on a chain between her breasts. She’d told Alan it was a memento of Skye, but the truth was it was to remind her of her time as the lover and wife of the handsome prince who one day would use it as part of his coat of arms.

  Or would he? She’d heard neither hide nor hair of him since the day he’d left Skye. Was it an end to all the hopes of a Stuart line of kingship? Had all those good Highlands people died in vain? Or did Charlie have other sons who, like their father, would sail to England and try to claim the English and Scottish thrones for the Stuarts? Would Charlie, or one of his sons, one day sit upon the Stone of Scone in London’s Westminster Abbey, the ancient throne on which the kings of Scotland were crowned, and claim the kingdom for his own. If only she knew what had happened to her bonnie prince, Charlie.

  Flora realized now that she’d never loved him. She’d been infatuated, certainly, but it was different from the love she bore her Alan. It had been a girlish fantasy, a night of carnal lust in a lonely hut on a deserted part of Skye; she’d been alone with a lovely and elegant man who lived in another world, a world that had always fascinated her. But that world had entered her body and then withdrawn completely, and she realized that he’d treated her like he treated all the many servant girls and strumpets who’d willingly allow him their bodies, in the hope of a reward, or just to say that they’d bedded a prince.

  As she sat in the boat being pulled upriver, Flora was amazed by the rawness of her emotions. After all these decades, she still felt hurt and angry and embarrassed and was mortified that her face flushed in humiliation before her husband and children. Thank God they were looking at the scenery and not their stupid mother. For she was the one who had kept the flame of that night alive all these years. She, reminded every day when she looked at her beautiful son Jamie who was the very image of the Bonnie Charlie who had fathered him, but who, unlike the father, was a quiet and reserved and demure lad who rarely spoke unless he had something important to say. In that way, God bless him, he was the very image of his adoptive father Alan. Flora mused on how funny the world has turned out.

  As they rounded a bend in the river, the sixty houses that made up Halifax, North Carolina, came into view. Smoke was coming out of some of the chimneys. Horses and wagons were plying the streets. Her new home looked very pleasant. She smiled at Alan and blew him a kiss. She hoped he’d think her flushed with excitement and not for any other reason.

  All the children looked keenly at the settlement. It was a very attractive settlement, built on a bend in the river. The township was neat and there was a strong wooden stockade protecting it from attack by the native Indians. But the gates had been thrown wide open and there was nobody appearing to guard the community. Jamie, immediately understanding his mother’s concern, put his arm around her and said softly, “I’ve been reading all about the natives, Mother. Around here, they’re called the Iroquois which is a confederation of five Indian nations, the Mohawk, the Onondaga, the Oneida, the Seneca, and the Cayuga. The English are on ve
ry good terms with them, and there’s much trade between the peoples. There hasn’t been an Indian attack in Halifax or the farmland around here in years. It’s perfectly safe.”

  She smiled and put her hand on his shoulder and thanked him. Of all her children, he was the only one who had mastered the art of reading, and he would devour any book that Flora or Alan happened to acquire in their journeys around Skye or on the occasion when they went to Edinburgh. He was a quiet and a studious lad, and sometimes he was embarrassingly shy when in the company of people. He only ever spoke when he was spoken to, and sometimes Alan and Flora would be in bed, realizing that Jamie had not spoken one word in their presence in all the long day. Even when he was with his less taciturn brothers and sisters, he was always the one who stood on the sidelines and watched their interchange. Yet for all that, he was the voice of moderation, the calm and mature influence on his wilder and more irascible siblings. Although he wasn’t Alan’s flesh and blood, he had somehow inherited Alan’s reserve. There were times even when Flora was alone in the house and would turn around and find that Jamie had been there for some time without making himself known.

  Did that mean he didn’t contribute to his family? Not at all. He was determined and made his viewpoints well enough known. But unlike her other more garrulous children who had to be told to shut up, Jamie had to be asked to voice his opinion.

  The boat pulled into the riverside dock and tied up at a jetty. The other boats from the ship were still half a mile or more behind, so their bags and packages and possessions were taken quickly to the boat shed, and Alan, Flora, and their six children were helped up from the boat to climb the river slimed steps onto firm land.

  A florid man dressed in an oddly shaped round hat, wearing a battered brown jacket and violent yellow waistcoat with faded blue trousers, came out of the shed and opened his arms.

  “Welcome, welcome ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Halifax, your new home. Welcome one and welcome all. You must be the Macdonalds,” he said, consulting a list that he held in his hands; it fluttered in the gentle breeze. He had a strong accent that wasn’t Scottish, but sounded much like the accent of some of the people she had met who now lived in Edinburgh, yet who had been born in Portsmouth and other parts of the south of England.

  Alan smiled and shook his hand warmly. “We’re all Macdonalds, sir, and there’s many more to come on the next boats. They’re from our clan, but they’re Macdonalds from a different part of Scotland and are no part of my family. Here you see the family of Mr. Alan Macdonald of Armadale in the island of Skye. My wife Flora and our six children. And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “I’m the Mayor of Halifax. I’m Mr. Gabriel Sheldon. I was born in this country and have lived here in Halifax all my life. And let me tell you, sir, and you, ma’am, that it’s God’s own country. Plant an acorn and you’ll have an oak tree by morning. The ground is so fertile, the weather so clement that you’ll curse yourself for not arriving here earlier. Now, let me have your bags taken from the shed to where I’ve arranged temporary accommodation for you. It’s commodious but not fancy. If you want fancy, you’ll have to build it yourselves.

  “You’ll find building materials have been laid out on your land by the residents’ committee. There’s a charge, but you can pay that after your first year’s income from your crops. There’s men who’ll help you build if you need assistance and if you have the money to pay, but looking at your sturdy children, it’s not likely that you’ll need the help of strangers to build your home. And there are traders who’ll sell you Negro slaves who’ll work for you. They come here once every three months when a new shipment is just in from Africa,” he said.

  Flora reacted in horror. “There’ll be no slaves in my household, thank you very much, Mr. Sheldon. We didn’t escape the slavery of the English to become slave owners ourselves.”

  Sheldon noted her vehemence and said, “That’s entirely your decision, Mistress Macdonald, but there’s many folk here that do own slaves and they find the arrangement very profitable. Anyway, how and when you build your house is your affair, but if you’ll take my advice, you’ll build it sooner rather than later, for although the weather is temperate now, winter is only a few months away, and the nights here get powerful cold. While you’re building your dwelling, if you so desire you can come back to Halifax Township and remain in paid accommodation each night for protection. The costs are minimal and the committee can even subsidize you until your home is built, though you’ll have to repay the amount plus interest once your farm is on its feet. Not many folks do return once they get to their land, for they prefer to sleep under canvas while the building is taking shape. On average, it should take you not more than a week to build a habitable shelter, which you can extend into a home while you’re under a roof. You’ll find a stream for pure fresh water on your land, and in time, you’ll dig a well down to the water table, which’ll keep you in drinking water during droughts so that you’ll never run dry. Then that will be that.”

  They followed him along the jetty, and before he reached the boat shed, he stopped, and pointed to the far horizon. “Folks, you can’t see it from here, but five miles down that road is your very own twenty acres of some of the best farming country in all of America. It’s the king of England’s land, but we lease it from him, and you lease it from us. You pay us rent, you clear the trees from the land and then you grow crops or sell the wood, and you earn what you can from the land. As farmers, you know you’ll never starve, and if you’re real smart, you’ll run twenty, thirty head of cattle or sheep and that’ll give you extra money come slaughter-time. We’ll set you up to meet the traders who’ll buy the hide off the cows or the wool from the sheep if that’s your fancy and whether you sell the meat or salt it and eat it is up to you. Point I’m making, folks, is that hard work will reward you handsome.”

  He moved his extended arm to another part of the horizon. “Ten years ago, another fella, man by the name of Josiah Marchment, took lease over twenty acres, just like you’re doing. Right smart fella he is, too. Within two years, he’d bought those twenty acres outright. Five years ago, he bought another twenty acres, and just last year, he bought a whole hundred acres toward the foothills of the mountains. He’s running a thousand head of cattle and only the Lord God knows how much he’s worth. He’s built himself a fine six-room house over yonder with a dining room and a room where you can dance. And in two months’ time, he’ll have completed the purchase of another fifty acres to grow tobacco and corn which he’ll sell all over Carolina. I tell you, sir, that’s the sort of man we want in America. A real go-getter.”

  Mr. Sheldon looked at Alan, then at Flora, and then at the children and asked quietly, “Tell me, sir, are you a real go-getter?”

  Alan smiled and said softly, “That depends, Mr. Sheldon, on what I decide to go and get.”

  THE APARTMENTS OF PRINCESS LOUISE OF STOLBERG-GEDERN HOTEL MONDIAL ROME, ITALY

  JULY 23, 1772

  Her maid, a private gift of M. René Augustin de Maupeou, Chancellor of France, finished combing the princess’ hair and arranging the bodice of her dress. She picked up an enamel and ceramic pin with its depiction of a hunting scene, and carefully threaded it through the curls, avoiding touching the princess’ scalp. Then she wound and tied different colored ribbons over the pin so that they hung down through her hair. A further touch with the comb to hide the pin and the princess was ready to make her appearance.

  “Madame looks very beautiful,” the maid told her. But her mistress remained seated, looking at herself in the mirror while the maid fussed around the boudoir, picking up the previous night’s bedclothes, paper wrappings from chocolates, and documents scattered over the bed.

  She had finished tidying the room, and yet the Madame remained seated. “Will Your Highness not come to breakfast?” she asked. It was nearly eleven o’clock in the morning, and the food prepared by the chefs, another gift of the generous Chancellor of France, would already be
turning cold and spoiling.

  “I will eat when my husband rises,” she said, barely audibly.

  The maid curtsied and left the room. Princess Louise repeated the word to herself, looking into the mirror to see how ugly her mouth became when she pronounced the word.

  “Husband!”

  From the shape of her face and the sound her lips made as she spat out Charles’ status in their marriage, the name sounded more like a curse than a title. It was so false, so artificial. But what else could she call him? Majesty? King? Prince? Drunkard and sot and womanizer and wife-beater. Failure? Demi-man?

  They all applied. Every title and every name he used for himself and which in the privacy of her boudoir she used for him, was equally valid, especially for a man who didn’t know who he was today and had not known who he had been for thirty or more years. He called himself king, yet he was living in a distressed apartment, paid for by M. de Maupeou and only because of the Chancellor’s certainty that the French monarchy was doomed and that support for the Stuarts might benefit both France and himself.

  Now that his father was dead, he called himself king. But he had no lands, no people, no palaces. Others to this day called him Prince, for to call him king was a false assumption. Kingdoms had to be earned, and in his more lucid moments, he recognized that, and he styled himself Prince in Exile.