Graeme Elliot, former gardener to Beth
John Betts, former stableboy to Beth
Thomas Fletcher, former steward to Beth
Jane Fletcher, his wife
Gabriel Foley, leader of a band of smugglers
John Byrom, citizen of Manchester
Reverend Clayton, an Episcopalian minister, Manchester
Thomas Pelham, Duke of Newcastle
Benjamin, his clerk
Colonel Mark Hutchinson, a dragoon
Prince Charles Edward Stuart, eldest son of James Stuart, (the Pretender) exiled King of Great Britain
John Murray of Broughton, Secretary to Prince Charles
Margaret Murray, his wife
Lord George Murray, Lieutenant-General to Prince Charles
John William O’Sullivan, Quartermaster General to Prince Charles
James Drummond, Duke of Perth, Lieutenant-General to Prince Charles
Lord Ogilvy
Donald Cameron of Lochiel, Chief of Clan Cameron
Ranald Clanranald
Lord Kilmarnock
Alexander MacDonald, Chief of the Glencoe MacDonalds
General George Preston, Commander of Edinburgh Castle
Dudley Bradstreet, a brewer
Ann, a child
Lieutenant John Holker, formerly a linen merchant.
General Henry Hawley, Commander of the Hanoverian Army
Colonel Francis Ligonier, of the British Army
Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, second son of King George II of Great Britain
Prince Friedrich of Hesse, son-in-law to King George II
Donald Fraser, Blacksmith at Moy village
Lady Anne Mackintosh, wife of the Chief of Clan Mackintosh
Prologue
September 1745
Once the chores for the day were finished and all the doors locked and bolted for the night, except the front door, she made her way wearily up to the bedroom she shared with her husband, but which she was currently enjoying sole occupation of, as he was still out acting as coachman for Sir Anthony and his wife, who were at a reception of some sort, one of many which they attended.
She lit the lamp then undressed, and once in her shift, sat down at the dressing table and started to take the pins out of her hair. She watched in the mirror as it cascaded down around her shoulders, the profusion of dark auburn curls glowing like flames in the lamplight. Her hair was truly beautiful – the only claim to beauty she had, and she was very proud of it. When her husband was there, he would sit on the bed and watch appreciatively as she performed this nightly ritual of unpinning and brushing her hair. Sometimes their gazes would lock in the mirror, and then he would walk over to her, take the brush out of her hand and, standing behind her, continue the job of taming the wild mane, and she would sit, purring like a kitten, revelling in the sensuous feel of the brush strokes, and of his hand as he followed behind the brush, smoothing the waves with his palm.
More often than not, after a few minutes of this their eyes would lock again in the mirror, and this time the heat in their gaze would rival the fiery waves of her hair, and then the brush and their remaining clothes would be abandoned in favour of more intimate pursuits.
Not tonight, though. Tonight she was alone. Normally she treasured these solitary moments too, in a different way. While brushing her hair her mind would be soothed by the steady rhythm of the strokes, and she would relax, watching herself in the mirror as she worked.
If someone had told her over four years ago when she’d agreed to marry Iain, that she’d be sitting in front of a walnut dressing table in an aristocratic house, brushing her hair by the light of as many expensive beeswax candles as she wanted, she’d have laughed in their face. If they’d added to that that she would be far from happy living as she was, she’d have told them they were daft in the heid.
Yet here she was, not only unhappy, but desperately worried.
She’d married Iain Gordon knowing he’d been exiled from his clan, but not knowing why. He’d never told her, and she’d never pushed him to. She loved him; and that love was unconditional. She’d expected that after their wedding they’d stay in Edinburgh, and bring their children up as lowlanders. That had disturbed her a little, but not as much as she’d expected it to. After all, it might be a good feeling to have the whole of a clan to back you up, to have a sense of community, but if giving your fealty to a chief had the advantage that part of his role was to protect you and look after you in hard times, it had its disadvantages too. The chief’s word was law, and no one would go against his judgement, no matter how unfair it was. And not all chiefs took their duty of care seriously.
No, there was a lot to be said for having the freedom to do as you wished. Iain had had the opportunity to embrace that freedom, and she’d expected him to seize it.
So when he had come home one wet dismal evening six months after they’d married, and had said he was considering swearing fealty to a new chieftain and wanted her opinion on the matter, she had expressed her doubts. When he had told her the chieftain was a MacGregor, she’d told him that he was insane. Who the hell would willingly declare fealty to an outlaw? What protection could such a man give anyone? There were no advantages and only disadvantages to be had from such a reckless move. No. Emphatically no.
“Meet him,” Iain had said. “Let him tell ye what he intends, and see for yerself what manner of man he is.”
She’d agreed, not because she had any intention of letting this proscribed rogue talk her into ruining her life and her husband’s, but because she was flattered that Iain considered her opinion crucial to his decision. Not many men would be so considerate.
So she had met this wild reckless criminal MacGregor, and after an hour with him had seen exactly what Iain saw; that here was an exceptional man, a man of honour and integrity, totally devoted to the Stuart cause, as were she and Iain. And what was more, he was a man who was willing to do more than just drink toasts to the King over the Water.
He had talked to her, and far more importantly, he had listened to her, had taken her seriously, and when at the end of the evening she’d said she was willing to commit to him, he had, to her surprise, told both her and Iain to go home and think about it for a week. All he asked was that they never tell anyone what he intended to do. He’d only given them the briefest sketch of his plans; that he was going to London to infiltrate Hanoverian society, and that he needed trustworthy people who bore no resemblance to him to help him, people who were accustomed to acting as servants to wealthy people and who could teach selected clansmen of his the ropes.
They had taken their week although they hadn’t needed it, and then they had sworn. And had never looked back, although the first time she had met Sir Anthony Peters she had laughed so much she thought she’d die of it. And then she had worried, because surely such a ridiculous creature would never be accepted in polite society?
She had reckoned without his genius and his exceptional memory – in four years, he had never put a foot wrong. And in time she’d relaxed and started to accept their way of life, to find it normal, even.
Until now.
She sighed and put the brush down, aware that she had become so caught up in her thoughts that she’d been dragging it through her hair mechanically for the last ten minutes. Increasingly over the last couple of weeks she found herself performing chores automatically while her mind was far away, worrying. She had a lot to worry about.
Not just the general danger of the life they all led, the daily risk of betrayal and discovery. She had become accustomed to that long ago. This was a different sort of worry, a worry about the state of mind of everyone in the household. It seemed that until that fateful message, all of them had been able to deal with the risks of having to think about every word they said outside of the house, to be able to play their respective roles to perfection; they even laughed and joked about their varying escapades, escapades that would turn most people’s hair white. They w
ere used to danger; they were MacGregors. It came with the territory, and if this was a different sort of danger to that they faced in Scotland, well, danger was danger, and they had the mindset to deal with it.
But now things had changed. Before, they had known there would be an end to it, and that end would be when Prince Charles arrived in Britain and the Jacobites rose, and they would go and join him, and fight for their freedom. Everything they had done for the past four years had been to this end – to further the cause clandestinely, and then go and fight. And now that had been taken from them.
Prince Charles was in Britain and the clans were rising, and they were trapped here by Alex’s success as a spy, and Alex and Iain would not get to fight at all; and because of that knowledge, the whole atmosphere of the house had changed. Where before, after a long day as Sir Anthony and Lady Elizabeth, Alex and Beth would take off their makeup, change their clothes, and immediately relax, laughing and chatting about the doings of the day, now there was a continuous tension between everyone, as though their alter egos were slowly swallowing them up. Sometimes the four of them would hardly talk at all, but just sit together in the kitchen drinking whisky, each caught up in their own gloomy thoughts. The light-hearted banter that had kept them going through the years had dried up; and it was not, as she had first thought, because Angus and Duncan weren’t there. No, it was because when the letter from the prince had arrived, it had drained something crucial from them all, and that something was hope. It was hope that had kept them going, had given them reserves of energy to draw on when they were so exhausted they could barely speak. And the loss of that had cast a pall over everything.
Yes, Alex and Iain had told themselves that one day, hopefully soon, they would watch Prince Charles ride into London at the head of his army and claim the throne for his father; and that the roles they were playing were every bit as important as wielding broadsword and targe. But telling yourself something was not the same as believing it. They were miserable, and because they were miserable, their wives were miserable too.
She braced her elbows on the dressing table, and stared at her image in the mirror, wondering how long they could continue before something gave way. Both Alex and Iain were expert at hiding their feelings when they had to, but they were Scots; quick to anger, quick to laughter, naturally emotional and passionate. They could not continue like this for much longer. Iain could for a while, maybe. But Alex was under tremendous strain, all day, every day, and he was the chieftain; his clansmen were marching with their prince in Scotland and he belonged with them. Every fibre of his being yearned to be at their side. He was crumbling, and they all knew it, and they did not know what to do to hold him together, other than what they were already doing.
Maggie sighed, and stood up, and prepared to go to bed. As was her nightly custom, she knelt by the side of the bed to pray. And tonight she prayed that Charles would change his mind and send another message, calling his loyal vassal home, or that God in His mercy would find another way for them to go home and join their clan. She had no desire to watch the men go off to battle; she knew the terrible dangers and hardships they’d face if they did. But fighting was what they knew. They had trained for it all their lives, and they would only truly be happy when they were back with their clan, fighting in this rebellion they had worked and prayed for for so long. And if Iain was happy, then she would be happy. For her it was as simple as that.
She finished her prayers, climbed into bed and snuffed out the candle. Then she settled down to wait for Iain, Alex and Beth to come home.
CHAPTER ONE
On the morning of the nineteenth of August 1745, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, or Prince Tearlach as he was known to the three hundred and fifty or so Highlanders who at present constituted his entire following, made his way with his diminutive army to Glenfinnan. Once there he raised his standard and settled down to wait until one o’clock, when Donald Cameron of Lochiel and Alexander MacDonald of Keppoch were due to appear with their clansmen. The place Charles had chosen was a fine stretch of level ground which formed a natural amphitheatre at the head of Loch Shiel, beyond which the loch stretched for fifteen miles into the hazy distance. It was a perfect spot to assemble a large body of men.
They waited. Some cattle appeared and settled to grazing. Presently a few locals appeared too, curious as to what was happening, which seemed to be nothing. The Camerons did not appear. Nor did the Keppochs. One o’clock came and went, as did two o’clock, and two-thirty. Three o’clock loomed. The light-hearted banter of the Clanranalds and Gordons became distinctly anxious and strained, although it was noted that the prince appeared to remain optimistic, if a little pale. The standard, a red silk flag with a white square inset, flapped merrily in the breeze.
Just when the locals were contemplating returning home, and everyone else was starting to wonder if the rebellion was to both begin and end this day on the banks of Loch Shiel, from the east came a distant skirl of pipes, which grew gradually louder, until the Camerons could finally be seen zig-zagging their way down the surrounding mountains to join their prince, some eight hundred men in total. They were shortly followed by Keppoch, three hundred more clansmen, and two companies of redcoat prisoners, captured three days earlier. Two hours later the exuberant Stuart prince had delivered a short but inspiring speech to his much enlarged army, and had retired to the other side of the river to hold his first war council.
The Jacobites then made their way south, acquiring more men enroute, assembling at the Corriearrack pass in the hope of engaging General Cope’s forces in battle and galvanising the rebellion with an early victory. They did not get their battle, but did achieve the next best thing; the speedy retreat of the enemy to Inverness, and the realisation that if some of the clans claiming loyalty to the Stuarts were reluctant to come out, so were those who had pledged allegiance to the Hanoverians. General Cope had not managed to recruit enough clansmen to supplement his soldiers and risk meeting Prince Charles and his army on the distinctly disadvantageous battlefield at Corriearrack.
On discovering this, the elated and rapidly expanding army of Highlanders continued south without opposition, entering Perth on the fourth of September, where they were to stay for six days. Charles proclaimed his father King James; men flocked to him in droves; and the welcome news came in that the MacGregors had, without loss, surprised and captured eighty-nine Hanoverian soldiers at the Inversnaid barracks, situated at the top of Loch Lomond.
The bid for the restoration of the Stuarts to the throne of Great Britain was under way.
* * *
In the meantime, at a ball in London, the absent chieftain of the victorious Loch Lomond MacGregors, dressed in emerald and gold satin, was eyeing the distorted face of his hostess with some concern, fearing that she might be about to have a seizure.
“So we wondered if you would do us the honour of leading the first minuet, as of course it is well known that the King of France was entranced by your performance at Versailles,” mumbled Lady Winter through the corner of her mouth.
It was clearly an attempt to be discreet; before making this request Lady Winter had herded her audience of two into the shelter of a potted palm, which odd behaviour had attracted attention from all corners of the room.
“Of course, Wilhelmina, if you are sure,” said Sir Anthony. “Personally though, I doubt your husband would appreciate us taking centre stage at his entertainment. He seems quite out of humour with me this evening.”
“Nonsense!” said Lady Winter, casting a glance at her husband, who had located her whereabouts and was glowering at her. “He is merely a little worried about the present disturbances in North Britain, you understand. He does not dance himself, and asked me to find a suitable couple to lead the dancing.”
The moment Sir Anthony and his wife had entered the room this evening it had been abundantly clear that their host did not want them there, and that it was his wife who had invited them, against his express wishes. The practical hos
tess, unrepentant, was aware that pride and dignity were no substitute for royal favour, and that whilst Sir Anthony had without doubt robbed Lord Winter of the former three weeks ago, he could certainly help him to acquire the latter; since King George had returned home at the end of August, a mere ten days ago, Sir Anthony had visited him twice, and on both occasions had stayed for far longer than formality dictated.
Having achieved her object Lady Winter drifted off to reason with her husband, leaving her guests alone behind the palm. Sir Anthony, taking advantage of the unexpected moment of privacy, had just manoeuvred his wife further into the shadows and was bending his lips to hers, when an amused voice interrupted his intentions.
“Do you think Bartholomew is still just a tiny bit irritated about you pushing him into the fountain at Vauxhall?”
Sir Anthony looked up, and through the serrated leaves.
“I am surprised at you, Edwin,” he said. “It is not like you to listen to idle gossip. I did not push him into the fountain. He backed away from me and overbalanced. I did not touch him at all.”
“Not even to pull him out,” Edwin pointed out.
Sir Anthony reluctantly abandoned his romantic intentions and emerged from behind the palm, his wife following.
“My dear boy, are you aware how much that jester’s outfit cost? The fountain was a mere two feet deep. Bartholomew was hardly in danger of drowning. One must get one’s priorities right.”
“And you were helpless with laughter, anyway,” Caroline commented.
“I was nothing of the sort! I may have tittered a little. I was a jester, and therefore supposed to be merry. It would hardly do for a jester to walk round looking like…like that,” Sir Anthony said, waving a hand in the direction of the disgruntled lord, whose wife was now earnestly explaining that the baronet might be an obnoxious little fop, but he was also on excellent terms with the monarch, and therefore worth indulging, so please try to look a little more welcoming.
The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4) Page 2