In no way could Caroline let Sarah leave without finding out what she wanted now, even though common sense told her she should. Her curiosity was too roused.
“What do you want to do?” Caroline asked.
“I was questioned by the Duke of Newcastle yesterday,” Sarah said. “It was horrible. I was really scared.”
“Yes, Thomas can have that effect on people, when he wants,” Caroline said. “Did you tell him what you knew?”
“I don’t know that much, Mrs Harlow,” said Sarah. “I told him what I could, but he didn’t seem very pleased. I suppose he didn’t learn anything new from me.”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t,” said Caroline wryly.
“After I went home, it occurred to me that if he’d questioned me, it’ll only be a matter of time before he decides to question the other servants, up in Manchester. And then I thought of how frightened I was when I was called in, even though I knew what it was about. They won’t know anything, and if they’re arrested they’ll be terrified.”
“So you want to write and warn them,” guessed Caroline. “And you want my opinion as to whether it’s the right thing to do.”
Sarah looked at her in surprise.
“Oh no,” she said. “I know it’s the right thing to do. What I don’t know, is how to write. I can read, I learnt that as a child. And I can write my name, and do a little number work. But I can’t write a letter.”
“So you want me to write a letter for you telling Beth’s friends in Manchester that she and Anthony have disappeared, are suspected of being traitors, and warning them that they might be dragged in for questioning at some time?”
Sarah beamed.
“I knew you’d understand!” she said.
“Don’t you think that if we write to them it might give them time to get their stories right? The authorities might prefer it if Beth’s friends don’t have any prior warning.”
Sarah looked her straight in the eye.
“I’m sure they don’t need time to make up stories, Mrs Harlow. They’ll tell the truth, just as I did. I just thought they might be concerned to know that Beth’s disappeared, that’s all. It might even do some good. If Sir Anthony or Beth go to them they can hold them and call for the magistrate. I think of it as doing a public service. Think how terrible it’d be if they were all murdered in their beds by Sir Anthony, because we hadn’t warned them that he was a traitor!”
“Is that what you think is going to happen, Sarah?” asked Caroline. She didn’t believe a word of this, and what’s more, she was sure Sarah knew she didn’t.
“I’m sure I don’t know. It’s what everyone in London seems to think. The Cunningham ladies certainly believe they narrowly escaped being killed, and they’re convinced Sir Anthony’s strangled Beth and dumped her body somewhere. I couldn’t let that happen to Thomas and Jane, and the others. They were very good to me.”
Caroline thought. She couldn’t do this. Edwin would go berserk if he found out. It was impossible. She daren’t.
She stood up.
“There’s paper and ink in the library,” she said. “But we’re going to have to word this very, very carefully.”
* * *
Colonel Mark Hutchinson sat at his desk waiting with no pleasure whatsoever for the expected knock on his door. He was a straightforward, honest, bluff man. Subterfuge and deviousness were neither traits he admired in others nor possessed himself. Yet in the interview he was about to conduct with his junior officer he was to be expected, no, had been ordered, to use both, in order to ascertain the degree of complicity of that officer, if any, in the fiasco that had recently taken place across the English Channel.
The knock came, and the colonel bid his visitor enter, watching as Captain Cunningham closed the door carefully and stood smartly to attention.
He was immaculate, his black leather boots polished to a high shine, his scarlet coat clean and neatly pressed, his wig powdered. He was an exemplary soldier; the colonel could never find anything to fault in the man’s appearance, or, technically speaking, in his conduct. He was courageous, commanding instant obedience from his men. He handled his mount with ease and his weapons with expertise. His attitude to his superior officers was respectful and deferential. Faultless.
Yet in spite of this Colonel Hutchinson did not like the man at all. He suspected him to be cold and unfeeling, and worse than that, to derive pleasure from the suffering of others. He had no proof of this, of course, although rumours abounded. A Belgian girl, beaten half to death by a dragoon answering Cunningham’s description had suddenly come into a small sum of money and left the area before she could be questioned; a private recently sentenced to a hundred lashes, officially for showing disrespect to his superior officer, or, unofficially, for intervening to stop a farmer being stabbed by the inebriated captain of dragoons in a local tavern, depending on which version of events you believed. The private’s account, of course, had concurred with his captain’s.
Perhaps I should be looking forward to this interview after all, the colonel reflected. If it gave him a reason to get rid of the man, or at least moderate his suspected sadism, it would be worth it.
“At ease, Captain Cunningham,” he said.
A very slight softening of the rigid posture of the man told Colonel Hutchinson that his order had been obeyed.
“I have recently received some news from England, Captain,” he began. “News that will affect you directly.”
The captain smiled politely and waited for his colonel to continue. Clearly from the sudden anticipatory gleam in his eye, he expected the news to take the form of orders to return to Britain to fight the rebels. He was an ambitious man, and would have recognised that there was no glory to be found in Flanders. On the other hand, if he was secretly in league with the rebels, he would also welcome a return to Britain, for quite different reasons…
“This news is of a personal nature, and concerns your sister, sir,” the colonel continued, eyeing the soldier intently. Richard’s expression did not change, although the anticipatory gleam diminished.
“It is bad news, I’m afraid,” Colonel Hutchinson continued.
“Is she dead, sir?” Richard asked, his voice full of concern, his face telling another tale entirely in spite of his attempt to hide it. For a moment the colonel had the distinct impression that the captain would consider his beautiful, vivacious sister’s demise to be excellent news. He must be imagining things.
“Why do you say that, Captain?” he asked. “Has she been unwell recently?”
“Well, no, sir,” said Richard, somewhat confused. “She enjoys excellent health, as a rule. But you said it was bad news, so I thought perhaps she had been taken ill.”
“On the eleventh of September, your sister and her husband disappeared, Captain,” the colonel announced matter-of-factly. “It has since been discovered that Sir Anthony Peters was in fact the assumed name of a spy who it seems has been for some years in the employ of the Pretender. The real Sir Anthony died at the age of five.”
If the colonel had hoped for a dramatic reaction from his visitor, he was not disappointed. Richard’s face drained of all colour instantly, and his eyes grew wide in an expression of utter disbelief. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and then he staggered forward two steps and, without being asked, sat down in the vacant chair by the desk. This unprecedented breach of military etiquette told the colonel more than anything else that Richard, no matter what his feelings toward his sister, had had no idea that her husband was anything other than Sir Anthony Peters, baronet.
“No,” the stricken man breathed, half to himself. “No, it’s not possible.” He looked ghastly, and for a moment the colonel felt a pang of sympathy for him. Just for a moment.
“I’m afraid it is, Captain. In spite of all our efforts, there has been no news of either your sister or brother-in-law since their hasty departure over six weeks ago. The rest of your family appears to think that your sister was innocent and has be
en abducted and possibly murdered by her husband. Lord Daniel Barrington believes she acted in collusion with him. I have been asked to find out what you think about this, and whether you had any knowledge of your sister’s loyalties.”
Richard looked blankly for a moment at his commanding officer, then, with what was obviously a tremendous effort, he sought to pull himself together.
“I’m sorry…” he murmured, aware that he had taken a seat without authority and making to rise. The colonel waved him back down.
“Stay where you are, man,” he said. “This has obviously come as a shock to you. Did you suspect Sir Anthony of having Jacobite leanings?”
“No! My God, no!” cried Richard, with complete and obvious honesty. “Don’t you think I would have informed you if I had?”
“Family loyalties can be very strong…” began the colonel.
“My loyalty to my king and country come before any other loyalties I may have, Colonel,” interrupted the captain. He was starting to master himself properly now.
“What of your sister, then? Did she ever speak of a leaning towards the Stuart cause?”
“No, of course not,” said Richard. “She was acquainted with the king, and his son. They were on good terms, I believe.”
The colonel would not have noticed the slight uncertainty in Richard’s tone, had he not been observing him so closely. A muscle twitched in the captain’s cheek
“Sir Anthony was also on good terms with the king,” pointed out the colonel. “And yet there is no doubt that he has, for some four years, been working as a Jacobite spy. What did you think of the man?”
Now there was no hesitance.
“I didn’t like him,” said Richard. “I thought him to be a fop, possibly even a molly, sir.” His lip curled in disgust.
“Yet you did not object to your sister marrying him.”
“She was of age, sir. I could do nothing against it. And he was rich and well-connected. There were advantages in the match.”
“Yes, indeed,” remarked the colonel. “One of them being that he paid for your promotion from sergeant to cornet, and then to lieutenant, did he not? Why do you think he did that?”
“I… I have no idea,” faltered the captain.
“Could it be because he thought to recruit an additional informant in the ranks of the army?” asked the colonel quietly.
It took a moment for the meaning of this statement to penetrate, and then Richard leapt to his feet, his hand moving automatically to the hilt of his sword.
“My God, Colonel!” he cried. “Do you think me a Jacobite spy?”
No, thought the colonel, not without a twinge of disappointment. Whatever I think you to be, your behaviour here puts me in no doubt of your loyalty.
“Sit down, Captain,” he said. “I am not accusing you of anything. I am just apprising you of the situation, and telling you how things might appear to one who does not know you.”
“I assure you, sir,” said Richard fervently, “that I am not a Jacobite. I have no idea why Sir Anthony paid for my commission. It was part of the dowry agreement. I thought nothing of it. He was rich; it was nothing to him, and meant a great deal to me.”
“Are you close to your sister, Captain?” asked the colonel.
The sudden changes of subject were throwing Richard slightly off balance, as the colonel intended.
“I…ah…We…No,” he said. “There are over seven years between us, sir. I left home when she was nine to join the army, and did not see her again until father died three years ago. She is my half-sister,” he added, in an obvious attempt to put distance between them.
“Ah, yes,” said the colonel. “Lord Daniel Barrington told me that her mother was a Scottish Jacobite whore. Is that true?”
Richard’s face became quite interesting. The colonel had the distinct impression that Cunningham would love to say she was, but realised that if he did that would cast doubt on his father’s loyalties, and therefore his own as well.
“No,” Richard said after a pause. “No, she was not a whore. She was a Scot, and a seamstress. The marriage was not well received by the family, who felt that she had taken advantage of my father’s grief after Mama’s death to insinuate herself into his heart. She was very beautiful, sir,” he said somewhat sourly.
“Do you remember her maiden name?” asked the colonel.
“MacDonald, sir.”
“Ah.” That didn’t help much. Some of the MacDonalds had come out for the Pretender’s son, but others hadn’t. “And you have no idea whether your stepmother had Jacobite leanings that she might have passed on to her daughter?”
“No, Colonel.” The hesitation again. Interesting.
“Do you know of anyone else who may be able to help us in our endeavours to find your sister and the man she married? I say married, although of course the marriage is now certainly void, as the man gave a false name. For all we know he may already have a wife.”
“Her servants in Manchester may know something. She was very close to them, sir. Especially the gardener, Elliot. Surly fellow. They were with her for many years. I would certainly think she would contact them.”
“If she is still alive,” pointed out the colonel.
“Indeed,” said Richard, somewhat distractedly.
“Well, we will interview the servants, then. Thank you, Captain. Before you leave, I can inform you that your regiment is one of those expected to be deployed to England, early in December I should think. No doubt you will be pleased to have the opportunity to see your wife and child. You must miss them greatly.”
“Yes sir, thank you sir,” said Richard, all formality now. It was impossible to tell whether the smile on his face was due to joy at the thought of seeing his wife, or the fact that he was to get a chance to fight the rebels. The colonel strongly suspected the latter. He waited until Richard reached the door.
“If I may say one more thing, Captain,” said the colonel.
Richard turned round politely.
“I must say that I would have expected you to show more concern over the fact that your sister may have been murdered by this traitor. Is it your view that she went willingly with the man? Your cousins tell us that she did not seem especially fond of him. They were extremely concerned about her safety.”
He watched with considerable satisfaction as Richard realised his mistake and sought to extricate himself from the implied accusation of callousness.
“I…Of course I am concerned for her safety, Colonel. I suppose it is just that I could not imagine a man like Sir Anthony murdering anybody. He was so…feminine, sir.”
“Hmm. But he did kill a man in a duel, did he not? And whatever he is, he is certainly not Sir Anthony. Your composure does you credit, sir. I will of course inform you the moment there is any news.”
When the door had closed, the colonel resisted the impulse to throw something at it. By God, but Cunningham was a cold-hearted, self-seeking bastard! He hated his sister, that was very clear, in spite of his pathetic attempts to deny it. And he certainly knew something about her that he was trying to hide, but wanted to reveal at the same time.
She is a Jacobite, thought the colonel. And Cunningham knows or at least strongly suspects it, and has done for some time. That is why he hates her, or at least part of the reason why. And he can’t tell me, much as he would like to see her hang, because it would incriminate him as well.
That could explain why he had no fear of her being dead. He was sure she had gone willingly with the man. On the other hand, maybe he hoped that Anthony had murdered her. Could a man hate his own sister so much that he would wish her dead? Colonel Hutchinson cast his mind back to his one meeting with Elizabeth Cunningham. He would not wish her dead were she his sister, no matter how misguided she was. He had been entranced by her. She was beautiful, spirited, intelligent and witty. And she had not appeared to be overly fond of the languid effeminate Anthony, although he had clearly doted on her. Had it all been an act? Presumably so.
CHAPTER FOUR
Following the spectacular victory of the Jacobite army at Prestonpans, Prince Charles returned to Holyroodhouse to determine what to do next. His intention was to press straight on into England, but at a hastily arranged meeting his officers outlined their objections to this plan. Firstly, the Jacobite army was too small at present to contemplate a full-scale invasion of England. They must wait, for the wavering clans would surely flock to Edinburgh once they heard of the glorious victory their prince had just won. The French would also be certain to now send the much-needed reinforcements. There were other considerations too, Charles was told. The army needed shoes for marching, weapons for fighting, and more food. All of this required money, which the prince did not have, but which, now Scotland was conquered (except for the few forts and garrisons which still held out, but they could be dealt with later), levies could now be raised, the land tax could be claimed, and the Stuart coffers filled.
Lochiel and Murray of Broughton, the only men on the council apart from the prince who were aware of Alex’s dual identity, privately reminded Charles that they also needed another way to maintain contact with the English Jacobites and establish an espionage network in the south, since Sir Anthony Peters had been betrayed and was unable to deal with this himself. Any invasion of England must wait until these matters had been addressed.
The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4) Page 9