The Jacobite's Wife

by Morag Edwards

  Copyright © 2018 by Morag Edwards.

  Hookline Books/Bookline & Thinker

  7 Regent Court

  Chipping Norton, OX7 5PJ

  www.hooklinebooks.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in an information retrieval system (other than for the purposes of review) without the express permission of the publisher in writing.

  The right of Morag Edwards to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  © Copyright 2018 Morag Edwards

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 9780995623576

  Cover design by MoreVisual Ltd.

  Printed and bound by Lightning Source UK

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Foreword

  This novel is based upon the true story of Winfred, Countess of Nithsdale (1672 – 1749). The story of her husband, William Maxwell, and his escape from the Tower of London is well known but looking further into this, I realised that Winifred was by far the more interesting character; her life shaped by the turmoil of late seventeenth century politics and her family torn apart by faith and loyalty. Winifred’s motives for attempting to rescue her husband from the Tower remain a puzzle, since she was not a young woman and she stood to lose everything: her home, her children and even her own life if she failed. I have used my knowledge of child development to help me try to understand Winifred and the forces that drove her to save her husband but there remains much scope for conjecture and for readers to reach their own conclusions. While the most important events happened as written, some names, details and dates have been altered to suit my purpose as the author. The personalities of the characters, their motives, desires and conversations are entirely fiction and bear no resemblance to how they may have actually thought, acted or spoken.

  Book 1: 1688–1690

  Chapter One: 1688

  I can hear a thump, thump, thump like someone is bouncing a ball along an empty corridor then a man’s voice, hushed by a woman. I listen and listen until my ears crack and pound to the rhythm of my pulse. There are no more sounds. I reach for my comfort cloth, torn from Mother’s petticoat when she was taken to the Tower of London. But it’s lost in the folds of my bed and my hands sweep across the counterpane searching for the touch of silk. My fingers find its ruffled edge and I burrow back under the covers.

  Now I hear hooves scrape on the cobbles and the jangle of a harness. There are horses in the yard below my window. Through the open hangings at the end of my bed I see that the fire is out. It must be very late.

  There’s a strip of grey light, where the shutters on the windows don’t quite meet, and I feel my way down the bed and slide over the edge, my toes finding the carpet that lies at the foot of the bedstead. It’s so cold. Outside the horses snort and whinny and I hear the stable boy slap at their necks to calm them. The sound echoes in the courtyard like the noise the maids make when they shake out sheets to air. I hold my comfort cloth to my cheek and feel my way across the room, recognising familiar pieces of furniture by the smooth turns and ridges in the wood. I think about being blind, like the old man who begs in the street by our square.

  I prise open the shutter with my fingers. The glass is frosted on the inside and I use my cloth to rub at the ice. Our carriage is below and boxes and bundles are strapped onto the roof behind the coachman. I recognise him by his hat and I can see by the way he pulls at the reins then lets them go again that he’s impatient. A light falls from the door to the kitchen and two servants, dressed for night travel, carry blankets and parcels of food into the carriage. The pane mists with my breath and I smear at it with my fist. Droplets of water trickle down my wrist. I hold my breath. Father stands in the light thrown from the kitchen. Shrouded in steam, a tall woman reaches for his hand and he helps her up the steps into the carriage. It’s Mother. There’s someone else, another woman, and I recognise my sister Lucy from the hood of her winter cloak. My father embraces her then closes the carriage door, hard. The coachman snaps his whip, the coach jolts forward and disappears beyond the frozen panes.

  I hear someone scream. ‘Mother!’

  I awoke to a full fire, stacked high and glowing. The room was warm and I could see my clothes airing to shake off the damp of the night. I closed my eyes and listened as my maid moved around the room. She wasn’t rushed, there was no difference to her routine … perhaps it all had been a dream and Mother and Lucy were waiting for me downstairs. It was nonsense that they would disappear in the night without me, it was a nightmare, nothing more. I parted my eyelids just enough to see Grace pull the curtains apart, her heavy brows set in their perpetual frown of concentration. Her pretty face with wide-set brown eyes and a scattering of freckles was unmarked by anxiety or fear. Perhaps it was safe. I could rise and face the day ahead.

  ‘Are you awake, Lady Winifred? They’re all downstairs having breakfast. Your father has asked that you join them as soon as you can. Your sisters arrived an hour ago.’

  I turned on my side, my back to her, and pulled the coverlet over my face. ‘Why are they here? What do they want?’ I felt the mattress sink as Grace sat down behind me.

  ‘My lady, such a fuss last night. Cook had to get out of bed to prepare a meal for the travellers and then your sisters asking for an early breakfast. Cook’s in a foul mood. I’d get up if I were you or there will be no food left. You can’t expect anything special today.’

  I pulled the sheet down from my face and looked at Grace. Her brows were knitted but in the half light her eyes shone. I felt my throat tighten and something drop inside my stomach. ‘Last night … I thought I saw Mother leave with Lucy. Is it true, have they really gone?’

  ‘Come on, out of bed before your water cools. I’ll tell you while you dress.’

  Grace had chosen a simple home dress and I turned first one way then the other as she threaded my arms into the sleeves. She tugged at my bodice and I felt the bones of the corset tighten across my ribs and lift my breasts. ‘Cook says that the queen has had to flee to France because the king fears for their lives. The Countess and Lady Lucy have gone with the queen and the new baby prince.’

  I felt a chill, as if icy fingers had touched the back of my neck. ‘But she’s my mother.’

  ‘The queen asked for her specially. Cook says the queen wouldn’t go without her.’

  ‘Why didn’t she take me?’

  ‘You’re all grown, Lady Winifred. You don’t need a mother now. That little prince is poorly. Cook says he needs your mother because of her special skills.’ A pink flush of excitement had spread across Grace’s cheeks and neck.

  I sat down in front of the mirror so that she could brush my hair. ‘What special skills? She’s only my mother.’

  ‘Your mother understands things, midwife things, healing things. You know how she makes all her medicines and visits the sick. Cook says she knows about babies and how to keep them well, so the queen couldn’t leave her behind. What if the prince fell ill in France? The queen couldn’t take the risk.’

  ‘But I might fall ill,’ I protested. ‘Who will look after me?’ I stood up and turned to Grace, who took both of my hands in hers.

  ‘My lady, I will.’

  My father sat at one end of the dining table with his back to the window and my older sisters, Anne and Mary, on either side. The table had been cleared but an empty place remained for me; a bowl, a knife and a cup waiting as a rebuke for my lateness. Father wasn’t wearing his wig and his round, bald head seemed too small for his neck. In silhouette he looked like a turnip. My curtsy towards him was swift and shallow and I dipped my head towa
rds my sisters who lowered their eyelids in return. I sat in my place, next to Anne, and a servant brought me bread and cold meats from last night’s dinner. My throat hurt as I thought about last night’s meal with Mother and Lucy and their casual talk. They had lied to me. I pushed the meat away and insisted on currant jelly. Mary rolled her eyes, so I took care to eat my bread and jelly in tiny pieces, chewing each small square until it was liquid in my mouth. When I had finished, the servant poured some quince wine which I swallowed in small sips, dabbing the corner of my mouth with a napkin and fixing my gaze on my plate. I finished at last and my father flapped his hand at the servant clearing my plate, ‘Go now. We are not to be disturbed. Close the door behind you.’

  He cleared his throat and waited until all our eyes were upon him. ‘Winifred, your mother and your sister Lucy had to leave suddenly last night …’

  ‘They didn’t say goodbye to me.’

  ‘Don’t interrupt your father,’ said Anne, interrupting him.

  ‘There was no time,’ Father frowned. ‘Our queen and the infant prince have been forced to flee for their lives because of the invasion of our country by the king’s ungrateful son-in-law, William of Orange. God willing, they should all now safely be in Calais. Your mother is to be governess for the prince and since she’s not a young woman, she has taken Lucy to help.’

  ‘She should have taken me.’

  My father sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘You are too young and your other sisters are all married. Your mother had no choice.’ His voice rose. ‘Do you really think, young lady, that I would allow my dear wife to travel to France without the support of one of her many daughters?’

  This wasn’t a question that expected an answer. I looked down at my hands.

  ‘What I am going to say next will go no further than this room. You … Winfred, look at me … must not gossip about this with that little maid of yours, or you will both go to the Tower of London. I shall also be leaving for France, imminently, with the king. I can’t say when but William of Orange’s army is already moving towards London and there is a possibility the king may be taken prisoner. A messenger will call for me, probably in the middle of the night. One morning, soon, you will find me gone.’

  Mary and Anne both reached for my father’s hands and he leaned back in his chair. ‘The consequences for those of you left behind may be serious. When it becomes known that the Countess and I have chosen to remain loyal to the king and queen, you may be harassed or worse. Remember what happened after I was released from the Tower of London?’ My father paused, measuring the impact of his words. As if we needed to be reminded of men hunting us in the night with torches, the flames licking at the bottom of the stairwell, the smell of our burnt-out home.

  He smiled at Mary and Anne, showing his long brown teeth and squeezed their limp hands: ‘I want you to live here with Winifred. Your husbands may join you if they wish. Your sister Frances will be safe in Scotland with her family. Your brother William is travelling from Powis and should be here this afternoon. The household must be protected and I want the family to stay together until the political situation is more secure. I believe you will be safer as one unit and your brother can act as head of the family and manage the estates in my absence.’

  I spoke quietly. ‘It’s not fair.’

  Father frowned at me. ‘Winifred …’ his voice was low but heavy with threat.

  I felt a thunder cloud burst in my chest and stood up, my hands clenched tight into fists. ‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair!’ I screamed, astonished at my own behaviour. ‘I don’t want them to live here.’ I gestured wildly at my sisters. ‘I want my mother back. You should both stay here with us. You don’t belong to the king and queen.’

  I turned and ran; terrified of my father’s anger, terrified I might be guilty of treason. I pushed past the servants hovering behind the door and almost tripped over the maids who were sweeping the staircase. At the top of the stairs I stood between two pillars that rose to the ceiling and grasped the solid wood of the banister. I felt I was on a stage and looked down at the upturned, astonished faces of my audience. I thought of throwing myself over the edge to punish my parents but knew it would make no difference. Self-pity drove me along the hall and under my bed, where I lay in the cold and dust and waited, picking at threads from underneath the mattress. The smell of old dog surrounded me; a rank mixture of damp hair and sweat. I listed the family in order of my hatred. Father was at the top of the list, with Mother a close second. Despite his fears for our safety, he hadn’t been able to hide his pride and arrogance at being chosen by the king. In fact, it was Mother that they wanted, not him. My mother had left me so that she could protect a new child that wasn’t even hers. My parents were strangers, abandoning me again because of their beliefs.

  I waited, aching with cold as the wooden floor bit into my shoulder blades. I listened but there were no sounds; no one was coming to find me. I pulled myself from under the bed, dragging my back along the floor by tugging on the frame.

  I knew I must be covered in dust but could only reach far enough to brush my shoulders and the back of my head. Where was Grace? My fingers felt stiff with cold and when I blew on my hands, I saw my breath mist. I needed to find some warmth. The drawing room always had a fire but as I eased open the heavy door, I heard my sisters talking in low murmurs and retreated, allowing the door to close silently. Father’s study would have a fire but I wasn’t going near him. The remaining option was the kitchen but Grace had already warned me about Cook’s mood. I went anyway, tiptoeing down the servants’ stair to the long, dark corridor that led to the kitchen. Out of habit I went into Mother’s stillroom, wishing that she might be there. The room was empty but her handwriting was on the labels of the jars, listing the ailments the medicines were used to cure. I ran my finger along the shelves, reading aloud: ‘cough, cold, swelling, itch, cramp, bloody-flux, worms, gout,’ my words becoming quieter as the empty room swallowed my voice.

  The kitchen door was always open because of the heat. Cook sat alone at the scrubbed table, with a mug of ale, and I thought I would risk her temper. She rubbed her hands across her oily, polished face and pulled so hard at her lips it looked as if she might strip the skin from the bones beneath, like a carnival mask. She looked more weary than angry. The fire lay behind her and I crept through the door, keeping my back to the wall. If I stayed very quiet, she might not even notice me. I eased into one of the wooden chairs and felt the cold seep from my bones.

  Sleep prickled across my eyelids and I jumped at Cook’s voice.

  ‘Lady Winifred,’ she turned towards me and nodded. Cook had long given up curtsying to anyone in the family except Father. I moved across to sit next to her, my back now warming against the fire.

  ‘This is a terrible thing, the Countess going off, leaving us all. We’ll not see her again, you mark my words.’ Cook wiped her eyes on her apron then pulled herself out of her chair, resting her knuckles on the table before waddling across to the range where she lifted some bread wrapped in a cloth from the warming oven. She fetched cold butter from the pantry and another bottle of ale. I darted across to the sideboard and brought two plates and another mug. At last, an adult was on my side. We ate in silence, butter sliding from the warm bread down my chin.

  ‘What about the sick? How will they fare now? Old Mrs Austen is dying, Mr Crouch isn’t well and Mary Price’s daughter’s due in a few weeks.’

  I noticed that my loss wasn’t mentioned.

  ‘And what about Christmas? Lady Mary says you’ll stay here and not go to Powis.’

  ‘Not go to Powis?’ I echoed.

  Cook nodded. Things were getting worse by the hour. I couldn’t remember a Christmas when we hadn’t been at Powis, even during the long years of Father’s imprisonment.

  ‘I won’t be able to go to my sister’s.’ Cook’s eyes were shining, like the glaze of butter around her lips.

  I wasn’t used to tears from adults, let alone Cook, w
hose emotions usually swung between rage and a terrifying jollity. A weight settled on my shoulders. Christmas here, in London, without my parents or Lucy and worse, Cook thought that my mother might never come home. I turned away so that she wouldn’t see that I was fighting my own tears. Behind me, the table creaked as she pushed herself up. I heard bowls and knives thrown onto the table and could smell onions. Cook bellowed out of the open door to the kitchen maids. If I stayed, I risked being asked to help make lunch.

  ‘Where’s Grace?’ I asked, biting a fingernail.

  ‘You leave that girl alone, she’s got work to do,’ Cook snapped. I waited until she went into the pantry for the meat and slipped away.

  ‘Grace, do you still have a mother?’ We lay side by side on Grace’s narrow bed in her attic bedroom. I liked to come to her because if we stayed in my room, she would sort and tidy and not sit still. ‘You never see her. Do you ever go home?’

  ‘I think I must have been about ten when I came here first. I’m the eldest girl and my mother and father thought it was a great chance for me. Of course I go home. What do you think I do when you’re at Powis?’

  I’d never considered that Grace had a life beyond me, assuming she stayed in our house in Lincoln’s Inn whether I was there or not. I felt ashamed and quickly changed the subject.

  ‘I hate my mother,’ I announced. ‘I hope I’m never a mother.’

  Grace screwed up her nose. ‘Lots of girls our age are already mothers. My younger sister’s a mother.’

  ‘But we’re only sixteen,’ I protested.

  ‘You can be a mother from when you start to bleed and we’ve been having those for two years.’

  I sat up, horrified. ‘I could be a mother?’

  ‘You’d have to do it first. You won’t catch a baby otherwise.’

  Grace and I often talked about it but I hadn’t fully understood that you needed to bleed and have sex to have a baby. Mother had never talked to me about those things. I’d thought sex was about giggling and boys touching you. Once, we’d watched a gardener’s boy take one of the kitchen maids on the compost heap behind the glass house but their clothes had got in the way of a clear view. Grace had to hold onto my arm, so I wouldn’t run off and reveal our spying. We’d talked about it for months, making a list of all those in the household who might have had sex. It was our favourite game and the list was regularly updated. I’d reluctantly agreed to include Mother and Father because Grace had explained to me that sex was supposed to happen after you were married. The thought of my sisters and their husbands having sex made me sick but I’d had to concede because, apart from Lucy, they were all married. We felt certain that Cook hadn’t, which made her a virgin. We’d fallen from the bed laughing at the idea of Cook as virginal. We were virginal; young and pretty with firm breasts and shining eyes. Not Cook.