The Spider's Touch

by Patricia Wynn

  Keeping birds of prey was no longer a fashionable pursuit. Gentlemen would rather cavort in London than spend the time in the country that it took to train a bird. Patience was required, but Gideon, who had never been known for his patience, had been robbed of his other distractions.

  Returning to the chateau in the early afternoon, he once again applied himself to the ceremony of dressing for dinner alone. He was shrugging himself into a blue justaucorps, when a lackey came to inform him that two visitors had arrived.

  “C’est le Marquis et la Marquise de Mézières,” the boy announced, breathless from his run.

  Gideon paused, with his fingers still gripping the collar of his coat. Then, with a queer beat of his heart, he resumed, straightening his sleeves and giving a tug to the lace at his wrists. Noting the sudden pallor of his cheeks in the looking glass, he took a deep, steadying breath and said, “You may tell them that I shall be with them directly. I trust you have made them comfortable.”

  “Oui, monsieur le vicomte.” New to his duties, the young lackey appeared worried. He had been hired from the village when Gideon had first appeared, and was clearly unaccustomed to tending to the needs of such illustrious company.

  In spite of the knot in his stomach, Gideon managed an encouraging smile. “I am certain you did. Now, tell the maître d’hôtel to lay two more places at table.”

  He returned to his dressing table to don a full-length peruke, which he would have left off if eating alone, and pondered the meaning of this visit. The names of his visitors had surprised him. Yet in a sense they were inevitable, too, for ever since reaching St. Mars, Gideon realized, he had been dreading this very meeting. Unconsciously, he must have been expecting it, but for weeks he had only been willing to face the present, not to recall the recent hurtful past or to consider how his father’s death might dictate his future. Now, there was no way to avoid them. Nor could he be surprised, given the position his father had held in the Pretender’s schemes.

  The Marquise de Mézières, née Eleanor Oglethorpe, came from one of the most prominent Jacobite families in all of England. Her parents were so well known for supporting the Stuarts that many believed that James himself was their child. As the myth went, he had been smuggled into St. James’s Palace in a warming pan to provide James II and his Catholic Queen with a Catholic heir when the king’s own baby died of convulsive fits. One reason for the story, undoubtedly, had been the birth of an Oglethorpe baby—a son, also named James—only a year before the royal prince’s birth. This Oglethorpe, therefore, was nearly the same age as the Pretender—the same age as Gideon, in fact, who had known him briefly at Corpus Christi College where many Jacobites sent their sons.

  So, no. No Oglethorpe had posed as a Stuart to aspire to the English crown, no matter how hard James’s enemies tried to keep the myth alive. But neither was there anyone more devoted to the Stuarts than Lady Oglethorpe, so it had not been too far to imagine that she would have given her own child to the last Stuart king.

  In Gideon’s opinion, she had done the equivalent by seeing to it that her daughters had been raised to devote themselves entirely to the Stuart cause. Two of the girls had been raised as Catholics at James’s court. Another—Fanny—had been sent to live with Eleanor just two years ago to be instructed in the rites of Catholicism by a priest close to James, who was heavily engaged in Jacobite intrigue. Meanwhile, their mother, known as “Old Fury,” remained in England, going to Court and conniving for the advancement of her brood, even as she schemed to overturn the throne.

  And now her second daughter had come to see him. The moment had come when he would have to decide what his role in James’s cause would be. He only wished that his head and his heart were as undivided as his father’s.

  * * * *

  He found the marquis and his elegant wife awaiting him in the salon. Tall, slender and, clearly, more French than English, Eleanor stood with her husband to greet him. In spite of his caution, Gideon could not suppress a spark of admiration for Eleanor’s beauty, which at thirty was still striking. She had been blessed with the same noble features as her brother—etched lips, an aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and large, wide eyes.

  Her husband could not have been more opposite. Short and thickset, with very rounded shoulders—nearly those of a hunchback—he had a yellowish face with soft prominent features, which gave him a mien like a frog’s. He seemed entirely unconscious of his ugliness, however, and bowed with the air of a man who believed himself very attractive indeed.

  It was his wife who, after an apology for coming unannounced, a polite inquiry after his health, and brief condolences on the death of his father, first broached the subject of their visit. She did it while sitting on the edge of a chair, her skirt spread in a wide, smooth circle about her ankles in the manner of a queen on a throne.

  “His Majesty requested us to be his messenger in conveying his sympathy and sorrow on the loss of his faithful subject, Lord Hawkhurst.”

  In Jacobite circles, the title Majesty was given to James Stuart, even if in England to call him thus was a treasonable offence. In England he was politely referred to as the Chevalier St. George, an honour which had been conferred upon him by the King of France.

  “You may tell his Majesty that I am grateful for his attentions, as I know my father would have been.”

  “Your father served him most generously. His Majesty knows that, and—”

  “Does he also know that my father died in his cause?” Gideon had tried to keep the resentment out of his voice, but both his tone and his question had disconcerted his visitors. Eleanor was quick to conceal her surprise. She had, after all, been raised from birth to conceal.

  “The facts about your father’s death are not generally known. Nevertheless, his Majesty and his most faithful servants are aware of circumstances which the present government of England has chosen to ignore.”

  “Are you saying the government knew I was falsely accused and did nothing to prevent the injustice?”

  “We have reason to believe they suspected it, but have no wish to pursue a matter which has resulted in such an advantageous result for them.”

  “I presume you refer to the awarding of my father’s title to my cousin Harrowby—because he is a Whig?”

  Eleanor inclined her head. On anyone else the gesture would have been a simple assent, but she filled it with insinuation.

  She struck Gideon as a woman without humour, but with a purpose both dangerous and indefatigable. He had the feeling that he faced a formidable will. Whether he could trust her, he was not at all sure.

  “His Majesty regrets the losses you have suffered. And he pledges to restore your properties to you when he regains his throne.”

  “Please inform him of my gratitude,” Gideon said, returning nod for gracious nod.

  His visitors had clearly expected a more demonstrative response. Eleanor was too poised to reveal her disappointment, but the marquis glanced at his wife, as if seeking her lead.

  She responded by asking Gideon if he was aware of his countrymen’s feelings with respect to their new monarch. He told her that a servant was forwarding the news-sheets to him, but he had not been in a frame of mind to give them his attention.

  “Then you may not be aware of the current situation. Eugène-Marie—” she turned to her husband with an outstretched hand— “Let monsieur le vicomte read the latest news from London.”

  The marquis reached into a deep coat pocket and brought out several folded news-sheets, which he and his wife held out for Gideon to see.

  The sections they showed him related news of riots throughout the months of April and May, in Oxford and in London. The most recent one in London had taken place over a period of two days in Cheapside, before the Royal Exchange, and at Smithfield, mimicking the one that had occurred a week before, on the anniversary of Queen Anne’s coronation. The disturbances seemed both greater and more frequent than in previous months—with one important difference.

&nbs
p; “So it is Ormonde they love now.” In previous riots a non-juring priest by the name of Sacheverell, stripped of his pulpit for delivering a sermon against the Hanoverian succession, had won the people’s sympathy.

  “That should not surprise you,” Eleanor said. “His Grace of Ormonde is a loyal servant to his Majesty King James.” When she continued, her manner demanded a response. “The people are ready for their deliverance from the German usurper, monsieur.”

  “Perhaps, madame, but why do you come to tell me?” Gideon knew what her answer would be, but he wanted her to stop playing at cat and mouse.

  “We have come to tell you that, if you mean to exert yourself in the cause of our rightful king, then the moment has come. At this very hour, his generals are planning to retake his kingdom. We must not discard this chance! Too many opportunities have already been lost. We still have the generous support of his Most Catholic Majesty Louis XIV, but he cannot live much longer. When Louis is gone, it is not at all clear that a regent will give the same support to our cause.”

  “I am not a Roman Catholic. Nor do most of my countrymen wish to be.”

  Eleanor gave an irritated shrug. “That does not matter in the slightest, monsieur. His Majesty will respect the wishes of his people. He only desires their welfare. But naturally he expects the right to adhere to his own faith, which is strong.”

  “He will not insist on bringing Great Britain under the authority of Rome?” In James’s declaration, he had promised to seek bulls of absolution from the Court of Rome for anyone who would have to perjure himself to come to his aid. The bulls were promised to be executed “in due Form of Priestcraft” at “only reasonable fees.” Gideon wondered how the Pretender could imagine that those phrases would fail to offend his Protestant subjects.

  “You have his Majesty’s word. What more could you wish?”

  Gideon could have replied that he wished for much, much more. For proof that the quest she wanted to engage him on would succeed. But he was not fool enough to believe that any such venture would come with a guarantee.

  “What does his Majesty want of me? I am an outlaw in England. I cannot move around the country freely in his or in anyone’s service.”

  “And, yet, you managed to conceal yourself very effectively there, and to leave without being captured, n’est-ce pas? He asks only that you will bear a message for him, and perhaps visit some of his faithful subjects to alert them when the plan is ripe. They must be ready when the time comes. The whole country must rise as one, yet we do not know when that moment will be.

  “The Duke of Ormonde is the person who must decide, and he has not called for the rising. Nor has he informed his Majesty when he should make for the coast. You could be of great use to his Grace in spreading the word. His Majesty would like you to put yourself at the Duke’s disposal and to report back to him about the Duke’s intentions.”

  When Gideon did not respond immediately, Eleanor turned to her husband again. A private look passed between them, and the Marquis de Mézières pulled out another sheet of parchment. He handed it silently to Gideon, who recognized the Pretender’s declaration, the one he had read every day since arriving at St. Mars.

  The Marquis de Mézières pointed his short, broad finger at the paragraph that had kept Gideon staring up at his ceiling night after night.

  A full pardon could be his. Indemnification from the charge of murdering his father. A crime he had never committed, which had robbed him not only of the father he loved, but of everything else.

  A chance to return to England. To reclaim his home.

  For the hundredth time, Gideon asked himself how else he would ever regain it and heard only silence for a response.

  Eleanor spoke with all the passion she had barely managed to hide, “His Majesty sends us with the message that he is perfectly convinced of your innocence, and that, should you agree to help restore him to the throne that is rightfully his, he shall return all that is yours to you.”

  Gideon’s heart swelled with a gratitude he could not deny. How could he help but warm to a prince who believed in his innocence? Who knew what it was to have his patrimony stolen out from under him? The similarity between his situation and James’s was so strong that it had to provoke his deepest sympathy.

  But Eleanor had not finished speaking and her next words chilled him.

  “And, in addition,” she said, “he promises that in return for your help he will make you a duke.”

  So. James did not understand. No more than he had understood Gideon’s father’s loyalty. Which reminded Gideon that if he engaged himself upon a task for the Chevalier, it would be entirely at his own risk. That was what his father had done, and it had led to his death. Gideon had no value to James beyond what he could achieve in fulfilling James’s own goals. He would promise anything to anybody—and had repeatedly, to regain his crown. All his adherents were mere pawns in this game.

  And, yet, there were other feelings. One in particular, which would always cloud his choices. Guilt—because he had refused to embrace the cause for which his father had died.

  With a sense of fate, he raised his eyes. “You may tell...his Majesty...that I will do what he has asked. I will carry his messages, as long as his cause remains feasible. I do not engage myself to die in his service—not yet at least—but I shall go to England to gauge the progress of his cause and report it to him. You may assure him that his secrets will be safe with me and that I shall never betray either him or his agents.”

  Eleanor had started to glow with the success of her mission and began impulsively, “You will not regret the decision you have made, monsieur. There is no more generous master than our sovereign James III. Why—”

  Gideon raised his hand in a gesture that was firm but polite. “Forgive me, madame, but my message is incomplete.”

  He saw a flash of anger in her eyes. Eleanor was not the sort to accept anything less than full compliance with her designs.

  Gideon continued, “You must make it clear to his Majesty that I shall not enter upon any activity that puts our countrymen at needless risk, nor will I continue with his missions if I believe his cause has become hopeless.”

  She bridled. “Then how do we know you are to be trusted?”

  The marquis laid a restraining hand on her wrist. She feigned to ignore it, but Gideon could see that her husband’s reminder had had its effect.

  “I have given his Majesty my word, as my father did before me. If James—and you—” he said, with emphasis— “truly believe in my innocence, you should have no doubt of its worth. The conditions I’ve put forth are the same that my father’s were.”

  When she did not unbend, he added in a soothing voice, “I have no affection for Hanover George, madame. I doubt that any of my countrymen do. Some pretend it undoubtedly to raise their family’s status—some things will never change. But I am attached to the welfare of my countrymen and I will not do anything to bring a scourge upon them.”

  “You insult our king, monsieur!”

  “War is the scourge I mean—not James. If the throne cannot be easily won—if my countrymen’s hearts are not firmly with James—then I will not wage war against them. James said in his declaration that he wanted no blood shed on his account. He called for a peaceful uprising. Do you understand me, madame?”

  Gideon was not particularly surprised to find that she did not, but she tried not to show it. His answer had to satisfy her for the moment, for she was not a person to waste even the slightest opportunity. Her sense of diplomacy, which must have been learned at a Stuart’s knee, soon reasserted itself.

  “I am certain we shall all understand one another very well, monsieur. Now, shall I inform you of the first steps his Majesty wishes you to take?”

  So—James had been reasonably certain of obtaining his services. But that was not surprising. He knew very well how to motivate men. What might have astonished him was Gideon’s reluctance to act when he had so much to gain. James undoubtedly would ha
ve put it down to cowardice, instead of to its real motive—uncertainty about what was right and just.

  “I shall be only too happy to hear it, monsieur et madame. But, first—“ Gideon abandoned all notion of his solitary meal— “If you will do me the honour ...”

  * * * *

  Once Gideon had decided to go, it took him only one day to prepare for his journey. After riding to the coast of Brittany, he left his horse with his groom to be returned to St. Mars, and took ship for Boulogne, where bales of smuggled English wool lined the docks. There, following the instructions given to him by Madame de Mézières, he transferred immediately onto a French sloop, captained by a man by the name of Larouche.

  The whimsical channel was eerily calm, so they managed to sail with that day’s tide. The small sloop was hardly any bigger than his own yacht, which was moored beyond his use at Deal. Once they were underway, Gideon resigned himself to an enforced idleness for the duration of the voyage. He wrapped a heavy woolen cloak about him and gazed over the bow at the pale grey water, inhaling the chill, salty spray as he pondered the task the Pretender had given him.

  On his person he carried two notes, one curled and inserted into the stem of a pipe, the other folded and sewn into one of his buttons. His mission was to speak to the Duke of Ormonde and discover when he planned to start the uprising. Jacobite agents had been busy recruiting men from London to the Highlands of Scotland and priming them to be ready when the signal was given. Rabble rousers had been at work, inciting the mob. The Pretender needed to know when and where he should land. Exiled as he was at Bar le Duc in Lorraine and dependent on his half-brother, the Duke of Berwick, for news, when Berwick had been sent from Paris in the service of his sovereign Louis XIV, James was desperate for direct communication with his subjects in England. He knew that he could not ask men to risk their lives in his cause unless he was prepared to lead them himself. But with a price of one hundred thousand pounds on his head, he could not afford to land when he might fall into the hands of his enemies.