“Of course he is. I should be very pleased to host a fellow Jacobite, and despite what Catherine might say, my estate in Cumberland is a most acceptable place to spend some time. We shall be returning there from Paris in the coming weeks, and you are welcome at any time,” the Earl said.
“Oh, do say you’ll come, I should like it very much,” Catherine said, as Feargan nodded his head.
“Aye, I should like that, though I doubt Lord Torbay would appreciate my further presence in his company,” Feargan replied.
“He shall just have to accept it,” Amelia said, and that was the end of the matter.
* * *
Feargan remained in Paris for three further days and despite his best attempts, he failed to secure an audience with the Regent, who seemed intent upon avoiding him. Perhaps it was the influence of Lord Torbay, or the simple fact that the Regent had no desire to be informed that his own intentions would herald a disaster for the very people he wished to liberate. Whatever the reason, Feargan found his correspondence unanswered and all enquiries as to the Regent’s availability falling upon deaf ears.
Instead, he spent the next few days in the company of Amelia and Catherine, whose intimate knowledge of the French capital ensured that by the time he came to leave, Feargan knew Paris as well as he knew Edinburgh and could only agree with Catherine that it was a most charming city, indeed.
8
“Do say you will write, and do not forget your promise to come and see us just as soon as you can at Workington Hall. I shall need something to look forward to in that dismal place,” Catherine said, as Feargan prepared to depart their company.
A slight thaw had set in that day, the snowy streets changing to muddy quagmires and Feargan hoped he would have more luck upon the road than he had on his approach to Saint-Germain-en-Laye.
“I promise ye I shall. It will nae be long before we see each other again,” Feargan said, as Catherine embraced him, a tear in her eye.
“Goodbye to you, and I trust all shall be well upon your return home to the northern country. Godspeed to you,” the Earl said, shaking Feargan vigorously by the hand.
Lord Torbay had not emerged from the house on the Rue di Rivoli, where he had come that morning to take coffee with Amelia, but the young lady had done so and now she stood to wave Feargan on his way.
“Goodbye, Lady Amelia,” Feargan said, taking her hand and smiling, “I am glad to have met ye and thank ye for yer kindness in hosting me here in Paris.”
“The pleasure has been mine,” she replied, and she curtsied to him as he bid her farewell, climbing into the carriage and signaling for the driver to depart.
“Goodbye, and thank ye, I shall see ye all very soon,” he called from the carriage window.
“Wait one moment,” Amelia said, stepping forward and fumbling in the pocket of her gown. “I have something for you,” and she drew out a little volume and handed it to him through the window. “Something to remember us by until we meet again.”
Feargan smiled and looked down at the book, a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets. What a delightful gift, he thought to himself, and waved from the window once again.
Catherine ran alongside the carriage for a moment, waving madly at Feargan in a most unladylike manner, but it was Amelia from whom he could not take his eyes, as she stood waving at the door. In the window Feargan could see Lord Torbay looking out in disgust at the scene, and as the carriage rounded the corner onto the Rue Saint-Honoré, he could not help but feel sorry for Amelia, trapped in an engagement to such a man.
The past few days had only deepened Feargan’s attachment to that beautiful young lady, whom he had met by chance, but who had so captivated his heart. Driving out of Paris that morning, along the wide, open boulevards, his mind was filled with thoughts of Amelia and all that might have been if only she were not engaged to such a man.
“Dear Amelia,” he said, sighing. He opened the volume of sonnets, the petals of a dried flower falling out onto his lap.
The poem he read was exquisite—it spoke of love between a man and woman. A gentle love which grew like a beautiful garden and burst forth in the spring. He wondered if it was that which she had meant for him to read, the words as beautiful as she and a reminder of the joyful days he had just spent in her company, a time when his love for her had grown in just such a way.
“It will nae be long before I see ye again, dear Amelia,” Feargan said, settling himself back in the carriage, as they bumped and trundled out of Paris on that cold winter’s morning, leaving behind a love that was fledgling like the most delicate of flowers but ready to burst forth in the spring.
* * *
The journey through France proved uneventful and over the next few nights Feargan found himself lodged in any number of inns and taverns along the road. After the opulence of the château and the homely comforts of the Rue di Rivoli, they seemed basic and uninviting.
“Ye have grown soft in such a short space of time, lad,” he said to himself, as he left the inn in Calais for his berth upon a ship sailing to Dover that day.
It would be some weeks before he arrived home in Scotland and as he boarded the ship, he gazed back to the land and thought of the Bonnie Prince making the same crossing with his army. It would be a foolish gesture and one easily crushed by the well-trained Hanoverian army. Feargan’s attempts to dissuade the Regent had fallen on deaf ears but he could not help but feel a deep sense of dread at the impending doom which lay upon the court in exile.
Their life in France had given them a false view of life at home and if the Young Pretender believed he would simply take a boat across the channel and rally those loyal to the Stuart cause, then he was very much mistaken. As the ship set sail that day Feargan doubted if he would ever see France again. The hills of Scotland were calling to him and even the thought of Amelia in Paris was not quite enough to desire a return to that fantasy world of a court in exile, headed by a man whose thoughts of victory so clouded his judgement.
* * *
From Calais the boat sailed to Dover and Feargan then made the journey to London where he found the mood to be dark. George II was unpopular, more concerned with his Hanoverian subjects than his position as King of England, and a shortage of food in the capital meant that many ordinary people went hungry, whilst abroad there was trouble in the colonies, and mutinies reported on British ships.
Feargan spent only one night at an inn by the river, filled with all manner of riff-raff, and the next day he engaged a carriage to take him north as far as York, from whence he would travel on to Scotland.
The journey to York was uneventful and as they passed through the English countryside, with its tapestry of fields and ancient spires rising from the landscape, Feargan became ever more convinced that the Young Pretender could never rule over such a land, after his exile in France. The England of the Stuart monarchs was gone and Feargan wished only to return home to Scotland and the peace and solitude of his estates by the Loch at Beira, where his family had lived these many generations past.
It took several weeks to make the journey from London to Loch Beira. Feargan lodged for several days in York, enjoying the hospitality of an inn in the shadow of the Minster. That great church, once so like Notre Dame, was now reduced to a Protestant shell, its finery destroyed, and the bells sounding out for the service of Matins when in its place there should have been a Mass.
It was for the restoration of the old religion that Feargan clung to the Jacobite cause, and he longed to see the iconoclasm of the reformation reversed. Such a desire went hand in hand with politics, but as he watched the Hanoverian garrison in York and witnessed the subjection of the people by their foreign invaders, he knew that the time might never come. The Bonnie Prince should remain across the channel and accept that the English and Scottish crowns would never be his.
* * *
It was with a grateful heart that Feargan crossed the border into Scotland. He still had many miles to journey but he knew that soon
the moorlands and heather of the country he knew and loved so well would come into sight. He pictured the castle by shore of Loch Beira and imagined the welcome he would receive when at last he returned home. It had been three months since he set out for Paris in search of the Regent, and he now realized that a more foolhardy quest could not be imagined.
In Edinburgh, he lodged at the home of a friend, the Jacobite sympathizer, the eleventh Lord Addair, whose father owned vast tracts of the Highland glens. There was a fear amongst the Jacobite sympathizers that a fresh persecution was about to arise and a wariness amongst the clans to show open support for the Bonnie Prince.
“That is the reason why we cannae support an uprising,” Feargan said, after the two had finished dinner on the night before Feargan’s departure.
“The Pretender daenae ken the reality of life here now, we are passed such things now, better to lie low and see if the wind will change than to risk an uprising which will be violently crushed,” his friend replied.
Feargan could only agree, and as he left Edinburgh the next morning it was with a determination that whatever happened he, Feargan Galbreth, would look after himself.
It took a further several days to arrive in striking distance of Loch Beira. The road wound down the mountainside from the heather above and despite the foul weather of winter, the scene delighted Feargan. He leant from the window of the carriage, breathing in the sweet air of the glen and catching his first glimpse of the castle below.
He had always loved this view, the first sight of home after a long journey away. This had been the longest time he had spent away from the glen, and everything seemed fresh and new, despite the thick snows covering the landscape.
“A fine sight there, Laird,” the carriage driver said, leaning around in his seat.
“Aye, there is not a bonnier sight in all the world than Loch Beira, and when a warm hearth beckons ye, nay man could wish for anything more,” Feargan replied, as the carriage made its descent towards the castle.
Feargan looked out eagerly for signs of his fellow clansmen. He had imagined a glorious welcome home, but there was no one there to greet him, no cries from the children that the Laird had returned, or crofters emerging from their homes to wish him well.
As they arrived at the castle, Feargan stepped down from the carriage and hurried through the gates, calling out for anyone who might be there.
“Uncle Alexander? Are ye there? Where are the children and the good folk of the glen, Uncle Alexander?” he called.
A few moments later the door of the hall opened, and his uncle emerged, looking fearful at the sound of Feargan’s voice. He had a pistol in his hand and a furtive look across his face, but his demeanor relaxed as he saw Feargan and his face broke into a smile.
“It is good to see ye, bonnie lad, good to see ye indeed,” he said, lowering the pistol and embracing Feargan, who was confused as to what had happened.
“What strange place is this that nay peasants wander at their duties and the children daenae come to greet me?” he asked. “Have I been away so long that ye have all forgotten me?”
“Nay lad, it is not that,” his uncle replied, the old man sighing as he looked up around the castle walls. “When ye were away we had some visitors, a detachment of the King’s men, Jacobite hunters. They came with a warning. Somehow they knew ye were away on business to the continent and they reminded us that George II is King and not the Pretender across the channel. These are dangerous times, Feargan, daenae be fooled by what ye might have seen in France, the Regent’s cause is lost,” and turning his face Feargan winced at the sight of a bruise across his uncle’s cheek.
“What wickedness, how dare the King send men onto my estate to terrorize good people. My mind tells me that an uprising is a bad idea, and would see much suffering, but my heart tells me to raise the Jacobite flag and shout in favor of the Bonnie Prince,” Feargan said, a look of anger in his eyes.
“The cause is lost, lad, ye know that as well as I dae,” his uncle replied. “Come away inside now, warm yerself after yer journey, ye have many stories to tell, of that I am certain.”
Feargan followed the old man inside. His uncle had always been a wise and good mentor, and after the death of his father, Feargan had relied upon his counsel on many occasions. But in the time he had been away, Alexander Galbreth had seemed to age, his frame was stooped and he walked as though a defeated man.
Inside the castle all was much as Feargan had left it. The Great Hall, with its mounted stag heads and suits of armor against the paneled walls, was a welcome respite from the chill of the winter air outside. A fire was blazing in the hearth and several of his fellow clansmen rose to greet their Laird, lamenting the actions of the King’s men once more.
“Daenae worry, there is much that can be done to prevent that Hanoverian bampot from laying claim to us all,” Feargan said, seating himself before the fire.
“Did ye see the Stuart King?” his uncle asked, handing his nephew a glass of whisky, which Feargan swirled ponderously around in the glass.
“Aye, I saw him, but he daenae wish to speak with me. I tried, I even wrote to him, but alas, to nay avail. I still stand by what I said though, a Jacobite uprising would be a disaster for this Glen, this clan, and the people of Scotland. The time is not right,” Feargan said.
A general muttering of agreement went up around him and Feargan could only lament for the harsh treatment they had received at the hands of the authorities. As he recounted the tales of his travels, Feargan wondered just what would become of Charles Edward Stuart and his court of pretenders, condemned to a life of exile amidst the false world of Parisian high society.
He was glad to be home, at the castle on the shores of Loch Beira, but there was one person he longed to see again. The fair lass who had so captured his heart in Paris and upon whom his thoughts had so often turned, as he made the journey home.
It would not be long before he saw her again, of that he was certain, determined to find a way of telling her just how readily she had captured his heart.
9
Workington, England, 1745
It was the afternoon of a wet and dull March day, when the clouds lay low over the distant fells of Cumberland and across the Solway Firth, a strong wind blew more sheets of rain towards the little village sheltering on the sea shore. Amelia and Catherine were returning to Workington Hall, having been out riding for the afternoon and they were talking excitedly about the impending arrival of Feargan Galbreth.
“Surely after the excitement of Paris, the Laird will find this proverbial backwater the dullest of the dull,” Catherine said.
“It can be no lonelier a spot than his own dear Loch Beira, I am sure,” Amelia replied, reining in her horse and tightening her cloak around her as the wind picked up.
The home of the Earl of Workington occupied a prominent position, looking out over the sea. But its grandeur was nothing in comparison to the homes of his noble friends and it was rare for the Earl to entertain at home. He, along with his daughters, much preferred their home in Paris, but duty had called the family to return to England, where the weather seemed to reflect the drabness of the Hanoverian regime.
“But what shall we do whilst he is here? Once one has gone riding, or taken the carriage to visit Lady Egremont at Cockermouth Castle, there is little else to distract one’s attentions,” Catherine continued, as the two sisters rode on towards home.
“It is the company which he will find himself in, rather than the environment in which that company finds itself, that will be of greater pleasure, I am sure,” Amelia replied.
“Until Philip arrives, I suppose. I wish he would just be nice, surely it is possible,” Catherine said.
It had been Philip’s prerogative, or so he said, to be present when the Laird of Loch Beira came to stay. He hated Cumberland and had visited Amelia there on just a few occasions, usually when no other social gathering could be prevailed upon. Neither sister was particularly looking forward to hi
s presence, nor to the atmosphere which it would create when he and Feargan Galbreth should find themselves in one another’s company.
“We shall have to find a way of distracting them both. Besides, I have no doubt that Philip will be interested only in me, dear sister, and I do not say that with any glee in my heart,” Amelia said, as they rode into the stable yard at the back of Workington Hall.
Their father’s home, the family seat, rose up in front of them. A grim edifice, once of necessity a fortified home and now falling somewhat into ruin as its present occupants sought to distance themselves from the aristocratic life of the English north.
“You do not wish to marry Philip, do you, Amelia?” Catherine said, reining in her horse and jumping down from the animal who whinnied as she led him towards the stable.
“I am mindful of my duty, Catherine, and that is all,” Amelia replied, offering her sister a faint smile.
Highlander's Hidden Destiny (Steamy Scottish Historical) Page 7