The Rebel and the Redcoat

by Jan Constant

  The people in the seats sighed and murmured, bending towards each other as they exchanged views upon the story. Waiting until they had settled again and had turned expectant faces towards him, James Ward continued his tale, with his audience hanging upon his words.

  “Jamie Frazer wrote a letter confessing the crime, and expressing his sorrow for causing another man’s death.” Taking a folded, sealed paper from his pocket, he handed it up to Lord Hardwicke. “He makes it clear that Anstey Frazer came upon the scene of the tragedy and taking charge, sent her sister to the care of their former nurse and, afraid for her brother’s life, sent him into hiding until a boat could be found to take him to France. Anyone who dearly loves a young ... brother can easily understand why she took the guilt of murder upon her own shoulders.”

  He paused and looked round before taking another letter from his pocket, and even Lord Hardwicke appeared interested as it was presented to him.

  “Upon my return from France I presented myself at Court, where the King was kind enough to see me and to listen to my story. He gave me leave to present Miss Frazer’s tale here before you, my lord, and also charged me to give you that letter which would make His Majesty’s wishes upon the matter known to you.”

  An expectant silence fell as Lord Hardwicke’s long fingers broke the royal seal and spread the thick paper out before him. It seemed to take an interminable time for him to read the few lines of writing that crossed it, but at last he looked up and raised his eyebrows.

  “Do you know what is written here?” he asked.

  “Not exactly,” replied the soldier, “but - I have an idea.”

  Lord Hardwicke pursed his thin lips. “Then pray take a seat while I sum up,” he commanded.

  With another reassuring glance at Anstey, Captain Ward and his Sergeant left the floor and seated themselves on the bench that an usher indicated.

  With all the skill of an actor, Lord Hardwicke waited until the excitement rose to a fever pitch and then quelled the restless crowd with a single cold glance.

  “The prisoner will rise,” shouted a black-clad usher, taking his cue with the ease of long practice.

  With a start Anstey realized that he meant her and scrambled hastily to her feet, her eyes wide and fearful as she understood that the moment which would decide her fate had arrived. Impassively the judge stared back, and try how she would the Scots girl could discern no kindness or sympathy in his cool gaze.

  “Anstey Frazer, you were brought here to stand trial for murder ... and upon the evidence presented I find that under that particular charge there is nothing to be answered.”

  Anstey’s heart gave a joyous bound as she took in his words; however, her relief quickly abated as Lord Hardwicke went on, raising his voice above the murmur from the crowded tiers lining the hall.

  “However, it appears that you hold freely expressed rebellious views, and that your loyalty is openly given to the house of Stuart. You, madam, are a rebel and a Jacobite and must be confined until you learn different ways and new loyalties.”

  Afraid of what he was about to say, Anstey looked away, wondering desperately if she was to be sent to the Tower for life or shipped to the Colonies as a bonded servant.

  “I must confess that my judgment would be harsh - I have no sympathy with treachery or treason, but with true generosity His Majesty is prepared to be lenient, and having taken into consideration your youth and sex and obvious loyalty to your family, he believes that in time you may become a true subject. With this in mind he orders me to release you into the care of a good and loyal Englishman - with the proviso that within three days you marry the said man.”

  Speechless, Anstey gazed across the hall at him, almost unable to believe what she had heard, while the murmur from the excited crowd grew into a thunderous roar that filled her ears and made her head ring.

  Raising his voice, Lord Hardwicke tried to make himself heard, but gave up and made an impatient gesture that the prisoner should be brought to his desk. Dazed and trembling, still unable to believe his words, Anstey stood before him while the mob behind buzzed like an angry beehive. Suddenly she realized that a familiar scarlet uniform was beside her, and felt her hand taken in a firm, reassuring grip.

  “I have your word, Captain Ward, that you agree to this condition?” Lord Hardwicke’s tone made his own opinion clear and he made no attempt to hide his disgust when the soldier nodded.

  “Arrangements are already made,” he said firmly.

  The judge turned his cold gaze on the girl. “You, I may say, have no choice in the matter,” he told her with some satisfaction. “Refuse the Captain and have my choice of a husband for you!”

  Anstey lifted her chin. “I have every wish to marry Captain Ward,” she told him, and felt the clasp on her hand tighten.

  Lord Hardwicke dismissed them impatiently. “Then take her and make a good Hanoverian of her,” he said and waved them away.

  Almost before the watching people were aware of their going, they were whisked to a door and hurried along a passage which led to the back of the ancient building. Here Sergeant Wright waited with a coach and horses.

  “Quick,” he commanded, his eyes on the corner of the narrow street, “I can hear them a-coming.”

  Anstey was bundled without ceremony into the coach, James Ward climbed in after her, the steps were folded and the door slammed shut, just as the first of the crowd rounded the corner and gave a triumphant shout as he saw them.

  “Off you go, sir,” cried the Sergeant, and stepping back gave a smart salute as the horses bounded forward.

  Anstey found herself suddenly tongue-tied. Confused and embarrassed, she was unable to even look at her companion.

  “W-what a handsome equipage,” she said at last, her voice totally unlike her usual tones.

  “Will Wright hired it for me.” By his voice the Captain too, was having difficulty with his vocal cords. He cleared his throat and began again.

  “Quite different to the one—”

  “Not at all like—”

  Breaking off, they stared across the narrow interior at each other, Anstey waited, her face in shadow, hoping that at last the English soldier would show his love for her. Instead he stirred slightly, avoiding her eyes, and turned his head to gaze out at the passing streets.

  As the constraint grew between them Anstey stared down at her hands clasped in her lap, desperately trying to think of something to say that would ease the tension.

  “I - must thank you for your part in my release,” she ventured at last, unhappily aware that her gratitude sounded cool and grudging.

  “No need,” James replied, his tones matching hers. “I am only sorry that you are being forced into a match which must be distasteful to you.”

  To his listener, he seemed to imply that he found it so himself and Anstey grew still, her heart sinking at his words as she realized that any kindness towards her on his part must have been merely imagined or simply the normal attitude of a gentleman. As for his part in her release! His journey to Paris and the final outcome due to his efforts on her behalf must be due solely to his desire for the truth, and an honourable solution to an affair in which he found himself inextricably involved.

  “Pray order the coach to turn about,” she said, suddenly resolved upon the only course of action that presented itself to her. “I find this marriage unacceptable.”

  For a long while James Ward stared across the confined space at her, his expression inscrutable, then, “Be damned if you do, madam,” he drawled slowly and stretching out his long legs, leaned back and crossed his arms. “By the King’s orders you must take a bridegroom—” he went on, but Anstey broke across his voice.

  “I am well aware of that,” she declared impatiently, “and will take my chance with Lord Hardwicke’s choice.”

  “Now, there you are quite wrong,” Captain Ward told her, his drawl much in evidence. “An you marry anyone it will be me - think you that I am willing to be made a laughing-stock?
The trial will be reported in the papers and the outcome popular knowledge. I’ll take you for my bride, Miss Anstey Frazer, whether you will or no.”

  By now Anstey found the idea that she had ever wanted to marry the infuriating Englishman quite ludicrous. “Sassenach,” she snarled, her eyebrows together in a scowl.

  “Call me what you will in that heathen tongue of yours - it will not make one iota of difference.” He studied his nails before allowing his indifferent gaze to travel slowly over her. “I had an idea that you might jib at the last moment, and with that in mind I took the precaution of arranging for a member of the clergy to be awaiting us at Islington.”

  Aware of her struggle to find words to express her feelings, he allowed himself to smile into Anstey’s furious eyes. “We’ll stay the night at the inn there. The landlord’s a rogue and will care nothing if the ceremony is performed tonight ... or in the morning.”

  Watching her face, he was satisfied that she had taken in his meaning and giving a slight nod, he settled back against the padded seat and appeared to go to sleep.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Although she had passed through the village of Islington on her way to London, Anstey found that she had no recollection of it beyond remembering a group of people on the green who had been the first of many to stare at her that day when she had ridden to the Tower.

  Looking out of the window as the coach stopped she saw that the inn was built in the black-and-white style to which she had grown accustomed as she had travelled the length of England. Its low windows twinkled in a friendly manner and the stout landlord stood bowing in the wide entrance, a smile of welcome on his glowing red face.

  Thinking to throw herself on his mercy, she put out a hand to open the door, only to have her wrist taken in a strong grasp as James Ward reached across her to turn the latch. His hands seemed to linger as, not waiting to lower the steps, he lifted her to the ground. Almost at once her wrist was imprisoned again and he turned to command dinner and a room for the night.

  “Landlord,” Anstey spoke loudly, her voice clear and firm, “I am being abducted. This man is keeping me a prisoner against my will.”

  The landlord’s small eyes studied her before he turned enquiringly to the Redcoat. Reaching into his pocket, Captain Ward slipped something that chinked into the readily outstretched hand, and at once the man was all ingratiating smiles.

  “The lady grows maidenly,” James told him. “We must pander to her desire to appear reluctant - I do assure you that a moment ago she was all eagerness. I have need of your best dinner and chamber to overcome her modesty - and privacy, if you please.”

  The men exchanged meaningful glances and the soldier jingled the coins in his pocket invitingly “And in the morning - if we have enjoyed our stay - you shall be well rewarded.”

  Bowing so low that his nose almost touched his knee, the landlord assured him that he, personally, would see that they were as private as the grave, and ushered them into the inn. Aware of the knowing glances of the servants Anstey schooled her features into indifference and ignoring the ill-concealed grins directed towards her, allowed herself to be led into the inn, which seemed suddenly to have lost all signs of welcome, appearing instead to her jaundiced eyes to be shoddy and badly managed.

  The room into which they were shown would, under any other circumstances, have presented a comfortable, cheery appearance, but now the velvet curtains seemed tawdry and cheap, while the heavy furniture was oppressive and old-fashioned. Chairs and a gate-legged table waited by the open window for a meal to be served on its polished surface, while a massive four-poster bed seemed to dominate the room with its presence.

  As soon as a small chest was brought in and stood on a table by the bed, James dismissed the servants, turning to Anstey impatiently as soon as they were alone.

  “Well?” he demanded. “I mean us to be wed - whether before or after is up to you. The Reverend Mr. Ford will call this evening when his duties allow. You have until then to make up your mind.”

  Anstey eyed him, “La,” she said, apeing the accents of the English ladies she had heard, “I vow that I had no idea that you were so mad with desire.”

  James Ward’s mouth twitched and he took a quick step forward. “The main desire I feel, madam,” he said dangerously, “is to wring your neck.”

  “No wonder Englishmen haven’t a name as lovers!”

  “Later, ma’am, we shall prove the truth of that.” His grey eyes held more than a hint of a threat and Anstey quailed under his menacing gaze, needing all her resolution to hide the growing fear she felt. At first she had believed that he had no intention of carrying out his threat, but with every passing moment she became more convinced that James Ward was determined to wed her - whether she was a willing bride or not.

  Since the joy of learning her sentence from Lord Hardwicke earlier that day, everything had gone wrong. She had thought by his attitude that Captain Ward shared her happiness at the order that they should marry, by his acts of kindness had supposed that he cared for her; but now there seemed to be only enmity and anger between them. With one last attempt at the happiness that seemed to be eluding them, she turned impulsively to him, her voice and manner soft.

  “James,” she said, almost pleadingly, her hands out to him in a supplicating gesture. After a perfunctory knock the door behind him opened, attracting his attention as she spoke, and he did not hear her gentle voice, or see her pleading gesture.

  “Dinner, Captain,” announced the landlord. “Oysters, as you ordered, to put the lady in a better mood, followed by roast duck and a dish of my wife’s syllabub to follow. You’ll find it a meal fit for a King, if you will allow me to say so.”

  Quickly the table was set, and ushering the servants before him, the landlord bowed himself obsequiously out of the room.

  “Come to the table, Anstey,” the soldier commanded quietly, and Anstey, who had kept her back to the room with great determination whilst the table was laid, turned reluctantly. “You have not eaten since this morning - come and break your fast.”

  She was suddenly aware of a gnawing hunger awakened by the succulent odours from under the silver covers, and her legs seemed to convey her, of their own accord, across the room. The Redcoat held the chair for her, bowing with a flourish as she seated herself, his hand brushing her shoulder as if by chance, but with a lingering touch that made her as aware of his fingers as if they had burned her.

  As though unaware of the sensation he had aroused in her, Captain Ward took his place opposite her, pouring wine into the tall glasses.

  “Oysters?” he enquired blandly, proffering the dish of large grey shells.

  “No!” Anstey, who had heard of the delicacies before but never seen them, shook her head violently, aware of the landlord’s remark as she did so.

  “Ah, well, each to his own taste,” murmured the soldier, tossing several of the fish down his throat with evident enjoyment. “Let me help you to some duck,” he said a little later, proceeding to carve the golden bird and fill her plate.

  Carefully ignoring the watchful eyes of the man opposite, Anstey kept her eyes on her plate and ate her fill, making the meal last as long as was possible. Slowly spooning the cool froth of the syllabub into her mouth, she grew uneasy under the gaze of his heavy-lidded eyes, feeling her breath quicken and her hand begin to tremble until at last she dropped the spoon into her dish and felt impelled to raise her eyes to meet his.

  Leaning back in his chair in an indolent manner, he was sipping from a tall glass, grey eyes half-hidden beneath black lashes. Deliberately allowing her to read his gaze, he smiled and raised his glass in a salute before drinking as he held her glance with his.

  “To us,” he said, letting his look wander over her in a manner which made Anstey blush and look hastily away.

  To hide her growing agitation, she reached for her glass and took an unwary gulp of wine, choking slightly in her haste and uneasily aware that the soldier had left his seat and come
round the table. Careful not to turn her head and without raising her eyes, she could see his white breeches and the skirt of his scarlet coat as he stood beside her. She raised the glass again with an assumption of ease she was far from feeling, and to her chagrin her hand shook so much that wine slopped on to the table. Strong brown hands removed the glass from her grasp and then Captain Ward took firm hold of her shoulders and lifted her to her feet.

  At his touch Anstey’s resolution broke; she had meant to be calm and persuade him by her quiet eloquence into letting her go, to turn him from his determination to take an unwilling bride merely as a sop to his pride, by her show of common sense which would brook no argument. Instead of which, she found herself turning in his grasp and reaching almost involuntarily for his face with her nails.

  Her hands were seized and twisted behind her back, but not before she had left angry red marks down the brown cheek. White with fury, he jerked her against him and held her tightly, not caring that he hurt her. Twisting his fingers in her hair he pulled her head back.

  For a second she had a confused impression of ice-cold eyes glittering down at her, before his mouth closed over hers. The kiss lasted a long time and had nothing of love in it; speaking rather of rage and frustration and the age-old desire to conquer that men felt towards any female who dared to display wills of their own.

  Half-dragged off her feet as he held her against him, Anstey lay in his arms, staring up into his face, while tears of anger and fright hung from her lashes. “I hate you!” she declared passionately.

  James Ward laughed and held her closer. “Before the night is out you’ll love me,” he promised, and bent his head over hers again.

  Knuckles knocked discreetly at the door behind them. “The Reverend gentleman is here, your honour,” called the landlord’s voice.

  Slowly the Redcoat lifted his mouth from her bruised lips. “Well, Anstey?” he asked slowly. “Which is it to be?”

  For a moment she searched his implacable face, seeking for some softening, some sign of slackening in his resolution. Seeing no tenderness in his cold eyes, she sighed and looked down at the gold frogging on his scarlet coat.