Tapestry

by Fiona McIntosh

  It was only when one of his gentleman advisors bent down, reached both arms around her waist and pulled firmly that Jane felt Winifred’s hands slip from their grip on the King’s coat. Without so much as a backward glance, King George righted his garment and continued walking, head held high.

  With her face pushed onto the floor, still restrained by the man gripping her middle, Jane felt tears sting as she noticed the petition slip from her hand. Nevertheless, she saw that it was immediately retrieved by one of the courtiers and handed to another man in regal clothing.

  As the King moved away, so did the people, following like worker bees on the hunt for a single flower laden with pollen. The man who had restrained her, and was now assisting her to her feet, was polite but perfunctory.

  ‘Are you injured, Countess?’ She shook her head, too shattered to speak. He cleared his throat. ‘Good evening then, My Lady,’ he said, giving a short half-bow and departing as swiftly as he could, throwing a look of admonishment at the clutch of three women hurrying to her side.

  ‘Oh, my dear Countess … well, you’ve certainly made an impression on the court,’ Mrs Morgan said, tut-tutting.

  ‘But did I make an impression on the King?’ she snapped, dabbing at her eyes, angry at showing her emotions.

  ‘The wrong sort, as we feared,’ Mrs Mills chanced.

  ‘Are you hurt, dear Winifred?’ the ever-loyal Cecilia asked, straightening her friend’s clothes.

  ‘No, thank you. Mrs Morgan?’

  ‘Yes, Countess?’

  ‘Who was that man who took my petition … the gentleman who reached for it after it fell?’

  ‘Ah, that was the Lord of the Bedchamber.’

  ‘Will he help?’

  ‘I cannot say, except mayhap you have some angels guarding you, my dear. This evening the Lord of the Bedchamber happens to be Lord Dorset, who incidentally also happens to be a friend of mine.’ Before Jane could speak, she raised a hand. ‘And when I was convinced that you would not be persuaded otherwise, I took the precaution earlier today of preparing a note to Lord Dorset, for I knew he would be on duty tonight.’

  ‘Has your letter been delivered?’ Jane asked, her hopes rising from the dust of moments ago.

  ‘Not yet. But I shall deliver it now, for I happen to know that Lord Dorset will be playing cards this evening with the Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Mrs Morgan, I am in your debt,’ Jane said, hugging the woman warmly. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Let me run that errand now, My Lady. I think we have overstayed our welcome in the palace tonight,’ she said pointedly, but not without a flash of humour in her glance at Winifred. ‘Do not tarry on my account.’

  Jane nodded. ‘Shall we leave, ladies?’

  She lowered her eyes so she did not have to face the looks of accusation and disdain from the mob of people who had witnessed her unladylike ambush of the King. She did, however, catch the eye of the Duke of Montrose, who looked as mortified as she suspected any member of society might be at her behaviour. She realised he was a close acquaintance of Winifred’s, but as he approached she shook her head slightly, signalling him to keep his distance. It would be best if their friendship were not noted. Who knew what help he might lend to her petition should it be read out, and she wanted that help to be considered impartial by the King.

  The next day a note arrived from Mrs Morgan to confirm that Winifred’s petition had been received and read by the Prince of Wales, and that he had considered it graciously and with kindness. According to Mrs Morgan, he had also shown it to anyone of a sympathetic interest. She had gone on to note that despite the atmosphere last night, many of the courtiers who had witnessed the scene had admitted to feeling horrified by the King’s rudeness, and that tales were flying around London of his boorish behaviour to a noblewoman. It seems, my dear Countess, that you have the sympathies of London’s society, rather than its condemnation. It is being said, she continued, that history attests the sovereign of England has never refused a petition — even from the poorest woman’s hand. And the prevailing opinion is that to treat a lady of your fine quality in such a dishonourable manner is truly unpardonable. I suspect our king’s reputation has been tarnished as a result of your actions last night, my dear.

  Unfortunately, Jane could not be sure whether the letter’s last sentence should encourage or depress her.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Jane had to wait another three restless, hand-wringing days to learn that the general petition from the wives of the condemned men was being presented at noon to the House of Lords.

  She was seated with Cecilia and Mrs Morgan in the private salon of Mrs Mills to avoid other guests. Jane had been sitting tense and simmering in one of the Flemish armchairs, but suddenly leaped up, unable to remain still. ‘For mercy’s sake! William shall be executed tomorrow! Are they trying to kill me too?’ Jane wept on behalf of her Will, also feeling the extent of the fear and loss that Winifred was experiencing for her husband.

  There was little that her friends could say to comfort her, so they sensibly kept their own counsel while she paced the edges of the richly woven rug that their hostess was adamant had originated from the Topkapi Palace of Constantinople.

  ‘You have done everything and more than could be expected of any wife, Winifred,’ Cecilia whispered, looking unsettled by her friend’s constant movement.

  ‘Have I, though?’ Jane choked, moving to a window overlooking a walled garden made naked by its wintry state. Her gaze was unfocused, her thoughts reaching to a hospital bed in London, where another man awaited the fate of a different William Maxwell. ‘I’m not sure.’

  Jane thought of Will’s father. Even when senior, experienced doctors were shaking their heads, he clutched at any thin strand of potential to keep the flame of hope burning. It hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that John Maxwell, as pushy and boorish as he was, refused to give up on his son, no matter what anyone said. He had no care whether he made enemies, became an object of mockery, embarrassed his wife, bulldozed his way over the egos of others, or trampled on fragile, grieving hearts. John Maxwell intended to see his son open his eyes and smile, talk again, live again … no matter what the financial, physical or emotional cost was. Instead of loathing him, Jane accepted now that she should admire him, perhaps even follow his example, because for as long as the Earl was still alive in his cell at the Tower — a prisoner, just like Will in his coma — there was a chance for him to escape what everyone assumed was his inevitable fate.

  What more can I do? she asked herself, and only realised she’d aired this thought out loud when Mrs Mills answered her.

  ‘Nothing, I imagine, Countess.’

  Her hostess must have entered the salon without her hearing. The maid had arrived also, and was now setting down a tray of steaming cups on a small oaken side table. ‘Good gracious,’ Mrs Mills continued, fizzing with excitement. ‘London society is, by all accounts, showing an outpouring of admiration for the wife who risked public ridicule and injury by confronting the King with such daring. Here, dear, I’ve brought you some warmed chocolate this time. If you won’t eat …’ She offered the porcelain cup and Jane took it, not wishing to be rude.

  ‘Thank you. My friends, your support is unwavering, but I fear there is always more one can do when a man’s life is at stake. The general petition from the wives will achieve little, I’m sure.’ She joined Mrs Mills and Cecilia by the fireside, sitting on the corner of a stool.

  ‘Countess, it is out of your hands now,’ Mrs Mills said gently. ‘Your parents’ friend the Duke of Richmond has faithfully promised that he will present your private petition today; it will carry more weight coming from him.’

  ‘He failed yesterday,’ Jane replied, glumly staring at the flames, still angry that the Duke had let them down in this regard.

  ‘But not today.’

  ‘There are no tomorrows. If he falters, I have asked the Duke of Montrose to step in.’

  ‘Well, there you are,
then,’ Mrs Morgan said, sending a look of soft pain toward Cecilia. The pregnant woman had been silent until now, embroidering quietly in the corner nearest the window and listening to the exchange as she threaded up several needles. But now she too stood, stretching and drifting over to the hearth, picking up her cup to warm her fingers. ‘Countess, you’ve got powerful men of the realm on your side, and doing their best for you.’

  ‘Not the most powerful, though,’ Jane corrected. ‘I fear my actions of Monday evening may well push that particular man into being vindictive.’

  Mrs Mills shook her head as she blew on her chocolate. ‘I think not, Countess. King George now wants this matter to go away. He will not draw any more attention to you than is necessary.’

  Jane put her untouched cup down and rose from her stool. The other women, who had just settled comfortably, looked up at her sudden movement.

  ‘Winifred?’ Cecilia said.

  ‘I’m going to Parliament House,’ she replied.

  Her friends gave gasps of anxiety. ‘To what end?’ Cecilia exclaimed.

  ‘To intercede with the lords as they enter.’ Her face filled with determination. ‘I will not be ignored,’ she declared.

  ‘Countess, your health is already fragile, and to wait on the frosted steps of Parliament House would be to —’

  ‘Mrs Mills, you have been so very kind and loyal. But I have been forced to sit around your lovely fire, trying not to lose my mind with worry. While idle, my health has recuperated fully,’ she lied, ‘and now I shall use my newfound energy to engage the enemy again.’ She cast them a look of sadness. ‘I have to try,’ she heard herself say desperately.

  They exchanged glances and sighed.

  ‘Then you know I will be there with you,’ Cecilia said.

  ‘So will I,’ Mrs Mills piped up.

  ‘And I too,’ Mrs Morgan added, clearly not wishing to miss out on any of the excitement.

  Their expedition, initially bubbling with promise, fell flat when they discovered that the relatives of the other prisoners had had the same inspiration. Suddenly Jane felt herself one of a herd. A large crowd had gathered, including many intrigued bystanders and many ‘ladies of quality’, as Mrs Morgan noted, who clearly did not wish to miss out on the excitement either.

  Winifred tried to stand apart from the mob and appear prominent. She realised she was being treated courteously, but not one of the politicians showed overt friendliness. Lord Pembroke, who had strong connections to Winifred’s family, had taken the precaution of sending her a note. The letter had arrived just moments before she and the other ladies had left Duke Street. Lord Pembroke had urged Winifred not to approach him in public — for reasons that I am sure are obvious — but he also assured her that he would speak in her favour in Parliament.

  Jane could soon see that the ambush at the Houses of Parliament had failed, and it was probably no surprise to her companions when she made haste away from the crowd on the steps.

  ‘I presume we shall be witnessing the debate, Winifred?’ asked Cecilia as the three women caught up with her.

  ‘You are correct. If nothing else, I intend that my presence should keep those men honest and their consciences clear.’

  They headed to the public gallery of the House of Lords.

  Lord Pembroke remained true to his promise and Jane listened, impressed, when the man Winifred had not seen since early childhood took the floor. He was at least threescore years old, although his luxuriantly flowing dark wig belied the grey that must surely lurk beneath. In a confident voice and with the practised air of one used to being heard with respect, he argued that the King did not possess the power to pardon prisoners accused by Parliament; he raised a motion that Parliament should present an address to His Majesty instead. Pembroke urged that this address should ‘humbly desire the King to grant a reprieve’.

  Jane closed Winifred’s eyes in relief — the first she had felt in many days — as she heard the motion being carried. Her hopes were quickly exploded, though, when another lord made the proviso that a clause should be added: ‘that the reprieve not be general but awarded only for such of them as deserve it’.

  During the subsequent murmurings and nodding of bewigged heads, Jane sensed Winifred’s hopes sinking. As she paid attention to her host’s thoughts, she understood that any mercy won from the King would only be granted to those who turned King’s evidence.

  She heard distantly, through the fresh hum of alarm ringing in her ears, that the request would be made to the King tonight, on the eve of the execution of the Jacobite lords.

  Winifred surged to her feet as she felt her gorge rising and, fearful of disgracing herself in a new way that London society could gossip over, she hurried from the gallery to suck in the freezing mid-morning London air, which was as frigid as it was heartless.

  Friendly arms helped her to straighten, and faithful Cecilia and Mrs Mills and Mrs Morgan hurried her away from the public eye and into a hackney bound again for Duke Street to await the King’s pleasure. Jane could tell from the silence in the carriage that none of her friends held much hope for William, but she would not join them in their pessimism.

  Into this uncomfortable silence came a new idea, piercing her prison of thoughts like a pin to a balloon and releasing her from the mental constraints of the world she’d been plunged into. She would behave as John Maxwell had.

  I hope you are listening, Winifred, she said privately as she watched a far less crowded London of 1716 pass by. I am no longer prepared to leave our men’s fates in the hands of others. There is a new plan now and I am in charge of it. She smiled grimly as she cast out the thought. I am taking control.

  ‘Stop the carriage!’ she ordered, surging to her feet, her hands drumming on the roof for the driver to respond immediately.

  At Welshpool, the Granger family was listening to the same pair of police officers who visited them each day. They were bringing the trio up to date with the latest developments in Australia.

  ‘So hope hasn’t been given up just yet?’ Jane’s father asked.

  ‘Not at all. We spoke to the Australian police this morning,’ the pretty officer — named Anne, they’d discovered — told them with a soft smile. ‘It was evening in Australia, of course, so the search had been called off until morning. But they’re feeling a lot more positive now that they’ve found Jane’s possessions, which had blown away.

  ‘The thing is,’ Anne continued, ‘although I don’t want to give you false hope, I really do think they’re optimistic. Given that there is no …’ Here she paused, desperately not wanting to say the word.

  Juliette helped out. ‘Body?’

  ‘Er, thank you, yes … and no sign of any struggle or injury, there’s a growing consensus that Jane is alive but disoriented.’

  Catelyn was wringing her hands in her lap and her husband stilled them, covering them with his hand. ‘But surely they would have found her if she were wandering around?’ he asked.

  ‘You’d think so, but our Australian colleagues are going to some pains to impress upon us just how big the national park is. There’s no telling in which direction she may have headed,’ DC Dale offered.

  Anne jumped in again. ‘They’re also using Aboriginal trackers.’ At the look of surprise from her parents, Juliette saw Anne offer a smile again. She was certainly doing her best to lift their spirits. ‘They assured us that if anyone can trace her, these locals can.’

  Juliette watched her parents nodding. There was nothing else to say, so she showed their visitors out, repeating the thanks her parents could only mumble. She returned to the living room, and maybe she imagined it, but she sensed a lightening of the dread that had surrounded them since the news of Jane’s disappearance had first broken.

  The phone rang and all three of them leaped up as if stung.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ Juliette said, making a gesture with her hands that they should remain calm. Her father nodded and she picked up the receiver. ‘Juliette Granger,’
she answered.

  ‘Juliette, it’s John Maxwell.’

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said and her disappointed tone and the small shake of her head told her parents what they needed to know. She watched her mother sink back into the chair while her father turned up the gas heater a notch. ‘How are you both, John?’

  ‘Holding up. Listen, there’s some news.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Will is showing some very strong signs of waking up.’

  ‘Really? Oh, that’s marvellous!’

  ‘It is. Of course, no one can tell me anything about the state of his brain … you know, if there’s any damage.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Early days, I suspect.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Jane?’

  Juliette had taken it upon herself the previous day to ring the Maxwells’ hotel and explain why Jane had been silent. His shock down the line had been palpable, but she was also not sorry that Jane’s disappearance was out in the open now.

  ‘Well, we’ve just had the police here and they’ve given us some fresh hope that she’s possibly disoriented and lost in the national park. If so, it’s just a matter of time before trackers, dogs, helicopters and such find her.’

  ‘Listen … I find it hard to do all this touchy-feely stuff, but we know how much our son loves your sister. For that reason alone, we love her too and are anxious to know she’s safe.’

  ‘Well, you focus on Will, we’ll worry about Jane, and hopefully our newly engaged couple can be reunited soon.’ It sounded tidy and sugary, but what else could one say in this situation?

  ‘I’ll call again tomorrow,’ she heard Maxwell say.

  ‘Thanks, John. Love to Diane … from all of us.’

  She hung up and turned back to her parents. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to talk to him.’