“I was never his whore,” she said, her voice still calm. “Half of London society witnessed our wedding.”
“Your wedding to a man who did not exist!” Newcastle responded, irritated now. “And he knew that, that the marriage was a sham. Your reputation meant nothing to him. You meant nothing to him. He was a spy, and spies are trained to be convincing. They will say anything, stoop to anything to get what they want. They care nothing for anyone except themselves and the money they will receive for their treachery. No doubt he has already forgotten you, is maybe laughing with his friends about how he cozened you.”
He paused to observe her reaction to this blunt statement, but she was looking down at her lap, her facial expression hidden, and he could not tell if she was bowing her head in shame or if she was merely regarding the pattern on the teacup.
“Miss Cunningham, I am giving you the opportunity to save yourself. You can tell me about this man who used you so badly. You can give us a description of him, tell us about his associates. I am sure your information will be of the utmost value to us, and will enable us to arrest a number of traitors as well as the man who has treated you so heartlessly. Indeed, Prince William holds you in high regard and has told me to assure you that you will be treated with the utmost leniency, if you cooperate with us. I am sure that with the approval of such an illustrious friend, this unfortunate episode will soon be forgotten and you will be able to resume your place in society. Perhaps we can find an appropriate husband for you, one who will be able to overlook your folly. Come, tell me what you know, and let us put an end to this unpleasant situation.”
The prisoner’s head was still bent over her cup, and Newcastle waited for her to consider his words, to realise the seriousness of her situation, and come to a decision. After a moment she stood and put her cup and saucer down carefully on the tray. Then she sat again, folded her hands in her lap, and raised her eyes to his. She smiled.
“We laughed at you, you know,” she said softly, so softly that the duke barely caught the words, and was sure he had misheard her. His brow furrowed momentarily, and she seemed to realise that he had not understood her.
“We laughed at you,” she repeated, louder this time. “Sir Anthony and I, and Prince Charles, of course. Anthony told His Highness that you had asked him to spy for you, and they found it very amusing that you were paying for them to carouse in the taverns and attend the theatre. But I am sure this is not news to you, a man of your intelligence, who knows so much about espionage and duplicity. Although Anthony made a fool of you, and even of the Elector, didn’t he? No matter,” she said, waving her tiny hand in a dismissive gesture.
“Speaking for myself, I am glad you gave me this opportunity to thank you, Your Grace,” she continued, using the correct method of address to him for the first time.
“It is not I you should thank, but His Royal Highness,” Newcastle interrupted, believing she was about to thank him for making her see the error of her ways, and to apologise for laughing at him.
“Oh. I am sorry,” she replied, and appeared genuinely to be so. “I was under the impression that you were responsible for funding our honeymoon in Rome. We really had a most delightful time, and were able to lodge in establishments far more luxurious than we could have done without your kind patronage. I also wanted to thank you for allowing me to personally become closely acquainted with Prince Charles before he actually came to Britain. This convinced me as nothing else could have done that as well as having the right by birth, he also has the intelligence, grace and ability to be a far better king than any member of that ill-bred family of German usurpers you call royalty will ever have. But if I am unwarranted in my gratitude to you, I apologise. May I impose on you to convey my thanks to the Elector’s son, then? Or, if I am permitted the materials, I will write to him myself.”
After she had finished speaking she folded her hands in her lap once more, appearing utterly composed as she continued to look at the duke, her face pleasant, her smile, now clearly mocking, contemptuous even, still in place.
Silence reigned for a moment as Newcastle stared at her incredulously, unable to believe that any woman, let alone a traitor’s whore, would dare to address him in such a manner. Did she really not appreciate the severity of her situation, and the fate that would await her if she were to persist in her ridiculous and unwarranted loyalty to the brute who had ruined her and tossed her to the wolves? He had an almost overwhelming urge to stand and knock the smile off her face, he who had never struck a woman in his life. With difficulty he mastered himself, and locked gazes with her.
“Your cause is dead, madam, and the man you are foolish enough to call husband, if he is not already rotting on Drumossie Moor with most of the rest of the rebels, will certainly be captured, along with the Young Pretender you admire so much, and when he is, he will be hung, drawn and quartered as he so richly deserves, and if you persist in this ridiculous folly then I will ensure that you are present at the execution, before you go to your own.”
He picked up a bell that stood on his desk, and rang it.
Within seconds the door opened and a footman entered.
“Tell the soldiers to escort the prisoner back to her quarters,” he said. “I suggest you spend the time between now and our next interview in serious contemplation of your future, which could be long and pleasant if you decide to cooperate with me, or short and extremely painful if you do not.”
The soldiers entered, and Beth stood and smoothed down her skirts.
“And I wish you luck, Your Grace, in capturing a man you know nothing whatsoever about,” she said pleasantly. Then she turned her back on him and walked to the door, where the soldiers were standing.
“Shall we go?” she said, and walked briskly off down the corridor, leaving the soldiers to follow her as though they were her servants rather than her jailers.
After she had departed the duke sat for a while, deep in thought. Although it had been manifestly clear from the letters he had received from Prince William that that young man was somewhat besotted by Miss Cunningham, Newcastle had been willing to accept Cumberland’s assertion that she was just another victim of the perfidious Sir Anthony.
After all, he had interviewed everyone who’d had any dealings with the man, from the Earl of Highbury down to the Browne girl, and no one had had the slightest idea that Sir Anthony was anything other than he claimed to be. Clearly the man was extremely cunning and accomplished. Of course once Miss Cunningham had married him, Sir Anthony must have revealed at least part of his true identity to her, but until now Newcastle had assumed that she had been romanced into accompanying him, and that now his deception was discovered to her, she would be only too willing to reveal what she knew about the traitor.
Now he was not so sure that she was an innocent dupe, as Cumberland believed. Newcastle was accomplished at putting the fear of God into people through his air of authority alone, yet she had sat in front of him as though at a tea party, calm and collected.
She had been incarcerated for weeks now, alone, with plenty of time to consider her position. Any normal young woman would have been terrified by the thought of what might be to come. But perhaps instead of contemplating the scaffold or the stake, she still held on to whatever romantic fantasies the man had filled her silly head with, and was expecting him to storm the Tower and rescue her. Maybe the comfort of her prison had lulled her into a false sense of security. Well, he could do something about that, at least. He would remove some of her privileges. Not too many, or Cumberland would be annoyed, but enough to make her think again about her situation.
Newcastle got out his knife and began to trim a quill preparatory to writing his report of the interview for Cumberland. He would have to word this very carefully. He dare not write that in his heart he believed Miss Cunningham to be complicit in the whole affair. Although Prince William was Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s forces, he was nevertheless a young man of twenty-five, and young men who believed them
selves in love were notoriously sensitive to criticism of the object of their passion. And the prince would certainly not take kindly to being told he was a poor judge of character. The last thing Newcastle wanted was to make an enemy of the hero of Culloden. Far better that he wait and let Cumberland interview her himself. Then he would find out for himself what manner of woman he had become infatuated with, if she persisted in her recalcitrance. Much better that the royal hatred and revenge be directed at her than at himself, the messenger.
Newcastle filled the inkwell and took out a sheet of paper, then bent to his task.
* * *
Once delivered back to her apartment by the soldiers, Beth sat by the window and congratulated herself.
She had done it. She had managed to display not the slightest trace of nerves in front of her questioner. When the footman had offered her tea she had been sure that the cup would rattle in the saucer, betraying her true state, but no. Being the wife of Sir Anthony Peters for two years had served her well. She smiled.
She had also learned some information. Not as much as she would like to have learned, but some.
She had learned that Prince Charles had not been killed or captured, and therefore assumed that the rising was not over, because while he lived there was hope of another attempt to restore the Stuarts to their rightful place.
She had learned that none of the people who knew the true identity of Sir Anthony Peters, such as Cameron of Lochiel, Murray of Broughton, Lord George Murray and Graeme Elliot had been captured, or if they had, that they were keeping silence. And that John Betts, if captured at Carlisle, as he surely must have been, had not volunteered to betray Alex in return for his life.
Neither had Sarah, who must have been interviewed by Newcastle, given any description of either Angus or Duncan, both of whom she had seen more than once; and being a servant rather than a member of the nobility she would have remembered what they looked like, Duncan especially. Because if she had Newcastle would surely have told her that they knew about Anthony’s accomplices. For that matter, Sarah certainly could have given a far better description of Sir Anthony than anyone else, being as observant as she was.
It was heartwarming to Beth to know that her friends remained loyal.
She turned her mind now to the question she tried not to think of; was Alex still alive? She had thought until now that if he was he would know that she had been captured by Cumberland, and would, by his cunning, have found out where she had been taken and would have got word to her somehow that he was alive. And the fact that he hadn’t meant that he was dead.
If he had been unable to go back for her and the other women after the battle, then certainly Duncan or Angus, or one of the other clansmen would have gone. They couldn’t all have been killed. And whoever had gone would have discovered that she was Cumberland’s prisoner. If Alex was alive but had been injured, then he’d be temporarily unable to discover where she was, and it would be impossible for any of the other clansmen to find out, because they all spoke with Scottish accents and were unable to affect other dialects as Alex was, and so would all be treated with the utmost suspicion by the authorities. Most of them did not have the skills to dissemble in any case.
So it was possible that Alex was injured but alive; and once healed he would find out where she was and would get word to her. She had no doubt of that; he was a master of disguise and would do anything to keep his promise to her. She trusted him, and his word.
If he was alive he would come for her. And she would not give up hope, not until so much time had passed that it was futile to hope. How long would that be?
Six months. In six months a young, strong man such as Alex could recover from any injury. Two months had already passed since Culloden. Which gave her another four to believe he was alive, and to take comfort from that.
Later that day all her books were removed except for Pamela, which was still under her pillow.
The following morning no one came to lay the fire and light it, and it remained unlit until the evening. Instead of ten candles she now had only one to light her room after dark. The food, when it arrived was not of the same quality as it had been until now; and instead of claret, she was served small beer to quench her thirst.
She hardly noticed these small privations; she had lived for eight months outdoors in all weathers, eating whatever could be foraged for and drinking stream water or whisky, sleeping in indifferent accommodation, and often outdoors in the heather.
If he was alive he would come for her. Until October, then.
She would not think beyond that.
CHAPTER FIVE
Scotland, June 1746
It had been the worst spring, weather-wise, that the Highlands of Scotland had seen for years. The rain and sleet had driven down in sheets day after day, often blown horizontal by the fierce winds that had howled down the glens, tearing the heather thatch from the houses that had not been ravaged and burnt by the redcoats, and washing away the spring planting of oats and barley.
May had given way to June with no sign of the rain abating, and the MacGregors, along with many others, had spent the gloomy evenings huddled together in one house or another, singing songs and telling stories in an attempt to keep their spirits up.
There was great need to keep their spirits up. In spite of the best efforts of the occupying British Army to suppress it, news of what was happening in other parts of the Highlands filtered through, carried by young men, women, and often even children, who were as adept as their seniors at blending into the landscape, and who could hide in tiny crevices that adults could not.
So it was that the MacGregors had heard that Prince Charles had not sailed on one of the frigates that had left Loch nan Uamh for France as had at first been believed, but in fact had sent a message to Lochiel just two days after the MacGregors had parted ways with the Camerons, stating that he was in fact on the Isle of Uist, and asking if the Cameron chief could assist him. As Lochiel had not been fit to travel easily, Murray of Broughton had gone to his prince’s aid instead, in the hopes of bringing him back to the mainland.
They had also heard of the horrific retribution that continued to be visited on the clans, and that was no longer restricted merely to those who had risen in rebellion; loyal clans were starting to feel the heavy hand of Cumberland’s men as well, as some of their houses were looted, crops burned, and their cattle driven off. Some of the rebels who came in to surrender were shot or hung out of hand, and many others taken prisoner in spite of the letters of safe conduct they proffered to the redcoat captains.
The redcoats were still concentrating their fury in the areas within a few days’ march of the forts, and they were descending on the clan lands in huge numbers that were impossible to oppose without organised resistance, which the clansmen could not muster at the moment, scattered as they were, with many of their chiefs either dead, taken prisoner or injured. Cumberland remained at Fort Augustus for the present, and at Loch Lomond the MacGregors bided their time, tried to save what crops they could, and waited for their chieftain to heal fully and decide what was to be done next.
* * *
Alex and Dougal sat outside, basking in the warmth of the first sunshine they had seen in what seemed to be an age. The ground was still sodden, so they lounged on a rough wooden bench outside Alex’s front door, leaning back against the wall of the house. All around the clearing the thatch of the various huts steamed as the sun’s heat dried it out, and the clansfolk had all found work to do out of doors. In the middle distance could be heard the laughter of children as they splashed and swam in the loch, and the singing of women as they washed every item of clothing and bedding they possessed in the hopes of being able to dry it before the weather changed again.
Closer to hand, Graeme was instructing some very small children in the art of identifying what was a weed and what was not. In spite of the terrible weather, the small plot of land outside the little hut that the MacGregors had built for Graeme when it became
clear he was intending to stay was bursting with life, carrots, cabbages, onions and potatoes all showing healthy green leaves. He had even planted nasturtiums and marigolds, explaining to the incredulous clansmen that no, he was not going soft in his old age; you could eat the leaves and flowers of nasturtiums and the seed pods tasted peppery, while marigolds attracted hoverflies and repelled pests – and the flowers could be used to make a balm that soothed midge bites. The man was a wonder. He could grow anything anywhere. Alex kept meaning to ask him where he’d managed to obtain the seeds and tubers, but kept forgetting.
Dougal’s sabre wound had finally healed and he had spent the morning trying to build up his strength, making use of the rocks that Alex no longer needed. He brushed his sweat-soaked hair out of his face and stretched his legs out in front of him.
“Ye’re doing too much,” Alex commented. “Ye dinna need to push yourself so hard. We’ll no’ be going raiding yet a while.”
Dougal turned his head towards his companion and raised one eyebrow.
“Aye, well, it’s different for me,” Alex said, correctly interpreting the look. “I’m the chieftain. I canna afford to be weakened for any longer than necessary. I’ve a duty to set an example.”
“And as your clansman, I’ve a duty to follow that example,” Dougal responded.
There was no answer to that, so a companionable silence reigned for a few minutes.
“Is it still paining ye?” Dougal asked finally.
“No, no’ paining exactly. It aches when I’ve been on it the whole day, though.” His leg was almost better now. The splint was gone and he was slowly regaining the heavy thigh and calf muscles he’d had before the injury. Every day, whatever the weather, he would go for a long walk, initially along the relatively flat edge of the loch, but now he could scale the mountains too, with the aid of a stick. He still walked with a limp, which was more pronounced at the end of the day, but he was now confident that he would soon recover his full strength. He knew how lucky he was, how often a man was crippled for life by a badly set broken bone, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks to God for giving him a giant of a clansman like Kenneth who’d had the strength to straighten his leg and hold it there while it had been splinted.
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 12