Without either company or access to the outdoors, she was finding it increasingly difficult to keep her spirits up. Deprived of reading material, with the exception of the volume now resting on her knee, which had been under her pillow and therefore missed when the servants came to take away all her books, she had searched for something else to do to stop her spending all her time agonising over whether Alex was alive or dead, and had finally decided to build up her strength. She reasoned that whatever the authorities intended to do with her, having a strong body would stand her in good stead and achieving it would pass the time. So she had started walking briskly round her room and running on the spot, firstly for minutes at a time, and now for hours, no doubt to the annoyance of the unseen warder’s family living below.
She had reread Pamela, twice, and had not changed her mind about her opinion of the hero and heroine from the long-ago night at the Cunningham dinner table when she had thrown wine in Edward’s face for insulting her mother.
In her view, building up the muscles in her arms was a far better use for the novel than reading the damn thing had been. She rotated her right shoulder again, and then picking the book up in her left hand, shifted position in the chair a little so she could hold her left arm out without hitting the window frame.
She had been sitting like this for some five minutes when all of a sudden the cannons near the Tower started firing one after the other, causing her to jump violently and drop the book on the floor. No sooner had the cannons stopped than all the church bells in London started ringing.
Something was happening. She stood up and looked out of the window, but in the Tower grounds at least, everything seemed to be as normal. She looked at the clock. Two thirty. It was probably the Elector’s birthday or some such thing. She sat down again, picked up the book and continued with her exercise regime. The clamour continued.
The Elector’s birthday was on the ninth of November. Cumberland’s birthday was on the fifteenth of April. That birthday she would never forget; the day before Angus’s and the day before Culloden and the last time she’d seen Alex. What date was it today?
She had taken to making marks on the window frame, one for each day. The doctor had told her that she’d been unconscious for about three weeks, and since then she had made seventy-eight marks. Twenty-third of July then, approximately. When was Prince Frederick’s birthday? She racked her brains but couldn’t remember.
Could they have captured Prince Charles? When he’d interviewed her Newcastle had let slip that the prince was still at large. Surely he would have found a way to get to France by now? She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer that whatever the reason for the salutes and the bell-ringing, it was not the capture of Prince Charles Edward Stuart. King James was too old and dispirited to fight for his throne, and Prince Henry too weak; the success or failure of the Jacobite cause rested on the shoulders of Charles alone. If he was captured, the cause was dead.
She opened her eyes again and told herself that there could be any number of reasons for the celebration; it was silly to worry when she had no idea what was happening. She abandoned the book and, standing, began her brisk walk around her chambers. She would walk for two hours today then run on the spot for an hour, just before dinner. That would disturb the warder’s evening. It was a small victory, but small victories were all she could enjoy for now.
But as day turned to night, the sky turned orange from the light of the bonfires, and the sounds of revelry could be heard even in her rooms, she began to doubt again. This was no annual celebration; this was something extraordinary. What could it be, if not the capture of the heir to the Stuart throne?
In spite of her resolution not to worry, she spent all of that night and most of the next day pondering the consequences of his capture, with the result that the following night she was completely exhausted when she went to bed, and slept late, being finally woken by a serving-maid, who was forced to break the rule of not speaking to the prisoner by calling to wake her, after clattering around the room and opening the curtains and shutters had failed to do so.
Having broken her silence, the maid seemed happy to continue chatting as she set out the breakfast things while Beth yawned and stretched and got out of bed.
“After you’ve breakfasted, my lady, I’m to help you dress. Would you like to choose a gown to wear?” she said while pouring Beth’s chocolate.
“What’s your name?” Beth asked, startling the maid. No one of consequence had ever asked her name, and although this woman was a prisoner, she was also of very great consequence; everyone in the house knew that, although not why.
“Kate, my lady,” she replied, bobbing a curtsey.
Beth smiled.
“It’s a pretty name. Is it short for Catherine?”
“I don’t know, my lady. Everybody has always called me Kate.” She blushed. “Would you like me to help you choose –”
“I’m sorry you had to wake me,” Beth interrupted. “The noise of the celebrations kept me awake, and I was catching up on my lost sleep. Was it Prince Frederick’s birthday?”
“Oh no, my lady. It was for Prince William. He came home on Wednesday. There were bonfires in the streets and dancing, and everybody put candles in their windows. Half of London is at Kensington Palace, hoping to see him. You are very honoured, my lady.”
Beth had been silently sending up a prayer of thanks that the celebrations had not been for the arrest of Prince Charles, and only registered this final sentence belatedly.
“Honoured?”
“Yes, my lady. He has asked especially to see you, at eleven o’clock.”
Beth glanced at the clock. Nine.
“We have plenty of time, then. Sit down. Would you like some chocolate?”
The maid seemed completely at a loss, but whether it was because of Beth’s obvious indifference toward meeting Prince William, or because she’d just been invited to sit and drink chocolate with her, was unclear. It seemed that the warder, whoever he was, had the same feelings about the serving classes as Lord Edward did. But as far as Beth was concerned, the maid was the first person to have actually spoken to her in two months, a potential source of information, and a possible ally.
Kate hovered over the chocolate pot, clearly torn between her duty to her master and her wish to taste the expensive beverage.
“Have you ever tasted chocolate, Kate?” Beth asked.
Kate shook her head.
“Well, then. Here’s your chance. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. We can discuss what I’m going to wear while you’re drinking it, and then if anyone asks you can honestly say you were following your orders.”
Kate sat down awkwardly on the edge of the chair and Beth stood, briskly refilling her cup and then passing it over to the maid, who looked at the beverage as though it might rear out of the cup and bite her on the nose. She reminded Beth a little of Grace; not in her looks, but in her attitude. She abandoned the idea of using the maid to possibly acquire writing materials for her and to smuggle a letter out. Kate seemed innocent, unworldly; Beth would not be the cause of her losing her job, or worse. But the information…
Kate had now started sipping at the chocolate, a look of bliss on her face.
“When I heard all the bells, I thought the Pretender’s son had been captured,” Beth said conversationally.
Kate looked up from her cup.
“Oh no, my lady. They say that he is in the Isle of Skye, and is hiding there dressed as a woman!”
Beth took in this piece of unlikely information, trying and failing to imagine the six-foot-tall athletically built prince passing himself off as a woman. This could not be true, surely? But at any rate, he was still free.
“Who are they? The ones who say this?”
“Oh, it was in the papers, my lady. Mr Staines, he’s one of the footmen, you know, he can read, and he told us. He said that there are a lot of soldiers, hundreds of them looking for him now, and it can’t be long before he’s taken, for
there’s a thirty thousand pound reward out for him. And then we’ll all be able to sleep in our beds at night again.”
“The Isle of Skye is a very long way away, Kate. I doubt the pri…Pretender’s son would come all the way here just to murder you in your bed. And if he could he would not. He is a kind man, a gentleman. Do not believe everything you hear from the newspapers.”
The maid stared at Beth, wide-eyed.
“Have you met the Pretender’s son, my lady?” she asked, awestricken.
“I have. And he treats women, and men too, with the utmost honour. He is not the man they would have you believe him to be. Nor is Cumberland.”
Kate blushed again, and seemed to suddenly realise the enormity of her situation, agreeing to share breakfast with someone who was not only acquainted with the Stuart prince, but also with the hero of Culloden, who everyone in London would die to meet. She had finished the chocolate and was about to stand up, but Beth waved her back down and poured her another.
“We have to get you ready to –”
Beth raised a hand imperiously.
“We have plenty of time. It won’t take me long to dress.”
“Oh, but you will want to bathe, and wash your hair, and then I have to dress it, and –”
“I can wash, that will be quicker, and I do not need to wash my hair, nor do I wish to dress it. A simple braid will be enough.”
The maid opened her mouth to protest.
“My injury still pains me greatly,” Beth lied smoothly. “I cannot wear my hair any other way. I’m sure the prince will understand.” She couldn’t give a damn whether Cumberland understood or not, but she was not dressing up any more than she had to for him.
She had no choice about the dress; all the gowns that had been provided for her were costly and richly embellished with embroidery. She would have liked to arrive at his door in the dress she had worn on the day of Culloden, but she supposed it had been thrown away.
In the end she let Kate decide, who considered it a great honour to do so, and by prevaricating over her choice of shoes and jewellery contrived to arrive fifteen minutes later than ‘asked’ to do so, thereby insulting the prince before she even arrived at Whitehall, where he was waiting to see her.
Small victories.
* * *
Prince William, Duke of Cumberland, did indeed consider himself to be insulted as he sat behind Newcastle’s desk, waiting for Miss Cunningham to arrive. But when she was shown in by her military escort who, on his signal, bowed and retreated, leaving them alone, he forgave her instantly.
After the soldiers had left she remained standing by the doorway, dressed in sky-blue brocaded satin, tiny, fragile and looking very vulnerable. He stood and came around the desk to meet her, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips, ignoring the fact that she did not curtsey to him as she should have done. No doubt she was overwhelmed by her situation.
He had wondered how she would respond to his gesture. He had hoped she would curtsey, blush, smile. He had dreaded that she would pull her hand away, slap his face. But she did not respond in any way at all, which left him with no idea as to how she felt toward him. He invited her to sit down and she moved forward silently, taking the chair he indicated.
He returned to his seat on the opposite side of the desk. He had taken great care in dressing today and had abandoned military uniform in favour of a sage green silk suit with lavish gold embroidery, not wishing by displaying his scarlet coat to bring back unpleasant memories for her of the battle and the last time they had met. He wondered if she did in fact remember him leaping off his horse and bending to lift her gently from the ground. She had moaned softly as he had gathered her to his chest, and he had known then that she was alive, had sprung into action immediately, doing everything in his power to ensure she survived.
He told himself and everyone else that he had taken such pains because she was the only person who could definitely identify the traitor Sir Anthony, but looking at her now, sitting calmly and demurely opposite him, he realised that he’d had other motives for saving her life.
She looked lovely in spite of the livid scar that marred her left temple; the doctors had done their job well, and she seemed to be blooming with health. He stopped himself from leaning over the desk, not wishing to appear too eager, and instead sat back in the chair.
“I trust you are being treated well?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied simply.
“Do you need anything to make your stay more comfortable? You have only to ask.”
“No.”
“Does your injury still pain you?”
“A little.”
He was instantly all concern.
“I will get my personal physician to attend you. I am sure he can give you something to relieve the pain.”
“No thank you.”
There was a short silence while the duke tried to think of a question that would require a longer answer and she sat calmly looking past him and out of the window. He felt gauche, wanting to say something that would elicit a favourable response, and at a loss as to what that might be.
This was ridiculous. He was the victor of Culloden, commander of the British Army, favourite son of the king, and she was the cousin of a minor aristocrat. He pulled himself together, and decided to get to the point. Well, to start to make his way to the point, at any rate.
“I am sure you know by now that the rebels have been utterly defeated, and that the rebellion is over.”
“Yes, your sergeant told us, just before he murdered an innocent woman and baby,” she replied calmly, still looking over his shoulder. He resisted the urge to turn and follow her gaze, and ignored her reply.
“Many of the leaders of the rebellion are killed or taken. Two of them are to be executed tomorrow.”
“And yet Prince Charles is neither killed nor taken,” she responded.
“It is only a matter of time before he is. There is a thirty thousand pound reward for information about him, and we are closing in on him. As I said, it is –”
“And yet no one has claimed the reward,” she said softly, as though unaware she had interrupted him. “It is not over, then.”
He reddened, betraying the fact that she had hit a sore spot. This was not going at all as he had imagined. He must end her delusion, now.
“Elizabeth,” he said, leaning forward in spite of his resolution not to appear eager. “The rebellion is over. The clans are scattered and more and more surrender their arms every day. You have been abandoned, both by Charles and by your husband. I understand how persuasive my cousin can be, and how clever Sir Anthony was. I am sure you believed him to be in love with you, believed yourself in love with him. What woman’s head would not be turned by such sophisticated liars? But now you see what it has brought you to. You must think of yourself, for I can assure you the man who ruined you certainly does not.”
“You speak of him in the present. You know him to be alive then?” she said.
Was she mocking him? He observed her expression, but it was completely neutral.
“If he fought at Culloden, then he is almost certainly dead,” Cumberland replied brutally, nettled by her lack of emotion. “If not, then he may be in prison or skulking in the mountains.”
“Or in France, raising troops for another rebellion,” she said.
“Wherever he is, madam, he cannot help you. Whereas I desire nothing more than to help you. Tell me what you know of this man who has treated you so badly, and I promise you we need never speak of it again. I can obtain a full pardon for you and will purchase a fine house, in the countryside perhaps, but not too far away. You will want for nothing, I assure you. And when I visit you I will be very discreet.”
Now, finally, she turned away from her perusal of the view and looked at him.
“Are you asking me to be your mistress?” she asked coolly. “And I a ruined woman and a traitor?”
“You are no more a traitor than I am, Elizabeth,” he
said passionately. “We were all deceived by him, but you most of all. Of course you, who are so beautiful, so spirited, could not resist such a man, who promised you wealth, romance, adventure! I understand that, of course I do. Society may consider you a ruined woman, now. But once under my patronage, your reputation and that of your family will be restored. Whether Sir Anthony is captured or not, I will ensure that everyone knows you cooperated willingly and fully with us, and that you have atoned for your weakness in being bewitched by him. Given time you will be able to resume your place in society. And I assure you, you will find no one more…”
His voice trailed away into nothing as he noted that now, for the first time since she had been escorted into the room, she had an expression on her face. He looked away from her, unable to bear the mocking smile and the contempt in her eyes. Was she aware that he had been about to declare his devotion to her? He hoped not.
“The reputation of my family should not have been affected by my actions, nor by Anthony’s. Everyone was taken in by him, even you. If my family’s reputation is tarnished, then so is the whole of society’s. My cousins knew nothing of what Anthony truly was, nor of my own political views. In fact Edward thinks women incapable of having any views at all.
“As for yourself, let me disabuse you once and for all of this notion you have that Anthony bewitched me. It is true I married him reluctantly, but once I found out his true nature, and that he wholeheartedly supported King James, I followed him in everything willingly, and if I could have my time over, would do so again without hesitation. I do not consider that I have done anything dishonourable in supporting the cause of the rightful monarch over a pack of German usurpers.”
He flushed scarlet with anger and opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand, and to his astonishment he found himself obeying her signal to let her continue.
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 21