“You ask me to betray everything I hold dear, and for what? To be your mistress? Never. I don’t care a fig for what society thinks of me, but I could never look at myself in a mirror again if I were to become your whore, and you insult me by even suggesting it.”
“Elizabeth, I cannot marry you, you know that,” he said, appalled that she could think he was insulting her by suggesting she become his mistress. That was the furthest thing from his mind.
“I have no wish to marry you. I have a husband already.”
“He married you under a false name. Your marriage was not legal. And in any case, if he was at Culloden, which I assume he was, then he is almost certainly dead, as I said earlier.”
“If that is the case, then any information I could give regarding his true identity would be worthless, and I will happily die a widow, knowing my husband was a man of courage and honour. And in the meantime I am proud to be a Jacobite prisoner, which I consider a far more honourable condition than being either a cowardly traitor or a whore. You dishonour both yourself and me to even suggest such a thing.”
For a moment he felt completely humiliated. Then indignation took over. How dare she speak to him thus! And she had not used his title once, in spite of knowing the proprieties! He had offered her, a fallen woman and a Jacobite to boot, the highest honour he could, an honour many women would give anything for, and she had the temerity to accuse him of dishonourable behaviour?
By God, he would bring her to her senses! Before he could weaken and change his mind, he shouted for the guards.
“You will escort the prisoner directly to Newgate,” he ordered. “She wishes to be treated as any other rebel prisoner. Ensure that she is.”
He looked at her again, hoping that she would be horrified by the mere suggestion of incarceration in a prison whose reputation was known throughout the land. But her face was once more calm, expressionless. She stood, and turning her back on him accompanied the guards from the room without another word.
After she had gone he sat for a moment, letting the conflicting emotions she had roused in him wash over him. Anger, humiliation, outrage…
Love.
He loved her. And she had once led him to believe that his feelings were reciprocated. What evil spell had that traitor Anthony cast over her, that even now, after all that had happened, she still fancied herself in love with him? Let her see what happened to ordinary rebels, what could happen to her if he withdrew his protection. Although…
He sat for a minute, deep in thought, and then rang the bell and summoned a footman to carry an urgent message to the keeper of Newgate Prison.
* * *
Upon arrival at Newgate Beth was taken into a dank, cold room underneath the entrance gate. Through the middle of the room ran an open sewer which discharged its foul-smelling contents into the Fleet river. The smell was overpowering, and it took all Beth’s willpower for her not to vomit at the stench.
A stout wall-eyed man with lank greasy hair whom she supposed to be the keeper, eyed first her and then her clothes with appreciation.
“Welcome, Mistress Cunningham,” he said. “I’m told you’re to be put with the rebel prisoners. But first we have to measure you for your irons. What do you think, Mr Twyford?”
A figure materialised from the shadows, and moved forward.
“I would think twenty pounds should be sufficient to subdue her, Mr Jones,” Twyford commented. “Although it would be a shame to shackle such a beautiful woman. You know what a mess the irons make of them; scars them for life. Why, only last week a young lady had to have her arm cut off. The irons cut her to the bone, they did. Went bad.”
“You speak true, Mr Twyford, true indeed,” intoned the keeper sadly. “Of course, Mistress, for a small consideration I daresay we could come to some accommodation.”
“You can save your breath, sirs,” Beth said as calmly as she could, trying not to remember the hanging Alex had insisted she attend, and the woman’s wrists, which had been raw and infected. “I have no money, nor have I any friends who would pay you your ‘small consideration’. So do what you must, and have done with it.”
“Come now, surely a young woman as beautiful as you and dressed so expensively, must have access to funds? In fact I daresay that your dress could fetch a reasonable sum, if –” He got no further before there came a banging on the door. It opened, and a young man dressed in the livery of the Duke of Newcastle entered.
“An urgent message, sir, regarding the prisoner,” he said breathlessly. The wall-eyed man stepped outside, returning a few minutes later with a completely different attitude.
“Well, it appears that you do have friends after all, Mistress Cunningham,” he said. “No shackles, Mr Twyford.”
“Shall I take her to the press yard then, Mr Jones?” asked his companion, who had clearly recognised the livery.
“No. No shackles, but she’s to be confined with the other rebel women.”
Mr Twyford appeared confused by this. In fact both men did. Beth wondered what the press yard was, and what the footman had said to puzzle them. Maybe Cumberland still hoped she would relent and become his mistress after all, and did not want her to be scarred any more than she already was. Whatever it was, she was grateful not to have to wear irons, although it would be a cold day in hell before she gave herself to that fat usurping slug.
She was led out of the foul-smelling room, up two flights of narrow stone steps, then down a corridor lit with candles placed in sconces, to a door at the end. Mr Jones opened the door with an enormous key and waved her in, before closing and locking it behind her.
She found herself in a room lit only by a narrow barred window high up in the wall. It was completely bare of furniture, and very cold, in spite of the fact that it was summer. She stood a moment and let her eyes become accustomed to the gloom, upon which she began to make out the shapes of several women, most of whom were sitting on the wooden floor, leaning against the stone walls which were glistening with moisture. The air was heavy and fetid with the smell of unwashed bodies, urine and excrement, and Beth breathed through her mouth in an attempt to reduce the stench assailing her nostrils. I will become accustomed to it, she told herself desperately.
There came the sound of flint and tinder, and suddenly a candle was lit, banishing the shadows to the corners of the room. Someone started to protest in a soft Scottish accent at this waste of what was apparently a luxury, but was immediately hushed. The bearer of the candle stood and made her way over to Beth, who was still standing by the door.
“Well, what ‘ave we ‘ere?” she said. “A bloody lady!” She curtseyed deeply, then laughed raucously and held the candle up to get a better view of the newcomer.
Beth took advantage of the illumination to take the measure of this woman who was undoubtedly the self-styled chief of the room. She was nearly a head taller than Beth and would probably have been described as ‘strapping’, before prison life had stripped her of some of her muscle. Even so, she was still formidable. And filthy. Her dark hair was tangled and her face greasy and milk-white from lack of sunlight.
“And you’re a whore, I take it?” Beth replied calmly, eyeing the red ragged petticoat and very low-cut bodice the woman was wearing. At one time they would have passed for stylish, at night, anyway.
The woman laughed again, clearly not offended by Beth’s observation.
“Make my livin’ whatever way I can, don’t I?” she said.
“Not very well at the moment, it seems,” Beth commented. She heard the gasp of horror from the other women, and watched the anger kindle in the woman’s eyes. Yes, she was right. This woman was a bully, and had succeeded in cowing the other occupants of the room. And yet these were rebel prisoners, and the Jacobite women Beth had met en route to Culloden would not have been easily subdued by just one bully, no matter how dominant. She probably had the assistance of one of the turnkeys then, perhaps in exchange for sexual favours.
Oh, well. She would worry ab
out that later. One thing at a time.
The woman was looking at Beth’s dress now, the blue brocaded satin shimmering in the candlelight. She whistled appreciatively.
“Look at this, girls!” she said, taking a handful of the skirt and lifting it. Beth made no move to stop her, and she smiled triumphantly at her easy conquest of the new prisoner. “We could live like queens for a year on this, couldn’t we?”
There was no answer from the ‘girls’.
“You a whore too, then?” she asked Beth mockingly. “Or one of them scullery maids who gets an ‘and-me-down from ‘er mistress then goes down Vauxhall and gets ‘erself swived by some footman under a tree?”
“Well, whatever I am, I’m clearly better at it than you, aren’t I?” Beth replied, looking her adversary up and down with deliberate contempt. A deathly silence fell over the room, and before the woman could react to this insult Beth punched her in the stomach with both fists as hard as she could, silently thanking Richardson for writing such a weighty tome.
Unprepared for the assault the whore doubled over instantly, badly winded, and Beth followed through, bringing her knee up hard into the woman’s face. She felt the crunch as the nose broke, and then the bully dropped the candle and crumpled onto the floor, clutching her face and gasping for breath. Miraculously, the candle was not extinguished, and bending down, Beth picked it up and briefly examined her victim. Once sure that the woman was actually managing to pull a little air into her lungs, she straightened up again and smiled at the other occupants of the room, who were all looking at her with identical expressions of shock.
“That wasn’t quite the greeting I expected, but I do have a reputation for making memorable entrances, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised,” she said pleasantly. “Halò, is mise Beth. Tha mi toilichte ur coinneachadh.”
There was a stunned silence for a moment as the women tried to take in the fact that someone who was clearly a Sasannach and, what was more, both looked and spoke like a lady, nevertheless had the Gaelic. Then one of them started to clap her hands, and then another, and within a minute all of them were clapping and smiling, and the bully, still gasping and struggling to sit up, was forgotten as they stood to greet the newcomer who had made such a spectacular first impression.
* * *
29th July 1746
“God, I’m tired,” Edwin said by way of greeting to his wife as he entered the salon. He gave his coat and hat to a waiting footman, then threw himself into a chair.
Caroline looked up from her desk, where she was finishing off a letter.
“It’s wonderful to see you too, darling,” she commented drily, folding the paper and carefully pouring sealing wax onto the join.
“I’m sorry. It is wonderful to see you, really. I’ve missed you. How’s Summer Hill coming along?”
“Extremely well. I arrived back this morning. Some of the rooms are habitable now. I was just writing to William to arrange a meeting.” She stamped the brass seal into the wax.
Edwin looked across at her in surprise.
“I think he’ll be very busy for a while. Half of London is begging to see him. What do you want to meet him for, anyway?”
“He’s designing the garden. I told you last week. And I know I had to fight to prise him away from Henry, but why is half of London begging to see him?”
“Cumberland’s designing the garden?” Edwin replied, thoroughly bemused.
Light dawned.
“Edwin, there is more than one person in the country called William, you know,” Caroline said gently. “You really need to get away from parliament now and again. William Kent is designing the garden. I think Cumberland is somewhat busy basking in the adoration of Britain at the moment. Shall I call for some food for you? It’s a bit late, but cook should be able to put a cold collation together.”
Edwin yawned hugely, and glanced at the clock.
“I had no idea it was that late,” he said. “No, I’m not hungry. I dined at my club between sessions.”
“What kept you so late?” his wife asked, getting up and coming to stand behind him. She gently massaged his shoulders, knowing how much he loved her to do that. The muscles of his neck and upper back were solid. A hard day, then.
“You know the Dress Act has been passed into law now?” he said.
“The one denying Highlanders the right to wear their traditional clothes?”
“Well, it denies anyone in Scotland the right to wear them or in fact to even possess a piece of tartan at all. But yes, it’s aimed at the Highlanders. Well, now we’re thrashing out the details of the Heritable Jurisdictions Act, which will effectively take away all the powers of the clan chiefs. And debating what to do about the prisoners.”
Caroline whistled through her teeth.
“So the king really does mean to destroy the clans then?”
Edwin nodded.
“Something drastic has to be done, Caro, otherwise, unless Charles is captured, it’ll only be a matter of time before there’s another rising. And if the French invade as well this time…”
“It seems pretty drastic though, destroying their whole way of life.”
“Not as drastic as one proposal, to transport whole clans like the Camerons and MacGregors. But it was thought to be too expensive and impractical, and in any case, a lot of them would have probably found a way to return. Instead they’re being systematically disarmed. There are still pockets of resistance but the military presence there is making sure that they can’t assemble enough men for another rising at the moment. And the laws we’re bringing in will hopefully make sure that they finally come into line with the rest of Britain. It’s ridiculous that half the country still lives under feudal law, in these times!”
Caroline nodded at the wisdom of this.
“What’s the problem with the prisoners, then?”
“The sheer numbers of them, really. The prisons are overflowing, so we’re going to turn some of the hulks into floating prisons for them. They’ll be docked at the mouth of the Thames, and then the prisoners will draw lots. One in twenty will be tried and the rest will probably be transported, in time. It would take us years to try all of them.”
“I thought William was for executing them all? Cumberland that is, not Kent.”
He tipped his head back and eyed her sceptically.
“I don’t know. He certainly believes in teaching them a stern lesson in Scotland, but here it seems that sending them to the Colonies will be the most practical solution. The only ones the king is determined to make an example of, apart from the leaders of course, is the Manchester Regiment. Manchester was the only English town that raised enough men to form a regiment of its own. I think he wants to make sure that the English at least will never rise for Charles again.”
Caroline gave up trying to loosen the knots of tension in his muscles, and sat down opposite him.
“If you’re not hungry, let’s go to bed instead. At least you can sleep late tomorrow,” she said. “Parliament isn’t meeting until two, is it?”
“I can’t,” he said, standing and allowing her to lead him from the room. “That’s what I was about to tell you. I’m attending the hangings of the Manchester rebels tomorrow. They’re at eleven, but I’ll have to set off very early.”
Caroline stopped part way up the stairs and turned to him, shock written all over her face.
“You’re attending the hangings? Whatever for? You’ve never shown the slightest inclination to go to one before. You hate violence! And these aren’t just normal hangings. I was brought up going to such things, but even I have no wish to see men drawn and quartered. What are you thinking of?”
“We drew straws,” Edwin said tiredly. “I lost. Or won, in the eyes of some of the others.”
“Let one of them go, then,” Caroline retorted. “You sleep in.”
“It’s too late. I’ve already agreed. And the king expects at least one of his new knights to attend.”
“But that’s
ridiculous! There will be so many people there that no one will notice whether you…wait…what did you just say?”
He looked up at her, standing above him on the stairs, still holding his hand.
“As of next month, you will be married to Sir Edwin Harlow. The king has awarded me a knighthood to compensate me for all my hard work during the rebellion. And for the loss of my family life,” he added, although Caroline knew well that the king did not consider a man’s family life to be of any importance where war was concerned.
Caroline squealed in a most unladylike manner and threw herself at her husband, which, as they were part way up the stairs, resulted in them toppling backwards and landing in an undignified, though thankfully uninjured heap in the hall.
“That’s wonderful news! Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you came in?” she asked, hugging him.
“I was going to wait until we had time to celebrate it, but then I found I couldn’t wait to tell you after all.” He beamed up at her, and she kissed him ecstatically. In spite of his fatigue he felt a stirring in his breeches, and realised that it had been a long time since he and his wife had made love. Too long.
“Er…Shall we continue this in private, Caro?” he suggested.
She grinned at him so lasciviously that he blushed.
“No,” she said. “Tonight you need to sleep. Tomorrow we have a hanging…several hangings to attend. And then you are taking a few days off to come and see Summer Hill, even if I have to petition the king myself.”
“But-”
“No arguments. You work too hard and deserve a holiday. Now bed, for both of us.”
He had been going to protest against her attending the executions with him rather than the holiday, but as she pulled him firmly up the stairs again he realised that he was dreading tomorrow, and really would appreciate her support during what would be for most Londoners a wonderful day out, and for him a terrible ordeal.
* * *
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 22