“He took her, my lord. The prince took her away. I couldn’t stop him. I don’t know where she is.”
After he’d had the man thrown out, the Duke of Newcastle sat with his head in his hands, thinking rapidly. This was terrible. How the hell had Prince Fred found out the Cunningham girl was in Newgate Prison? And why was he taking such an interest in her? Where was she? And, more importantly, what was the prince going to do? Go to his father? His brother? Was Cumberland still soft on the woman? Even if he wasn’t, he would never countenance a woman of her status being tortured and then slowly starved to death.
Thank God I didn’t put my orders to Jones in writing, Newcastle thought. No one else knew. He would deny everything, let the keeper take the blame if there was any comeback from this. He had already covered his tracks regarding the disastrous situation with Captain Cunningham. He could do it again. As for Elizabeth Cunningham, it was clear she was never going to reveal anything about Sir Anthony. Jones had said she was in a bad way. With luck she would die, and then it would all blow over in no time. If she lived it would be most inconvenient, especially as he could hardly arrange for an accident to befall her now she had come to the notice of Frederick.
Cumberland was extremely busy and would be out of the country fighting soon, and she had rejected his romantic proposal quite brutally; he was unlikely to spend precious time making enquiries regarding her ill-treatment. Hopefully.
But Frederick was another matter; his ongoing estrangement from his father, and the king’s unwillingness to allow his heir to undertake any royal duties left the young prince with nothing to do but interfere in matters that were none of his concern. As he just had.
The duke realised that with Miss Cunningham out of his control, there was nothing he could do to try to cover this up without calling attention to himself. What he could do was distance himself from the whole situation, to absolve himself from blame as best he could.
And absolving himself from blame was something the Duke of Newcastle was very adept at.
* * *
By the time Edwin returned home that evening Beth had been very carefully undressed, washed, and gently laid between warmed and scented sheets in the main guest room. The surgeon had visited and had spent the whole afternoon and evening with his patient, telling Caroline that in truth he did not think he could save her, but he would do his utmost. Throughout all of this Beth had remained insensible, her breathing shallow, her pulse barely discernible, while Caroline had prayed with a fervour she had not shown since she was a small child, and had prepared herself for her husband’s reaction.
“I thought you said you would not do anything reckless!” Edwin said when Caroline told him what had transpired.
“I didn’t expect Fred to take her from the prison!” Caroline replied. “I don’t think he did, either, to be honest. It was an impulse. But I’m glad he did.”
“Did you have to bring her here, though? She’s the wife of the most wanted man in Britain! What happens if she escapes?”
“Come and see her. Then you’ll know how likely she is to escape,” Caroline said.
Edwin shook his head.
“I can’t be involved in this, Caro. It will be political suicide if it becomes known that I’m sheltering her. You’ve broken the law, too. You can’t just spring someone from prison!”
“No, I can’t. And I didn’t. Fred did that, and he’ll take the responsibility for it. And I brought her here for two reasons; firstly because Fred and I will make it widely known that we acted without either your knowledge or permission. But now it’s done you can hardly go directly against the express wish of the Prince of Wales. No one would expect you to do that, so your career is not in jeopardy. By taking responsibility for her now, I am earning you the good favour of the future King of Great Britain, and hopefully assuring your future career too.”
Edwin stared at his wife.
“You have really thought this through,” he said in wonder.
“No. I acted on the spur of the moment. I didn’t have time to think it through.”
“Even so…you said there was a second reason for bringing her here?”
“Yes. My first instinct was to take her to Summer Hill, where it’s not only quieter but more discreet, but I don’t think she would have survived the journey. And if you see her, Edwin, you’ll understand why Fred did what he did. I’m sure you would have done the same, in fact.”
“Is she really that ill?” Edwin asked.
She took his hand. “Come and see,” she said.
When they entered the room, the royal surgeon was just packing away his things. He stood, and bowed slightly to them.
“I have done everything I can for now,” he said. “She has taken a little sustenance, thank God, but…”
“Is she conscious, then?” Caroline asked.
“No, but when we spooned a little warm milk into her mouth, she swallowed automatically. I do not wish to raise your hopes, however. I do not know if we can bring her back from this.” He snapped his bag closed. “If she recovers consciousness, try to get her to drink a very little warm, thin broth. Only a little, though. Her stomach will not be able to cope with more than a few spoonsful. I will return first thing in the morning, but if there is any change between now and then send for me immediately.” He was shown out by a footman.
Caroline went straight over to the bed, and sat down on a chair at the side of it. Edwin stood hesitantly in the doorway. Caroline held out her hand and he moved forward reluctantly, his eyes on the still figure lying in the bed.
“Oh, dear God,” he gasped when he was close enough to see her clearly. He turned his head away for a moment, then looked back at the remains of the beautiful, vibrant woman he had once called his friend. Tears spilled unheeded down his cheeks and he sank to his knees at the side of the bed.
She was wearing a nightdress of Caroline’s and the bedding covered most of her body, which hardly made any impression in the bed. All that was visible of her was her head, neck and one arm, which was resting on top of the bedclothes, the wrist and hand heavily bandaged, but that was enough for all Edwin’s reservations about taking care of her to be completely obliterated.
She was a skeleton. The skin of her face, paper-thin and yellow, followed the contours of her skull perfectly. Her cheekbones looked about to break through the fragile covering, and her closed eyes were sunk deep into the sockets, the pale lashes showing starkly against the surrounding shadowed skin. Below the cheekbones her face was sunken; so little flesh remained that Edwin could see the hinge of her jaw bone. Her neck was a stick, her windpipe visible, and the double bones of the lower arm could be clearly distinguished, her elbow appearing huge by comparison. Her once glorious hair was now lifeless, strawlike and matted.
“Who has done this?” he asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“I don’t know. At the moment, we have to put all our effort into bringing her back. If we can bring her back,” Caroline said. “The surgeon couldn’t believe that she’d actually managed to survive this long. She’s literally skin and bone. She has wounds on her wrists that have partially healed, but then become infected, and have not been treated. And she has rat bites on her legs. Sit down properly, Edwin, you look about to faint,” she added, seeing the ominous grey pallor overtake his face.
Instead he sat on the floor and put his head between his knees, breathing deeply for a few minutes until he recovered enough to speak.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She was about to say that he had no need to apologise for being dizzy, but before she could speak, he continued.
“You were right. Of course she must stay here. No one deserves this, least of all someone as kind, as spirited as she is…was. We must find out who is responsible. This is not punishment. This is barbarity. God, I thought the executions were bad, but this…this defies everything.”
“I think those who have been executed have been the lucky ones,” Caroline said softly. “She is not th
e only one being treated this way, I believe. I told you about the transports yesterday. The only difference between Beth and those poor souls is that she is highborn, and they, as far as we know are not.”
“We must make arrangements,” Edwin said. “Get a nurse for her, several nurses. She must have someone with her at all times. And we must…” He stopped, arrested by Caroline’s hand on his arm.
“I will stay with her tonight,” she said. “If she makes it through the night, then we can engage a nurse for her. Frederick said he will arrange for us to become official messengers, so that we can have legal responsibility for her. He thinks a guard may have to be stationed outside the door, in view of her importance as the only person who knows Anthony’s identity.”
Edwin snorted in disgust.
“Important enough for a guard, but not important enough to feed,” he said.
“I think she has refused to compromise in any way at all,” Caroline said. “She told the maid at the Tower to place a bet that she would neither marry nor become William’s mistress. I suspect she may have told him the same thing, in no uncertain terms. You know how direct she always was.”
He smiled, remembering, then looked at the figure in the bed, and his mouth twisted with grief. He looked up at his wife, whose eyes were also shimmering with tears.
“To hell with everything,” he said. “If we can bring her back from this, we must. Whatever she has done, she’s our friend.”
“’Not a day goes by that I do not think of you and wish that I still had your friendship, but I understand this can never be,’” Caroline murmured.
“You remember the exact words of her letter?” Edwin said.
“I do. I read it several times before I burned it,” Caroline replied, then her eyes widened. “Oh God, I forgot to let Sarah know we’d found her! I must send a message, straight away!” She rang the bell and gave the order. Edwin waited until the servant had left the room before he spoke again.
“She was wrong,” Edwin said. “She does still have our friendship. Highbury was wrong too when he said Anthony had not compromised anyone. This poor girl has been compromised by him. And I will never forgive him for that.”
“Go and get some rest, Edwin,” Caroline said. “You’ve had a long day. I will sit with her tonight, and then we can discuss the details of her care tomorrow.”
He stood, kissed his wife, and prepared to leave. At the door he turned back.
“You will wake me, if…” His voice trailed away.
“Of course,” she replied.
“And tomorrow,” he added, as he opened the door, “I will go and visit the transports.”
He closed the door quietly behind him, and Caroline settled herself for her all-night vigil.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Paris, January 1747
“Your Royal Highness, I beg ye to reconsider,” Donald Cameron of Lochiel said fervently to his prince, who was currently slouching in a chair by the fire, a cold damp cloth across his forehead. Last night had been a long one and had involved, as usual, a ridiculous amount of drink and a number of whores. Charles was clearly not in the mood for a lecture. But it was rare nowadays for Lochiel to find him alone without that corrupting bastard Kelly by his side, and he could not waste the opportunity.
“Donald, have I not been good to you? Are you not one of my closest advisers? Have I not applied for a regimental command for you?”
“You have, Your Highness, and I’m verra grateful of course. But –”
“So why do you persist in troubling me when I am unwell?”
You’re no’ unwell, you’re hungover, ye drunken sot, Lochiel thought, then hastily chided himself. This was the man for whom he had sacrificed everything, his prince, the only hope the Stuarts now had of a restoration to the British throne; he deserved respect. But Charles also needed to know that the course he was heading on now could lead only to a further estrangement between himself and King Louis, which neither he nor the Jacobite cause in general could afford.
“Because this canna wait, Your Highness. Please, if you will give me a few minutes of your time.”
Wearily Charles indicated with a wave of his hand for the Cameron chief to take a chair on the other side of the fire. Lochiel sat down.
“Your Highness, I beg you to abandon this plan to leave Paris and go to Avignon. It will be a direct affront to His Majesty to do so.”
“Good. That is what I intend it to be. How does he expect me to live in a style appropriate to my status on a mere twelve thousand livres a month? It is an insult. As is his refusal to allow me a royal residence to live in, as he promised me when we met at Fontainebleau. How can I command the respect of my followers if I allow the French king to treat me thus?”
Lochiel forbore from pointing out that surrounding yourself with drunken debauchers and spending a fortune on liquor and whores, to say nothing of insulting the only person who could finance another rising, was far more likely to alienate your followers than allowing King Louis to prevaricate, as he did with everyone.
“You have the respect of all of us,” he said instead. “We all ken well that it’s the nature of the king to dither a wee bit, but –”
“Dither a wee bit!” Charles exclaimed, then moaned and put his hand to his head. “The king has done nothing. Had he acceded to my request for twenty thousand troops to accompany me to England, I could be mounting a winter expedition right now and taking the throne for my father. If England falls to me there will be no need of a campaign in Scotland. We need to strike hard and fast, drive the Elector off the throne before he knows what has hit him. Once the throne is secure, the rest will follow, I am convinced of it.”
“But Louis will not agree to commit such a force to England, Your Highness,” Lochiel pointed out. “Whereas he is far more amenable to granting us troops for another invasion of Scotland.”
“Scotland has been crushed by Cumberland’s troops, though,” Charles said, a note of sadness entering his tone. “Those loyal to me have been disarmed and driven from their homes. They could not rise now if they would. And I have no reason to believe those who did not come out for me last year feel any differently now.”
“I do have reason to believe it,” Lochiel said, reaching into his coat pocket and producing a letter. “I received a letter yesterday from Cluny Macpherson, and another today from Alex MacGregor. As ye ken, Cluny has clan members everywhere wi’ their ear to the ground, and Alex is a master of intelligence gathering. They both give me great hope, for they tell me that the brutality of Cumberland’s men is having the opposite effect to that they intended. The clansmen are incensed wi’ the treatment they’ve received, and no’ just the clans loyal to you, Your Highness. The redcoats have no’ discriminated overmuch in their plundering between those who rose and those who didna. The Macleans are for rising, Ardshiel and others are still hiding out near Appin, and Keppoch’s, my own Camerons, the MacGregors, Grants, Frasers…there are many who are waiting for ye to come back. It’s my belief that ye’ll raise more than twice the number ye did last year, and more maybe. Wi’ the addition of a small French force, ye could take Scotland back for the Stuarts, easily.”
Charles took the towel off his forehead and looked at his most loyal follower, not without sympathy.
“Donald, I understand you, and I value your loyalty and that of Cluny and Alex, and others. But if I lead another rising in Scotland, the same thing will happen. I may take Scotland for my father, yes. But without England that means nothing.”
“How can that mean nothing?” Lochiel said, aghast. “The Stuarts reigned in Scotland alone for hundreds of years, until Queen Elizabeth died barren. Ye could do it again, break the union, and Scotland could hold her head up once more as an independent country. Your Highness, you owe it to the people who have fought and died for you, and those who are now suffering for it, to abandon this scheme for an English invasion, which the king will never agree to, and settle for a Scottish expedition, which he will agree to.”
“My father is the rightful king of all Great Britain, not just Scotland,” Charles said belligerently.
Lochiel swallowed down his frustration, forcing his tone to remain calm. He was desperate to get back to his country, to his people, who were suffering while he sat here in relative luxury, trying to make the prince see reason. They had to mount another campaign in Scotland. If they didn’t the Highland way of life would be obliterated. However, he had known the prince for long enough to know that shouting at him was not the way to go.
“Would ye no’ rather have Scotland than nothing at all?” he asked gently instead.
“That will not happen,” Charles said confidently. “If I cannot get Louis’ approval, I will seek elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” Lochiel asked. Charles coloured.
“In the future,” he added hastily. “But in the meantime I will go to Avignon and seek to set up court there. It is after all a papal state, and I think that Pope Benedict will look favourably on me.”
“Your Highness, an ye leave French territory now, and insult the king by doing so, you will give Louis the chance to make peace with Britain, as some are urging him to do.”
“I have made up my mind,” Charles persisted stubbornly. “I am giving my brother plenipotentiary powers while I’m away. I’m sure he will come up with some plausible reasons for my absence that will satisfy the king. Now, I am ill, and I wish to be alone. Please leave us.”
Lochiel had no option but to leave. He had tried his best, he told himself; he could not have done more. But that would not help those who were starving and dying at home, and were waiting desperately for news of a French landing in Scotland.
He could of course drive his sword through the heart of George Kelly, the adviser who was encouraging Charles to take this ridiculous stand against the French king, which he could not win. But then he would have to kill all the other sycophants who had the prince under their sway too. And even if he did that, Charles would still go his own way.
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 41