Beth leaned forward in the chair she was sitting in and grasped her former maid’s hands.
“I really appreciate that,” she said.
“John’s very fond of you,” Sarah said, her eyes on the thin hands linked in hers.
“He is, but I mean I really appreciate you not saying anything to Newcastle.”
“I didn’t have anything to say,” Sarah replied. “I never saw Sir Anthony without his makeup.”
“No, but you could have given him descriptions of Jim and Murdo at the very least.”
“I didn’t see what good it would do to give descriptions of servants, when it was Sir Anthony they were interested in. Anyway, I only saw them a few times,” Sarah persisted, her colour rising a little.
Beth released her hands.
“Did Caroline read you the message I sent for you, when I wrote to her?” she asked.
Sarah blushed scarlet.
“I read it myself,” she said. “I’ve learnt how to read, now. I’m slow, though. I can write, too! I wanted to ask you if I can write to Thomas and Jane, tell them that you’re alive. They’ll be so happy to know you’re well.”
“I’ll be able to write to them myself soon,” Beth said. “I’m getting the strength back in my hands now. You might like to know that the person who dictated the postscript was still alive on the morning of the battle. He gave me a message for you.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. She stood up, looking frantic.
“I don’t know….do I want to hear it?” she said.
“I think you should, but it’s up to you.”
Sarah breathed in and out slowly a couple of times, and then came to a decision.
“Tell me,” she said.
“He said that he loves you, and that if things had been different he’d have married you, if you’d have him,” Beth told her. “But he said that if…you know…that there are other good men out there and that you mustn’t keep your promise, but look for happiness. And to remember the spider.”
Sarah sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed. Her chin trembled and tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them away impatiently.
“He hasn’t written to me,” she said. “Do you think…?” She didn’t finish the sentence, but Beth knew what she was asking.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not going to give you false hope, because you deserve more than that. But it could be that because we lost, he thinks it’s kinder to let you forget him and move on with your life.”
“I can’t forget him,” Sarah said. “I’ll never forget him. How can I? And I would marry him, if he still wanted to. I don’t care about his stupid king, and who won or lost. And I don’t want anyone else. Is there…no, of course not.”
“Is there what?” Beth asked.
“I was going to ask if there was a way of contacting him.”
“No,” Beth said. “There’s no way I know of. If we tried, we’d betray him, and others.”
“Better not to know, then,” Sarah said, blowing her nose furiously. “Better never to know than risk that. If you can live with it, I’m damn sure I can.”
“I can live with it,” Beth replied. But I don’t know how.
Once the Christmas season was over and Beth was able to stand and walk a few steps before her growing, but still very weak muscles started to shake, a trickle of visitors was allowed in to see her. The first one was Tom, who had been desperate to see her and apologise to her in person for months. She reassured him that she’d forgiven him long ago for his part in her abduction, and far from apologising to her he must accept her gratitude, and must also convey that gratitude to Ned, because without his intervention she would have died.
The next visitor was Prince Frederick, who waved away Beth’s attempts to thank him for rescuing her, saying it was only what anyone would have done, that he owed her that and more for giving him a story to dine out on for years when she’d impaled Lord Daniel with her knife.
And then, at the start of February, when Beth was able to walk properly, when she had regained most of the weight she’d lost and a good deal of her strength, and was sitting in the library downstairs reading a book, the Earl of Highbury was announced, and upon her saying that she was certainly well enough to receive him, he was admitted.
She rose and curtseyed, and said how honoured she was to have such a distinguished visitor. He in his turn took a seat and commented on how well she was looking. She ordered refreshments, and the polite conversation flowed freely while they awaited the sandwiches and coffee they’d ordered.
“Edwin told me that you were at death’s door,” Highbury said. “But you seem radiant. And may I say that your hairstyle is very fetching, if a little unusual.”
Having endured two days of Sarah’s attempts to comb out the mat that had once been so admired by society, Beth had told her to just cut it all off and have done with it. It was starting to grow back a little now, the silver waves reaching to chin level.
“It’s a lot easier to look after,” Beth said, with her customary lack of vanity. “I’m sorry if the scar is unsightly, although you don’t seem the sort of person to be perturbed by that.”
The earl smiled.
“Very little perturbs me,” he said. “And the wound has healed well. The surgeon made an excellent job of stitching it. In time it will be hardly noticeable, I think.”
“Oh!” Beth replied, clearly disappointed. “I was hoping it would disfigure me.”
“Whyever would you want that?” he asked with genuine puzzlement.
“Because if I am ever released from prison, I don’t want to excite the interest of any men. Ever,” she added with finality.
“Ah, you mean like Daniel,” he said.
“No, I mean like anybody. I wish to remain single.”
“I think you may have a good chance of that, being both a traitor and without any dowry at all,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he looked at her. “I believe it all went to Ch –”
He stopped abruptly as the door opened and a servant entered, bearing a tray of refreshments. They resumed their small talk, commenting on the weather, the likelihood of snow, and the contents of the indifferent novel she was reading. And then the servant finished bustling about, the door was closed and they were alone. After a minute or so Beth stood up, and walking to the library door, opened it with a flourish. The hallway beyond was empty. She closed it again and came to sit down.
“Have you heard from him?” She asked the question she’d been burning to ask from the moment he’d been announced.
“No,” Highbury said. Beth paled, and he hurried on. “But that doesn’t mean anything, my dear. We had an agreement that if he was betrayed, he was on his own. He is a man of honour, as we both know. He would not compromise me by trying to make contact.”
She looked down at her hands, which were resting in her lap.
“He said he would come for me, if he lived,” she said sadly. “I waited for him, thinking he might have been injured, that he had been delayed…but now…it has been ten months. If he was alive he would have tried to reach me, I know he would.”
“No one knew you had been arrested,” Highbury pointed out. “It was a remarkably well-kept secret, you know.”
Beth looked at the older man sitting opposite. His eyes were warm, understanding.
“Do you think Alex would have been put off by that? He would have found me. If anyone could, he would. We both know that.”
“He could have been taken prisoner,” the earl said. “That is possible.”
She stared at him.
“You have made enquiries!” she said, and it was not a question. He smiled.
“I have made some discreet enquiries, yes, although I admit I should not have. There is no one of the name of Alexander MacGregor on the available lists of prisoners. But he may have used another name, especially being a MacGregor.”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head.
“No, he w
as too well known as the chieftain, and as a member of the council,” she said. “Somebody would have revealed his real name.”
“Although Broughton has not,” the earl said softly.
“You know about that?”
“Yes. Although Broughton does not know me, or anything about me.”
“They brought him to see me when I was being interviewed by Cumberland,” Beth said. “William was very disappointed when Murray said he had never seen me before.”
“He did that? Interesting,” Highbury said. “Maybe he is not the complete traitor most of the Jacobites think him to be. He could profit greatly from revealing the identity of Sir Anthony.”
“I know. I am very grateful to him, anyway.”
“You are alone in that, I think. Even his wife has disowned him.”
“Oh, that saddens me. He loves Margaret very much. I thought she at least would stand by him.”
“Would you stand by Alex if he was captured and turned king’s evidence?” Highbury asked.
Beth thought for a minute.
“He wouldn’t do it,” she said finally. “Under any circumstances. But Murray is different. He was never a soldier. He wasn’t accustomed to pain.”
“Neither are you, Beth. But you have endured the most terrible pain, and yet you have told nothing. Which is why I am here. I wanted to thank you for revealing nothing about me, and to tell you that I admire you enormously. And I am not alone in that. If, or rather when you are released from prison, you will not be without friends in London.”
“I thank you for that, my lord –”
“William, please.”
“I thank you for that, William. But if I am ever released from prison, I will leave this godforsaken city and never return. I hate the place. It holds no happy memories for me. And I have no wish ever to return to society again.”
“Where will you go?”
“I will go home,” she said simply. And he did not ask her where that was, because he already knew.
* * *
Scotland, February 1747
Captain Richard Cunningham examined his new quarters minutely. The newly rebuilt room was small, but comfortable. The interior walls had been whitewashed, the wooden bed was plain but functional, and had been made up to military standards. His spare uniform had been brushed and pressed, and hung on a hook behind the door. There was a small chest in which, neatly folded, his spare shirts and stockings had been placed. A fire was burning in the small grate, and a pile of logs was stacked at the side of it. There was not a speck of dust in the room, and absolutely nothing that he could find fault with.
He scowled blackly, and pulling off his boots, moved to the small window and stood looking moodily out at the snow-covered mountains that hemmed the barracks in. It had been hell getting here. Even he, who was afraid of nothing, had found himself trembling as they’d crossed the mountains, dreading at every moment that his horse would put her foot through the snow into fresh air rather than solid ground and catapult him over the side of the ridge to certain death.
But his bay mare had been sure-footed, and now he was here, in a foul mood, as he had been almost continuously for the last six months, ever since the Duke of Newcastle had stabbed him so comprehensively and effectively in the back.
Of course he hadn’t intended for Richard to torture his sister, especially as she was in a delicate condition! That had been the very reason why he had asked him to have a word with her, hoping that filial attachment would prevail where other methods had failed. It was hardly the duke’s fault if the captain had assumed that by ‘a word’ he meant commit acts of unspeakable brutality! In fact by his vicious and inept attempt to extract information from his sister, which had resulted in the miscarriage of her baby, he had deprived the duke of his best chance of finding out the true identity of Sir Anthony Peters.
Yes, he had most certainly mentioned that the young lady was enceinte. He remembered quite clearly mentioning it. It was hardly his fault if the captain had not heard him, and had misinterpreted his clear and precise instructions not to physically assault the prisoner.
In fact, the duke had finished, in view of the appalling fiasco he had made of what should have been a gently persuasive interrogation of his sister, it was better he depart the capital immediately and return to Scotland. Perhaps given time, a considerable amount of time, he might redeem himself by an assiduous attention to duty.
The lying, two-faced fucking aristocratic bastard! Richard turned from the window, and moving across to the fireplace grabbed the poker and stabbed it into the hearth so viciously that a shower of sparks flew out onto the small brightly coloured hearthrug, the only homely touch in the otherwise Spartan room, threatening to set it alight. He stamped out the smouldering embers with his stockinged feet and sat on the chair, staring into the flames with deep malevolence.
One day he would get his revenge. Not on Newcastle; as much as he would love to disembowel the scheming piece of shit and watch him die writhing in agony on his exorbitantly expensive Aubusson carpet, Richard knew that would only ever be a happy daydream. He was not stupid enough to attempt to assassinate the brother of the Prime Minister.
But one day, hopefully, he would meet his sister again. And that would be a glorious day indeed. In fact, it would be a glorious several days. At least having a free rein in this savage dungheap of a country had given him the opportunity to hone his skills, and he was now confident that he would be able to keep her alive for days in excruciating agony.
If she was still alive. Having been packed off almost immediately after the humiliating interview with Newcastle to Scotland, he had been unable to find out whether or not his ministrations had resulted in Beth’s demise. But he could wait. In the meantime, as soon as the snows melted enough for him to take his men out on raids he would make the most of this opportunity to show how effective he was at bringing the rebels to heel.
The barracks had only recently been rebuilt sufficiently to house a regiment, which meant there were plenty of Highlanders in the vicinity who no doubt thought they had got away with their treachery unscathed. He was about to disabuse them of that notion. In the meantime, while waiting for the weather to improve he intended to bring his men up to scratch so that they would obey him without question when he commanded them to do things they might otherwise balk at.
He threw another log on the fire, and sat back. Yes. Even if he couldn’t make the duke’s life hell, or, at present, his sister’s, he was certainly distressing his wife, and he could also make his mark here.
His career had suffered a setback, that was true. But here was his chance to redeem it, to prove himself the equal of Scott, and of Hawley, who he admired greatly. And he intended to make the most of that.
* * *
“Really, it’s quite ridiculous!” Edwin fumed on his return from Whitehall, where the Prime Minister had informed him that now Miss Cunningham was ambulatory, certain precautions would have to be taken to ensure that she did not try to escape.
“I can understand it, Edwin,” his wife said reasonably. “After all, she’s a very valuable prisoner.” Caroline was engaged in throwing a ball gently to her son, in the vain hope that he would catch it. He certainly held his hands out, laughing, to receive it, but had not quite grasped the fact that he had to bring them together to actually catch the ball, with the result that it hit him repeatedly in the chest and then fell to the ground. But he was happy enough picking it up from there and giving it to her to throw at him again. And it was a very soft ball, so the repeated collisions with his sturdy little chest would do him no damage.
“They didn’t think her that valuable last November, when they were happy to let her die!” Edwin said.
“No, but we must think of Beth’s welfare now. She’s happy, or as happy as she can be, living here with us. Until she is pardoned, we must do everything we can to keep her with us. And if that means having a constant guard outside her quarters and bars on the window, so be it. I’m sure she’
ll agree to it. She’ll still be able to receive visitors. And she’ll still be with people who care for her.”
“You’re right,” Edwin said. “But it feels like an insult, somehow. Other messengers don’t have soldiers posted in their houses.”
“No, they don’t. But then you and I both know that unlike other messengers we are not indifferent to our charge, and are not accommodating her for financial gain. And Henry knows that too. I don’t believe he’s trying to insult you. If anything he’s trying to protect you. If she does escape, you cannot be blamed if you’ve agreed to abide by all the precautions.”
“You don’t think she’ll try to escape, do you?” Edwin said, suddenly alarmed.
“No, I don’t. She has given her word that she won’t, and I believe her. Now, let us look on the bright side. Freddie will be very excited to have real live soldiers in the house. I hope they like children, that’s all,” she said.
When Caroline went up to explain about the results of Edwin’s interview with Henry Pelham, Beth was sitting by the fire re-hemming some sheets. Next to her was a basket full of assorted items of clothing, all of which were in need of some minor repair. She took the news that the windows were to be barred and a soldier posted in the hall in her stride, as Caroline had expected.
“You know, you really don’t have to do that,” Caroline said, sitting down opposite her.
“I don’t mind at all,” Beth replied. “It keeps me occupied, and it takes some of the burden off the maids.”
Caroline sat for a minute watching Beth’s nimble fingers as the needle flashed in and out of the cotton automatically. The seam was perfect, the stitches tiny, and yet Beth was hardly paying any attention to what she was doing. It was mesmerising.
“Anne would like to pay you a visit, if you’re not averse to it,” she inserted into the silence. The fingers faltered for a second, and then carried on.
Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Page 43