The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (35 page)

“I’ve got other things for Beth to do the day,” Alex said. “And her talents lie in fine embroidery, no’ darning, which I ken well ye can do.”

Iain blew carefully on the fire to encourage a blaze, ensuring that his back was turned to the confrontation. Maggie pursed her lips mutinously.

“I’ll no’ be humoured, Alex,” she said, moving to the edge of the sofa.

“We’re no’ humouring ye, you stubborn wee besom,” Alex replied angrily, leaning forward and placing his hands heavily on her shoulders again. “Christ, woman, ye’re worse than Beth! We care about ye, and if we were at home we’d be doing the same. Some women carry their bairns easy, and some dinna. That’s all there is tae it.”

“But if I…”

Alex placed one finger over her lips.

“I’m your chieftain, and I’m ordering ye to sit here and mend these clothes. No arguments. If ye dinna, I’ll have ye flogged and turn you out, and ye can have your bairn in the snow, if you’re so determined to suffer unnecessarily!”

He straightened and strode out, leaving Maggie and Iain sitting open-mouthed in the library. Beth followed her husband to the kitchen, where to her relief Angus was, as Alex had said, making the porridge.

“Went well then, I see,” he said, stirring merrily and eyeing his brother’s set face.

“Wasn’t that a bit extreme?” Beth commented, dropping the scrubbing brush in the bucket of cooling water and sitting down at the table. “There’s not much point in threatening someone if they know you’ve no intention of carrying it out.”

“I’m tempted to,” Alex said. “Christ, she’s always been stubborn, but she’s nigh on impossible now. She seems determined to do the opposite of whatever ye tell her, regardless of how stupid it is.”

“What did you mean, anyway, when you said she’s worse than me?” Beth asked.

Alex shot her a dark look, and she decided suddenly that she’d rather not know.

“Is this what women are normally like when they’re pregnant?” she said.

“They’re all different, from what I’ve seen,” Alex replied. “Some are a bit moody, some are a wee bit sharp-tempered, some,” he gestured in the direction of the library, “are bloody impossible, and others are fine all the way through, like Anne, for example.”

This was true. Anne Redburn, whose baby was due at the same time as Maggie’s, in April, could not have been more different from the pale, heavy-eyed woman now resignedly threading her needle in the library. Anne was bursting with health and vitality, her skin glowing, her hair shining, and the weight she had lost following the death of her husband regained. At the moment she was in Manchester. Beth, knowing Anne’s aversion to spending time at home alone, had contemplated inviting her to join them for Christmas, and had been relieved beyond words when Anne had told her that she had accepted an invitation from Isabella to accompany the Cunningham family to Raven Hall for the festive season. Among other things, it had meant that Alex had not had to play Sir Anthony throughout the holiday, for which he was immensely grateful.

Iain now returned to the kitchen.

“She’s fine,” he said in response to the unspoken question in the faces turned to him. “She’s already nodding over her needle. I dinna ken why she canna admit she’s tired. It’s normal enough, after all.”

“I don’t think she sees it that way,” Beth said. “I think she sees it as being weak. A bit like I did when I was in Scotland and felt I had to prove myself. She doesn’t want us to feel sorry for her.”

“She wanted the bairn to be born in Scotland, too, which doesna help her mood,” Iain said.

“Does she?” asked Alex. “Why did ye no’ stay up there, then, instead of coming back to England wi’ us?”

“We didna think of it then,” Iain said, yawning and combing his long hair with his fingers. “But she doesna want the baby to be a Sasannach.”

“It’ll be a Gordon, that’s all that matters, surely?” Beth said.

“Aye, that’s what I’ve tellt her, but she’s no’ happy about it. She’s a wee bit worried too that she’s no’ carrying the baby right, I think, though she hasna said anything, even to me.”

“She’ll be fine, man, if she takes care of herself,” Alex said reassuringly. “But she canna make the journey home now, she kens that, surely?”

“Aye, she does,” Iain said, ladling a generous helping of porridge into a bowl. “I’ll take her a bite tae eat through, if she’s still awake.”

Nobody mentioned the fact that Anne had made the journey to Manchester without a qualm, and had every intention of returning to London at the beginning of February. But the roads to Manchester were not the same as the rough and boggy trails and paths to Loch Lomond. And Anne’s pregnancy was clearly not the same as Maggie’s.

“Right then,” said Sir Anthony as the Peters’ carriage clattered into the frosty courtyard of St James’s Palace on the last day of January. “I don’t know if William will be there or not, but if he is, you stay close to me. Don’t give him any opportunity to get you alone. If he tries to, refuse point blank to go with him. He’s no shortage of willing mistresses, and he’ll soon turn to someone else if he can’t get you on your own. You’ll just have to put up with George’s German war talk, I’m afraid.”

“I’d rather put up with a week of that than five minutes of Cumberland,” Beth said, remembering the feel of the duke’s hand on her knee at the opera with a shudder.

Two hours into the Court visit Beth still felt the same, just, although she was bored almost to distraction. To give King George his due, he had thoughtfully sent for refreshments, and did address a few polite comments to Beth in English. But as soon as he got onto talk of war, he became excited, and when he became excited, he spoke in his native tongue.

She watched him from the discomfort of an inadequately padded gilt chair, as he explained his intention to recommence the war in Flanders as soon as the thaw started, his hands gesticulating, his neat little physique dwarfed next to her husband’s large frame in spite of Sir Anthony’s ability to diminish himself.

How such a small and compact man had managed to father such a massively-built and corpulent son was beyond Beth. George’s eldest son, Prince Frederick, seemed to have inherited his father’s build at least, although whether he had inherited his features or personality she had no idea, having seen the prince only once, in Ranelagh gardens at a distance. Sir Anthony had expressed an intention to introduce her to him, but it was difficult at the moment, as relations between father and son, normally extremely hostile, had temporarily broken down altogether. A visit to Prince Frederick now could cause total ostracism from the rest of the royal family, and Sir Anthony wanted to keep up to date with the king’s intentions in Europe. Beth sipped at a cup of rapidly cooling tea and tried to appear contented. At least Cumberland was not present, having gone riding with his sister Amelia. That was a blessing. And Maggie, still pale and permanently tired, seemed to have taken the family’s concern to heart, at least a little, and was relaxing a bit more. That was a blessing too. Beth’s stays, which were digging painfully into her sides, were not. She could do with loosening them a little.

Suddenly decided, she stood and curtseyed, thereby interrupting the male conversation.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, Your Majesty,” she said, blushing prettily at the embarrassment of having to reveal a need to relieve herself and endearing the king to her, who granted permission to leave his presence, then forgot all about her the moment she’d left the room.

The privy was a long way away, down many yards of draughty corridors, and Beth took her time both getting there and back again. With luck they would be able to leave soon, she hoped, pausing by a glassed door which led on to an enclosed garden. The sun had come out, and the frost sparkled like diamonds on the bare branches of the shrubs and carefully pruned trees. She lingered a moment, reluctant to return to the stuffy atmosphere of the salon and the unending torrent of incomprehensible German.

“Are you fond of gardening, Lady Elizabeth?” came a voice from directly behind her. She let out her breath in a shocked gasp, and turned to find the person she least wanted to see at that moment standing directly behind her. He still wore his heavy outdoor coat and his face was flushed with cold and exercise. And pleasure at seeing her. She curtseyed deeply, taking the time to compose herself.

“Did you have a pleasant ride, Your Highness?” she said on rising, wondering if it would seem rude to edge past him and continue walking back to the salon.

“Indeed I did. The weather is most bracing, but I am glad I returned in time to see you.”

Cumberland, deliberately or not, placed himself in a position in which in order to get past him, she would almost have to push him out of the way. She remained where she was, and answered his first question to her instead of commenting, as courtesy required, that she was glad to see him, too.

“I do not know much about gardening, Your Highness,” she said. “In Manchester, my father employed a gardener and since I have been in London I have not had the time to indulge. But this garden seems very beautiful.” She turned back to the view in order not to have to look at his beaming face.

“It is,” he said. “I planted some of the shrubs myself, and when the war is over and I have a little more leisure and my own residence, I intend to take a personal interest in my own gardens. As for this one, although it is winter and most of the plants are therefore dormant, the holly is particularly delightful at the moment, as is the
helleborus niger,
a recent acquisition of ours.”

“Very interesting,” she said, having no idea to what plant the Latin name referred.

“It is, although you cannot see it from here. If you would care to accompany me in a turn about the garden, I will show it to you.” Assuming acquiescence, he reached past her to open the door, and she moved back in alarm.

“I really must return to the salon,” she said. “His Majesty and my husband will no doubt be wondering where I am.”

“I am sure you will realise that I cast no aspersions on your considerable charms when I state that my father, if he is speaking of the forthcoming war, will hardly have marked your absence. And I’m sure Sir Anthony will not object to you taking the air for a few moments.”

He wouldn’t, but he would certainly object to the person she was taking it with. She looked out at the frosty garden.

“It’s very cold,” she said. “And I am just recovering from…”

In a gesture of the utmost gallantry he removed his coat and placed it tenderly around her shoulders, cutting off her excuse. The coat still held the warmth of his body, and smelt of horses and fresh air. If it had been Alex’s she would have snuggled gratefully into it, relishing the unique smell of healthy, active male. As it was, it took a great effort of will not to fling it off her shoulders and run.

“There,” he said, opening the door and smiling down at her, clearly finding the fact that his coat engulfed her diminutive frame charming in the extreme. He tucked her arm under his and led her out. “Come,” he said. “It is surprisingly warm in the sunshine, and the fresh air will do you good.”

Faced with no choice apart from the point-blank refusal Alex had told her to make, which seemed inappropriate in view of Cumberland’s courteous behaviour, she accompanied him. With luck he would talk about gardening, show her the
helleborus
whatever-it-was, and then she could plead fatigue or a blister, or anything, and make her escape.

“Your father seemed to be telling my husband that he plans to return to Flanders at the earliest opportunity,” she said.

“Did he?” replied the duke, apparently surprised.

“Well, he was speaking in German,” she admitted. “But I recognised a few words, and his gestures are very eloquent.”

“Ah, I see. Papa does tend to forget himself somewhat when speaking of his campaigns. Poor thing, you must have been very bored,” said Cumberland, patting her hand sympathetically.

Damn. That was not what she had intended.

“Not at all,” she put in quickly. “I am very interested in languages, and German is so…”

coarse and guttural.

“…much like English,” she said. “I am sure I could learn it quite easily, if I put my mind to it. I must ask Anthony to teach me.”

The duke frowned at the mention of her husband. Good.

“My father does not intend, I think, to command his troops in person this time. I hope to play a part myself, however,” he said.

“I am sure that after your great bravery at Dettingen His Majesty could not fail to give you an important command,” she said, hoping to engage him in talk of war, as the allegedly delightful
helleborus
plant did not appear to be making itself known, and there was little else to comment on in the leafless garden.

“Yes, I think I am not being immodest if I say the army could do with a little young blood. It could certainly do with some tightening up of discipline.”

“Really?” she said. “Everybody says the British Army is a most formidable fighting force. Look at their achievement at Dettingen.”

Soldiers were also generally considered to be the scum of the earth, too, although Beth thought it politic not to mention this.

“You are right. The British soldier, properly trained and disciplined, is second to none. But they are hard men and prone to unruliness unless set a good example by their officers. When I take command of the forces I intend to set that good example, and ensure my officers do the same. If the officers maintain the highest standards of discipline, the men will automatically imitate them. Ah, here we are,” he said, halting beside a border.

Why couldn’t he have just said it was a Christmas rose instead of showing off his knowledge of Latin?
Beth thought irritatedly, looking at the plant. Nevertheless, she bent to examine the blooms, taking the opportunity to detach her arm from his.

“Oh, they’re beautiful!” she cried. They were, the delicate yellow stamens contrasting with the creamy white petals. There were some buds too, their furled petals tinged with pink.

“A testament to the fact that even the most delicate of blossoms can survive in a variety of conditions,” he said, stooping beside her and deftly plucking a flower. Before she could stop him he had carefully tucked the stem into her hair, allowing his fingers to brush her cheek lingeringly as he lowered his hand. “It is lovely,” he breathed, “but your beauty eclipses it utterly.” He bent his head to hers, clearly intending to kiss her.