The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (39 page)

“Sit down, both of you, before you fall down,” said Sir Anthony gently. “I’ll pour you a drink. You look as though you need it. You certainly deserve it, by the sound of things.”

“We didn’t really do that much,” said Sarah, downing her first glass of wine as though it was water. Sir Anthony did no more than raise one eyebrow before pouring her another. Duncan and Angus, servants again, disappeared quietly from the room. “It was all over so quickly, I didn’t even have time to examine her, or anything.”

“Quickly?” said Beth. “She was in agony for ages! She was having really bad pains for at least an hour before you arrived.”

Sarah looked at her friend.

“Beth,” she said. “A woman’s pains normally go on for about twelve hours before the baby’s born. If there are problems, it can be a lot longer, days, even. That was the fastest, easiest delivery I’ve ever seen.”

“Twelve hours!” echoed Beth.

“How is the baby?” Sir Anthony said, repressing a smile at his wife’s horrified expression.

“Too small,” Sarah said practically, firmly quenching the urge to scream at the unfairness of life. “I thought he was dead, but then while I was washing him he started crying. I nearly dropped him, I was that shocked. I hope I’m wrong, but I honestly don’t see how he can live for more than a few minutes, Sir Anthony. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, my dear,” he said. “We are all immensely grateful to you for coming at all. I don’t know what we’d have done without you, especially as the midwife still shows no sign of arriving, and it’s almost dawn. How can we thank you?”

“You already have,” she replied, casting a look at Beth. “It’s nice to be able to do something to repay you in a small way for all you’ve done for me.” She put her glass down. “But I must get home. If I’m quick I can get an hour’s sleep before I have to open the shop.”

“Of course,” said Sir Anthony, standing. “I will ask Murdo to escort you home.”

“No,” she said firmly.

“He is quite harmless, I do assure you. You will come to no harm in his hands, and I will not allow you to go home unaccompanied at this hour.”

“It’s not his hands I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s the horse. I’ll walk, thank you all the same.”

In the end ‘Murdo’ walked Sarah home, and Beth and Alex, too tense to sleep, and deciding to await the arrival of the midwife, repaired to the cosier library, where Angus joined them and Beth recounted what had happened in the bedroom.

“It’s not Maggie’s fault,” she said hurriedly, even though Alex showed no sign of accusing her. “She was in a terrible state. All she could think of was that the child mustn’t die unchristened.” She swallowed heavily, fighting back the tears.

“I dinna blame Maggie,” said Alex thoughtfully. “But can Sarah be trusted?”

“Yes,” said Beth with conviction. “She can. I’d stake my life on it.”

“You are doing, Beth. Or Maggie and Iain’s, at least. If she talks, I could deny any knowledge that my cook and footman were Jacobites, and claim that you were a soft-natured fool that didna have the heart to turn a pregnant woman over to the authorities when you found out what she was. But it would be very awkward for us all, Beth, and Iain and Maggie would go to prison, or worse. Are ye sure ye can trust her?”

“Yes,” said Beth. “I’m sure. She’s my friend, Alex, but if I thought for one moment she’d betray us, I’d tell you, I promise.”

“Even though ye ken what I’d have to do?” he asked softly.

She looked at him.

“Yes,” she said. “Even though I know what you’d have to do. You’re more important to me than a thousand Sarahs. She’s trustworthy, Alex.”

He nodded, and smiled thinly.

“Well, then,” he said, to Angus. “Let’s away off up and see our new wee clansman, just for a minute.”

The baby clung on to life long enough for Duncan, returning from Sarah’s and stopping to pick up the mail on the way, to see him too. The midwife appeared at nine o’clock, exhausted and flustered, to be sent away twenty pounds richer for having done nothing, and Beth threw the mail, which consisted of a slim letter from Manchester addressed in Anne Redburn’s neat hand, down on the hall table, too preoccupied to contemplate reading about the trivial affairs of her cousins at the moment.

Against everyone’s expectations, Iain Charles Stuart Gordon held tenaciously on to life for another twenty-six hours, finally giving up the struggle at nine thirty the following morning and plunging the whole family, who had already become deeply attached to him, into mourning.

Over the next few days life in the MacGregor household regained some semblance of normality. Iain resumed his usual chores, saying he needed to work to give his hands something to do and his mind something to occupy itself with, although, judging by his closed, grim expression, the ploy was only a partial success. When not working, he spent a lot of time in the bedroom with Maggie, or with Duncan, walking in the fields to the north of the house or drinking and playing chess.

Angus, the morning that little Iain died, took an axe and went silently to the shed at the bottom of the garden, where he smashed the crib he had been making into such small pieces that it was impossible to tell that it had ever been anything other than a pile of kindling. Sifting through the ashes after he had burnt the remains in the yard, Beth found a fragment of beautifully carved celtic knotwork, which after examining she fed back into the embers in respect of Angus’s wishes, the tears in her eyes due to more than just the woodsmoke.

Alex incarcerated himself in the library, where he wrote up a detailed report on his unsatisfactory negotiations with the English and Welsh Jacobites. He also included the information Beth had learnt about the Duke of Cumberland’s expected promotion, and reiterated his firm belief that Prince Charles must not come to Britain without substantial French backing. He then put it all in code and sent it by special courier to John Murray of Broughton in Edinburgh.

Beth took up the household duties that Maggie would normally have done, except for making the morning porridge, which Angus did, wresting the spoon from her hand on the second morning as she was staring despairingly at the glutinous inedible mass in the pot. After the smashing and burning of the crib he had returned to his normal cheerful self, only a slight tightness around his mouth betraying that it would take him some time to recover from the loss.

Maggie stayed in bed. As it was customary for a woman to stay in bed for several days after the birth of a baby if she was privileged enough to be able to do so, nobody worried too much when Maggie did not appear downstairs, although they had half-expected her to. It was only after seven days had passed and she still showed no sign of rousing herself, that everyone started to become a bit concerned.

“She’s eating,” said Iain, when the others asked him when she would be likely to leave her bed. They were all sitting in the library waiting for Angus to return from the post. “No’ as much as she should, maybe, but enough. But she willna talk about…she’ll no’ talk about it,” he trailed off.

“Have you tried to talk to her about it?” asked Duncan gently.

“Aye,” said Iain. “No. Well, it isna easy, ye ken. I tellt her that it’s no’ good just to lie about where you’ve got all the time in the world to brood. I said that it’s helping me a wee bit to be keeping myself busy, and suggested she might like to just start by lying downstairs for a few days rather than in bed.”

“What did she say?” asked Alex.

“That she wasna me, and she’d deal wi’ it in her own way. She said she needs to think things through and sort it all out in her head, and she canna do that if she’s downstairs wi’ people coming in and out every minute. She said once she’s ready she’ll get up and no’ before.” He looked at the others, his face for the first time showing his concern.

“Aye, well, the stubbornness sounds like Maggie, right enough, but little else does,” said Alex.

“She needs someone to talk to,” Duncan said. “No’ a man. Someone who kens what she’s been through, and can approach it in the right way.”

“No,” said Beth, seeing that they were all now looking at her. “I know I’m a woman, but I’ve no more idea than you what she’s been through, and she knows it.”

This was true, but any further discussion of the situation was ended by the return of Angus with an envelope addressed to Benjamin Johnson, in Murray of Broughton’s handwriting, delivered to the coffee-house.

“There wasna anything at the post,” said Angus, taking off his footman’s frockcoat and throwing himself down in a chair in his customary fashion. “So I thought I’d check the coffee house, though I thought it was a bit early for a reply.”

Alex did a quick calculation.

“If the courier was fast both ways, it’s possible,” he said. They all crowded round as he opened it, eager to hear the contents.

“It’s in cipher,” he said. “I’ll decode it as fast as I can.” He went over to the writing desk in the corner and the others all sat back to wait. Angus poured some wine. They waited.

“What did the letter from Manchester have to say?” asked Duncan suddenly. “Have your cousins done anything interesting?”

Beth looked at him blankly.

“On the night…er…last week, I brought a letter from the post on the way back from seeing Sarah home,” he elaborated.

“I’d forgotten all about that!” Beth said. “I left it in the hall. I’ll go and get it.”

She disappeared, returning a couple of minutes later.

“It had slipped down the back of the table,” she said. “It’s from Anne Mayn…Redburn.” She slit the envelope. “It’s probably really boring,” she warned, unfolding the densely written sheet of paper.

“Even boring news’ll pass the time until Alex is ready,” said Angus.

“I’m working as fast as I can,” Alex muttered from the desk, head down, quill scratching away.

“Her handwriting is so small I can hardly read it,” Beth said. “I don’t know why she can’t write legibly, even if it does use more paper. After all, it’s not as though she has to worry about the cost of the post any more, is it? Let me make sense of it, and then I’ll read it out to you.”

There was a general sigh, and the others settled back to wait again.

“I was thinking, now the thaw’s set in, that we could maybe go up on the roof tomorrow and fix those loose tiles, before they start causing a problem,” said Duncan.

“Let’s see what Murray has to say first,” replied Angus cheerfully. “We might all be riding north to join the prince and his huge French army.”

Duncan looked at his brother, one eyebrow raised.

“Aye well, in the unlikely event of Louis getting off his arse and rousing an army for us, we’ll forget the roof. Otherwise…”

“Oh, you bastard,” said Beth unexpectedly.

Everyone stared at her. Even Alex stopped writing. She continued to pore over the letter, oblivious to everything else.

“Oh God, how could you?” she said, then looked up at Alex, who had risen from his chair. “What was it you once told me?” she said, her eyes brimming. “Don’t underestimate your enemy.” The tears spilled over, pouring unheeded down her cheeks.

“What’s the matter?” asked Alex, thoroughly alarmed now.

“Don’t underestimate your enemy, you said,” she repeated. “I should have listened. But I would never have guessed…I didn’t…” She swallowed hard, and swiped the tears angrily from her face. “God forgive me,” she said softly, and standing, thrust the letter into Alex’s hand before rushing from the room.

Alex stood for a moment, folding and unfolding the paper in his hands, unable to decide whether to follow his wife or read the letter.

“Read it,” said Duncan. “Then you’ll ken what’s amiss, and how to mend it. She’s gone upstairs, she’ll be alright for a few minutes.”

Reluctantly Alex sat down on the edge of the chair and haltingly, for the writing, though neat, was really very small, began to read;

Dearest Elizabeth,

I really hardly know how to begin this letter. I am so excited, and so happy that I am sure my hand is trembling, and that you will not be able to read the news that I am so eager to tell you. I was afraid that you would be angry with me for not observing the proprieties, and for not telling you sooner, but Lord Edward told me you have scant regard for proprieties, which I am sure you will not take amiss, dear Elizabeth, and I can explain the delay in telling you my news, if you will only promise to read to the end of this letter.

“Christ, she’s long-winded,” said Alex impatiently, wanting to find out what the news was that had made Anne so happy and Beth so desperate. He scanned a few lines. “The whole family are as happy as Anne by whatever it is, and Charlotte’s beside herself, brainless wee lassie.” He frowned, and carried on reading.

I wanted to write to you before, but Lord Edward and Richard advised me to wait, as we had so little time beforehand, and I really do not think I would have been capable of holding a pen at all until now, when the deed is done, and I am safely, and most happily…married!

“Bloody hell!” said Alex.

“Married?” said Angus. “Is she no’ the lassie whose husband just died?”

“Aye. What’s she thinking of? She’s no’ even out of mourning yet.”

And there, that is my wonderful news, and I know you will be shocked, but I hope the shock will be lessened, when I tell you who has made me the happiest of women. Of course, I am sure you have already guessed, and will welcome me into your family as your cousins already have, with open arms.

“Has she married Lord Edward, then?” said Duncan.

Alex ignored him, continued reading, then scrubbed his hand through his hair as he came to the words which had prompted Beth’s reaction.

“No,” he said. “She hasna married Lord Edward. She’s married Richard.” He skimmed through the rest of the sheet silently, then stood. “I’ll go to her,” he said, and left, taking the letter with him.

“It’s my fault,” Beth said as soon as she heard him open the door. She was standing by the window, looking out over the garden to the fields beyond, and seeing nothing. He came to her, put his hand on her shoulder.