The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (52 page)

“They’re his two eldest sons, George and Edward. You must remember they’re princes. Also George is a little backward. He can’t read or write, and he clings to his brother all the time. Edward’s odd too.”

Beth was about to ask in what way, but then Frederick had seen them and was beckoning them over.

“Ah! Sir Anthony and Lady Elizabeth! So glad you could come! Hopefully we’ll see more of you now that my father has departed on his annual jaunt to Hanover. Are you familiar with the game of rounders?”

“I am, Your Highness, although it is some time since I’ve played,” said Sir Anthony, leading his wife across the grass. “But my wife, alas, has never even seen the game before.”

“No matter,” said the prince, waving his hand dismissively. “We are not playing too strictly by the rules today. You will learn as you go along. Now, Sir Anthony, if you would care to field this time, and Lady Elizabeth can join the batting side.”

Sir Anthony trotted obediently off, disappearing to a distant part of the field, where several other brightly-dressed figures were dotted about at intervals. Beth could see Percy and the arrogant David, and surely that could not be Lord Daniel over by the tree? She strained her eyes to see, and then was distracted by a hand pulling at her skirt. She looked down.

“Papa says I must take care of you, and explain things,” said Prince George from the level of her waist. “It’s really easy though. When it’s your turn to bat, Papa will throw the ball to you and you must hit it as hard as you can, and then run round those posts.” He pointed to four posts set in the grass at intervals of about fifteen strides to form a large square. “We sometimes have five or six posts, but today we only have four. If you watch the others, you will see how it is done.”

He led her across to where a line of people displaying various degrees of lack of enthusiasm were waiting to bat. Prince Edward trailed silently along in their wake, looking around him at the players.

“Are you going to play as well, Your Highness?” Beth asked.

“Oh, yes,” the little boy beamed. “Edward and I both play. It is one of our favourite games.”

“I prefer cricket,” said Prince Edward. “But it has a lot of rules and isn’t any good for people who don’t really want to play.”

Beth looked down at the top of the boy’s head in surprise. Before she could think of a suitable response to this remark Prince George was talking again.

“Now, you see, the Lady Helen is going to bat.” He lowered his voice. “Watch her, because she isn’t very good and you can learn from her.”

Beth grinned. The boy might be backward in academic matters, but he was clearly on the ball when it came to sport, and people. She watched as Helen took her place and gripped the bat. Prince Frederick waited until she was ready, and threw the ball. She swung the bat lazily and missed. Earl Francis, standing a few yards behind her, caught the ball and threw it back to Frederick.

“You can miss twice,” explained George, “But on the third time you must run, whether you hit the ball or not. She doesn’t hold the bat firmly enough, see.”

“She doesn’t look at the ball. She looks at the men instead,” put in Prince Edward in his piping voice, which carried some distance. Helen frowned. Beth laughed.

“Edward!” whispered George. “Remember what Papa said.”

Presumably Papa had tried to teach the remarkably astute five-year-old the rudiments of diplomacy, and had failed.

Philippa, a few places in front of Beth, turned round and grinned a greeting.

“Hello again. Not played before?”

“No,” said Beth. “But I have good tutors here, I think.”

Prince George glowed. Prince Edward looked distractedly around the field, seeming unable to concentrate on anything for more than a couple of seconds. Most of the men had taken their coats off and rolled their shirt sleeves up, and he proceeded to do the same.

“Damn good game. Better than digging. Got the right dress on, too.” Philippa had obviously borrowed the blue and white striped muslin dress off someone who was of normal height. Tall as she was, the dress was too short for her, and the consequent display of neat ankles was not lost on the men. She followed Beth’s gaze downwards.

“Practical,” she said. “Intend to win. Bloody Percy, David and Daniel on the other side. And Papa. Obligatory to win.”

Suddenly it was. Beth concentrated, watched as Helen clipped the ball with the bat and was caught out. The next player stepped forward, hit the ball and ran. The ball bounced once and Percy caught it, throwing it quickly to David who was already running towards the third post. He caught it, threw himself full-length and touched the post with the ball just before the unfortunate batter reached it.

“Oh bad luck, James!” shouted Prince Frederick.

“See, he is out now,” said George. “The fielder can also get you out by hitting you with the ball while you’re running between bases. It’s called a stinger, because it hurts sometimes. James should have stayed at the second base. Then he would have had a chance to run on when the next person batted. He would not have scored a rounder, but he would have had another chance later. Now we have lost him.”

Beth wondered how many of the players were deliberately getting themselves out so they could lie on the grass in the sun and watch. Certainly Helen looked deeply relieved, although James was scowling.

Philippa moved up into place, took the bat and braced herself, locking her gaze belligerently with the prince. He raised his arm.

“That man don’t like you at all,” came a small voice from beside Beth. She looked down, and then followed Edward’s gaze to Daniel, who was still lounging nonchalantly by the tree. He was so far away she could hardly make out his features at all, let alone whether he was wearing a hostile expression. “He’s going to hurt you,” the child added indifferently, screwing his eyes up and focussing on the young lord.

Edward’s odd
, Anthony had said, and now Beth had an inkling of what he meant. The boy had been making a casual observation. He didn’t seem to expect a reply. There was a crack of leather on wood and Beth looked up to see the ball sailing off into the distance. Philippa dropped the bat, hauled her skirts up to her knees and ran like the wind, careless of decorum. There was a flurry of activity on the field, but she had made it round the posts before the ball had been recovered.

“Damn!” said Frederick. “I knew I should have had you on my team, Philippa. Well done.”

She walked to the back of the line, flushed and pleased, and sat down.

The game continued. To Beth’s surprise no one made any concessions for the age of the little princes, apart from the fact that they had their own small bats. Their father bowled almost as hard as he had to the adults, and both of them did well. George scored a rounder; Edward made it to third base.

It was Beth’s turn. She moved into position, feeling far more nervous than she should over a mere game. It didn’t really matter whether they won or not, but Philippa was right. Winning, or at least doing your best, was important.

She braced herself as she’d watched Philippa do. Prince Frederick drew back his arm and threw, kindly aiming directly at the bat. She moved and the ball sailed past her into the earl’s waiting hands.

“Bad luck,” said the prince. He threw again. This time she clipped the ball as Helen had done, sending it straight forward. Frederick caught it.

“Oh,” she said, feeling astonishingly disappointed. “That means I’m out, doesn’t it?”

“No,” said the prince, smiling. “It means you’re improving. We’ll allow you another go, as it’s the first time you’ve ever played.”

He threw the ball, and this time she hit it, so hard that she felt the reverberation all the way up her arms. She watched ecstatically as the ball went sailing over the heads of Anthony, David and, oh yes! Daniel, and then someone shouted “Run!” and she remembered what she was supposed to be doing, dropped the bat, grabbed her skirts and ran as fast as she could. It was a lucky strike, but as she tore past the last post to a round of applause she felt invincible.

She was not. The next round of batting got her out, and then it was the other team’s turn to bat.

“Haven’t a hope, really,” Philippa commented as they moved to fan out across the field. “Helen will slope off somewhere, Papa lie down under a tree, and the boys aren’t big enough to throw the ball any distance. Up to us, and James. Anthony and Daniel bloody good, too. Shame. Still, proper food tonight. Changing?”

“Yes,” said Beth, who was starting to get the hang of Philippa’s staccato speech and thought patterns.

“Damn good idea of Helen’s, bringing a change. She won’t be pleased, though. You especially, very beautiful. Competition.”

Beth grinned.

“Thanks,” she said.

As soon as the batting started Beth knew that Philippa was right. Her husband, as she’d expected was an excellent player, as was Prince Frederick. David and Percy were more interested in keeping their clothes in pristine condition, and consequently ensured that they were out almost immediately. Beth, who was positioned reasonably close to the batters, caught Percy out herself, and also caught his look of relief.

After that she found there was no need to concentrate on the batting. The ball sailed repeatedly over her head as Anthony, Daniel and Frederick scored rounder after rounder, and she started to think about the letter Murray had sent and its implications, her body half-turned to the back of the field, from where the ball would be thrown to her after one of the distant fielders had retrieved it.

Therefore it came as a complete shock when the solid ball hit her in the thigh with enough force to send her stumbling sideways. She bent down to pick up the ball, which had come to a halt at her feet, and looked across to where Daniel was standing, still holding the bat. He had made no attempt to run and was smiling at her. In spite of the protective layers of clothing, the ball had hit her with enough force to bruise.

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, looking anything but. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I expected you to catch me out. I would have thought a woman with your background would have had extensive experience in handling balls.”

He did it deliberately
, she thought, instantly annoyed.
I’m sure of it.
She glanced at her husband, who had been sitting down, but now rose to his feet. Then she looked down at the ball in her hand and smiled.

“I do have some little experience,” she said, focussing pointedly on his crotch, “but I am not accustomed to handling such very small ones.” She threw the ball to the bowler and watched with satisfaction as Percy laughed and Daniel reddened slightly. “You should make sure your equipment is clean, my lord,” she added, wiping her muddy hands on her skirt. “One can pick up such nasty diseases if one does not take good care of it.”

“I would have thought that to be something Sir Anthony would be more concerned about, considering where he puts his equipment,” Daniel said.

Beth felt her temper rise, and swallowed it down with an effort. Everyone was watching the altercation with interest, and the only ones who were unaware of the innuendoes were the children.

“Oh no, my dear boy, you are mistaken,” said Sir Anthony, smiling innocently. “I do not play rounders or any other game of that sort at home. My grounds are not large enough. I possess no balls at all.”

Several people laughed out loud at this, and Sir Anthony smiled around the group in a slightly perplexed way, clearly uncertain as to what he had said that was so humorous.

But it had worked, Beth thought as everyone walked back to the house a short time later. He had defused the situation, making it impossible for Daniel to continue his attack without becoming belligerent about it.

“He’s up to something,” said Alex as soon as they were alone in the changing room.

“Don’t you think he’s just being rude, like he was in Edinburgh?” Beth asked.

Alex thought for a moment while he pulled up his clean ivory silk stockings, gartering them neatly above the knee.

“Maybe. Did he hurt you?”

“Just a bit. My skirts saved me from being injured. It might bruise a little. I’m angry rather than hurt, though.”

“He’s not worth your anger. He’s a fool, that’s all. I doubt he’ll ever learn. William should have let him rot in the Fleet for a year or two instead of paying his debts off this last time. The young idiot wasn’t even grateful, just went straight back out and carried on gambling.”

“Why doesn’t the earl disinherit him?” Beth asked.

“He can’t. The estate’s entailed. And he wouldn’t anyway. William loves his son. He’s always spoilt him and protected him, which is a good part of the problem.”

“Prince Edward said Daniel was going to hurt me, about half an hour before he did,” Beth said, suddenly remembering. “You said he was odd. He is, isn’t he?”

“Yes. I think it was Walpole, Horace that is, not Robert, who said Edward is a ‘sayer of things’. He can be really amusing at times, because he’s very astute, or embarrassing if you’re the person he happens to comment on.”

“It’s more than that, though,” said Beth.

“Yes, it is. He’s got the sight, I think. I keep expecting him to point at me and say ‘that man’s a spy!’ or something of the sort. No one would pay any heed to him if he did though, thank God. You look beautiful in that dress,” he finished, appreciatively eyeing the royal blue taffeta gown she had changed into. He stood up to help her fasten the tiny hooks and eyes running up the back, dropping a kiss on her bare shoulder as he did.

“I can’t say the same for you, unfortunately,” she said, looking at the violent purple silk breeches and emerald green waistcoat with disgust. “But you are the epitome of Sir Anthony. Your patch has fallen off,” she added with relief.

“Ah,” he replied, immediately delving in his pocket and producing an identical little silk cat, to her dismay. “Thank you, my dear. Now, I am sure there must be some gum arabic somewhere…”

During dinner Lord Daniel sat with David at the other end of the table from the Peters, and the meal went very well, although Beth was unable to enjoy herself fully, as she kept expecting further insults to be hurled down the table. The two men were whispering together and every so often would glance in her direction. It was very childish, but it made her feel edgy and irritable. The food was plentiful, with venison in a rich sauce, mutton pasties, oysters and salamangundy, a highly colourful and varied salad, and the conversation was animated. The earlier game was thoroughly dissected, the clothes of the various guests complimented, and the latest staging of
King Lear
by Garrick commented upon.