Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) (7 page)

Sarah’s recent years had been spent in the lowest echelons of society, and she had been stunned when the sergeant, after paying for her services, had asked her if she fancied leaving the streets and acting as a kitchen maid, with a few other services thrown in, for which she would receive extra remuneration. She had jumped at the chance. From what he had said, his sister was weak, had no influence at all, and was all bluster. He had instructed the maid to take no notice of Beth and to obey only him.

She stood now eye to eye with her adversary, assessing her. Beth was a good few inches shorter than her, and several pounds lighter. It was true that she had higher birth on her side, but it was not that that caused Sarah to lower her eyes after a moment. She had been in many fights in her short life and could now calculate her chances of victory before a blow was exchanged. She was under no illusions that Beth would carry out her threat if necessary, and would not scruple as to the means by which she achieved her ends. Clearly the master had underestimated his sister, but Sarah was taking no chances.

From that day on Sarah gave Beth a wide berth. Beth took to locking her room when she wasn’t in it, and thought longingly of the happy and relaxed atmosphere which had filled the house only a month ago, but which now seemed so distant.

In spite of Beth’s attempts to put on a cheerful face, the general mood of the household did not improve, even though the staff had received their wages. They were now very aware that there was an interloper in their midst who was probably reporting back to Richard, and this prevented them from openly airing their views and grievances in the kitchen.

Therefore when she went downstairs early one morning to find her brother had already breakfasted, having the intention of visiting some friends in town and not returning until dinner, she was ecstatic. His horse had hardly clattered out of the yard before she summoned Sarah to her room, telling her that the master had told her she could have the day off, and had instructed Beth to give her a shilling to go into Manchester and spend. If Sarah was suspicious, she was not about to give up the chance of a day off and money to spend, and having changed into her best dress, she left the house half an hour later.

Beth flew downstairs to inform the staff of this delightful turn of events, and within twenty minutes they were all sitting around the kitchen table enjoying a couple of bottles of Richard’s claret and chatting, their duties postponed for a while. Grace, as usual, sat separately by the fire, darning stockings. She had been brought up in a devoutly Presbyterian family, whose policy was that a woman’s hands should always be occupied, and that it was not seemly for them to engage in masculine topics of conversation or express opinions. In spite of Beth’s efforts to liberate her maid’s mind, Grace remained quietly resolute. Absolutely trustworthy and loyal she was, but she would not join in, and the others had come to respect that.

Determined not to spend the precious time discussing Richard’s devastating influence on the house, Beth repaired to the library to retrieve the week’s papers and they settled down to discuss the topical events.

Inevitably the conversation turned to politics, the ongoing War of the Austrian Succession, and the replacement earlier in the year of Sir Robert Walpole as Prime Minister by Lord Cartaret.

“If it wasn’t for Walpole’s pacifist policies, we wouldn’t be on the point of going to war now,” commented Thomas. “He allowed France and Spain to become strong. We should have crushed them in the war over the Polish succession ten years ago, and then they wouldn’t be threatening Austria now. By not getting involved, we looked weak and lost a lot of our credibility as a nation.”

“Yes, but that war had nothing to do with us, and he did have a point when he said that ‘if there is a war, the king’s crown will be fought for on this land’,” Jane quoted. “The king wasn’t as secure on the throne as he is now, and if we’d gone to war ten years ago France surely would have encouraged the supporters of the Pretender in Britain to rise. Could King George have survived a war abroad and a civil war in his own country at the same time? By avoiding war Walpole allowed the king to establish himself. He’ll be much harder to uproot now.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Thomas countered. “France managed to take Lorraine and strengthen its connections with other countries. If it succeeds in conquering Austria, it will be well on the way to taking control of the whole of Europe. If Walpole was still the minister, we’d no doubt be abandoning Marie Theresa to her fate in the interests of peace.”

Everyone had sympathy for the young Marie Theresa, who, on the death of her father Charles VI, had succeeded to the dominions of Austria. The powers of Europe, recognising her helplessness, had been overwhelmed with greed, and King Frederick of Prussia with France’s support had invaded the Austrian province of Silesia. Walpole had attempted to reconcile Austria and Prussia, to no effect, and King George II, eager for war, had promised help to the beleaguered young Empress.

“Yes, but why is George promising help to Marie Theresa? Because his beloved Hanover is threatened, that’s why. He’s never liked Britain, and nor did his father before him. He only took the throne because he thought it would help his electorate,” Graeme put in. “All we are to him is a source of revenue and troops.”

“That’s right. The sooner we have a king who cares about the country, the better, I say,” John said. “I’ve no great love for France but if they help us get the Stuarts back on the throne where they belong, good luck to them.”

Beth had remained quiet up to now, enjoying the animated expressions on the others’ faces. Ben and Mary, as yet too young to participate in the debate, were listening attentively. Beth sincerely hoped that however their political views developed, they would always be able to have differences of opinions with their friends without making enemies of them.

“Who knows what will happen while the Elector is away fighting his war? It’s a prime opportunity for Prince Charles to invade, if he can persuade the French to help him,” Beth said wistfully.

Jane shuddered at the thought of a Catholic monarch regaining the throne and the persecution that Protestants could then expect to suffer.

“Yes, but there’s no proof that Charles is as fanatical a Catholic as his grandfather was,” Beth countered when Jane expressed her views. “I’m sure he will have learned from James’s mistakes. He would hardly want to alienate most of his people, if he succeeded in regaining the throne for his father.”

“Yes, but that’s the problem, Beth,” Thomas said, automatically abandoning the formal ‘Miss Elizabeth’ now that Richard was absent. “Charles may be liberal. But the old Pretender is certainly not, and it’s he who will be king if his son succeeds in a rebellion.”

“I think he’ll abdicate in favour of Prince Charles, if it comes to it,” said John.

No one had thought of this, but it certainly made sense. James III, or the Old Pretender as his enemies called him, seemed to have now accepted his exile following his abortive attempt at an invasion over twenty years ago. His fiery eldest son, Charles Edward, was a completely different matter.

“It’s true James isn’t as young as he was,” Graeme said after a minute. “But at least he tried to get his throne back, which is more than his father did. Oh, those were good days, when we marched on Lancaster. You should have heard the pipes and seen the men, thousands of them, singing as they went and proclaiming King James all the way.” His eyes misted over as he remembered the ’15, as it was now called, when he had left his home in Kendal as a young man to join the Jacobite forces invading England to regain the throne for James.

“King James wasn’t there though, was he?” Thomas replied dryly. “By the time he landed in Scotland the rebellion was all but over.”

“That’s true. But it was no fault of his that he was late arriving,” Graeme countered hotly. “The weather was awful. He was a brave man, and his son’s of the same blood, thank God. If another chance comes, we’ll not waste it this time.”

“We certainly won’t,” said John. “The day that King James or his son lands on British soil is the day you’ll be looking for another stable hand, Beth.” His voice was particularly vehement, and everyone looked at him in surprise. Whilst he was a confirmed Jacobite, John was also renowned for his gentleness and dislike of violence in any form.

“I thought you would be the last person to fight, John,” said Beth, puzzled. He was not insulted; she was not doubting his bravery, and he knew that.

“Yes, well, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve grown up a lot recently,” he said, with a distinct tone of bitterness in his voice. The others exchanged puzzled glances, but he would not be drawn any further, and to fill the awkward silence Graeme continued to talk about the glorious days of the ’15, the drawn swords glinting in the sun, the rapturous welcome given the rebels by the Jacobite sections of the towns, the camaraderie of the soldiers.

The children, Ben and Mary, were gazing in awe at the seemingly ancient figure of the gardener, his brown hair now liberally sprinkled with grey, his joints slowly starting to succumb to rheumatism due to the long hours spent outside in all weathers. They were clearly trying to imagine him as a young man in armour brandishing his sword, and failing.

Beth intercepted their look.

“Graeme has been alive for ever, and remembers everything,” she said, winking at them. “He’ll tell you of the time he met Oliver Cromwell, if you ask nicely,” she added. The children giggled.

Graeme regarded her with mock severity, his bushy eyebrows bristling over grey eyes brimming with humour.

“Take no notice of your mistress. I’ll tell you no such thing. Old Ironsides died over thirty years before I saw the light of day, and I’ll thank you for less of your cheek, madam. You should be setting a good example to your servants by showing respect for your elders.”

Beth laughed, and opened her mouth to retort.

“I have to go,” John said suddenly, standing up. He seemed a little stiff when he moved, and Beth wondered what additional chores Richard had assigned to him to make him so.

“Whatever for?” said Beth. “The discussion’s only just started. And so has the wine!” Everyone laughed and motioned him to sit down, but he remained standing.

“The master has told me I need to polish all the harness before he comes back, and that he’ll inspect it as soon as he returns. If I’m to do it, I’ll have to start now.” John began to move towards the door.

“To hell with the master,” said Beth, reaching over for the wine bottle and filling John’s glass to the brim. “He won’t be back for hours. I’ll come and help you later.”

John hesitated.

“For God’s sake, lad, we’ll all come and help, if we need to,” Thomas said, exasperated. “Sit down. The Jacobite cause needs all the help it can get, and these two,” waving a hand at Beth and Graeme, “have no chance against us, without you to help out.”

There were good-humoured protestations at this and John gave in, and sitting down, continued the discussion by raising his brimming glass in a toast to King James. There was a rush for the wine bottle by Thomas and Jane to counter with a toast to King George, after which the debate continued until lunchtime.

Beth ended the merry meeting with a toast to free speech and an end to tyranny, which all of those assembled drank to, knowing that the tyrant she referred to was neither King George nor King James, but someone much closer to home.

The others were as good as their word, and all assisted John in polishing the harness and cleaning out the stables. Even Richard would be able to find no fault with his work. Then they all went merrily off to their own chores. Everyone was in good spirits, in spite of the looming threat of Richard’s return, and Beth hoped sincerely that his friends, whoever they were, would demand a lot more of his time in the future.

John and Beth repaired to the barn after the others had dispersed. He had been learning the art of knife-throwing in his spare time and Beth now offered to give him a lesson. John ran off to fetch his knife from his room, returning moments later, and Beth hitched up her skirts and seated herself on a barrel outside the barn to observe him. He stood facing the barn door, and then took several steps backwards.

“Just another couple of steps back, John,” Beth advised.

John readied himself. He held the knife about half way along the blade and after a moment’s preparation, threw it at the door. The blade nosedived into the ground a few feet in front of him.

Beth went to retrieve the knife. “You’re flicking your wrist as you throw. Keep it straight. Try again,” she said, passing it to him.

He held the blade as she had just demonstrated.

“Don’t curl your finger round the blade, John, or you’ll cut yourself.” He readjusted his grip, then turned to her, a puzzled look on his face.

“But I’ve watched you, lots of times. You hold the knife with the edge toward the ground. And you flick your wrist. And the knife always lands in the target.”

“Yes, but I’ve been doing this for a long time,” she said.

He still looked doubtful.

“But I used to watch when your mother was teaching you, and she always held the knife with the edge toward the ground too.” He regretted the words as soon as they were uttered, and looked at her nervously.

“You never told me that you used to watch us,” Beth said, feeling disgruntled. She treasured her memories of the knife-throwing lessons with her mother. They had been private, intimate moments, when Ann, in between correcting her daughter’s fumbling attempts to avoid amputating her own fingers, had told her stories of her wild youth in the Highlands. Beth had been unaware that they had been observed, and irrationally, even after all this time, resented it.

John blushed.

“Yes, well, I hadn’t been here long, then. I didn’t know you very well. I didn’t like to intrude.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, wishing he hadn’t said anything. He had watched the mother and her smaller replica in fascination, mesmerised not just by the mistress’s skill with weapons, but also by the relaxed and easy intimacy between them, of the casual loving gestures which Beth had taken for granted, and which he, having never known his mother, had longed for. “She loved you very much,” he murmured, half to himself, and the longing in his voice drove Beth’s resentment away. She sat down on the barrel, turning the knife over in her hands.