The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (12 page)

There was a polite and hesitant knock at the door.

“Come in!” she called. “This will be the tea.”

The footman entered, his arms filled by a huge tray, on which resided an exquisitely decorated teapot, sugar bowl, three delicate cups and a plate of biscuits. He placed the tray deferentially on the table, and stood back.

“Cook sends her apologies, my lady,” he said in a rich west country accent. “She had no cakes, but hoped that these biscuits would suffice. They’re freshly made this morning.”

“Thank you, Abernathy,” Beth said. “You may go.”

“Shall I make up the fire first, my lady?” he asked. Clearly he was still fearful of losing his post, and was anxious to make amends.

“Yes, that would be lovely,” she replied. “As I was saying,” she continued, offering the plate of biscuits to her cousins and taking the opportunity to shift position so that she couldn’t see Alex as he busied himself by the hearth. “Sir Anthony and I are now fully reconciled. He has apologised for his behaviour to me, and I to him, and we are looking forward greatly to seeing the sights of Italy and France. We talk of nothing else.”

“Oh, it is so exciting!” cried Isabella. “Which cities will you be visiting?”

Oh, damn,
thought Beth, cursing her last words.

“That is the most infuriating thing, Isabella,” she replied without missing a beat. “Although my husband has expounded endlessly on the delights of Paris, the Alps, Venice and Florence, I still know no more than that we are sailing from Dover to Calais. He wishes the itinerary to be a surprise, and as he is so well travelled, and I have been so sheltered until now, I am content to let him do so. Although I confess, I hope that a visit to Rome will be included on the tour. I have heard much about the delights of Rome from Mr Fortesque, who of course spent several months there in his youth.” She shot a furtive glance in the direction of the fireplace. The fire now replenished, Alex stood, and with a bow, vacated the room, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving the ladies to their conversation.

“Verra clever,” came the voice from behind her as Beth stood at the door, having merrily waved her cousins off, promising to write to them from every place of note. She jumped. “And if you try a trick like that again, I’ll tan your arse for ye.”

She flew round to face him. Alex was standing directly behind her, and stepped back only far enough to allow her to close the door before moving forward again, so that she could not run past him, if she had a mind to. She didn’t.

“What did you expect me to do?” she said hotly, glaring up at him. “I had to prove to you somehow that I could play a part as well as you.” He looked at her, one eyebrow raised in a distinctly Sir Anthony gesture. “Well, maybe not as well as you,” she admitted, still impressed by his instantaneous transformation from relaxed master of the house to guilty menial, “but you must admit I did well. Their visit was a God-given opportunity. I had to take it.”

“You didna, as it happens,” he replied. “I’d already decided to give you a chance to see what it’ll be like if you insist on staying with me as you wish. This afternoon Sir Anthony is going on an excursion, and his wife is invited to join him. His footman will also accompany us, if I can keep my hands off the wee gomerel until then.”

Beth was so delighted at this apparent change of mind that she jumped up on tiptoe and impulsively kissed him on the nose. In spite of his sour mood, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.

“You’ll find out when we get there,” her husband replied. “It’s a surprise.”

Although Iain was acting as coachman, and Angus as the footman, Alex advised Beth before they left the house that it was better she treat him as Sir Anthony from the moment they stepped out of the door, so that by the time they arrived at a place where there were other people, she would be well into the role.

“I can slip in and out of the part as I need to,” he said, checking his make-up in a looking glass hanging in the hall. “But it takes practice.”

Beth did feel a little foolish, sitting in the coach under the amused gaze of Angus, making trivial conversation with the man she’d been at loggerheads with for the last two days, and who she now saw in a completely different light, in spite of the fact that the man sitting opposite her was indisputably Sir Anthony, from the heavy make-up and nauseating dark violet costume to the star-shaped patch which she now knew covered a disarming dimple which appeared whenever he smiled.

But this was a test, she knew that. He was clearly having no problems playing his role, even though all those present knew his true identity. She could at least attempt to do the same. She hunted for a topic of conversation as Sir Anthony fussed with the lace at his throat and cuffs.

“Abernathy is a most unusual name,” she said after a moment. “Is it a traditional Dorset name? I assume the man is from that part of the world, judging by his accent.”

Angus compressed his lips together in a tight line, and stared out of the window.

“Indeed, I believe not,” her husband replied in a disinterested tone. “He was apparently named by a relative of his, in a fit of mischief, he told me. He has yet to exact his revenge upon that relative.”

“He appears to be a most insolent fellow,” Beth continued. “Although after I had chastised him, he was very deferential.”

“Don’t be fooled by that, my lady,” Angus put in, unable to resist. “He’s a man of most unpredictable temper, devoid of humour at times and liable to become violent at the slightest provocation, venting his anger on any innocent person who happens to be in his way at the time. I live in mortal fear of the man myself.”

“Do you really, dear boy?” Sir Anthony said. “In that case, on my return home I will dismiss him immediately, and would strongly suggest that his name not be mentioned again, under any circumstances whatsoever.”

It was obvious there was some private joke going on here, and Beth was curious. But she was curious about a lot of things she had not yet had time to ask. Why did Angus go by the name of Drummond? What had made Alex decide to be a spy? What had possessed him to take on the role of Sir Anthony? And at the moment, where on earth were they going? She had expected them to head for an afternoon entertainment at the house of one of Sir Anthony’s many acquaintances, but instead of going east into the city, they were heading west along the Oxford road. The streets did seem very crowded, with great numbers of people walking briskly along, clearly eager to get to their destination. A fair, perhaps? The mood certainly seemed festive.

After a while the press of people grew too much for the carriage to proceed and it lurched to a halt.

“I am afraid we shall have to walk from here, my dear,” Sir Anthony said. “It is not far, but do beware of pickpockets. I suggest you walk between myself and Jim, in order that your safety is assured.”

The moment she alighted from the coach and looked in the direction the pedestrians were heading, her question was answered, as she saw the unmistakable triangular structure of the Tyburn gallows in the distance. She looked up at her husband, who smiled gaily down at her shocked face.

“You told me yesterday, my dear, that you had never had the privilege of witnessing a hanging. Imagine my delight when upon making enquiries, I discovered there was to be a hanging…three hangings in fact, this very day!” He took hold of her elbow, and began to lead her along the road. “Of course, it would no doubt be possible to witness an execution in France or Italy, but I thought it better that you see how our own dear nation deals with malefactors before we sail for France.”

Her shock now gave way to first anger, and then resignation. She could see why he was doing this. The idea was that she would be so horrified by witnessing her possible fate, that she would head for the countryside with the greatest of alacrity.

I can do this,
she thought, determined not just to watch the execution, but to appear unmoved by it. At any rate, judging by the density of the crowd, they would not be able to get close enough to see very much of the proceedings. Sir Anthony led her to an official, a tall, burly man dressed in a blue uniform and armed with a cudgel. As they approached, the baronet produced a paper from his coat pocket, which he presented to the officer with a flourish. After perusing it for a moment, the man nodded, and turning, began to clear a path through the crowd.

Within moments, Beth was taking her seat between her husband and his brother in the gallery erected for the privileged, mere feet from the scaffold. At this moment she hated him, all the more so because she was trapped. If she expressed a desire to leave, he would have won, and she would no longer be able to insist on accompanying him to Europe. She had no choice but to face this nightmare. She looked up at him as he arranged his coat skirts around him prettily, and their eyes met in a clash of wills.

“You cannot imagine, my dear, how prohibitively expensive it was to obtain these choice seats at such short notice!” he trilled. “But I will consider it worth every penny, my darling, if it provides you with a memorable experience.”

“I am sure it will, Anthony, and I am most grateful,” she replied, leaning forward as if eager to witness the spectacle.

A shout went up from the crowd, who until now had been busily chatting and buying food, ballad sheets and souvenirs of the day from the numerous hawkers who were plying their wares.

“Here they come now,” Angus said, reaching across Beth to accept a handful of cherries from his master. Beth also popped one in her mouth, although she had no appetite.

“There are certainly a lot of people,” she commented, looking at the roaring crowd, which was now making way for two horse-drawn carts, flanked by constables carrying staves. A hail of rotten fruit and jeers rained down on the occupants as they approached the gallows.

“Oh, this is a very small crowd,” Sir Anthony commented. “No one of note is being hanged today. The two men are highwaymen, but had not the time to become famous, being apprehended whilst engaged in their first crime. And the woman is accused of theft. Now when someone notorious is hanged, say, for example a highwayman who has captured the hearts of the public with his exploits, a murderer, or someone convicted of high treason,” he paused to scrutinise her face, and she returned his look with equanimity. “Then you will see maybe four times the number of people assembled today. People have been known to be suffocated in the crush, and the whole thing can become very unruly and dangerous”

The carts had now arrived at the scaffold, and Beth noticed with a start that the prisoners were standing on their own coffins. The black-clothed minister now began to intone prayers, which the two men joined in, whilst the woman remained resolutely silent, which occasioned disapproving comments from the onlookers, who expected the prisoners to be suitably cowed by the thought that they were about to meet their maker.

“I thought they would be dirty and ragged,” Beth commented, remembering Alex’s assertion yesterday that prisoners were kept in filthy cells for weeks before being hung.

“No, for most of these poor souls, it’s their moment of glory,” Angus explained, spitting out a cherry stone. “It’s the only chance they’ll ever get to be something. They wear their best clothes, and some of them give fine speeches too, although I doubt these will. They seem a sorry lot.”

They did. The two men, although dressed in clothes that Sir Anthony might have worn, were white-faced and trembling, and looked on the point of collapse. The remaining prisoner, on the other hand, though dressed neatly, was not ostentatious, and as Beth watched her, fascinated in spite of herself, the young woman suddenly stamped her feet hard on the wooden floor of the cart. The minister stopped momentarily at the interruption, then continued in a monotonous drone.

“What’s she doing?” Beth asked.

“She’s trying to stop the trembling of her legs becoming too noticeable. I’ve seen it before. She has courage, that’s certain,” Sir Anthony replied, his voice soft, admiring.

The minister now finished, and the three criminals were given the chance to say a few words. The two men declined, clearly beyond speech. They looked utterly terrified, and Beth felt a sharp pang of pity for them, although the crowd, thus deprived of part of their expected entertainment, jeered. More missiles were hurled at the cart. Beth looked away momentarily to compose herself, then, aware of her husband’s scrutiny, raised her eyes again. The hangman was busily tying the hands and ankles of the men, when the woman suddenly stepped forward. The jeers of the crowd quietened.

“I am innocent,” she began, her voice faltering.

“That is what they all say,” Sir Anthony murmured in Beth’s ear.

The woman swallowed and took a couple of deep breaths.

“I am innocent,” she said again, and her voice rang out this time, across the heads of the crowd. She was greeted with a series of cat-calls, and waited until the noise died down before she continued. “I did not commit the crime for which I am to hang today. But I did commit another crime, which is far more serious than the theft of a diamond ring,” she cried.

The crowd became quiet now, listening intently. The only sound was the mournful bell of St. Sepulchre’s church, tolling for the imminent deaths.

“I committed the crime of not allowing Lord Eastwood to take my virginity when his wife was away from home. I committed the crime of telling him that I found him the most repulsive and disgusting man in the country. And I did not wish to catch the French pox from him, which I know for certain he must have, dealing as he does with whores of the lowest sort, which are the only ones who will service him!”

There was a roar of approval and applause from the onlookers this time, and to Beth’s surprise, several tomatoes, apples and even a cabbage came flying over her head, one barely missing her as it soared into the wealthy spectators behind her. She looked round, her eyes falling on a richly-dressed stout middle-aged man, who, by the apoplectic look on his purple face, had to be Lord Eastwood, just as the white-faced lady sitting by his side was most certainly his wife.