"They willna commit themselves," said Alex later. "No' in the way that Charles wants. Broughton wanted to get their commitment in writing. Well, I knew I didna have a hope in hell of them putting their signatures to anything. They've already been questioned more than once by the authorities, and the only reason they havena been charged is that there isna any concrete evidence against them."
"Like bits of paper," said Beth.
"Exactly. So I gave up on that idea straight away. It's as well I did, because I've had the devil's own job to get them to agree to anything at all, even verbally."
"Why are they so reluctant?" asked Iain. "After all they agreed to rise last year, did they no', when the French made landfall?"
"Aye, they did," agreed Alex. "But the French didna make landfall, did they, so we've no way of knowing whether they'd have fulfilled their promise or no'."
"You mean you don't think the English will rise at all, no matter what happens?" Beth said, shocked.
"I didna say that, although I do sometimes wonder if they'll wait until Charles reaches London afore they do," Alex said. "Ye ken, there's a big difference between drinking toasts and singing songs to the King across the Water, and risking everything ye own and your life too."
"But look at what they've got to gain, if we win," said Angus.
"Aye, but look at what they've got to lose, if we fail," said Alex. "Life is different in England, and in lowland Scotland, too. People are more comfortable, and it never ceases to amaze me what enormous liberties people will allow themselves to be deprived of in order to hang on to wee comforts they've become accustomed to, but could do without. And it doesna matter to the English whether the union 's repealed or no', as it does tae us. They've no' got the same incentive to rise as the clans have, and that's one thing that worries me."
"What's the other?" asked Duncan.
"Barrymore, Cotton and Wynne themselves. They're all running scared since Habeas Corpus was suspended. Dinna forget, Cotton only escaped being arrested because another man was mistaken for him. He's a big man, taller than me even, but he's no' a fighter. He's awfu' fat, and soft. He even protested to the French that they shouldna invade in January because it was too cold!" he said contemptuously. "Then there's Barrymore, who was arrested, of course, and who got out of trouble by telling parliament that he wouldna risk the loss of the poorest acre of his land to defend the title of any king in Europe, which is no' exactly reassuring."
"Yes, but people will say anything to get out of prison, won't they?" reasoned Beth. "I mean, he didn't give anyone else up, did he?"
"No, he didna," Alex conceded. "But he's nearly eighty, Beth. He must be thinking more of making his peace wi' God than leading a rebellion."
"What about Wynne, then?" said Iain.
"Ah, well now, he's a different matter. He's younger than Barrymore, in his fifties, and fitter than Cotton. And more powerful than both of them. He's the most powerful man in North Wales, as well as being the MP for Denbigh. He's raised a good following for the Stuarts among the Welsh. I think the Welsh are more likely to rise than the English. After all, there's a good deal of resentment that Wales is generally considered part of England instead of a principality in its own right, as it should be. That's the way Scotland'll go, too, if the English have their way," he said sourly.
"Well, that's good then, isn't it?" Beth said. "Not that Scotland will become part of England, I mean, but that the Welsh are for James."
"Aye, but Wynne's leading them. And while of the three, he's the one I like the most, he's awfu' cautious, too cautious for me. Maybe I'm misjudging the man, and he will rise as he says, although I think he'll wait until the rising's well under way afore he does, but he'll no' commit to it without French help, and I canna argue wi' him there, because the clans dinna want to, either. It seems Charles is on his own in thinking he can take the throne wi' his single footman."
"So what do we do now?" asked Maggie.
"I send a report of my negotiations to Broughton and the others, and tell them what I think. And then I think we've nae choice but to make it verra clear to the prince that he must not, under any circumstances, come to Britain without the French at his back."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Christmas Eve 1744 passed by peacefully, even pleasantly, the MacGregor family having refused all social invitations, determined to enjoy the festive season ensconced in their warm and cosy rented London home.
Beth, who had been almost paranoiacally superstitious that, following the pattern of the previous two years, some unexpected violent event was going to occur, breathed a sigh of relief as the clock chimed midnight with no more disastrous occurrence than the burning of the morning's porridge, which, as Beth had been in charge of preparing it, was hardly unexpected.
Maggie, now starting her sixth month of pregnancy, often felt tired and breathless, and suffered spasmodically from severe backache which she tried stoically to ignore. Beth had taken to watching her carefully for excessive yawning or grimacing and massaging of her lower back, whereupon she would pack the protesting young woman off to sit in the library with a hot drink, and would take over whatever task she had been engaged in. Which had resulted in the burning of the Christmas Eve porridge and several long and increasingly heated arguments with Maggie, who protested that Beth was treating her as though she was made of glass.
"I'm not one of your pampered society women," she said one morning early in the New Year, when Beth had found her resolutely scrubbing the kitchen floor, dark shadows of fatigue under her eyes and one hand firmly clamped on the small of her back. "If we were at home, I'd no' be able to lie down in the library every day. I'd just have tae get on wi' it."
"I know, but you're not at home, and you don't have to get on with it," Beth protested, bending down and trying to wrest the scrubbing brush out of Maggie's hand.
Maggie, considerably taller and stronger than Beth, maintained a firm grip on the brush.
"I feel better if I'm doing something," she insisted. "I'm no' one for lying about in the middle of the day. It doesna feel right."
"You have to think of your baby, though," reasoned Beth, kneeling down beside Maggie, heedless of the wet floor. "And it's not the middle of the day. It's not even seven o'clock yet. It's still dark, for God's sake!"
"My baby's fine, he's kicking away merrily in there. And I was awake and didna want to disturb Iain, so I thought I might as well make myself useful."
"How much sleep have you had?" Beth asked, concerned.
"Almost none at all, if all her tossing and turning was anything to go by," said Iain sleepily from the doorway. "I know I didna get more than an hour or so."
"I'm sorry," said his wife, sitting back on her heels and brushing a strand of fiery red hair from her face. "But the bairn's lying strangely, and it's awfu' uncomfortable. He'll move soon, I'm sure, and I'll be fine." She dipped the brush in the bucket of soapy water and prepared to continue her task.
"Iain, will you reason with her?" said Beth. "She should be relaxing if she's tired and in pain, not scrubbing a floor that's already clean!"
"I tellt ye, I'm fine … hey!" she protested as Iain plucked the brush neatly from her hand, passed it to Beth, and then scooped his wife firmly up into his arms. "Put me down!"
"I'm wi' Beth on this," he said, ignoring his wife's struggles and protests as he carried her past a surprised Alex, who was coming down the stairs as Iain marched down the hall to the library. "Ye've no need tae wear yourself out, a ghràidh." He plonked her down on the sofa, plumping up some cushions behind her. "I'll make up the fire," he said, "and ye can have a wee rest."
"I've only just got up!" she protested angrily, making to rise. He pushed her back down firmly.
"Well find something else to do, then," he said. "Something that involves sitting down."
"There isna anything," she replied stubbornly. "Will ye stop treating me as though I'm going to break! I'm sick of it. I'm having a baby, that's all. Thousands of women do it. It's natural. I've lost my waistline, no' my senses. If I get tired, I'll go to bed."
"Maggie, please," Iain said pleadingly, his uncharacteristic burst of husbandly dominance exhausted. "Ye must be tired. There's nae harm in lying down occasionally."
"Aye, but if you had your way I'd have lost the use of my legs wi' lying down by now," she said. She got to her feet and glared at Beth. "You scrub the floor then, if ye've such a mind to," she said. "I'll make up the fire, then I'll come and start the porridge."