Understanding was not, however, the same as liking. She was seeing a lot less of him as he strove to learn as much as possible about the Hanoverian reaction to the increasingly serious threat the Jacobite rebellion was now posing. Any useful information was immediately put into code and relayed, via Iain and Gabriel Foley, northward to Scotland, where more and more men were joining Prince Charles.
It was necessary. But she missed her husband. It was as simple as that. However today, she determined, would be theirs. He needed some relaxation and she intended to ensure that he got it, if only for a few hours.
Maggie and Iain had gone shopping for provisions, so after a solitary breakfast she repaired to the library, intending to write a letter to Thomas and Jane, but instead was distracted by the unusual title of the book someone, presumably Iain, as Maggie was not much for the reading, had left on the table. The Sofa – A Moral Tale. Leafing through it, she noticed the unusual chapter headings too: Chapter I – The least tedious chapter in the book. Intrigued, she curled up in a corner of the sofa and started to read, soon becoming caught up in the story, which appeared to be about a gentleman whom, upon dying, had been reincarnated as a series of sofas, and was now telling stories to a Sultan, who bore more than a passing resemblance to King Louis of France, about the people who had sat upon him, and, it seemed, had proceeded to do a great deal more than merely sit.
After a while she heard Iain and Maggie return from their errands and head for the kitchen. She stretched and yawned, and looked out of the window. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, a perfect day for a walk. Not for the first time she longed to do what Iain and Maggie took for granted; to dress in casual clothes, and go for a stroll, hand in hand with her spouse. A simple pleasure, but not one she could enjoy whilst they continued to live in this Godforsaken city as Sir Anthony and Lady Elizabeth.
She sighed. If she was feeling frustrated at the restrictions of her current life, how much worse must it be for Alex? Now that his clan had joined Prince Charles, Alex was growing increasingly impatient with the endless round of society calls and meetings, desperate to be with his clan, fighting for the Stuarts. Soon, he kept telling her, and himself, soon they would pack and leave, and when they returned to London, it would be with a victorious army, and as Alex and Beth MacGregor.
She wondered if there had been any mail. Iain called in at the coffee house twice weekly, where any letters for Benjamin Johnson would be held. She finished her chapter and then headed down to the kitchen to find out. Alex was probably up by now. If any letters had arrived, they'd be in code, and it would take him a good few minutes to decipher them anyway.
She was halfway along the corridor which led to the kitchen when a masculine expletive followed by a sudden crashing sound made her quicken her steps, and she almost ran into the kitchen, skidding to a halt in the doorway at the sight which met her eyes.
Alex, dressed only in breeches, was leaning over the table, breathing heavily, his hair falling over his face, his arms braced on the scrubbed wood. The crashing noise had presumably come from the table being swept clean of crockery and cutlery, which was now scattered across the floor. Beth exchanged a glance with Iain and Maggie, ascertaining by their expressions that they were no wiser than she was as to what had caused this outburst of violence against the breakfast utensils.
For a full minute no one spoke, the only sound being that of Alex's breathing as he sought to bring his emotions under control.
"What's wrong?" Beth finally broke the silence, unable to wait any longer to find out what the hell was going on.
Alex remained as he was, and after another few moments, Beth opened her mouth to ask again, when he suddenly looked up at her, and to her horror, his eyes were brimming with tears.
"There was a letter," Iain said. He looked down at the floor, and Beth, following his gaze, saw the single sheet of paper lying amongst the broken crockery. She bent to pick it up, intending to read it, but as she had expected, it was in code.
"What's wrong?" she repeated, frantic now. "Have we lost? Did Cope win? Are Duncan and Angus … ?"
"No," Alex interrupted. "No, they're fine. We havena lost. Well, no' as far as I ken. Charles is riding to meet Cope now. I'm sorry," he continued. "I shouldna have … " He waved a hand at the mess he'd made.
"Nae bother," put in Maggie. "I'll clean it up."
"To hell with that," Beth said hotly. "If everyone's alright, and we haven't lost, then what's going on?"
"He wants me to stay," Alex replied. He'd regained some measure of control now, had blinked away the tears, although his breathing was still a little ragged.
"Stay? Who wants you to stay? Where?"
"Charles. He wants me to stay here, as Sir Anthony."
"We know that already," she said, puzzled. "We're staying for a few weeks, and then we're off to join him in Scotland, as soon as we can."
"No," Alex broke in. "He wants me to stay here. He's worried about the lack of good information about troop movements and suchlike, and he's asked me to continue gathering and passing information on. He says I'm in a unique position to find out intelligence crucial to the success of the cause, that no one else can do it."
Prince Charles had a point. Beth sat down at the bench, and put the letter on the table.
"How long does he want you to stay for?" she asked.
"Until he arrives in London to take the throne for his father," Alex replied desolately.
They abandoned the kitchen as it was, and repaired to the library with a bottle of wine to discuss the matter further. Alex picked up the book that Beth had abandoned on the sofa and glanced from it to her. It was not the sort of reading matter she usually chose.
"It was on the table," she said by way of explanation. "I was just passing time until you woke up."
He sat down and flicked through the opening pages whilst they were waiting for Maggie to bring some glasses for the wine.
"' … my soul entered that of a young man,'" he read aloud. "'And as he was an egregious fop, a busybody, a scandal-monger, a vain butterfly, an authority in trifles, serious only about his dress, his complexion, and a hundred other vapid nothings' … Christ!" he exclaimed, throwing the book down. "Is this what I'm tae be? When Angus and Duncan are telling their bairns about their great deeds in the glorious battles of the revolution that put Jamie back on the throne, am I tae tell mine about how I pranced around London dressed as a fucking molly? I'm sorry," he said.
That he'd used such a word in front of her and Maggie, who had now appeared with the glasses, told Beth more than anything just how upset he was.
"Charles does have a point," she ventured. "Lots of people can fight, but not many can do what you're doing. I think it takes a lot more courage to spend every day putting on an act, walking a tightrope, never knowing if you're going to be discovered, than it does to charge across a battlefield when your blood's up, hacking at the enemy."
"I was reared tae charge across battlefields and hack at the enemy, Beth," Alex countered. "There's nae glory in sitting in drawing rooms drinking tea and eating cake while ye blether on about the latest fashions. I canna tell ye how tired I am of it. The only thing that's kept me going these last weeks is knowing that it'd soon be over. I dinna think I can keep this up much longer." He looked across at his wife. "Is that how ye feel about what we're doing?"
"Well, I've never hacked at the enemy on a battlefield," she admitted. "I expect that takes a lot of courage, but only for a few minutes at a time, and then once the battle's over, you can go back to doing whatever you do afterwards, marching about and suchlike. With all your friends, who are doing the same as you. What we're doing is a lonely thing, and dangerous all the time. Or most of the time, anyway. We have to think about every word we say."
"Beth's right," Iain put in. "I ken ye're upset, Alex, and what ye're about may no' make such a good story, but it's important to the cause."
"Are ye no' wanting tae be fighting yourself, laddie?" Alex asked.
"Aye, of course I am, but there's nothing tae be done. We canna go against the prince."
From the look on Alex's face, it was very clear that he'd been intending to do just that. Maggie filled the glasses and handed them round. They all drank in morose silence for a few minutes as they variously contemplated months of formal visits, gentlemen's clubs, evenings alone with books entitled The Sofa, and dashing cross-country in all weathers with coded messages.
"Well," Alex said finally, "I might have to stay, and you too, Beth, but I see nae reason why you and Maggie canna go and join the rest o' the clan."