Intrigued. Bertrice Small
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the Stuarts always seem to visit on the Leslies of Glenkirk, but you know what an honorable man he was. He has paid for his loyalty with his life. Mama writes that she will come to England before winter to live in the dower house at Cadby, which is hers. She asks that Autumn remain with us, or go to Henry until she comes. My half-brother, Patrick Leslie, is devastated by his papa’s death, and chary of the responsibilites he must now take on as Glenkirk’s new master. Mama feels he will better assume those obligations if she is not there for him to fall back upon. She is right, of course.”
“But how will she be able to travel under the circumstances?” Bess fretted.
He chuckled. “She will find a way, I guarantee you, Bess. When Mama wants something, little dares to stand in her way. It is Autumn we must worry about. She is not above going to find Cromwell and attempting to kill him herself. We will have to dissuade her from any and all thoughts of instant revenge.”
“And just how will you do that?” his wife asked him.
“Autumn is loyal first to the family. I shall tell her that any foolishness on her part will reflect on all of us. On the Leslies of Glenkirk, and on me and mine in particular, on India and Oxton, on the Southwoods, and the cousins at Clearfield and Blackthorne, on poor, plump old Great-Aunt Willow and her brood; on us all. She will swallow her anger, even if it kills her, for their sakes. That much I can guarantee. And when Mama arrives she will know just what to do to distract Autumn from any thought of revenge. Mama has always been clever that way,” the duke said. “She is the only one who can control my little sister. Papa, heaven help him, adored and spoiled her terribly.”
Autumn kept to her bedchamber for the next several days, her maidservant, Lily, bringing her meals which, for the first two days, were sent back uneaten. On the third day Autumn nibbled a bit from her tray, and by the end of the week she was once again eating. She came from her room to speak with Ian More before he began his long ride back to Scotland, and Glenkirk.
“Were you at Dunbar?” she asked him as they sat before the fire in the family hall.
“I was, m’lady,” he answered her somberly.
“How many went, and how many came home?” she asked.
“Hundred and fifty rode out. Thirty-six rode home, m’lady,” was his reply. “ ’Twere only luck any of us came back.”
“My father had no luck that day,” Autumn noted aloud.
“Stuarts ain’t nae been fortunate for our people, m’lady. Worse, this new king dinna even look like a Stuart. He be a dark laddie, m’lady, but he hae his family’s charm. Yer da was nae happy to follow the Stuarts, but he were a man of honor, Jemmie Leslie, God bless him!”
Autumn nodded. “Aye,” she said. Then she handed Ian More a sealed packet. “Give my mother this when you return. I will await her coming here at Queen’s Malvern.”
“Will we ever see ye at Glenkirk again, m’lady?” he asked her, his plain face concerned.
Autumn shook her head wearily. “I do not know, Ian More. I honestly do not know. It certainly did not occur to me when I left Glenkirk last April that I should never again see it. I know not what will happen to me now that my father is dead.”
“The new duke will look after ye, m’lady,” Ian said firmly.
“Patrick?” Autumn laughed for the first time since she had learned of her father’s death. “Patrick will have all he can do to look after himself and Glenkirk, Ian More. Papa’s death will have shocked my brother by its suddenness, but even more horrific for him will be his precipitous ascent to all the responsibility Glenkirk entails. Patrick will have no time for me. I am better off, though not greatly so, remaining in England with Charlie and Henry.”
A small smile touched the clansman’s lips. Lady Autumn Leslie was far more astute than he would have previously given her credit for; but then, lassie or nae, she was a Leslie. Leslie women were ever noted for being resourceful, and intelligent. Obviously the lass was finally growing up, and about time, he considered. He arose from his seat opposite her and bowed neatly. “I’ll deliver yer message to yer mam as quickly as I can, m’lady. Hae ye any word for yer brother?”
“Tell him I wish him good fortune, and God bless,” Autumn replied. “Tell him I hope we will meet again one day.”
Ian More felt tears pricking his eyelids. Damn Covenanters! he thought irritably. Why could they not all be content to leave everything as it was instead of fighting, and costing Scotland more sons and future generations? Why did their beloved duchess and her daughter have to flee from their home? Damn the Covenanters! Damn the Puritans, and damn the royal Stuarts as well! He swallowed hard. “I’ll deliver yer kind words to Duke Patrick,” he told the girl. “Take care of yerself, m’lady.”
“And you also, Ian More,” Autumn replied. “God be with you on your return journey. Take no chances.”
“I won’t, m’lady,” but they both knew he lied. Ian More would do whatever he had to, to return to Glenkirk and deliver his messages as quickly as he could.
It was almost the end of October when the Duke of Lundy and his eldest son finally traveled into the town of Worcester, a good day’s ride from Queen’s Malvern.
“We’ll be back in time for your birthday, and I promise to bring you a fine gift,” he told his sister.
“I’m not going to celebrate my birthday any longer,” Autumn told him dourly. “At least not until I am a married woman. I shall remain eighteen until then, Charlie, but if you should like to bring me a gift because you love me, then I shall accept it,” she told him, a twinkle in her eyes.
“You shall have your gift because I love you, sister,” he assured her. He was relieved to see that Autumn was shedding her initial grief over her father’s death. She would never forget Jemmie Leslie, but she realized life must continue onward. Hopefully their mother would arrive before winter set in, and together she and Autumn would heal. Charles Frederick Stuart could but imagine the sorrow the Duchess of Glenkirk was experiencing now. She had lost two husbands before she was twenty. His own father, Prince Henry Stuart, who had been her lover, had died two months after his own birth. She had been reluctant to remarry, but Jemmie Leslie would not take no for an answer. They had been wed for thirty-five years. How would she go on without him?
He rode to Worcester with his seven-year-old son by his side, surrounded by his own men-at-arms. Worcestershire was royalist country, but it did not hurt to be careful. About them the countryside lay peaceful in the mid-autumn sunshine. The fields were harvested, and the gleaners busily at work in them. The orchards had been picked clean of their apples and pears. Cattle and sheep grazed on the fading green hillsides. They reached the town just before sunset, putting up at The Crown and Stag, a large, comfortable inn where the duke was well known.
They went to church the following morning in the cathedral by the river. Freddie was wide-eyed at the great altar, the soaring arches, and the magnificent stained-glass windows. Afterwards they set about to find the thread his wife had requested. It was more difficult than he had anticipated, but finally in the shop of a small and insignificant mercer they found thread. A great deal of black, as Bess had warned him, but still a goodly supply of white and colors. The Duke of Lundy bought as much as the mercer would let him have, paying a premium gladly for it, however. Still, who knew when he would get into town again, or if this mercer would even still have thread.
He spent the rest of the day showing his young son about the beautiful town. Frederick Stuart had never been to Worcester before. In fact, he had been nowhere other than his relations’ homes. Seeing his son had a good supper, Charlie put the lad to bed. Then he went to join his friends, which was his true reason for coming to Worcester. When they could, the local gentlemen met to exchange news and gossip about the civil war, and the latest of Cromwell’s edicts. The men sat together in a discreet private room, safe from spies and protected by the innkeeper, who was an ardent royalist.
“They say Dunbar was a debacle, and the king was beaten by an army a quarter the