The Little Pretender

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“Well, gentlemen,” Colonel Brett went on, “the position is briefly this. Most of you will remember James Drummond. He was one of us whom we loved and trusted, who fought with great bravery for the Chevalier de St. George in ’15 and who was exiled for life.

“James Drummond died two years ago. I went often to his house so I know what Scotland meant to him, and that he died as he lived, wanting only the return of our rightful King. He had living with him his ward, Iona, whom he bought up from a tiny child, and it is her you now see before you.

“James was her guardian – he certainly never acknowledged any other relationship. In fact there is no record of who Iona is. The only thing we are certain of is that she is of Scottish extraction, and although she has never been to Scotland, it is indeed her native land.”

Colonel Brett paused and looked at Iona.

“Is that not true, my dear?” he asked.

But Iona could only nod, for the references to her guardian had brought the misery of her loss all too vividly before her. For a brief moment she raised her eyes, bright with unshed tears, then lowered them again.

“That is Iona’s background,” Colonel Brett continued.

“And now, gentlemen, comes the second part of my story. A few weeks ago Father Allan MacDonald, who was Chaplain to Clanranald’s Regiment at Falkirk, came to me with a strange story. A French priest, with whom he had become friendly, called upon him one evening and asked him to attend a parishioner of his who was dying, as she wished to make her last confession.

“Father MacDonald quickly gathered that the parishioner in question was a Scot and the priest, whose knowledge of our language is very limited, was appealing to him because he was unable to cope with the old Scotswoman’s distress. Father MacDonald followed the priest to a shabby, poverty-stricken house where he found a very old woman making an almost superhuman effort to cling to life until her story had been told. Her delight at seeing Father MacDonald was pathetic, and drawing on her last remaining strength, she told him that she was Jeannie MacLeod who had been nurse to the infant daughter of the Duke of Arkrae.

“Seventeen years ago, in 1733, the Duke and the Duchess and their family had crossed the Channel to visit Vienna as the guests of the Emperor Charles. On their return, travelling in the Duke’s private yacht, they were overtaken by a terrible storm. At this point, Father MacDonald said, Jeannie MacLeod became somewhat incoherent, but it is easy to understand that in the confusion and terror she had lost her head, as perhaps had many other people aboard. It appears, however, that she had for many years been in love with the Duke’s valet, and it was therefore with a sensation of relief that she found herself safely in a boat with this man at the oars and her charge, the Duke’s little red-haired daughter, in her arms.

“But her relief was short lived, for after a few hours at sea the child died. Heavy with grief, seasick, hungry and thirsty, Jeannie MacLeod did not realise what was happening until after three days adrift they were picked up by a French fishing-boat and brought to the Coast of Brittany. By her account she was ill for some time, but when she recovered she learned with horror two things. First, that the valet, whose name was Ewart, had drawn away from the yacht without taking any trouble to find out if the Duke or the Duchess or any other members of the party were safe, secondly, that he had in his possession all the Duke’s jewels.

“Father MacDonald said that he had no reason to doubt that Jeannie MacLeod had been an honest woman. She was shocked and horrified at what Ewart had done, but she loved him and she was utterly dependent on him in a strange land. The child she had nursed was dead. She had, to put it bluntly, little to gain and much to lose by exposing Ewart to the authorities, so, as most other women would have done, she made the best of a bad business. She married the man and the sale of the Duke’s jewels enabled them to set up a small shop on the outskirts of Paris.

“They remained there until he died of a fever and then she supported herself as best she could by taking in washing.

But the sin her husband had committed, and she too in condoning it, lay heavily on Jeannie’s heart, and she begged Father MacDonald for absolution and also that he would convey the truth to the Duke. The child had not suffered, she said. She was but three years old and unconscious almost from the first moment that they had found themselves adrift in the boat. Two things only had Jeannie kept, which she asked to be returned to their rightful owner. One was a miniature, the frame of which, set with diamonds, had long since been sold, and the other a little bangle of no particular value, which the child had worn round her wrist. They are here.”

Colonel Brett put his hand in his pocket and drew out the two objects. The bangle was of gold set with very tiny pearls. He placed it on the table and beside it he put a small frameless miniature.

Iona glanced at it curiously and saw that it was of a woman.

Colonel Brett cleared his throat.

“You may be wondering,” he said, “how this concerns us all, so I now come to the point. When Father MacDonald gave me the miniature and the bangle, I had no other thought in my mind but to get someone who was going to Scotland to return them to the Duke of Arkrae. Then looking at the miniature I was astonished, for the picture painted a good many years ago, reminded me of someone I knew very well. Jeannie MacLeod had not told Father MacDonald whom the miniature portrayed, but there is no doubt in my mind that, as it was in the Duke’s possession, it is a picture of the Duchess of Arkrae – mother of the child who was drowned. I will now, gentlemen, pass this miniature amongst you and ask you if it reminds you, as it did me, of anyone you have seen before.”

Colonel Brett pushed the miniature across the table to the man on his immediate left. He stared at it for several seconds, and then looked up at Colonel Brett from under bushy eyebrows. Without a word he passed it to his immediate neighbour. Almost in silence save for one exclamation of astonishment the miniature was passed round the table until it reached Iona.

She had known what to expect, but now as she looked at the pictured face staring back at hers, she, too, felt inclined to give an exclamation of astonishment, for it was as if she looked in a mirror. The miniature was very delicately executed, but the colours had not faded and the pictured face was clear, its colour undimmed.

It might easily have passed for a portrait of Iona. There was the same red hair curling riotously back from the white forehead, the same big green eyes with long, dark lashes. It would be impossible for anyone to look at the miniature and then at Iona and not to see the resemblance. It was impossible, too, not to imagine that the delicate, heart-shaped face was hers, and the narrow white pillar of her neck was carried just as proudly.

A man at the far end of the table cleared his throat.

“Well, Brett, continue,” he said.

The Colonel looked down at the small bracelet and touched it with the tip of his finger.

“So far I have spoken of this to no one save Iona. Father MacDonald must remain in ignorance, as must everyone else outside this room. My suggestion is that Iona goes to Scotland carrying the miniature and the bracelet and presents herself at Skaig Castle as the present Duke’s sister.”

There was a sudden movement and somebody said gruffly,

“A wild scheme!”

“Daring if you like,” Colonel Brett said, “but not wild. You gentlemen here know as well as I do that we have for months now, nay years, been trying to get in touch with the present Duke. The old Duke, his father, died in ’45. He was eighty-one and on his deathbed when Prince Charles landed, therefore the Clan MacCraggan took no official part in the Rising, although several members joined individually.

“The present Duke was abroad, and as he did not return to Scotland until our armies were defeated and our Prince forced to take refuge overseas, we do not know where his sympathies lie. You, gentlemen, and I both know what the support of the MacCraggan’s would mean to our plans for the future, but at the moment we are unable to say whether they will be for or against us.

“Twice during this past year we have sent messengers to Scotland with instructions to get in touch with the Duke. The first was caught by the English and beheaded before he got to Skaig Castle, the other has never been heard of since. We have heard rumours of all sorts. The old Duke was supposed to have been in touch with the Hanoverian Usurper of the British throne but it is difficult to know if this is the truth or no. He inherited from his uncle and was therefore not important enough for us to have a record of his sympathies in the Rebellion of ’15.

“The present Duke has great power. He has increased his territory since he inherited the title, his Clan, unlike many others, has not been persecuted. We want him on our side, but if he is to be our enemy, then let us know it and be forearmed.”

“And this lady will undertake such a dangerous quest?” one man asked.

“When I have finished Iona shall answer that for herself,” Colonel Brett replied. “There is one more thing. You all know of the ‘Tears of Torrish’, those fabulous diamonds that were given to our Prince before the Battle of Culloden. For safety they were sewn inside his bonnet, but when His Royal Highness was forced to fly from the battlefield, the wind blew his bonnet from his head. Thus the ‘Tears of Torrish’ were lost. For years we have been making what inquiries we could. The bonnet may have been trampled in the mud or someone who is still loyal to the Prince may have preserved it as a precious keepsake. We had almost given up hope of hearing of the diamonds again, when three months ago a rumour reached us – that the MacCraggan's knew something of the gems. If Iona goes to Skaig Castle, that is the second thing she may discover for us.

“There is no need for me to tell you what the ‘Tears of Torrish’ would mean to the Prince at this moment. Five years ago they were valued at fifteen thousand pounds, today they may be worth a great deal more.”

Colonel Brett drew a deep breath and laid both his hands face downwards on the table.

“That, gentlemen, is my story. You have seen the miniature, you have seen Iona. If she will undertake this adventure with all its risks, with all its dangers, with all its penalties, I can tell you she will do it for one reason and one reason only – because she believes in our cause. She believes, as we do, that Charles Edward Stuart should reign over England and Scotland – as now and for all time he reigns in our hearts.”

There was a sudden silence, a silence in which Iona knew they were waiting for her to speak. Her eyes went to the miniature, to the tiny gold bracelet, somehow pathetic in its very smallness, and then suddenly she got to her feet. She stood there in the candlelight looking so fragile and so delicate that for a moment those watching her felt that she had not the strength to undertake anything, not even to make the speech for which they waited. Then suddenly her eyes were open and they saw the fire within them, a fire that seemed suddenly to light her whole body as if it were a light shining through her.

“You have spoken of this, Colonel,” she said softly, “as if what I have promised to attempt is a very great undertaking. Surely it is but a small thing to do for the Prince we love?”

There was a little sigh from the assembled company, a sigh of relief as Iona spoke. Then from the shadows of the fireplace someone came walking towards the table. He stood for a moment behind his empty chair. The gentlemen rose and Iona looked across the table. Though she had never seen him before, she knew him even as she had known that he had been all the time listening in the darkness.

In silence the men drew aside to let her pass, and then she was beside him, sinking at his feet in a deep curtsey, her lips against the hand he extended to her. Then he drew her to her feet, and she looked up into his blue eyes and saw in his handsome, whimsical countenance that strange, compelling charm which made men even against all logical conviction be ready to fight and to die for him.

“Thank you, Iona,” he said, and at the sound of his voice her heart swelled within her with a joy that she could neither explain nor contain. Still holding Iona’s hand, the Prince turned towards the assembled company.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “if this lady will undertake such an adventure on our behalf, then we can only offer her both our blessing and our faith in her success.”

His fingers tightened for a moment on Iona’s and then he released her hand.

“A toast, Colonel,” he said, and lifted from the table the glass of wine which had stood in front of his empty chair.

Five men lifted their glasses and turned towards Iona. She felt full of an excitement such as she had never experienced before. She felt a power within herself to achieve whatever was asked of her, because it was for his sake she attempted it and because of his faith in her.

She clasped her hands together tightly. This moment was beyond happiness. The glasses were raised.

“To Iona – the Little Pretender!” His Royal Highness said softly.