‘I haven’t. I never have had. I can see I shall have to tell you, Sonia—and trust you.’
‘You can.’
‘I think so. Well then, you are wrong about your Unattainable. I was engaged to him once. Worse than that: I ran away with him.’
‘You! Miss Prudence! I don’t believe it!’
‘I learned my prudence the hard way, Sonia. I hope you may never have such a lesson. Did you never wonder why I came so far from home to look after you?’
‘Often. So attractive as you were—are, I should say.’
‘It makes no odds. Has not, for years. I ruined myself when I was your age—just eighteen.’
‘I can’t believe it. You and Lord Denbigh. It’s not true!’
‘It is, though. He was at Cambridge, enjoying his first freedom from a tyrannical father and the older sister you speak of as a dragon. My father’s parish was not far out of the town. Giles Burnleigh—as he then was—came to him for coaching. Oh, he was young then, and full of ideals. He did not wish to take advantage of his rank and secure a degree he had not earned. Father thought him brilliant. He was too busy—poor father—with his reading and his parish work to see that I thought so too. And I was right, I am sure of it. Giles had the seeds of greatness in him, Sonia; I felt it. And yet—he had no chance.’
‘Why not? What do you mean?’
‘I mean his father and his sister. His father was a Tory of the old school; rich as you please; master of I don’t know how many rotten boroughs; Government’s most faithful supporter. Giles’s career was planned out for him when he was in short coats. As for his sister, she looked forward to the day when she would act as hostess for the First Minister. And Giles wanted to come out as a Whig. More than that—oh, he had wild ideas then. He was all for the reform of Parliament. No more rotten boroughs; representation for the new towns—sometimes he even talked of “one man, one vote.”’
‘Good gracious! What did his father say?’
‘There was a terrible scene. Giles came straight to me afterwards. We had never talked of love, you understand, but I think we had both known… At least he came straight to me. His father had told him to change his views, and make a public retraction—he had made a wild speech in the Union. Otherwise, he said, he could not prevent him taking the title, when he died, but he should not have a penny to go with it. Everything would go to Elinor.’
‘Did he mind?’
‘Not in the least. I think, really, he was relieved. He felt freed, you see, from a great burden. Those were the days of uneasy peace with France; he thought it shameful. Freed of the burden of his estates, he felt there was nothing to prevent him from doing what he had always wished: immigrating to America.’
‘To America!’
‘Yes. He said that was the land of liberty—of opportunity. He had no doubt of making his way there, and I am sure he was right. I thought it the very thing for him. And then—he asked me to go too.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘Yes. I loved him. We were both under age, of course. There was no possibility of marrying before, we left, but when we got there we were sure we would be able. We travelled as brother and sister, and, believe me, Sonia, behaved as if we were. I remember sometimes almost wishing he was not such a complete gentleman. Anyway, we got safely to Liverpool and there our luck changed. We had been to the docks, inquiring for a ship and had found one that was sailing the next day. We were walking back down one of the narrow streets near the harbour when we heard screams, the sound of hooves. It was a runaway carriage, heading straight for us. And Giles—he stopped those horses in their tracks, Sonia, but received a blow on the head in doing so. He said it was nothing and we went back to our hotel. Then, later that night, he swooned dead away. I could not rouse him. I’ll never forget that night. The landlord of the inn sent for a doctor—a good enough sort of man, but he gave me little comfort. Rest was the only thing, he said—as for taking him on board ship next day, it would be to sign his death warrant.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Nursed him as best I might. He had regained consciousness, but was still subject to dizzy spells when the inevitable happened—his father arrived. The delay had been fatal.’
‘What happened?’
‘He blamed it all on me, of course. Giles was easily led, he said. I had influenced him, dominated him…’ She coloured. ‘Well, in a way, it was true. And he called me—’ She paused. ‘He was old, and angry, he probably did not mean it. But Giles flew at him and I had to separate them. It was dreadful, Sonia. And all my fault: I felt it then, I feel it still. And—Giles collapsed; he was not strong enough for such a scene; it brought on one of his fainting fits. His father turned to me: “You see what you’ve done. I hope you’re satisfied.” That was the last thing he said. His carriage was outside. He had Giles carried down to it. They were gone in half an hour.’
‘He left you there?’
‘Indeed he did. Luckily, I had enough money to get home, but it took time. When I got there, my reputation was’—she paused for the word—‘blasted. I waited for Giles to write, or come to me. He never did. Presently, I read in the papers that he had gone abroad—for his health. Don’t look so angry, Sonia. He told me tonight that he had written; his letters were returned. He made inquiries, and was told I was dead. I told you—his father was a very powerful man.’
‘Surely you wrote to him?’
‘Once. It was returned; unopened. Father was very good to me, in his absent-minded way. The rest of the family would have nothing to do with me. But—he heard about your mother; how lonely she was in Germany; how badly she needed a companion who would also help to look after her child. I was tired of being pitied. There were rumours in the newspapers that Giles was about to engage himself to a young lady he had met in Rome.’
‘They weren’t true, apparently.’
‘No, but I didn’t know that. And I’ve never regretted coming to you.’
Sonia reached out to hug her. ‘It was the best day of my life. Lord, though, no wonder you looked so queer the other day when you heard he was here. Elizabeth?’
‘Yes?’
‘He’ll ask you again of course?’
‘Good God, no. It’s all over, years ago. Besides—he thinks I forgot him—married again.’
‘Of course! I never thought of that. No wonder he looked so angry. But—you’ll tell him?’
‘I’d rather die. Sonia, let me say this, once and for all, and then, please, we won’t talk about it again. I broke my heart for Lord Denbigh years ago, no use pretending I didn’t. But—it was years ago. My heart will never break again: I’ll see to that. It’s too painful. I hated him for a long time, but now, I don’t even hate him. Why should I? It was not, after all, so much his fault as I had thought. But—I have my pride, Sonia. Indeed, it’s about all I have. It made him angry to think I’d forgotten him and married—well, that’s all the revenge I’ll ever have.’
‘Revenge? You don’t sound like yourself, Barry.’
‘No? I seem so cool and composed to you, so completely the governess? Well, so I am—now; that’s what he did to me. And nothing—nothing in the whole world, Sonia, would make me turn back and be that desperate girl again. There are advantages, you see, about getting old: things don’t hurt so much.’
‘Old? You, Barry? Nonsense.’
‘I feel old, and that’s what counts. As for Lord Denbigh, I confess I dreaded the meeting, but it’s over now, and no reason why we should not behave like the formal acquaintances we are. And, now, please, Sonia, the subject is closed.’
‘Of course, if you say so.’ And then, incorrigibly, ‘He’s wonderfully attractive, though, your Giles. And such manners! Did you hear him say I sang divinely? I do hope Charles was listening. He liked me a little, don’t you think?’ She leaned on Elizabeth’s shoulder to study her own reflection in the glass. ‘I don’t see how you could forget him.’
‘It’s all over, I tell you, years ago. And now—
it’s very late, and I’m tired.’
‘And sad, poor Barry. Was he very unpleasant?’
‘Sonia, I don’t want to talk about it. Not now—not ever. I’ve told you what I have so that you’ll spare me—please.’
‘Poor darling, I’m sorry. I’m not even to tell Charles?’
‘No one. And now, goodnight.’
‘Let me help you undress first; you look so tired, darling Barry.’
‘No.’ It was almost a cry. And then, ‘Thank you, but, no, and—goodnight.’
‘Sweet dreams, Barry.’ She dropped a light kiss on Elizabeth’s cheek and turned away.
Sweet dreams? Dreams of what? Elizabeth stood, dead still, ice-quiet as the door closed behind Sonia. Now, at last, she was alone, free—to do what? ‘I won’t cry.’ Was she talking to herself? An angry swoop took her across to her glass, to make herself reassemble the white face into its habitual mask of calm. ‘I won’t think either.’ Shaking hands pulled the pins from her heavy hair. ‘Above all, I’ll not remember.’ Now, tearing the comb through the still entangled braids, she felt excused for the prickling of tears behind her eyes. The pain was salutary…reviving. At last, she was able to meet her own eyes in the glass, darker than usual with unshed tears: ‘Sweet dreams, Mrs Barrymore.’
Philip Haverton was quite as full of curiosity as Sonia, but very much less hopeful of having it satisfied. One look at his guardian’s face, over breakfast next morning, taught him to abandon even such hope as he had allowed himself. Under his tan, Denbigh was grey with fatigue, his face drawn with midnight thought. This was no day for even the most casual breakfast table conversation. Philip applied himself strenuously to rolls and coffee and pretended not to notice that his companion was eating nothing.
At last Denbigh pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I am not going to forbid you going to that house, Philip, but I do beg you will have a care what you do—and what you say.’
‘What I say?’
‘Yes. I have been interested in Charles Vincent for some time, and what I saw last night confirms everything I have heard. How much, do you imagine, had those young Russians babbled, in their cups, about Allied troop movements?’
‘You mean—’
‘He is certainly a—well, call it a collector of information. The question I have not been able to answer to my own satisfaction is for whom he collects it. It was he, you know, who produced the secret correspondence on the basis of which the Czar has agreed to march through Switzerland. Well, so much the better, of course. But—why did he do it? Be very careful, Philip. Lose your money in his house, and even your heart, a little, if you must, but mind you don’t lose reputation too.’
‘But you can’t think Miss von Hugel—or Mrs Barrymore, for the matter of that—would let herself be involved in anything underhand.’
‘Knowingly? Probably not. But think what an admirable cover that gaming house of theirs makes for him.’
‘Not a gaming house, cousin—a few friends for cards—’
‘A few drunken young men, without enough sense of the proprieties, or respect for their hostess, to prevent them behaving as they did last night? Come, Philip, you’re no fool; use the sense you have; see things as they are. I do not want to have to send you home.’
‘You couldn’t!’
‘If you speak like that, I shall wonder whether I should not. But don’t look so downcast; I don’t want to if I can help it. Just—be careful, Philip. Now we are to be on the march at last it is more important than ever that there should be no discord between the Allies.’
‘We really are to march, then?’
‘The Austrians are gone already; the Russians and Prussians are to follow them at once. I’ll never understand how Napoleon came to leave the bridge at Basel intact. Now that the Swiss have let us through—for a consideration—the way to France is open.’
It was true. Napoleon was back in Paris trying to galvanise the Chamber of Deputies into action and setting about assembling a new army. The Allied armies poured unopposed across the Rhine and were amazed to find themselves absolutely welcomed by the French peasantry.
‘It means nothing,’ Charles Vincent said. ‘They’re tired out, that’s all. And so used to seeing soldiers march past that they greet them automatically.’
‘You get more French every day,’ said Sonia accusingly.
‘And why not? I see nothing to be ashamed of in being French. We’ve held the world at bay for twenty years, which is more than you Germans can boast of.’
‘I’m not German! I’m English, and so are you. I wish you’d never met that French cousin of yours: you’ve been different since. What’s the matter with you? What’s on your mind, Charles?’
He laughed. ‘What do you think? My responsibility for two elegant young females, of course.’
Elizabeth looked up quickly, ready for a storm at his teasing tone. But Sonia surprised her. ‘Charles, don’t—’ Her voice was pleading. ‘Be serious, just for once. What have you got yourself into? Who are these friends of yours you never let us meet?’
He put down the paper he had been reading and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Who are they, kitten? Why—people I don’t want you to meet.’
Now she was angry. ‘Don’t call me kitten! I’m not a baby, nor yet the fool you think me, Charles Vincent!’
‘No?’ His voice was still indulgent. ‘And I’ve been neglecting you, Rapunzel? But don’t be anxious. I’ll make your fortune yet, you see if I don’t. And there’s always Philip Haverton, if all else fails.’
‘Oh, you’re intolerable.’ The door slammed behind her.
Elizabeth looked up from her sewing. ‘I do hope you don’t wish you had never met us.’
‘Of course not. I might well ask you the same thing. Sonia’s right enough on one point. I have neglected you shamefully since we came to Basel. And—I hope you will forgive me—I would very much rather not explain what I have been doing. Will you bear with me?’
She bit off her thread. ‘I imagine we shall have to. I only hope you know, yourself, what you are doing.’
‘Nothing I shall ever regret, I promise you.’
She gave him level look for look. ‘I do hope you are right. But tell me one thing; the landlady was asking me only this morning how long we intended to stay here.’
‘Oh—yes.’ Thoughtfully. ‘Not long, I think. There is talk of a Peace Congress to be held at Châtillon. I propose we move on there so soon as the roads are safe.’
She shivered. ‘Yes. Have you heard that it is the French now who pray, “Domine de Cossaquibus liberate nos?”’
‘Lord, deliver us from the Cossacks. Yes, I know. Now they know they’re on enemy territory, there’s no stopping their pillage—and worse. It’s uniting the French as Napoleon’s tyranny never could.’
‘Sonia’s right: you do sound more French every day, Charles. But—not for Napoleon?’
‘The two things do not necessarily go together.’
Chapter Eight
‘What do you think, sir!’ Philip Haverton burst into the study of the house Lord Denbigh had taken in Châtillon. ‘Guess who I just saw in the street.’
‘Napoleon?’ Denbigh put down his pen and looked at him quizzically.
‘Good God, no! By all reports he’s busy beating us somewhere between here and Paris. No—much better than that: Charles Vincent. He and the young ladies reached town only this morning. Oh, I’m sorry, sir.’ He had seen the change in Denbigh’s face. ‘Are you not pleased?’
‘Why should I be? Or displeased, for the matter of that. It is no concern of mine—so long as you conduct yourself with discretion, Philip. What did Charles Vincent have to say for himself?’
‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. He says there are white cockades hidden in every attic in France. He is sure that if the war goes on much longer, Napoleon will be forced to abdicate and the Bourbons will be back on the crest of the wave.’
‘The Bourbons? After all this time? Does he so? I
must tell Castlereagh that when he gets back from Troyes. He tells me there is a good deal of pro-Bourbon talk in England these days—and still more against negotiating with Bonaparte.’
‘You mean, the conference here is a complete waste of time?’
‘Worse, if you ask me. We should not be seen to negotiate with Napoleon. For one thing, he only gave his minister, Caulaincourt, a free hand so long as things were going against him. Now that he’s taken the field again, and scored some victories, he’ll never come to terms. I was never more glad of anything than when Castlereagh arrived to relieve me of my duties at the conference.’
‘You still seem busy enough. I only wish you would let me do more of your writing for you.’
‘I wish I could.’ And then, aware of how much Philip minded being excluded from his councils, ‘So Charles Vincent thinks the Bourbons have a chance, does he?’
‘Yes—I have never heard him so positive. He says the Comte d’Artois is in Switzerland already.’
‘So I have heard. But it’s his older brother, you know, who would succeed as Louis XVIII if there should really be a Bourbon restoration.’
‘Yes, of course. But Vincent says Artois would be king in fact, if not in name.’
‘He thinks that, does he? Well—I wonder. You will be calling on him and his cousins, I collect?’
‘If you do not object?’
‘And if I do?’
‘I do hope you will not.’ And then, with an effort: ‘Would you not care to come too? After all—if you and Mrs Barrymore are old friends—’ It was the first time he had managed to raise the subject since that unlucky night at Frankfurt.
‘Old friends! Hardly the phrase I would have chosen. No, I’ll not accompany you, Philip, but say everything that is polite from me to both of them. And if Charles Vincent chooses to talk politics, listen, Philip; listen, and don’t talk’
‘You want me to spy on them!’
The Adventurers Page 11