The Adventurers

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Since the Guards had disappeared, the crowd had stopped shouting and had made, instead, a great murmuration, like a swarm of giant, contented bees. Now, further, down the street, the note changed, rose to an angry whine, then clarified itself into words: ‘Les Anglais! A bas les Anglais!’ And then, a phrase Elizabeth had read about, but never thought to hear: ‘A la lanterne!’

  Sonia’s cold hand caught hers. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Someone’s coming.’ It was possible, now, to see a kind of ripple in the crowd where a passage was being forced through it.

  ‘English?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Madness.’

  ‘Gallant madness.’

  ‘Very dangerous gallantry.’ Elizabeth was straining her eyes, trying to see who was coming. ‘I hope it’s not—’

  ‘Haverton, of course. Coming here.’

  ‘And Denbigh with him. I thought he had more sense.’

  ‘Or less courage? See, the crowd falls back before them.’

  ‘It’s lunacy, I tell you. What can have possessed Giles Burnleigh?’

  ‘I expect Philip made him come.’

  ‘You mean he would not let him risk his life alone. Oh, my God!’ For now, when the two men were well in sight, forcing their way nearer and nearer through the crowd, its mood began to change. So far, the French had been content to shout insults—and stand back. After all, Denbigh and Haverton were both armed, and showed every sign of meaning business, and the crowd was largely composed of women. But Elizabeth had seen Marthe’s friend, Geneviève, bend to pick something up from the snowy street. Now she had a cobblestone in her hand. Mlle Moisson was saying something to her: encouragement: dissuasion? She raised her arm and threw. The stone missed Haverton, at whom it was apparently aimed, but, fatally, it hit a young woman standing behind him in the crowd. She screamed, put her hand to her head and brought it away covered with blood. In an instant, the temper of the crowd had hardened. Every hand now held a weapon; sticks, stones and, here and there, a dagger glinting in chill February sunlight. Elizabeth saw Denbigh say something to Haverton; they increased their pace, and—she realised what he must have said. He had decided that they must on no account draw the crowds towards their house; at whatever risk to themselves, they would continue on their way down the street, running the gauntlet to draw the crowd away. And now stones and sticks were beginning to fly. Sonia gasped as a jagged cobble caught Haverton on the cheek, but Elizabeth had already left her and was running downstairs.

  For a moment, the bolt stuck, then she had it back, flung the door open and stood on the doorstep, a little above the street Luck was on her side; the two men, advancing steadily, were now almost level with the door; Denbigh had his arm round Haverton, whose wound was bleeding freely. The crowd had hesitated, satisfied, for an instant, with what it had achieved. Best of all, a little hush had fallen. Women were nudging their neighbours, whispering together… Somewhere further down the street a man raised the cry again of ‘Death to the English,’ but, for a moment, it was not taken up. Elizabeth seized her chance: ‘Is this how you treat your friends? We are not Cossacks!’ Her clear voice sent the fluent French ringing down the street ‘We are here to bring peace, not the sword.’ And then, as the crowd still hesitated, muttering, uncertain: ‘Mme Béguèt, you know us for your friends. Speak for us.’

  ‘It’s true.’ Mme Béguèt interposed her enormous bulk between Elizabeth and a virago with a spit. ‘They’ve never kept me waiting for my money. Not like some I could name.’ The remark obviously had point, for the crowd shook with a little ripple of laughter.

  It gave Elizabeth the time she needed. ‘Come.’ Denbigh had managed to force his way towards her, half carrying Haverton, who drooped against him, blood pouring down his face. Now she met them, got her arm under Haverton’s other one, and helped Denbigh lift him up the steps to their front door. Sonia was waiting there, and as Haverton collapsed on a bench in the hall, she shot the bolt behind them.

  ‘Thank you—that was—timely.’ An angry roar from outside gave point to Denbigh’s words. ‘I hope your door is strong. And—I apologise, for both of us, for bringing this trouble upon you. Listen to that.’ A hail of missiles was rattling against the shuttered windows. ‘Have you shutters upstairs too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A pity. We must console ourselves with the thought that they are most of them women. Their aim will be poor. And—it should not be for long. I sent a messenger to Caulaincourt, the moment I heard the news, reminding him of your predicament. He is sure to arrange for your protection.’

  ‘I sent to him too.’ Elizabeth bent over Haverton, who was sitting groaning, his handkerchief to his face. ‘How are you, Mr Haverton?’

  ‘Blood!’ He took away the soaked handkerchief, looked at it and turned, if possible, paler than ever. ‘A doctor! I must have a doctor; I shall bleed to death. I shall be marked for life. Look at it come!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Denbigh. ‘It’s only a scratch. Put back the handkerchief, if you don’t like the sight of blood. You wouldn’t want to soil your waistcoat, would you?’

  Sonia darted a look of bitter reproach at him and bent tenderly over Haverton. ‘Lean on me, Mr Haverton. It is the shock, merely; you will be better soon.’

  ‘Here.’ Elizabeth returned from the kitchen with a handful of Marthe’s clean polishing rags. ‘Use these to stanch it.’

  ‘Dirty kitchen cloths!’ He waved them away impatiently. ‘Infected with who knows what vile French disease?’

  ‘On the contrary.’ Elizabeth’s voice was sharper now. ‘Marthe is very particular about her kitchen cloths. Come, Mr Haverton, it was very gallant to come to our rescue. You do not, surely, wish to spoil the effect by bleeding all over our furniture. Here, Sonia’—she handed her a threadbare tablecloth—‘spread this over the sofa in the salon, and let Mr Haverton rest there a little. He will be more comfortable so.’ She moved towards the stairs. ‘It’s time we found out what’s happening outside.’ Inevitably, instinctively, she spoke to Denbigh.

  ‘Yes.’ He joined her at the stair foot. ‘I don’t like this silence. May I come too?’

  ‘Of course.’ No time to think of the strangeness of this meeting. And yet, as she led him upstairs, she could not help being acutely aware of the feel of him behind her, the familiar firm tread… Don’t think about it… In her room, the disordered bed, her negligée tossed across a chair still spoke of her hasty rising. She hardly spared them a thought, leading the way to the window. ‘Carefully… You think they may be planning something?’

  ‘I‘m afraid so.’ Like her, he was looking out cautiously from behind the curtains. ‘They’re in a strange state. You were mad to take the risk you did. They might have torn you to pieces.’

  ‘I had to do something.’

  ‘Lucky for us you did. But then—you were always one for doing.’ And then, more dryly, as if disconcerted by the note of familiarity. ‘I can only apologise for involving you in this danger. But I am sure you will believe me when I tell you it was no idea of mine.’

  ‘I thought not.’

  ‘No.’ Oddly, he seemed almost apologising. ‘I thought it best simply send to Caulaincourt on your behalf.’

  ‘You were always practical.’

  ‘You think that?’ He checked himself. ‘Look! We were right to be anxious. I’m afraid they mean to burn your door down. Is there a back way out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Windows?’

  ‘Too small to escape by.’

  ‘The roof?’

  ‘There’s no way up to it.’

  He shrugged. ‘Then we shall just have to stay where we are. What a fortunate thing it’s been such a cold winter; it should take them some time to get together enough wood for a good blaze. The snow will slow them up, too. But—how much water have you in the house?’

  ‘Not much. Marthe fetches it each morning. I sent her to Caulaincourt. I wish she’d come back.’

  ‘Best not count on it. We’ll use w
hat you have to soak the inside of the door. It’s a pity there’s no window above it.’

  ‘Yes.’ The shouting had started again outside. Elizabeth could not help a little shiver of fear.

  ‘Where’s the water?’ His voice was bracing and she realised, with an angry pang, that he knew exactly what she was feeling. Intolerable that this stranger—for that was all he was—should be able to read her thoughts.

  Did he feel her hostility? Notice how carefully she avoided touching him as they passed each other in the hall? ‘Be grateful for the shouting,’ he said. ‘It may well bring us help. Caulaincourt doesn’t want violence. He and the mayor have made a special appeal on our behalf. They’ll be furious when they hear of this.’

  ‘I shall find that a very poor consolation.’ But she had got her second wind now, and they worked quietly, side by side, drenching the front door with every available drop of water, even what Marthe had ready on the stove for cooking lunch. By tacit agreement, they had left Sonia to minister to Haverton behind the closed door of the salon.

  ‘That’s all the water. Now what?’ As she spoke, she was angry with herself for turning to him so naturally for orders.

  ‘Damp rags, if you’ve got any. Five minutes—ten—may make all the difference. But first, let’s see how they are getting on.’ This time he led the way upstairs.

  It seemed to Elizabeth, looking cautiously out, that the crowd had thinned a little. She said so and Denbigh agreed with her. ‘A bad sign, I’m afraid. The good citizens have gone home to cook their lunch. Those that remain—’ He did not finish the sentence.

  ‘But fewer of them to fight.’

  ‘You were always a fighter, weren’t you?’ Must he keep reminding her? ‘Yes, I think it’s time we counted our weapons. Here, if I mistake not, comes the torch.’

  A man was running down the street from the direction of the baker’s shop, carrying a flaming brand from the fire. ‘Your gun’s loaded?’ Denbigh went on. ‘Mine; Haverton’s—we’d best see how he is. Can Miss von Hugel shoot?’

  ‘Better than I do.’

  ‘Then fetch them, would you? Here, at the top of the stairs, is the best point for defence.’

  Haverton was looking much better—and considerably ashamed of himself. Sonia had wound a competent-looking bandage round his head and, Elizabeth suspected, given him a bracing lecture while she was doing so.

  His first words were an apology. He was ashamed—had always been made ill by the sight of blood—deplorable behaviour, just the same…

  ‘Never mind that now.’ Elizabeth cut him short. ‘The mob are trying to burn down the front door. Lord Denbigh says we must defend ourselves at the top of the stairs.’

  ‘Good God.’ Could he have forgotten about the mob? His glance now took in the drenched front of her dress. ‘And I’ve been malingering here.’

  It was too true to be answerable. She turned and led the way upstairs to find that Denbigh had been busy in her absence building a barricade of furniture from which they could command the front door.

  ‘Good.’ He too made short work of Haverton’s attempt at an apology. ‘You and I to fire, Philip, from here and here. Miss von Hugel, if you will, to load for us. Mrs Barrymore to keep watch—carefully—from the window and let us know what to expect.’ As he spoke, he was helping the two girls through the gap he had left in his barricade. His hand was ice-cold on Elizabeth’s and, glancing at him quickly, she noticed for the first time how pale he was. Well, she told herself, no wonder…

  While she was downstairs, a flight of stones had broken her bedroom windows. Splinters of glass lay everywhere on the floor; the curtains billowed in the cold wind; the shouting from the street sounded as if it was in the room. She approached the window, carefully, as Denbigh had told her to, her feet crunching on broken glass. Looking out from among the billowing curtains, she saw that the crowd below were too much occupied to notice her. Smoke, the smell of burning and the crackle of flames told her that the fire outside their front door must be burning merrily. All eyes were fixed upon it, except at the far side of the street, where a sort of whirlpool in the crowd seemed to indicate that an argument was in progress. Yes, now she saw Marthe, who had jumped on to the steps of a house on the other side of the street and was shouting to the people nearest her. Impossible to hear what she was saying, but impossible, equally, not to hope. Holding her drenched skirts clear of the glass she ran back across the hall to report. ‘I’m sure she’s on our side,’ she concluded.

  ‘Let us by all means hope you are right,’ said Denbigh. ‘For that door is not going to last much longer. What’s that?’

  Once again, Elizabeth ran back to look, spurred on, this time, by the sound of horses’ hooves. Shouts and then screams from the square beyond; the crowd eddied, broke and began to scatter as a detachment of the National Guard rode into the street.

  Reporting this to the others, ‘I never thought I’d be so glad to see French soldiers,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know they are on our side?’ asked Sonia.

  ‘Of course they are.’ But Denbigh was suddenly whiter than ever; he swayed where he stood. ‘How tedious,’ he said, ‘my apologies—’ and fainted.

  ‘Good God!’ Elizabeth was by his side in an instant, anxiously feeling his flickering pulse. ‘What can be the matter? Was he hurt too, do you think?’

  ‘He said nothing.’ Haverton too had bent over Denbigh, as he lay half supported by the barricade.

  ‘How white he is!’ Sonia had fetched sal volatile from her bedroom. ‘D’you think he’s dying, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Of course not. But I wish his pulse was stronger. We must get a doctor—’ She stopped, remembering, and at that moment the front door, downstairs, toppled backwards into the house in a cloud of smoke and steam. ‘No.’ Her hand closed over Haverton’s as he picked up his gun. ‘They’re friends—look!’

  The smoke was clearing now, and they could see a group of soldiers, occupied in clearing away the fire that had been built against the door. Now one of them advanced into the hall, looked up and saw them. ‘Don’t fire.’ He spoke in French. ‘M the Mayor and M the Duke of Vicenza are here. We are your friends.’ It sounded oddly, from him.

  ‘Good.’ Elizabeth did not give Haverton time to speak. ‘Then be so good as to fetch a doctor, at once.’

  ‘A doctor? Yes, madame, at once—but here is the mayor.’

  The mayor was complete with sky-blue swallow-tailed coat and tricoloured scarf. Beside him, Caulaincourt or, to give him Napoleon’s title, the Duke of Vicenza, looked almost dead with fatigue. It was the mayor who spoke, bursting into an eloquent flood of apology. He was appalled…horrified…he had come as quickly as he could…the damage should be made good. He struck an attitude: ‘We French do not make war on ladies.’

  Elizabeth interrupted him. ‘Has anyone gone for the doctor?’

  So far, they had noticed Haverton’s bandage, but not Denbigh’s motionless body, which had slipped still further down behind the barricade. Now Caulaincourt gave a quick series of orders. One man hurried off to fetch a doctor, two more came up to help carry Denbigh into Vincent’s room, others began the task of setting things to rights. Elizabeth, directing the men who carried Denbigh, listened with half an ear as the mayor’s stream of apologies continued. Denbigh stirred a little as he was laid down. His eyelids flickered open, then closed again. She was able, at last, to give her attention to Caulaincourt, thank him, as prettily as she could, for his timely intervention, and beg that the ringleaders of the crowd should not be pursued and punished. ‘I’d much rather not know who it was, monsieur,’ she said, ‘and besides—we have to go on living here, at least for a while.’

  ‘Quite so.’ He was no fool. ‘You will be glad, though, to know that it was your servant who came to us.’

  ‘I thought so.’ She looked around to see how Sonia had received this heartening news. But where was Sonia? And Haverton…

  Once again, Caulaincourt showed his quick wit. ‘
I believe M Haverton’s bandage has slipped,’ he said. ‘Mlle, von Hugel is fixing it for him—in there.’ The upper hall was clear now, and the dragoons were downstairs trying to replace the charred front door. Caulaincourt’s gesture took Elizabeth across the hall to Sonia’s bedroom, where she found her impatiently adjusting a new bandage round Haverton’s head. ‘And don’t touch it this time. Elizabeth! How’s Lord Denbigh?’

  ‘He stirred a little. I wish the doctor would come.’ And then, hearing a familiar voice, she hurried out into the hall. ‘Marthe.’ She went to her, hands outstretched. ‘How glad I am to see you safe.’

  Marthe cut short her thanks. ‘I hear milord is injured. Where is he? I’m not too bad a nurse, though I do say so.’

  ‘In here. Will you watch over him till the doctor comes?’ Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief as she saw Marthe settle herself by the bed, and then turned to Caulaincourt, who was taking his leave. There was something she must ask. ‘What is the news, monsieur?’

  She had always liked Caulaincourt and he did not fall short of her respect. Meeting her eyes squarely, ‘Better for you, I think, madame, than for us,’ he said. ‘It’s only a matter of days—a flash in the pan, no more.’ He shrugged. ‘I wish it were otherwise, but the facts must be faced. A week, or less, short of a miracle, and you will be masters again. In the meantime, I will leave a guard on the house. May I ask, as a favour to me, that you keep Lord Denbigh and M Haverton here? It will be safer for you all.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Ah, here’s the doctor.’ And he took his leave as the little bustling medical man hurried into the hall, with his black bag in one hand and his tricorn hat in the other. Elizabeth made short work of his exclamations of sympathy, hurrying him to Denbigh’s bedside. He lay exactly as she had left him, very white, very still… Marthe had applied a cold compress but confirmed that he had not moved. ‘There’s death in his face, if ever I saw it.’