The Adventurers

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘What—’ Sonia interrupted her. ‘They are to stay?’

  ‘I thought you knew. Denbigh can’t be moved—and besides, Caulaincourt particularly asked me, and I must say from every other point of view I am delighted to have them.’

  ‘As a protection?’ Sonia’s voice dripped irony. ‘An unconscious man and a swooning boy! Oh, my God, it needed only this…’ She showed every sign of collapsing into fresh despair on her bed, but Elizabeth dropped the comb, took her by the shoulders and shook her.

  ‘Thatֹ’s enough, Sonia. We haven’t time for hysterics.’ And then, more gently, ‘Dry your eyes, child, and help me tidy the broken glass. We shall all feel better when the house is shipshape again.’

  ‘How practical you are.’ It was almost an accusation, but Elizabeth ignored it. She kept Sonia busy for the rest of the day getting the house back into some sort of order. There was no news. Caulaincourt had promised to keep them informed, and did indeed send a messenger to let them know that a glazier would come, next morning, to repair their windows. Eagerly questioned, the messenger, who seemed friendly enough, only shook his head: ‘We are waiting for news too, madame. We have heard nothing since the news came of the Allied retreat. Anything may have happened.’

  ‘And the conference?’

  He laughed. ‘Goes on as if nothing had happened—and gets nothing done as usual; it is not from those messieurs that peace will come.’ He left, once more urging Caulaincourt’s request that none of them leave the house. ‘Where you are, and so guarded, you are safe; the town is in a strange state; best take no chances.’

  The glazier actually came next morning; the house was tidy again; Jacques had made his peace with Marthe by producing a huge basket of provisions and she was contentedly busy cooking on her charcoal stove. Upstairs, Denbigh still slept, but even the doctor, paying his morning visit, admitted that it was more lightly: ‘It is only a matter of time now. Nothing to worry yourself about, madame. Today, tomorrow, he will wake, as good as new… Keep him quiet then for a few days…’

  ‘We could hardly do anything else,’ said Sonia. ‘Is there any news, Doctor?’

  ‘From the army? None yet.’ He shut his bag with a snap. ‘This silence is a bad sign—for us. I do not think you ladies need disquiet yourselves. Patience for a few days, and your friends will be masters here again.’

  ‘You think so?’ asked Haverton eagerly.

  ‘I am afraid I am sure of it. If this advance had been anything but a flash in the pan, more would have come of it by now. And besides, there are rumours today, from the South. Lord Wellington is on the move again: Soult will never hold him: the Emperor has been whittling away his forces while they’ve been in winter quarters. It is cavalry from Spain that made our late victories possible. We shall pay for it now the weather’s improving and Wellington’s on the move. So you see, ladies, if Schwartzenberg or Blücher don’t come to your rescue here, your own army may.’

  ‘Wellington!’ There was awe in Sonia’s voice. ‘Oh, if only it were possible.’

  ‘I think it more than probable. You’ll stand my friend, ladies, if the redcoats come this way?’

  ‘Of course.’ When she returned from seeing him out, Elizabeth found Sonia and Haverton in eager conversation.

  Sonia turned to her eagerly. ‘Philip knows Lord Wellington! Just think if he gets here first. Our troubles will be over. What is he like, Philip? Is he as proud as they say?’

  ‘Not proud, exactly, but he stands no nonsense. I don’t know him well, you know; he’s my cousin’s friend, not mine.’

  ‘But you do know him?’ Elizabeth was glad to see that Sonia appeared to be friends with Haverton again.

  ‘Oh yes, he’d recognise me, I suppose, if we met in the street.’

  ‘Oh, how I hope you do! Just think, Elizabeth, the English at last! What a joke it would be if we were safe away before Charles so much as returned.’ The excitement dwindled from her voice. ‘In England. Suppose my grandfather will have nothing to do with me.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘Let’s wait to cross that bridge when we’ve crossed the channel. So far as we know, Lord Wellington is still south of Bayonne. He’ll have to be a miracle worker indeed to get here before Charles returns.’

  ‘But a miracle worker is just what he is,’ said Haverton.

  And, ‘How do we know when Charles will get back?’ said Sonia.

  ‘Just as well if he doesn’t for a few days’—Elizabeth was determinedly practical—‘since we’ve no bed for him.’

  Next morning, Philip Haverton woke on his pallet to see Denbigh sitting up in bed and staring at him. ‘Thank God, you’re better.’ He jumped up and hurried across the room to him.

  ‘Better? Oh, yes, I remember. The French—but what happened, Philip; where are we?’

  ‘At Charles Vincent’s house. Caulaincourt asked that we stay here. I’m sorry: I was afraid you would not be best pleased. But what else could I do?’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose. Though you’re right: I’d rather be anywhere than here. But what’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing—that we know of. The French are still masters of the town: the Congress is still sitting: Aberdeen sends every day to ask after you: so, to do him justice, does Caulaincourt. Neither of them has any news of the armies. It seems fantastic—but there is one thing: a strong rumour going round the town that Wellington is on the move in the South.’

  ‘Wellington?’ Denbigh swung his legs out of bed. ‘Then it’s time to be up and doing. Is Charles Vincent back, by the way?’

  ‘No, not yet. Should you get up?’

  ‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for. Of course I should. I’ve lain here long enough—too long.’

  When he got downstairs half an hour or so later, Denbigh found Elizabeth busy polishing the furniture of the hall. ‘I am so glad to see you better.’ She gave a final rub to the oak chest she was working on. ‘I am afraid the results of our flood the other day are going to last a while. We never had a chance to thank you properly, Lord Denbigh. I suspect you saved our lives.’

  ‘And you ours. If it comes to thanks, I do not know where I should begin.’

  ‘Shall we call it quits, then?’ She crossed the hall and opened the dining room door: ‘Marthe has coffee and rolls ready for you. She thinks you mad, I warn you, to get up so soon, and will undoubtedly tell you so. Sit down, and I’ll tell her you are ready.’

  ‘Let me do so myself. There is no reason why you should wait on me.’

  ‘Why not? You are our guest, after all—and our patient. Ah, Sonia, tell Marthe Lord Denbigh is ready for his breakfast, will you?’

  Sonia paused for a moment in the doorway. In contrast to Elizabeth, who was swathed in a voluminous apron, she was ravishing in a morning dress of soft pink that set off the gold of her hair. ‘Are you really better, Lord Denbigh? I am so glad to see you up, but—should you be? The doctor said that was a terrible blow you received. You should have heard him expecting the worst. We were quite in despair, were we not, Elizabeth?’ And then, when Elizabeth did not answer: ‘But are you really none the worse?’

  ‘Not the least in the world, thank you. In fact, aside from a little weakness and a ravenous appetite, I feel better than I have since I can remember.’

  ‘Really? The doctor was full of gloomy prognostications about shifted scar tissue from an old wound. Perhaps, after all, it has done you good.’

  ‘I really believe it may have. But I am afraid I have been a monstrous trouble to you ladies—’

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ Elizabeth interrupted him briskly. ‘Sonia, Lord Denbigh is waiting for his breakfast.’ And then, as Sonia vanished in the direction of the kitchen, ‘The latest Moniteur is on the dining table, my lord; I am sure you will want to see what they are saying in Paris.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He picked up the paper. ‘But I wish—’ He stopped. Elizabeth had left the room while his back was turned. He sighed, shrugged and looked at the paper. He was still studying its desc
ription of the Allies’ total rout when Sonia returned with a tray. ‘Marthe’s out shopping,’ she said. ‘She’s the only member of the household who’s allowed out, you know. I can’t begin to tell you how bored I am. And poor Mr Haverton’s nearly distracted for lack of shirts.’

  He had jumped up at sight of her, and now took the tray. ‘You should not have troubled, Miss von Hugel. I am quite able to wait on myself.’

  ‘H you’re anything like your cousin, you’re not. Philip can no more—’ And then, colouring, ‘Must we be so formal? Am I really to call you Lord Denbigh, and my lord? After all, we may be housemates for goodness knows how long.’

  ‘I hope not.’ And then, laughing, ‘I beg your pardon, Miss von Hugel; how dreadful that sounded. But I am sure you understand what I mean. This must be only a temporary reverse.’

  ‘That’s what Marthe says.’ She was pouring his coffee as she spoke. ‘She’s got a friend, you know, a French dragoon. He says the French army’s at the end of its tether; it’s only Napoleon who can hold them together. Lord, what a man he must be. I wish I could see him, just once.’

  ‘I most sincerely hope you never do—unless as a captive. But will you not join me in some coffee? I feel ashamed to be sitting eating and drinking here alone. I have been a terrible trouble, I fear, to you and to Mrs Barrymore.’

  ‘Not at all. Nothing ever troubles Elizabeth, and as for me, I enjoy it.’ She poured herself a cup of coffee and settled across the table from him. ‘I never thought to find myself breakfasting with a genuine English lord. Tell me all about England. Will I like it, do you think? And will they like me?’

  ‘I do not see how they can help it.’

  ‘Oh, not compliments, please! I have all I can stand of those from Philip. But, seriously, my English—will it pass, do you think? I have tried so hard, but it never seems quite right. Oh, I can manage the words, I think, but the accent’—she made a face—‘I should hate to sound, in English, the way Philip does in German. I do so want my grandfather to like me. Do you know him at all? If only he would turn out to be rich, and kind, and make me his heiress so that Elizabeth and I could live happy ever after. We are quite paupers, you know; it is the most dispiriting thing.’

  ‘But surely, Mrs Barrymore—her widow’s jointure—’

  She made another face. ‘Law terms; I don’t pretend to understand them. All I know is, that if it were not for Cousin Charles—’ She stopped and coloured becomingly.

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Vincent,’ he spoke at random to cover her embarrassment, ‘when do you expect him back?’

  ‘Goodness knows. We don’t even know where he’s gone, you know. He’s the most complete mystery, is Cousin Charles.’

  ‘Sonia!’ Elizabeth spoke from the doorway. ‘I am sure Lord Denbigh would rather read his Moniteur in peace. And besides, your room needs tidying.’

  ”Bother my room!’ But she jumped to her feet, with a soft swish of muslin. ‘I have been seeing to it that our invalid ate a proper breakfast, and see, he has, every bit of it, and looks much better as a result. It’s not just calomel pills and jalap, you know, that go to a cure: one must keep the patient cheerful.’

  ‘And very delightfully you do it.’ Denbigh had also risen to his feet. ‘But talking of nursing, I must thank your Marthe for all her care of me. And for the trouble she has taken over my clothes, too. I am sure I had Philip’s blood all down the front of this shirt.’

  ‘And so you did,’ said Sonia cheerfully. ‘But don’t, I beg, thank Marthe for that, or she’ll give notice on the spot. She’s no laundress, she told us so the day we engaged her, and we’ve never dared ask her to wash out so much as a handkerchief for us.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ He looked appalled. ‘Do you mean that I am indebted to you!’

  ‘To me!’ She interrupted him with a peal of laughter. ‘I hate to think what would happen to that elegant shirt of yours if I so much as laid hand to it. No, no, Elizabeth’s the miracle worker here. It’s she who cured you, I’m sure. She sat up all night with you the first night.’

  ‘Elizabeth.’

  ‘Mrs Barrymore,’ she corrected him. ‘Of course I nursed you, my lord. What else could I do? But Marthe’s the one you should really thank. She’s a born nurse whereas I’m afraid I am but a reluctant one.’ And on this chastening note she picked up the breakfast tray and got herself fairly out of the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  That seemed an endless day to Elizabeth. And yet it went quietly enough, with Denbigh busy writing in his room, and Sonia and Haverton playing cards in the salon. As for her, she kept out of the way until they all met, perforce, over dinner which she had set late on purpose. Then she found herself equally grateful to Denbigh for his easy flow of talk and to Haverton for his bland unawareness of anything awkward in their situation. Following Denbigh’s lead, she roused Sonia to an animated discussion of the novels of Horace Walpole and Mrs Radcliffe, for which she had a passion and found herself disconcertingly in agreement with him in preferring a book called Sense and Sensibility by a Miss Austen.

  Sonia too had enjoyed this book when they read it aloud together, and her eyes lit up when Denbigh told her Miss Austen had published two more novels: ‘I must try to get them for you.’

  ‘I can’t think why,’ put in Haverton. ‘The most tedious stuff—all about a set of country nobodies. I tried to read one of them—Pride and—something-or-other—and never got beyond the first chapter. Oh, Mrs Barrymore, you can’t be leaving us so soon.’

  But Elizabeth was firm in making their apologies. It had been a long day, they would make an early night of it.

  Following her reluctantly upstairs, Sonia flared into mutiny. ‘How could you, Liz? I was just beginning to enjoy myself!’

  ‘I’m sorry, my love, but you must see how strangely we are placed.’

  ‘Well, it’s no fault of ours. I don’t see why we shouldn’t enjoy it. After all, we’ve lived hobnob with Charles for long enough, why should we draw the line at Denbigh and poor Philip. What an entertaining talker Denbigh is—I could have listened to him forever.’ She laughed contentedly to herself. ‘Charles will find his nose quite out of joint when he returns. And such manners—he makes one feel like a queen, somehow. As if one were the only person who mattered in the whole world. Only’—once again the little laugh—‘then I see him doing just the same thing to you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Elizabeth could not quite keep bitterness out of her voice. ‘Don’t be taken in by those English good manners of his, Sonia. It’s pride that makes him polite; nothing in his heart. It’s for himself that he’s courteous, not for you, don’t you understand?’

  ‘Is that why you are so rude to him?’

  ‘I? Rude? What do you mean?’

  ‘Dear Liz, don’t fly out at me, but you know as well as I do that he keeps trying to thank you for your nursing and you never let him.’

  ‘Poor man.’ Her tone belied the spurious sympathy. ‘It’s torture for him to be obliged to me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because of the way I feel myself.’ Fiercely. ‘Sonia, that’s enough. It’s bad enough to have to have him in the house; please don’t talk about it anymore.’

  ‘Liz—I believe you do hate him!’

  ‘Would that be so surprising?’ And then, on a note of suppressed violence, ‘Goodnight, Sonia.’

  ‘So early? But it’s true, you look worn out. As for me, I shall finish making over my pink muslin. Do you think Lord Denbigh will remember to get me Miss Austen’s new books?’

  ‘I expect so.’ She closed the door of her room and sat down with a little sigh of exhaustion at her dressing table. Useless to go to bed. Thoughts she had kept down all day by constant activity swarmed out now to torment her. She sat, biting her knuckles, staring at nothing, angry with herself for being so unhappy. She heard Sonia moving about in her room, singing a little song to herself. Then Denbigh and Haverton came upstairs, talking quietly, and closed their door behind them. Was that
Denbigh, laughing sotto voce at something Haverton had said? She bit so hard on her knuckles that tears started to her eyes. The house was quiet now, settling to sleep. A timber creaked on the stairs, mice scuttled in the garret above her, the old clock ticked on the landing below. Useless to go to bed; absurd to sit here, hands clenched, exploring misery.

  Do something then, but what? If she could only go down, go out, walk through the snow until exhaustion made her sleep. Impossible, of course. If only I were a man… She remembered thinking this before, long ago, in England. It’s all over, she had told Sonia. True? False? Is anything, ever, really finished? If she could only stop thinking! She was on her feet suddenly, movement as necessary as breathing, when a sound outside hurried her to the window. Shouts some way off, running footsteps a couple of shots. The street below was dark and quiet, but further off, where it opened into the square, she could see lights, moving figures. Whatever the excitement was, it seemed to have passed them by, and she let the curtain fall and moved over to the closet to get out her nightgown. She would not sleep, but must rest. ‘I can’t be ill.’ This habit of talking to herself seemed to be growing on her. ‘Sonia needs me.’

  Suddenly she dropped the nightgown on her bed and stood, head up, listening. The night was clear and cold; that noise at the window could hardly be hail. It came again; now unmistakably a pattering of small stones. She blew out the candle, felt her way to the window, opened it a crack and leaned out. ‘Who’s there?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s I, Vincent. Open the door, quickly.’

  ‘Coming.’ She hurried downstairs and unbolted the big door. Charles Vincent slid through the crack as she opened it, and turned, all in one movement, to close it behind him. ‘Hush.’ He bent towards her and blew out her candle. ‘They’re coming back.’

  It was true. She could hear a confused noise of footsteps and voices approaching from the square. By the sound of it, the French were knocking and making inquiries at any house that showed a light.