The Adventurers

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘The kitchen?’ she breathed.

  ‘Yes—safe enough there, with a candle.’ The footsteps had passed their door now. ‘Lucky they didn’t get a good look at me.’ He paused, as she closed the kitchen door behind them and relighted the candle. ‘Though they may be back for all that, when they draw a blank. They know I must be somewhere in the street. Play for time, if they come. Tell them you’ll only open if the mayor comes in person, to guarantee you. It’s not unreasonable; three women alone. Why, what’s the matter?’

  She had laughed, suddenly. ‘You’re behind the times. We’ve Denbigh and Haverton here. And as for the door, it’s been broken down once already. Never fear, they’ll not even expect us to open to them. I expect that’s why they went by. Of course, they’re bound to return, presently, and very likely with the mayor. But—why?’

  ‘Later.’ Impatiently. ‘Plan first, explain afterwards. Where can I hide?’

  ‘In my bed.’ Both of them started and turned at the new voice. Marthe was standing in the doorway of her room, which opened off the kitchen. ‘If you can convince me I should hide you, which, for the ladies’ sake, I’m inclined to do. We’ve had enough trouble here. But—why are they after you? You’re French, after all, or so you always said.’

  ‘Yes, so I am. How old are you, Marthe?’

  ‘Forty.’ The question did not seem to surprise her so much as it did Elizabeth.

  ‘Then you can remember what it was like, before…’

  She nodded. ‘I thought it was that. Yes, I can remember, m’sieur. I can remember faces too. I only hope, for your sake, and the ladies’, others’ memories are less good. That last visitor of yours came in the daytime: madness. But never mind that. For what it’s worth, I’m on your side. I don’t remember much good of the Bourbons, but I don’t remember much harm either. If they’ll bring us back peace, I’m for them. Better than another Terror, anyway.’

  ‘The Bourbons?’ Elizabeth gasped.

  ‘Of course. I’ve been working for them since I met my cousin at Weimar. Oh, for the money, at first, but now—I’ve just been to see the Comte d’Artois: he’s a man: he’ll save us.’

  ‘Hush.’ Odd how Marthe had taken command. Footsteps in the street and a low, impatient knocking on the front door. ‘Into my bed with you. They may believe me; they may not. And you, madame, you came down for a hot drink for Milord Denbigh who is a little worse tonight, and should not be disturbed.’ As she spoke, she had been pushing the big kettle to the centre of the stove. Now she raised her voice. ‘All right, I’m coming; no need to wake the whole house.’ And then, in the front hall, ‘Who is it, at this ungodly hour of the night?’

  Elizabeth looked quickly round the kitchen: no sign of Vincent’s arrival here. She followed him into Marthe’s tiny bedroom, and saw at once what she had meant. The bed was too low for him to hide underneath, but it had a deep hollow in the middle where Marthe’s solid form had lain. He lay down, flat, and she covered him with bedclothes and finally the plump duvet. ‘You can breathe?’

  ‘Just.’ His voice was muffled.

  ‘Good. Don’t move till I tell you.’ Back in the kitchen, she could hear Marthe still haranguing their visitors. The cold draft through the house showed that she had opened the front door to them, but had not yet, apparently, let them in. Now she heard her say:

  ‘Wait there, while I call madame.’ And then, loudly, as she approached across the hall, ‘Mme Barrymore?’

  ‘Yes.’ Elizabeth met her at the kitchen door, talking, like her, loudly and in French. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s that Jacques and his friends. They want to know if we’ve let anyone in tonight.’

  ‘Let anyone in? Us?’ Elizabeth was pleased at the surprise she managed. ‘After what happened before? What do they take us for?’

  ‘You see.’ Marthe had turned back to the open door. ‘We’re making a tisane for Milord Denbigh, who’s worse tonight, thanks to you and your friends. Come in and search, if you must, but don’t blame me if you make him ill again and find yourselves in trouble tomorrow. The Duke of Vicenza’s not a man I’d like to have for an enemy. But, come’—she opened the door wider—‘I don’t expect you to believe me; I’m only Marthe who you’ve known—how long? Naturally I’d make a practice of harbouring traitors.’

  ‘Traitors? But what is all this?’ Easy enough for Elizabeth to sound puzzled.

  ‘A likely story of a cock and a bull. Some information of a royalist rendezvous, of all things, over the other side of town. And when they got there, stamping their great boots, no doubt, and talking in their great voices—why, the birds were flown, if there ever were any birds, which I personally doubt.’

  ‘But I tell you, Marthe.’ Jacques the trooper’s voice from outside. ‘We saw him; he jumped out of a window and ran away.’

  She laughed her great laugh. ‘I wager he did. And whose window was it, pray?—that of the mistress of the house? And her husband out with you, I expect. You’ll look a pretty fool in the morning, Jacques, but come on in, go the whole hog while you’re at it. Perhaps he’s in my bed now, your fugitive: you’d best make sure, hadn’t you?’ And then, as the men outside hesitated and shuffled their feet: ‘Well, hurry up; make up your minds and don’t keep me standing here freezing the house. We’ve got a sick man upstairs, remember.’

  Jacques stepped into the hallway and made an awkward bow to Elizabeth. ‘We don’t want to incommode you, madame, not after what happened before. It’s true, is it, what Marthe says?’

  ‘Of course it’s true.’ Elizabeth’s conscience pricked her as she told the lie, but it had to be done. ‘Come and see for yourself, if you must, but quietly, I beg.’

  He had been looking quickly round the hall as she spoke and now passed her, with an apology, to glance into the kitchen. As he did so, a voice from the top of the stairs made them all look up. Denbigh was standing there in his dressing gown. His face was pale in the lamplight, his hair tousled, and he seemed to be supporting himself with difficulty on the newel post of the bannisters.

  ‘What is all this, Marthe? Am I to wait all night for my tisane? And why on earth is the front door open freezing the house? And what in the world are you doing here?’ he seemed to see Jacques for the first time as he emerged from the kitchen. ‘Haven’t we suffered enough at your hands? I’ll have something to say to the mayor in the morning.’

  ‘A thousand apologies, milord.’ Jacques retired hastily across the hall. ‘Marthe, make my apologies, explain…’

  ‘I’ll explain, all right.’ She banged the big door behind him. And then: ‘Hush; wait till they’ve gone.’

  She and Elizabeth stood, suspended, listening as the scuffling of footsteps died away down the street. Denbigh straightened up, tightened the cord of his dressing gown, smoothed his hair with an automatic gesture and came slowly down the stairs. ‘Now,’ he said quietly, ‘I would be glad if someone would explain.’

  ‘How much did you hear?’ Marthe had retired to the kitchen, leaving Elizabeth to face him as he descended the stairs.

  ‘You want me to apologise for eavesdropping?’

  ‘No, no; your intervention was most timely; I must thank you.’ Impossible, somehow, to strike the right note when talking to him. ‘But—I wonder if you would not, perhaps, prefer not to know the rest of it.’

  ‘Oh? A conspiracy of silence—entirely for my own good, of course? I think not; thank you just the same. Give me credit for knowing you well enough to be able to tell when you are lying. You did not at all like telling that soldier there was no one in the house. I suppose it is Vincent.’

  ‘Yes.’ Useless to deny it. ‘He was just going to explain—’

  ‘Well, then, by all means let us adjourn to the kitchen, where, I assume, you had him hidden, and let him do so. Since I am already involved in this lunacy, I think I must be allowed to know what it is all about.’ He held the kitchen door courteously open for her.

  Vincent had just emerged from Marthe’s bedroom, loo
king more exhausted and dishevelled than ever. ‘Phew!’ He smiled his engaging smile at Denbigh. ‘I hope I never go through so hot a five minutes again. Thank you, Elizabeth—and you, sir. Marthe tells me you supported her story in the most timely way.’

  ‘I hope I shall not live to regret it.’

  Vincent laughed. ‘So do I. Ah, thank you, Marthe.’ She had been bustling about between larder and stove, and now brought him a great bowl of steaming soup. ‘I need this. I had my last real meal in Nancy.’

  ‘Nancy?’ Denbigh pushed up a chair for Elizabeth and settled himself across the table from Vincent. ‘I think I am beginning to understand.’

  ‘Not so bad as you feared, eh? Yes, Marthe; why don’t you go to bed. I’ll thank you properly in the morning.’ And then, as she closed the door behind her: ‘What did you think I was?’

  ‘An adventurer.’

  ‘Well, so I am. Or—so I have been. I was explaining to Elizabeth when we were interrupted that I first began to serve the Bourbon cause simply for the money. We had a little difficulty, in Weimar; I happened to meet a cousin of mine; he paid me well to act as his informer at Allied Headquarters and, mind you, I earned my money. But it’s all different now.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been to Nancy, as you guessed, to meet Monsieur—the Comte d’Artois. He’s—I hadn’t expected him to be so… If only he could be king, our troubles would be over.’

  ‘His brother would hardly approve of that.’ Denbigh’s voice was dry.

  ‘No, of course not. I know it’s impossible; though from what I hear of Louis le Désiré, he won’t stand the pace for long, and then, Long Live Charles X.’

  ‘Your enthusiasm does you credit.’ Dryer than ever. ‘But aren’t you getting a little ahead of your game? What makes you think the Bourbons have the slightest chance of returning to the throne? It’s twenty years; they’re forgotten; strangers, and, what is worse, tarred with the brush of the emigration.’

  ‘Marthe remembers—enough to hide me, which is enough for me. And—you don’t know—how could you—what is going on in Paris. I had a messenger from there—that’s what sent me to Nancy. He says Napoleon’s days are numbered. If you hadn’t made the mistake of negotiating with him here at Châtillon there might be revolution already. As it is, the Bourbon party are bound to think the Allies are committed to Napoleon’s cause—or at least to that of a regency for his son. But—break off negotiations, march direct on Paris, and you will be amazed what you will find.’

  ‘As easy as that? I wish I could believe you. But who are these silent Bourbonists? We’ve heard nothing of them.’

  ‘Of course not. Fouché’s secret police are everywhere. So long as Napoleon is in power, they dare not make a move. Look what happened to me tonight. I’ve had an exciting journey of it, I can tell you, to Nancy and back. Everyone’s our enemy: French, Allies…to be stopped by anyone is to be finished. But—just wait till Napoleon falls; it will be a different story then. Our friends are everywhere; I’m ready to bet there’s a white cockade hidden, ready, in half the houses here in Châtillon, and as for Paris…’

  ‘Yes,’ Denbigh said again. ‘But who?’

  ‘I can trust you?’

  ‘I think you must. If there is really anything in it, and you have proof, I will take you to Headquarters to tell your story to Castlereagh. He is impatient, I know, already, at the way the negotiations are dragging on, and I have heard talk of pro-Bourbon feeling in England. There is certainly a large and vociferous party there against any negotiations with Napoleon. But—we must have names, and proof.’

  ‘As to names, what do you say to Dalberg, Jaucourt, Vitrolles, and—if the Bourbons are succeeding—Talleyrand.’

  ‘Talleyrand! Now you’re talking. But—your proviso…’

  ‘I know. But Talleyrand’s never backed a doubtful horse yet; you can’t expect him to start now. But I have it on no less authority than Dalberg’s that he is ready to come out strongly for the Bourbons—’

  ‘When they are already winning.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your proof of all this?’

  ‘None, so far. But I understand that Vitrolles is to get out of Paris as soon as he can safely do so and make the conspirator’s proposals to Monsieur. If he could be persuaded to come here—with proof?’

  ‘Then we would go, at once, to Castlereagh and the Allied Ministers. In the meantime, what are we to do with you? You endanger the ladies by staying here, endanger yourself, if you leave. And—I need you, alive, to make contact with Vitrolles. Elizabeth, what do you think?’

  ‘Of course he must stay here.’ How strange, how sweet and painful to have him use her first name. But—it means nothing, she told herself; it’s the old habit, no more.

  ‘I think so. But how?’

  ‘In my room. I can share with Sonia. If the house is searched, we’ll just have to improvise.’

  ‘Talking of improvisation,’ said Vincent, ‘you seem to have some explaining to do too, Elizabeth. Am I to understand that Lord Denbigh is at present occupying my room, and as an invalid?’

  ‘Good gracious,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Of course, you don’t know anything about it. You’re not the only one who’s been having adventures, Charles.’

  Sonia was fast asleep when Elizabeth crept into bed beside her some time later, but woke her early next morning. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ And then, on a note of sudden excitement, ‘Charles?’

  ‘Yes, he came back late last night.’

  Sonia jumped out of bed. ‘With a fine upstanding story of why he abandoned us so cavalierly, I have no doubt. I look forward to his excuses.’

  Elizabeth laughed. ‘His main excuse was a detachment of the National Guard at his heels.’

  ‘The French? After Charles? But why?’ And then, in quite a different note, ‘Elizabeth! He’s not hurt?’

  ‘Of course not. Charles has as many lives as a cat. But he’ll have to hide for a while.’

  ‘To hide? Oh, poor Charles, he’ll hate that. But what on earth has he been doing?’

  ‘Espousing the Bourbon cause, and with a good deal of effect, too, by the sound of it. You and I owe him an apology, I think Sonia.’

  ‘You mean, he’s not a spy, after all?’

  ‘You were so sure he was? Well, so was I. And, of course, so he is. It’s odd, isn’t it, what a difference it makes who you are spying for. Anyway, he’s in my room, and we’ll have to keep him hidden so long as the French hold the town.’

  Sonia turned to make a face at herself in the glass. ‘And that won’t be child’s play either. I don’t see Charles staying cooped up for long with the peace of the world at stake—as he would say. And you can’t bully Charles, either, not as you can Philip.’ She gazed thoughtfully at the flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes of her reflection. ‘Heigh-ho, what a household! As if it wasn’t bad enough having Philip on our hands, now we have to hide Charles. Let us pray, devoutly, for an Allied success. I can’t tell you how sick I am of being cooped up in the house like this. I’m sure it’s unnecessary, too.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so if you’d been awake last night, when Charles arrived.’

  But over breakfast, Denbigh took very much the same line as Sonia. ‘We go home today,’ he announced. ‘We are more than grateful to you for all your hospitality’-the speech seemed to be directed somewhere between Sonia and Elizabeth—‘but we must not be trespassing upon it further. You cannot help but be glad to see the last of us.’

  Elizabeth was busy setting a tray for Vincent, who must remain above stairs. ‘You think yourself well enough for the move?’ Her voice was casual.

  ‘Entirely—thanks to your nursing. I have to thank you, also for—’

  ‘Oh, fiddle!’ She had spilt the hot milk. ‘Fetch a cloth, Sonia, would you? And ask Marthe to take up Charles’ tray.’ To Denbigh: ‘You will see him before you go?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He had risen to close the door behind Sonia. ‘No
, don’t go,’ as Elizabeth made to follow her. ‘You must let me thank you for all you have done.’

  ‘And if I do not wish to be thanked?’

  ‘You will have to indulge me.’ He moved forward to face her across the breakfast table. ‘Elizabeth—I have thought of you constantly since that day at Frankfurt.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was shocked—disturbed—surprised. I am afraid I said more than I intended or like to remember.’

  ‘You were never anything but courteous, Lord Denbigh.’

  ‘Elizabeth! Don’t keep me at arms’ length like this. Don’t you understand—I want to help you.’

  She raised her eyes to look him full in the face. ‘You are too good, my lord, but the time for that is past. My life is—what it is. There is no room in it for help from you.’

  ‘But I owe it to you—’

  ‘Then you will just have to bear the burden of the debt, my lord.’

  ‘Oh—’ He bit off the words. ‘Forgive me, Elizabeth, I am a bad hand at an apology. Don’t you understand, I’m appealing to you, by the past, by our old affection, to let me help you now. This is no life for you—involved in God knows what—so situated that I have not felt able even to visit you—with no one but that scatterbrain cousin of yours to protect you. Who knows what lunacy he may involve you in next? Only say the word, and I’ll have you in England within a week—and that engaging child too. Once there, my sister—’

  ‘Oh, no, not that.’ Her laugh was dangerously near hysteria. ‘Not Lady Elinor!’ She stood very straight, facing him, her hands clenched on the back of a chair. ‘Lord Denbigh, let me tell you, once and for all, that I would not accept your help if you were the last man on earth.’ And then, on an entirely different note: ‘Ah, Marthe, there you are. Take this up to M Vincent, would you? I am sure he must be ravenous this morning. And remind him to keep away from the windows.’ She had moved towards the door as she spoke, and now whisked herself out of it before Denbigh could say another word.