‘Of course, Aunt Elinor.’ The girl jumped to her feet, dropping her netting, which Fessingham retrieved for her.
‘A charming child.’ He closed the door behind her. It would be kinder to give Lady Elinor a moment to recover from the unaccountable confusion into which Mr Barrymore’s name had thrown her.
‘Is she not? Her mother died when she was a baby; her father married again almost at once. It’s the old story of the neglected stepmother, so I have made myself responsible for her education. She does me credit, does she not? A little town polish before the season—that’s why I thought Paris would be just the thing. And Giles will be there to take us about. He will be surprised, I think, at the change in her.’
Oh ho, thought Fessingham, so that’s it, is it? You’ve been bringing up a wife for your brother, have you? I wonder… The glimpse he had had of Miss Cerne had not suggested any formidable intellectual equipment. She had doubtless, at her school, been taught to sing, and play; to embroider and gossip. She might even have been made, reluctantly, to read a few bound volumes of The Spectator—
‘I am educating her in politics.’ Lady Elinor might have read his thoughts. ‘She is quite a child, of course, but such an eager child to learn; I cannot tell you what a pleasure it is to me. But you were asking about a Mr Barrymore, a clergyman?’
‘Yes. Or rather about a cousin of his daughter’s. A Charles Vincent.’
‘Vincent? I cannot say I ever heard of him. But then, my acquaintance with the Barrymores was of the very slightest. I cannot think what possessed my brother to suggest me as a source of information.’
‘I suspect that he was reaching for straws.’
‘But why? What earthly interest could he have, after all these years, in the merest of boyhood acquaintances? He went to Mr Barrymore, you know, for coaching, when he was a student at Cambridge. I am almost sure that the old man has died since—he was old then. I remember thinking it an absurdity altogether. As for the daughter—goodness knows what became of her—what does become of clergymen’s daughters?’
‘This one married a cousin, a Mr Barrymore, and has crossed your brother’s path in France, with this other cousin, Mr Vincent, about whom he is inquiring.’
‘Oh,’ she pounced on it eagerly, ‘married, is she? I’m surprised at that.’
But delighted, thought Fessingham. I wonder… Best pursue it a little further: ‘Not only married, but widowed—’ He let it hang, watching her reaction.
‘Hmm—’ This pleased her less. ‘Widowed? Or—a grass widow? And wandering around occupied Europe with a cousin I’ve never heard of. It sounds all of a piece to me…’
‘All of a piece with what? I must beg you, Lady Elinor, if, as I begin to suspect, you know something—anything about Mrs Barrymore, that you will tell me. It may be of the utmost importance.’
‘In that case—’ She had recovered her composure by now, though it had taken her, he thought, a considerable effort. ‘It is all such ancient history, I would rather have spared her—and my brother, but if you think it really important—my duty?’
‘Absolutely.’ He could see that she was longing to tell him; the minimum of encouragement would do it.
‘Very well, then. It’s not a particularly edifying story, I’m afraid, but you know my brother well enough to make allowances.’
‘Of course.’
‘He was very young, you know, when he went up to Cambridge, and very earnest. He insisted on going to Mr Barrymore for coaching—said his college tutors were fit only for drinking with. My father adored him; let him have his way in everything. Folly. I told him so, but he never listened to me. So there was Giles, young, impressionable, and going, daily, to the Barrymores’ house. Mrs Barrymore was dead; the daughter kept house for her father; she was older than Giles—she saw her chance—and took it.’
‘You mean?’
‘They eloped. I would never have believed it of Giles—but he was hopelessly under her spell. She must have held out for marriage. They were going to America, of all things. I’m sure Giles’s heart wasn’t in it; he made such a point of paying his debts and saying his farewells that, inevitably, I found out what was in the wind. My father caught them in Liverpool; it was a lucky thing for Giles that he did. I don’t like to think what would have become of him.’
‘What did happen?’
‘Giles collapsed. There’d been an accident. I never did hear the rights of it. Her fault, I have no doubt. Father brought him home and I nursed him back to strength. It took a long time; then we sent him abroad; it was all over…’
She’s not telling it all, Fessingham thought. No use asking more questions; she’s told all she’s going to. ‘A sad story,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to think Miss Barrymore recovered sufficiently to marry her cousin.’
‘Don’t waste your sympathy on her. A scheming hussy; you can see that the experience soured poor Giles about women. Well, can you wonder? Is he seeing much of Mrs Barrymore?’
Fessingham repressed a smile at the giveaway question. ‘I don’t know. A good deal, I imagine: it must be a very small society. But you can tell me nothing more about Mrs Barrymore’s family?’
‘Nothing whatever. It was a painful episode; best forgotten.’
‘Quite so.’ He found himself more and more wondering about that elopement. What had really happened? What was Lady Elinor concealing? ‘You would not expect your brother to be on particularly friendly terms with Mrs Barrymore now?’
‘I should have thought it most unlikely.’ She coloured disastrously, the natural red showing up her rouge almost as brutally as pallor had done. ‘But—she involved him once; anything is possible. I am sure of one thing, she should not be trusted, not for a moment. Of course, I have no idea why you have thought it necessary to make these inquiries, but my advice to you is, do everything in your power to protect Giles.’
‘Yes. Quite so. Well, for the moment there is not much to be done, but if the Allies do take Paris, I think I shall treat myself to a quick visit there.’
‘Admirable, Mr Fessingham. Precisely what I had hoped you would say. I know what a good friend you are to Giles. And if you have no objection, Juliet and I will accompany you. You will understand now what I have in mind for her. Poor Giles trusts no one—can you wonder? First Elizabeth Barrymore, then all those matchmaking mammas in full cry after him. But Juliet is something quite else again. He thinks of her—I have seen to it—as a younger sister.’
‘And what of her?’
‘Oh, she adores him, of course. It was inevitable.’
‘Poor child.’ Fessingham rose to take his leave.
‘Nothing of the kind! Lucky child, you would say, if you knew the home I took her from. I’ve made that girl, Mr Fessingham, and—for a purpose. I do not expect to be disappointed.’ She rang the bell at her elbow. ‘You must see a little more of her before you go. She’s no empty-headed schoolgirl, you’ll find.’ When Juliet joined them, she proceeded to prove her point by a series of leading questions to which the girl responded with the eager docility of an examination candidate. Yes, she had seen Mr Kean and thought him the greatest actor since Garrick; she was passionately devoted to the music of Beethoven; she had read Miss Edgeworth’s new volume of Tales of Fashionable Life and quite doted on The Absentee; and then, colouring more than ever as Fessingham interposed a question: Oh no, Lady Elinor did not allow her to read Lord Byron’s poems.
Fessingham sighed inwardly for the poor child and rose to take his leave. Lady Elinor took his hand warmly: ‘Dear Mr Fessingham, so good of you to visit a lonely spinster. And so kind to undertake to squire Juliet and me to Paris. Only think, Juliet my love, Mr Fessingham has undertaken that we shall be the first Englishwomen to enter the town.’
Fessingham, who had undertaken nothing of the kind, had to admit himself outgeneraled. Still, all in all, he thought the advantages of taking Lady Elinor and her protégée with him might well outweigh the drawbacks, many and obvious though those were. There was no blin
king the disconcerting nature of what he had learned. More disconcerting still was the fact that Denbigh had not thought fit to tell him of his early involvement with Mrs Barrymore. Well, there could be all kinds of reasons for that. But—he would be glad to get to Paris and not altogether sorry to have the formidable Lady Elinor, and her charming, silly Juliet, as reserve cards.
At home, he found Mr Jones already returned. Mr Barrymore was indeed dead; Mr Delverton was very much alive, a hunting parson in the Cotswolds. ‘Admirable, Jones. I shall drive down there this afternoon. Will you give the orders?’
Jones smiled. ‘I already have, sir.’
But it was a disappointing visit. Mr Delverton, emerging reluctantly from his study, where, Fessingham suspected, he had been fast asleep, admitted to having had a daughter, and at least to the possibility of a granddaughter. ‘I know there was a boy—likely lad enough by all accounts; they called him after me. Favour-grubbing, of course; but I was pleased, a little, I remember. Even meant to write and say so, but never got around to it, somehow. It seems so far…for letters, I mean… Anyway, the chit had made her bed. Used to write me, of course, from time to time. Yes, I believe she did say something about a girl—well, girls, you know.’ He shrugged them off. ‘Anyway, m’daughter died, years since, and the boy too—not so long ago—don’t remember how I heard that, but bad news always travels. As for the gal—well, I suppose if she came here, I’d feed her. Could hardly do less, could I, as a Christian? But don’t think I’m going knight-erranting across Europe looking for her. At my time of life! Let her father look out for her, I say. Can’t think what she’s doing jauntering about with the armies, anyway. Most unsuitable thing for my grandchild, if you ask me. No, on second thoughts I’m not sure I could receive her; not after that. As for cousins; first I ever heard of any; on our side at least. But her father may have them like rabbits, for all I know. Expect he has; you know how those Germans are. Sorry not to be more help to you. Drop of something before you go? Matilda!’
Fessingham had already encountered the housekeeper when he arrived, and had no wish to do so again. He made his excuses and returned to London no wiser than he had left it, but feeling rather sorry for the unknown Miss von Hugel.
The visit he paid to Trumpington was rather more rewarding. Mr Barrymore was remembered with great affection by his parishioners. His daughter was another matter. ‘Seemed a nice enough girl, you understand.’ The landlord of the inn was quite ready to talk about her. ‘Then ran off, bold as brass, with some young lord or other, clear across England to Liverpool—and then home again, on her own—you couldn’t help feeling sorry for her but sorrier for her poor old pa. Ruined herself, of course; talk all over the county; nearly lost him his parish, if you ask me. Lucky for him she took a notion to take her disgrace abroad. Married? No, I never heard tell that she married anyone—not much hope of that after what she’d done. Well, stands to reason the young man would only have abandoned her like that for reason good—and what that would be, you can guess as well as I can. My daughter was proper turned up about it—loved Miss Barrymore, she did; the trouble I had keeping her away from her after it happened but you’ve got to think of your own, ain’t you, sir? As for cousins—I never heard talk of any kin of hers, but that’s not to say she had none. Nor yet that she mightn’t have up and married one of them—it just don’t seem very likely to me. And keep the same name, too? Something havey-cavey about it, I’d say. She always was a one that valued her own judgment above the rest of the world’s. Asking for trouble—and found it, poor girl. Killed her father. Not at once, but gradually, what with the disgrace, and missing her and all. No doubt about it, she was a good daughter—and ran the school a fair treat—before it happened, you understand; course we couldn’t have a fallen woman teaching our children. Why, thank you kindly, sir, I don’t mind if I do join you in a short one. No, I don’t know as anyone here would know more about her than I do; I reckon to keep pretty well in touch with what goes on.’ And he proceeded to prove it by a series of probing questions directed at discovering the reason for Fessingham’s interest in Elizabeth Barrymore.
Back in London, Fessingham was not surprised to learn that the further inquiries he had instructed Mr Jones to make had drawn a complete blank: there was no record of a marriage between Elizabeth Barrymore and someone of the same name—or anyone else, for the matter of that. And nor had he been able to find out anything about a possible connection with a family called Vincent. It added up to a disquieting picture. Since Elizabeth Barrymore was entirely and Sonia von Hugel half English, it seemed elementary logic to assume that the relationship between them and Charles Vincent must be on the English side. And yet there was not a fragment of evidence to confirm it. The innkeeper, for all his claim to omniscience, had been unaware that Elizabeth had relatives in the Cotswolds, but Sonia’s grandfather must have known. And the name Barrymore had meant nothing to him. As for Vincent, the name was common enough, but Mr Jones, indefatigable in his researches, had been able to find no one who admitted knowledge of this Charles Vincent. At last, gloomily, Fessingham sighed, shrugged and sat down to write a long, admonitory letter to Denbigh.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Here comes “my cousin says”.’ Sonia turned away from the window. ‘With news, by the important look of him.’
‘Sonia!’ Elizabeth looked up from her work. ‘How often must I tell you—’ Her voice came out sharper than she had intended and she stopped, colouring at her own display of temper.
‘Oh, Barry, what’s the matter with you?’ Sonia crossed the room to stand over her anxiously. ‘You’re not well, you know you’re not. I wish you’d have the doctor.’
‘And have him prophesy woe! No, thank you. And don’t worry about me, Sonia. I’m a little out of sorts, it’s true, but nothing to signify. It’s been a long winter. Ah, Mr Haverton, how are you?’
‘All the better for the news.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. My cousin writes that the Allies have signed a new treaty at Chaumont: an alliance to the death against Napoleon. Now we shall see some action. Why, what’s the matter, Miss von Hugel? Have I said something to entertain you?’
‘No, no.’ But she was crimson with suppressed laughter at his variation on the phrase she had turned into his nickname, and Elizabeth had to save her face by intervening. ‘And what of the Congress here?’
‘Being wound up. Caulaincourt’s playing for time, that’s all.’
‘And how long has he got? When do we march on Paris?’
‘You may well ask. My cousin writes that the generals are still undecided. Well, you can understand it. No one knows how the Parisians are going to receive us, if we do get there… Suppose, at the same time, they were to wage guerrilla warfare on us—and Napoleon were to cut our communications with Switzerland, which is all too likely… Then where would we be?’
‘In the soup.’ Vincent had entered the room while Haverton was talking. ‘Is your cousin back yet?’
‘No. He says he and Castlereagh do not mean to return here, for the moment at least. I rather think, reading between the lines, that they are afraid of raising false hopes if they do so.’
‘Among the French, you mean?’
‘Yes. You know how ready they are to take advantage of the slightest sign of wavering on our part.’
‘Well, can you blame them? You’ve wavered enough, in all conscience.’
‘You?’ Sonia took him up on it. ‘Why don’t you say, “Can you blame us,” and have done with it?’
‘I only wish I could. But how can I be French, so long as Napoleon is in power?’ And to Haverton: ‘Your cousin is at Chaumont still?’
‘I believe so. If they have not moved, already, to Troyes.’
‘Box and cox with Bonaparte, eh? Well, I hope they have not, for it will most tediously prolong my journey.’
‘Your journey?’ Sonia whirled, with a rustle of petticoats, to face him. ‘Charles, you cannot be proposing to leave us again!’<
br />
‘I am afraid I must. A—friend of mine has just reached town, from Paris. I promised Lord Denbigh I would bring him to see him as soon as he arrived. This is important, Sonia.’
‘That’s what you said last time.’ She was prowling about the room like an affronted kitten.
‘It’s still true. Sonia, believe me—’
‘Believe you? Charles, why should I? Or rather, I’ll believe, if you like, that you value these “friends” of yours more highly than you do us, because you make it all too obvious. But as to the importance of these mysterious journeys of yours—why should I believe you?’
There was appeal in her voice now and his softened in response. ‘Because I beg you to. Rapunzel, you must see that I cannot explain—’ A quick glance reminded her of Haverton’s presence.
‘I see perfectly well that you don’t intend to. Women can keep secrets, can’t they, Charles, so long as they don’t know them. You told me that yourself, and vastly flattering I found it. Do you remember when we started on this journey, Charles? We were to be comrades, you said. Well’—she clicked her fingers angrily—‘so much for your comradeship. We’re just the excess baggage of your adventure, Liz and I—and that reminds me, what happens to us, pray, if the conference breaks up while you are gone?’
‘Give me credit for a little foresight.’ He had been looking increasingly anxious lest, in her excited state, she should betray their true relationship—or lack of it—to Haverton. Now he hurried to intervene. ‘I have already made arrangements about that. If the Congress should break up suddenly, which I think far from likely, I have arranged with Lord Aberdeen that you will join the diplomatic cortege that will leave for Allied Headquarters. I shall be awaiting you there, my business, I hope, done.’ And then, on a note of unusual seriousness: ‘Sonia, I must beg you—Elizabeth, help me to convince her that this is important—and not only to me.’
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