‘While cheering him to the echo. Yes, I know what you mean. Even now, when Talleyrand convoked the Senate, only sixty-four of them dared appear. What kind of a provisional government can they form? Oh—if only they would make an end of it and commit themselves once and for all to the Bourbon cause—’
‘You think everyone would cheer that to the echo too? Well, you may be right, but you can hardly blame the Czar for going slowly on it.’
‘I know…but M Vincent is in despair. He thinks there is still a chance of Bernadotte’s being summoned. I’d rather die than see his wife queening it over Paris.’
‘Perhaps it will be a regency after all.’
‘For the little King of Rome? An Austrian to rule us?’
Elizabeth sighed and shrugged. She could not help feeling sorry for Mme de Morne, but neither could she help a degree of impatience with her. It was a relief when a servant appeared to announce a visitor. But at the name, she felt her colour drain away.
‘Lord Denbigh?’ Her first thought was of flight. ‘Tell him I’m not—no—’ Her head went up. She had Sonia’s battles to fight as well as her own. She had been convinced, from the first, that Denbigh must be behind the change in Haverton’s behaviour. She owed it to herself, as well as to Sonia, to have it out with him. ‘With your permission, madame?’ She turned to her hostess. ‘He is an old—acquaintance of ours.’
‘Of course. Show him in, Jacques. But’—Mme de Morne was no fool—’I am afraid I shall have to leave you shortly; I have a million things to attend to. You will not mind?’
Denbigh was looking extraordinarily well, his fair hair bleached white and his skin tanned by the sun. Set in the brown face, his eyes looked bluer and more piercing than ever. They were fixed, at once, on Elizabeth, making her angrily aware of the very different change in her own appearance. ‘You have been ill. Philip told me. I am so sorry.’ He had already paid his respects to Mme de Morne.
‘It was nothing to signify. I am better now.’
‘You do not look it. You should be out in the sunshine.’ He stopped. This was not what he had come to say at all. Now, he turned it off into a mere social exchange by speaking to Mme de Morne. ‘Can you not persuade your guest that she would profit by exploring Paris a little. I can assure you that the streets are quite safe now.’
‘I know it,’ she said dryly. ‘I have just returned from watching my countrywomen exhibit themselves in the Champs Elysées.’
‘At the Cossack camp, you mean? Yes, I have been there too. I can understand your feelings, madame. But I believe Mrs Barrymore has found that the Cossacks can be good friends, as well as savage foes. I was sorry that Philip was not there to protect you.’ As he turned to address Elizabeth once more, Mme de Morne rose and made her apologies, quoting the million things she had to do. He made his adieux, held the door for her and then returned to stand over the sofa on which Elizabeth was sitting. ‘You look very far from well. What does the doctor say?’
‘That I shall soon be better.’ Her voice was dry, lifeless.
‘You are right; it is no affair of mine. I apologise. Besides’—he moved away from her across the room, gazed for a moment unseeingly out of the window, then came back to stand over her again—‘I am come on a painful errand. I am sorry not to find you looking better.’
‘So you have said. But if it is painful, shall we not do best to get it over with? Hard things are best said quickly.’ And then, when he still did not speak, ‘You have forbidden your cousin to visit us.’
‘Forbidden him? No. What made you think that? But—it is true I have told him—’ Once again he stopped in mid-sentence.
‘What have you told him, sir? I think, at least, we have a right to know.’
‘That is why I am here. But you must let me explain a little… Your—’ He stopped. ‘Charles Vincent, as you know, has been mixing himself most ardently in the Bourbon cause. I felt it incumbent on me to have some investigations made into his background. There have been too many double agents, too much betrayal. War is not a pretty business—’
‘I am aware of that, Lord Denbigh. So you had investigations made; by your own—agents?’
‘You could say so. Elizabeth—you must understand. This is more serious than any question of you and me. This is the fate of France—perhaps of Europe.’
‘Quite so. Let us forget the ancient history, and come down to cases. You had investigations made—in England, I presume?’
‘Yes. And had a report—Philip brought it to me—that gave me much pain. Why? Elizabeth, why all the lies?’
‘Surely you as a diplomat must know that there are times when a lie is a great deal more convenient than the truth.’
‘So you admit that they were lies? That you never married a cousin, a Mr Barrymore? That neither that pretty little girl, nor Charles Vincent is in any way related to you? Elizabeth, you might have told me.’
‘Told you? What in the world makes you say that? It’s bad enough that we should have met again, like this, but to be telling you the story of my life—I thank you, no.’
‘You’re angry with me—and, God knows, I don’t blame you. I’ve cut a sorry enough figure throughout, have I not? Of course, I see now, I was mad to believe my father and sister when they said you were dead. But I was young, Elizabeth, and they were my father and sister. I had no idea, then, that such treachery was possible.’
She had turned away from him impatiently. ‘Must we go on talking about it? It’s all over, years ago, forgotten, dead as last summer’s roses. What we have to think of is the present—the very embarrassing present. So you’ve had a report on us from your agents, have you? And a very suspicious set of characters I’m sure it makes us seem. Posing as cousins…running a gaming house…no wonder if you warned that silly ward of yours against us.’
‘But Elizabeth, be fair. What was I to think?’
‘Why, nothing to my credit, that’s certain. Nor do I much care what you think—of me. My reputation’s been gone these ten years and more. No’—an angry gesture silenced him—‘we’re not discussing that. We’re talking of Sonia, who has her life still to lead. For her sake, I must try to make you understand. What would you have done, my lord, if you had found yourself, as I did last autumn, the sole protector of a girl so young, so charming, and so helpless as my Sonia?’
‘Helpless? She never struck me, exactly, as that.’
‘No, I don’t suppose she did, and I take a good deal of credit to myself for that very fact. She saw her father killed before her eyes, you know, and her home ransacked, first by the French, then by your Cossacks. All she had was me—and Charles Vincent, whom she encountered by chance.’
‘But—her family?’
‘The Germans? An old, miserly aunt, and a cousin from whom I had been protecting her since she was twelve. And he the head of the family. He offered to marry her, in my hearing, to conceal her shame. That’s what he called it. It would have been shameful to let her do it. And I’ll say this for her, I doubt if she would have, even if I had been so mad as to advise it. So instead, I threw in our lot with Charles Vincent. The lies follow from that. Of course, now, here, in Paris, I can see that I was mad—and yet, I cannot see what else I could have done.’
‘But your idea—you must have had some plan?’
‘Of course. To get Sonia to England, to her grandfather there. Have you had a report, also, on him?’
‘I am afraid so.’
‘Oh.’ She took it squarely. That is what I feared. ‘He won’t have her?’
‘No. I’m afraid he won’t. I am sorry to bring you so much bad news at once.’
‘Thank you.’ Mechanically. ‘But it is not exactly news, you know. Philip Haverton’s behaviour told me most of it. It was ingenious of you, sir, to contrive that there would be no need to forbid his seeing us again. Do you know, like an idiot, I had hoped to spare Sonia the knowledge of the full extent of our disgrace. Well, perhaps I should be grateful for small mercies: at least you have saved me the pain of tel
ling her. Haverton’s behaviour has done the business for me. It remains merely to decide where we may best hide ourselves from our disgrace. A nunnery, perhaps, if they’ll have us? But I beg your pardon, it is no affair of yours. Your inquiries were, of course, necessitated by reasons of state; their result an unlucky side issue—unlucky, that is, for us. From your point of view, it can only be good: to see your ward so easily cured of his infatuation must be the greatest comfort to you.’
‘The young brute. I wish I could give him the horse-whipping he deserves.’
‘But why? Be reasonable, Lord Denbigh. You told him of our masquerade with exactly that idea in mind. You cannot expect him, at his age, to be able to administer a coup de grâce as subtly, with such an air as you do. He was a little blunt, a little obvious, perhaps, but really it is all to the good. At least, now we know where we stand.’
‘Nothing of the kind. Do you really believe that I have put the story of what you call this masquerade of yours about Paris? Or that I intend to do so? I told Philip because I thought it my duty—and to be frank with you, because I hoped that it might put an end to an affair that could not possibly come to good. You know as well as I do that Miss von Hugel doesn’t care a button for him—oh, she enjoyed his adoration, what girl wouldn’t? But that’s all there was to it. Be fair, admit it.’
‘Why should I be fair? And if you are high-mindedly intending to conceal our shame from the world, what guarantee have we that young Haverton will do likewise?’
‘The guarantee of his fear of me, which, I may say, is considerable. I have his promise. It is only for you to think of some reasonable explanation for the estrangement between them: I promise you, he will do everything in his power to substantiate it.’
‘Thank you.’ She inclined her head ironically. ‘What a powerful bully you have turned out to be. I would never have thought you had it in you.’
‘You’ve never forgiven me, have you, for failing you so. Well, I don’t blame you. I don’t believe I shall ever forgive myself. When I thought you dead—Elizabeth, I wanted to die too. And then—to discover it was all false: to be told that you had married. Can you imagine what I felt then? And that too was false. Elizabeth, I have been through hell.’
‘I can imagine that your pride must have suffered considerably, poor Giles.’ She coloured, angry with herself for letting his first name slip out.
‘My pride? You cannot really think that!’ And then, ruefully, ‘Well, I suppose, to an extent you are right. To think that you’d forgotten me so easily—but, as you said, that’s ancient history. It’s the future we are concerned with: that is why I am here today. Now, at last, I have a chance to make you amends. Your situation is—difficult, to say the least. What I have learned, others may too. You were mad, you know, when you agreed to the scheme in the first place. What can the world think when it learns that so far from being cousins, you and Vincent met for the first time, under very shady circumstances, somewhere in Germany?’
‘The worst, of course. I have known that for a long time. If they only thought it of me, I would not mind so much.’
‘Quite so. That is like you. And there is also your pose as a widow to be explained away. That is not going to hold water for a moment after the first group of English tourists reaches Paris. Which will be any day now. My sister is coming, you know.’
‘No, I did not. Then, I admit, we are lost indeed. I should think a Trappist nunnery, should not you?’
‘It would hardly suit your Sonia. Elizabeth, I wish you would be serious. I begin to wonder whether you can, in fact, appreciate the gravity of your position.’
‘If I had not, Mr Haverton’s behaviour would have undeceived me fast enough. Frankly, I think it too serious for discussion.’ She rose to her feet as if to end the interview.
‘No, you shall not put me off so. I would not have come if I had not a practical suggestion to make. You trusted me once, trust me again. Marry me, Elizabeth, and I shall be able to protect both you and your Sonia, for whom you seem to care so much more than for yourself.’
‘Marry you? Have you gone quite mad?’
‘No, I have come to my senses. Here, at last, is the chance to make good the wrong I did you, years ago. I only wish the position in which you find yourself were twice as bad—’
‘That I was really a fallen woman, you mean, instead of just appearing to be one? How kind of you, Lord Denbigh. Your name, of course, would be sufficient to cover many more indiscretions than I have involved myself in. And what do we do with Sonia? Since she is not fit to marry your ward, do we keep her on as some kind of a retainer—a governess, perhaps?’ She coloured fierily at the word, but then went steadily on. ‘And how delighted your sister will be to welcome me into the family—’
‘That’s exactly why we must be married at once and present her with a fait accompli when she arrives. Then, family pride will be on our side. You will be surprised how she will come round.’ He had taken her hand when he first made his declaration and had so far contrived to keep it, though struggling, in his. ‘It will be a nine days’ wonder, of course, but soon lost in all the wonders of this extraordinary campaign. You will return to England as my wife, Lady Denbigh… Under my protection, you will have nothing to fear.’
‘And nothing to hope for!’ She pulled away the hand that had somehow, treacherously, remained in his. ‘I thank you, sir, but I’ll not accept so great a sacrifice. To exchange my tarnished name for yours, to hide my shame behind your dignities—I tell you, I’d rather be publicly disgraced than so protected.’ And then, with an effort at calm: ‘Don’t look so anxious. It’s all over. You have made your gallant offer, and been rejected. Let the past be as it should be—past. The future is my affair, and at least I shall face it under my true colours.’
‘But—Elizabeth—I have done this all wrong; you misunderstand me on purpose—’
‘On the contrary, I understand you very well. It does you the greatest credit, sir, that you have had me so much on your mind all these years, and most handsomely have you attempted to pay what you consider your debt. Now, it is cancelled. The obligation, if any, is on my side. You will add still further to it by helping me to get Sonia out of Paris before Lady Elinor arrives.’
‘I’ll do nothing of the kind. Instead, I shall see to it that the first thing my sister does, when she gets here, is pay you a formal call. Why, what’s the matter?’
She had burst into hysterical laughter. ‘A morning call from Lady Elinor! That will be the day. On the self-styled Mrs Barrymore, and her disreputable protégée—oh, Sonia, listen—’
But Sonia, who had just entered the room, took one appalled look at her now helplessly sobbing friend and turned on Lord Denbigh: ‘What have you done to her? Don’t you know she’s been ill?’ And then, in a very different tone, ‘Come, Liz, you’re overtired. Lord Denbigh will excuse you, I know.’ She was already helping Elizabeth to the door. ‘Good day, Lord Denbigh.’
At the door, Elizabeth paused and turned, still supported by Sonia’s arm. ‘Yes, good day,’ she said, ‘and—goodbye, Lord Denbigh.’
Left alone, he stood for a moment, gazing after them. Then, deliberately, he picked up his hat from the table where he had laid it and threw it with all his force to the ground. ‘Idiot,’ he said, ‘fool, bungler—’
What he said, later, to Philip Haverton left that young man white and shaken. ‘But…but you told me…you said…what was I to think?’
‘Nothing to any purpose, that is clear enough. I thought at the time that if you had been half a man, or really cared for the girl, you would have told me to go to the devil. Now, I tell you that if the slightest whisper of the business gets abroad through your means, I’ll kill you, Philip.’
‘You mean that!’
‘I am glad you have at least enough sense to see that I do. Now, I am very busy. I should much prefer not to see you for some time.’
‘Should I go to them, sir, and apologise?’
‘Good God, no. What
use would that be? Just keep out of my sight, Philip.’
Philip, very sorry for himself, was glad to do so, and plunged into the diversions that liberated Paris had to offer. He missed his passion for Sonia, but found gaming an adequate substitute for a few days, and lost a good deal of money in one of the gilded upstairs rooms of the Palais Royal. For the first time in his life, he was actually glad to see his formidable cousin, Lady Elinor, whose little party was the very first to arrive from England. Such meals as he had been compelled to eat tête-à-tête with Denbigh at the Hôtel de l’Europe had been so uncomfortable that any extension of their party must be a relief.
‘You have lost no time,’ Denbigh greeted Henry Fessingham who had alighted first from the capacious family carriage that had drawn up in the courtyard of the Hôtel de l’Europe.
‘Yes,’ said Fessingham. ‘We were already at Dover when the news came. It is magnificent, is it not?’
‘I hope so.’ He was interrupted by his sister’s imperious voice. ‘Well’—she was standing at the carriage door—‘am I to wait here all day? First we travel at what I still think a most unreasonable speed, and now, when at last we arrive, we must be left to stifle here while you gentlemen talk politics.’
A look of friendly comprehension flashed between Denbigh and Fessingham, then, simultaneously, they moved forward with apologies and offers of assistance.
‘Thank you.’ She let her brother help her down, then turned back to say, with every appearance of genuine concern, ‘Juliet, my love, are you quite done up?’
‘Not at all, Aunt Elinor.’ Miss Cerne now appeared in the doorway, her looks confirming her words. They might have travelled fast, thought Denbigh, but they must have stopped, just the same, at the barriers of the city. His sister was always meticulously tidy, but Miss Cerne’s appearance was a work of art. One directed, he wondered, at whom. Once more, he and Fessingham exchanged quick glances. His own was questioning, Fessingham’s full of some unspoken apology.
Inevitably, it was Philip Haverton who sprang forward to help Miss Cerne alight. ‘Oh, Philip—’ Lady Elinor apparently noticed him for the first time. ‘You will hardly remember my ward Miss Cerne.’
The Adventurers Page 25