The Adventurers

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Sonia, summing up their visitor with the unsparing eyes of youth, liked nothing of what she saw. She curtsied, gracefully. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You and Elizabeth must have much to talk of.’ A laughing, teasing glance in exchange for Elizabeth’s pleading one, and she was gone.

  ‘A charming child.’ Lady Elinor seated herself, unbidden, with a little sigh of muslin skirts. ‘No wonder my philanthropic brother feels concerned for her predicament. He asked me, of course, to call on you.’

  ‘We are honoured—and grateful.’

  ‘Don’t be grateful too soon, Miss Barrymore. I am come with a proposition for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. You must have some idea of the kind of talk that is going around about you and that pretty protégée of yours. And Mr Vincent, of course. I will not soil my lips by referring to it in more detail.’

  ‘I would not wish you to do that.’ A sharp exchange of glances registered Lady Elinor’s recognition of a worthy adversary, but her voice was smooth as ever when she resumed:

  ‘That, of course, is why Giles asked me to call upon you, as publicly as possible. My carriage is outside. It can hardly fail to be noticed. I propose, also, to summon you to my box at the opera this evening. I have some standing in the world. Thus franked, even after what has passed, you should have no difficulty in finding a respectable match for that pretty child, which I take it is your intention. I will even do my best to help you.’

  ‘You are too kind.’ Elizabeth contrived to keep all feeling out of her voice.

  ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That you refuse Giles in terms that make it impossible for him ever to approach you again.’

  ‘Refuse him?’

  ‘No need to pretend astonishment. You know as well as I do that the mere memory of you has kept him from I don’t know how many suitable matches. And now he has met you again—’ An expressive shrug finished the sentence. ‘I will pay you the compliment of being frank with you, Miss Barrymore. Giles must marry. Our line is an ancient one; it must not be allowed to die out. I have found the very girl for him, and brought her to Paris with me. A charming child—she would make a good friend for your Miss von Hugel, and shall, if you will oblige me in this. And after all, you must see, yourself, that your marriage with Lord Denbigh is out of the question. It is but to give him the shock that will cure him—I do not care how you do it. That is your affair. And then, I promise you, I will bring Miss von Hugel out, ensure a good marriage for her, and for you’—here, at last, she lost countenance a little—‘perhaps a pension—I do not know exactly how you are situated.’

  ‘You think Lord Denbigh will propose to me.’

  ‘Of course he will.’ Impatiently. ‘He’s head-over-ears; it’s worse now than it was before. And violent diseases, you know, react to violent remedies. When he does so, tell him—well, I leave it to you what you tell him. Cure him, and you have made me your friend for life.’

  ‘You give me credit for a great deal of altruism, ma’am.’ Her heart was singing: He loves me, he loves me, all this time he has loved me.

  Did it colour her voice? Lady Elinor’s certainly sharpened as she replied. ‘No, merely for some common sense. You must see that marriage between you and Giles is out of the question. You—Miss Barrymore—Mrs Barrymore even—a name so tarnished, a family no one has ever heard of—’

  Elizabeth rose to her feet. ‘May I show you to your carriage, Lady Elinor?’

  ‘But you have not answered me.’

  ‘No. You should, I think, be grateful to me for that. But I have no wish to trade insults with you. So—good day.’

  Lady Elinor remained seated. ‘Insults! Believe me, Miss Barrymore, I had no intention of insulting you. I have told you a few plain facts—plainly. It is in your own best interests to listen to me, and I hope, when you think more of it, you will realise that it is. I will expect to see you at the opera tonight; you shall give me your answer then. I am sure, when you have considered, you will recognise how much it is that I have to offer—and how impossible is any other solution to the difficulties in which you find yourself. Marriage with you must mean ruin for Giles, the end of his career in the diplomatic service, the loss of the distinguished place he has held in society. Imagine him, lurking with you at one of his country seats, unable to hold up his head in the country—how long, in such circumstances, do you imagine that his infatuation for you would last? Divorces are rare, I know, but not impossible—and particularly not for someone like Giles. Do you really wish to play so high for the position of the discredited, the divorced Lady Denbigh?’

  ‘I do not wish to discuss the matter any further. As for divorce—give me leave to get married before we consider that. And marriage, surely, and all its implications, is a question Lord Denbigh must decide for himself.’

  ‘On the contrary. You know as well as I do that he is bound to feel himself obligated to you. Of course he must propose for your hand. Even I recognise that. And equally, of course, you must refuse him.’

  ‘What would you say if I was to tell you that he had already done so?’

  ‘What! And—’

  ‘I refused him.’

  Now at last Lady Elinor was on her feet, grasping Elizabeth’s unresisting hand in both of hers. ‘Miss Barrymore, I ask you a thousand pardons. I should have known that you were, in truth, a woman of principle. I promise you, I shall see to it that you never regret it. I have various positions at my disposal: there is the lady in charge of the home for distressed gentlewomen; she is getting on in years—or perhaps a wardenship at one of my almshouses—’

  ‘You are too good.’ The hint of mockery in her voice was not lost on Lady Elinor, whose expression changed suddenly. ‘I have told you, because it is true, that I have already refused Lord Denbigh. I have made no promises as to what I shall do if he should ever ask me again.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself about that.’ Lady Elinor was drawing on her gloves. ‘I shall see to it that he does not do so. But—a bargain is a bargain. I shall see you at the opera tonight.’

  ‘No bargain of mine, Lady Elinor, but of course we will be there.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Charles!’ Sonia had hardly been alone with him since their strange moonlight encounter the night before Paris fell. Now, jumping to her feet as he entered the room, she dropped the dress she had been altering and went towards him, hands outstretched. ‘Something’s terribly wrong. I can see by your face. What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Nothing I can tell you, said his voice.

  ‘But there is. I know you too well—I’m…too fond of you, Charles. You must expect me to see when you are troubled. Something’s been wrong ever since we reached Paris. Now, it’s worse. You look—haunted, Charles. Tell me, please. You never know, just talking about it might help.’

  ‘It’s nothing, I say. I’m a little tired, that’s all.’

  ‘I can see that. If only that were all. But if you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t tease you, Charles. It’s not your secret, is that it?’ And then, when his silence confirmed her guess: ‘Oh, Charles, please be careful. We’re worried about you, Liz and I. And please, for my sake, try to get some rest. We shall be late tonight at the opera, remember. Look’—she picked up the white dress and managed a lighter note—‘shall I not be surpassingly elegant?’

  ‘Yes, very pretty.’ He had hardly looked at it. ‘But then you are always elegant. Only—I came to say; to ask… I beg you and Elizabeth will not go to the opera tonight.’

  ‘Not go! For the Allied monarchs’ first appearance? Charles, you are mad. Of course we are going. You know you said we must yourself. Oh, and Lady Elinor Burnleigh has been here this morning.’

  ‘Has she?’ Amazingly, he sounded uninterested. ‘Sonia, do not ask me to explain but, please, believe me when I say it is best for you not to go.’

  ‘The scandal’s as bad as that, is it? Never mind, Charles, I never believed in runni
ng away nor, I am sure, does Elizabeth. We had much best go and face it out.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that. It’s nothing to do with you—or Elizabeth. I can’t tell you more Sonia. Only—it’s not safe. Don’t ask me.’

  ‘Not safe? Charles, sit down here.’ She pushed him gently but firmly down on to a sofa, then perched herself on the end of it. ‘We were to be fellow adventurers, do you remember? What concerns you concerns me too. And—don’t make me say it, but you know there’s another reason. Your secrets should be my secrets, Charles. Since I must share your unhappiness, surely I should share its reason. You know it’s safe with me. I’ll not tell Elizabeth even, if you don’t wish it. But—not safe to go to the opera? Perhaps you don’t need to tell me: perhaps I can guess a little. Who are these friends of yours who meet you so surreptitiously and have made you so unhappy? What are they planning? What have you involved yourself in? What’s going to happen tonight, Charles?’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Suddenly it was a cry from the heart. ‘What indeed. But—I can’t tell you, Sonia; I’ve sworn.’

  ‘An oath you should not have, I’ll be bound. I warn you, Charles, if you won’t tell me what it’s all about, I shall go to Lord Denbigh and warn him something’s afoot for this evening.’

  ‘Lord Denbigh! Why did I not think of him?’ He jumped up and took an anxious turn about the room. ‘I suppose despair makes one stupid. Sonia, I must see Lord Denbigh, quickly, in secret.’

  ‘You sound very desperate, Charles.’

  ‘I am. It’s—Sonia, it couldn’t be worse. They are going to assassinate the Czar, at the opera tonight’

  ‘What?’ And then, ‘Who? Not your friends!’

  ‘They were my friends. But what can I do, one, against so many? They wouldn’t listen to me. It’s a miracle I got away.’ He was still pacing about the room, throwing disjointed sentences at her. ‘I didn’t know where to turn, who would believe me. But—Denbigh’s the answer. He will believe me. He will know what to do. Only, how can I see him, Sonia? Secretly.’

  ‘Leave that to me.’ She stood up. ‘Sit here, Charles. Rest. I must go and put my bonnet on.’

  ‘Your bonnet?’

  ‘Yes. Did I not tell you that Lady Elinor Burnleigh paid us a most surprising morning call? Well—she left her glove behind. Or would have, if she had had any common consideration.’ She picked up one of her own. ‘I must return it, at once. What shall I tell Lord Denbigh?’

  ‘That I must see him.’

  ‘Yes, but how?’ She wrinkled her forehead in thought. ‘It won’t do for Lord Denbigh to come here; that would be too obvious. We must meet by accident. But where?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Of course. My dress.’ She picked up the white satin underdress that had pleased her so and gave it a crushing look. ‘A total failure—I shall rush to Leroy, the great dressmaker—and you shall pay the bill, dear Charles. Lady Elinor will doubtless need gloves, or a shawl or one of those vital last-moment nonsenses, and her henpecked brother will fetch them for her.’ As she talked, she had been deftly wrapping the dress up in tissue and packing it away in a vast, unmistakable dressmaker’s box. ‘How embarrassed you will be, carrying this through the streets of Paris, Charles, and how surprised when, you encounter Lord Denbigh on a similar errand. Now, can I trust you to wait here and get involved in nothing more until I return?’

  He kissed her hand. ‘Sonia!’

  ‘Charles!’ She smiled down at him. ‘There’s a great deal to do before we are out of this scrape.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Of course. Your danger is mine, Charles, like your unhappiness. It’s just—one of those things, I suppose. You little knew, did you, that day at the inn what you were getting yourself into.’

  ‘Sonia!’

  ‘Charles!’ She blew him a quick kiss from the open doorway. ‘There’s no time to be lost. I must go. Stay here. Promise?’

  ‘Of course. But—Sonia—’

  ‘Later, Charles, later.’ She was gone.

  Lady Elinor was surprised and far from pleased to be told that Miss von Hugel was asking to see her. ‘Encroaching—I might have known it. And I left no glove behind. A mere pretext. Tell her I’m busy.’

  The man hesitated. ‘She said to tell you there is a jewel in the glove, milady.’

  ‘A jewel? She’s mad.’

  ‘And if, by any chance, you were unable to see her, she would be glad to deliver it to milord.’

  ‘To me?’ Lord Denbigh was reading the Moniteur at the far end of the room.

  ‘Yes, she seems to think it important that she see one of you.’

  ‘Then show her up, Jules.’

  Sonia told her story quickly and concisely and Denbigh took it in as fast. ‘I see,’ he said at last. And then, ‘Elinor!’ He raised his voice to include his sister who had sat at the far end of the room, rather obviously dissociated from the conversation. ‘What do you need from Leroy?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She folded her lips in her characteristic expression of disapproval.

  ‘A pity. Miss von Hugel, what does she need?’

  ‘A fan, perhaps? A white plumed fan.’

  ‘Of course. Very well, in half an hour then. Oh—and do not be surprised if I bring my friend Mr Fessingham. His taste in fans is excellent, I believe.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, much better than mine.’

  At Louis Hippolyte Leroy’s sumptuous establishment all was bustle and confusion. A characteristically French sense of the niceties of behaviour had led every royalist lady to feel that she could not possibly welcome the Allied sovereigns in a dress that had graced the Emperor’s court. Yards of white satin, muslin, lace and tissue were being sewed up in the big workrooms, the hall, even on the stairs. Sonia, arriving with Charles at her side carrying the huge bandbox had a moment of despair. There would be no chance of private conversation here.

  But a black-garbed woman with a pincushion at her belt and a measuring tape wound round her neck was already moving forward to greet them. ‘Miss von Hugel? You are punctual. The dressmaker awaits you in the fitting room. If Monsieur will be so good as to bring the dress? You can see we are all at sixes and sevens here.’

  Two men awaited them in the tiny, cramped fitting room. Oddly, it was not Denbigh, elegant by the little window, but his older companion who dominated the scene. Sonia had heard of Fessingham from Philip Haverton and had thought of him as an old man. Now, curtsying to him and studying the craggy face and fierce grey-blue eyes she revised her opinion. This was a man. His age hardly mattered… But—those eyes…what was it about them? They had left her, now, to sum up her companion with the same quick, appraising glance. Or—was it the same? Fessingham’s eyes and Charles’ had met and held.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’ said Henry Fessingham.

  ‘Charles Vincent.’ Puzzled.

  ‘Vincent? And your parents?’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ Once again the two grey glances met and locked.

  Fessingham laughed a curious choked laugh. ‘You may well ask. I hope… I expect I’m mad. But humour an old man and tell me your mother’s name.’

  ‘My mother’s name? You’re mocking me. It’s quite other business I’m here on.’

  ‘That’s as may be. Tell me your mother’s name—or your father’s for the matter of that. If you can.’

  ‘How do you mean that, sir?’

  Sonia’s hand went out to touch his in silent appeal. ‘Charles, answer his questions.’ She had been looking from one brown face to the other.

  Fessingham deflected his compelling glance for a moment from Charles to her. ‘You’re no fool. You see it too, don’t you, girl? It was as if my youth walked in at that door.’ Again he laughed that odd, choking laugh. ‘Short temper and all. It can’t be true, and yet—I can’t believe it’s otherwise.’

  ‘Your—’ Charles looked from him to Sonia, whose hand still lay restrainingly on his. ‘You mean—’

  ‘Your mother’s name, ridiculous boy, and
put me out of my misery. If this is a dream, I can’t wake too soon. Not Vincent, though, surely?’

  ‘No, no. She married again. He was my stepfather. She thought herself much above his touch: she was a Mlle de Bondy. She went back to that name after my father’—he coloured—‘abandoned us.’

  ‘Lies,’ said Henry Fessingham. ‘I should have known it. The—’ He stopped. ‘I beg your pardon, boy. I was forgetting, for a moment, that I referred to your mother as well as to my wife. She must have known about you when we parted. If I had, I’d have taken her back to England with me if it killed her. Where is she now, by the way?’

  ‘Dead. These many years.’

  ‘Then we’ll say no more about her. But as for us: What does one say to the son one did not know existed?’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘I’d hardly joke on such a subject. I’ve been lonely all my life. Now—it looks as if I shall be busy. How much trouble are you in, son Charles?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘And involved with a woman, too, by the look of things.’ Somehow he had got hold of Sonia’s other hand. ‘By what I see, you can’t be entirely a fool, though you do not sound to have been conducting yourself altogether brilliantly. We shall have to put our heads together to see what we can do about you.’ For the first time he included Denbigh in the conversation.

  ‘But are you sure?’ Denbigh had watched the whole scene with his usual detachment and now came forward somewhat doubtfully.

  ‘Sure enough. Look at him. And remember, I remember her. It was just the kind of trick she would have played. You were born, boy—what do you call yourself—Charles?—you were born at Coblentz—in, let me see, 1793. Your mother was Albertine de Bondy and proud as the devil. Thought she’d made a mistake the moment she’d married me. Oh well—I said I wouldn’t speak of her. But I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Charles suddenly laughed the laugh that was so like his father’s. ‘Near enough, sir. I was born just outside Coblentz, it’s true, in 1793. And “proud as the devil” describes her, though she was my mother.’