“I wonder,” said Helen. “I would have agreed with you, I think, if it had not been for this foolish manifesto. What would you do if someone talked of burning every house in London? I know I would be out in the lanes with my father’s pistols, peppering them as they went by.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Miss Tillingdon. “I really believe you would.”
Events were to prove Helen right. The Duke of Brunswick swaggered into France in July. By October came the news of his crushing defeat by Dumouriez and the French “rabble” at Valmy. The allied armies were in full retreat, and the French had taken the offensive.
“Will Fox and his Whig friends never see the danger we are in?” Captain Telfair was furiously reading the Times one dark December morning. “If there had been a few regiments of good English redcoats at Valmy it would have been another story. And if our navy were to go into action against them, they’d soon be crying for peace. And on their knees for pardon to King Louis.”
“Poor man,” said Helen. “I doubt if he’ll leave the Temple now, except for the guillotine.”
“Oh, pray, don’t speak of such things.” Mrs. Telfair poured tea with a shaking hand. “It is more than my poor nerves can stand.”
“Your poor nerves!” Captain Telfair’s voice was even rougher than usual. “What right have you to be indulging in nerves, here in England, with every comfort around you? Think of the Queen of France, in prison, with no women about her, and even forced to empty her own slops!”
“Oh, I can’t bear it!” Mrs. Telfair put down the teapot, tears streaming down her face, rose from the table and tottered from the room.
Helen encouraged her mother to take to her bed for a few days, but was disconcerted when the days drew into weeks. Christmas came and went, with the barest minimum of necessary celebration, and still Mrs. Telfair lay in bed, dissolving into tears at any suggestion that she even consider getting up. In the end, Helen made her father send for the doctor, who spent a long time with his patient and emerged from her room looking grave.
His interview with Captain Telfair reduced that short-tempered gentleman to almost speechless rage, the best of which he saved for his daughter. “A warm climate,” he fulminated. “He wants me to take her to a warm climate! On half pay! Bankrupt by her extravagance and yours! Of all the nonsensical——”
“A more practical point”—Helen interrupted a fruitless outburst of oaths—“is that we could hardly get her to a warmer climate if we could afford to. The way lies through France, and no one but a madman would go there now.”
“How like you,” he sneered, “to forget that the easiest way to the Mediterranean is by sea.”
She was to remember this a few weeks later, when the news of the execution of the King of France was closely followed by the amazing announcement that France had declared war on England.
“That’ll teach Fox and company what the Frogs think of them and their friendship!” Captain Telfair was busy packing for a journey to London. This time he would leave nothing to chance. He would get a ship, he said, if he had to swing his hammock across the Admiralty doors.
“I’ll stay with your Aunt Standish,” he told Helen. “You can direct to me there, if your mother should show any sign of improvement. Or the other thing.” Helen knew that he longed now for his wife’s death, and rather wondered what he would like to have happen to his daughter. He was desperate, she knew, to get to sea and be free from both of them.
But that being the case, he had made, it turned out, a bad mistake when he went to stay with Mrs. Standish. He returned, a few weeks later, proud with the news of a command, but it was one with strings attached. Mrs. Standish had used her influence to some effect, and he owed his command of the Trojan very largely to her good offices. According to him, it was only when he returned from the Admiralty with this news that Mrs. Standish had put in for her reward. The Trojan was ordered to Mediterranean waters. His wife, she knew, had been ordered there by her doctor. And it so happened that Charlotte, too, worn out by three unsuccessful seasons, was in need of balmier airs. What more logical than that Captain Telfair should take his wife and the two girls with him when he sailed?
This was the way Captain Telfair described the course of events. Helen, knowing both him and her aunt, was certain that a hard bargain had been drawn between them before Mrs. Standish used that influence of hers. It was obvious that the last thing Captain Telfair wanted was the company of his wife, daughter, and niece, and Helen herself was dismayed at the prospect of life in the cramped conditions of a man-of-war. If it had not been for the state of her mother’s health, she would have argued strongly against it, but the doctor, sensing her reaction, took her aside and warned her that, for her mother, it was literally a choice between a warmer climate and death.
A letter from Charlotte was encouraging. Captain Telfair’s new command, it seemed, was a large, old-fashioned seventy-four-gun ship with unusually roomy living quarters for her captain, and a stern deck opening off his main saloon, where, Charlotte said, her Aunt Telfair would be able to sun herself back to health in peace and privacy. It seemed an odd enough prospect on a battleship in time of war, but then, no one expected much active opposition from the French navy, depleted of its aristocratic officers. Charlotte wrote eagerly, as if they were going on a pleasure cruise, and Helen could only hope she knew what she was talking about.
The Trojan had been laid up at Portsmouth, and with the whole navy struggling to get back on to a wartime basis, her refitting was inevitably slow. On Captain Telfair’s rare visits home, he talked angrily about shortage of stores, of men, of ammunition, of everything that he needed. But he seemed, to Helen, a different man. In action he was in his element. On the beach, he had been grinding himself to pieces; now all his energy was thrown into getting his ship ready to sail, and Helen had her first glimpse of the man who had distinguished himself first as lieutenant and then as commander. Perhaps life on the Trojan would be better than she had feared.
Charlotte arrived to stay with them early in June, stammering hard, but improved remarkably when she found Mrs. Telfair too ill and Helen too busy to notice whether she finished her sentences or not. She was as pretty as ever, and not much more sensible, but Helen was genuinely pleased to see her and grateful for her company on what seemed to be a wild enough venture. Saying good-bye to Miss Tillingdon, she said something of this, and Miss Tillingdon replied bracingly that she had sense enough for the three of them, “So long as you don’t give too much way to your wild notions.”
It seemed a sad change of front on the part of the friend who had first introduced Helen to these “wild notions” about the rights of women. But it was no more than Helen had expected. Whatever plans she might have now for her future, they did not include that cottage with Miss Tillingdon.
“Poor M . . . M . . . M . . .” Charlotte was on her knees folding a muslin ball gown into the smallest possible compass. And then, when Helen went placidly on with her own packing, “I hope she won’t be too disappointed.”
“Why should she be?” Helen straightened her weary back for a moment.
“Because I shan’t m . . . m . . . m . . . Because no one will propose to m . . . m . . . m . . .” Charlotte gave up and shoved the gown ruthlessly into place at the top of the already overflowing box.
So that was it. Charlotte was being sent to sea as other girls were sent to India, to make the best marriage she could. Well, Helen thought, her own parents very likely had the same plans for her. She was doubtless supposed to snap up some fine young aristocratic naval officer. This revolting prospect was confirmed when they finally went on board the Trojan and found that other passengers had already arrived. Lord Merritt was a friend of Lady Standish’s, and like Mrs. Telfair, had been ordered south for his health. He, his secretary, a Mr. Trenche, and his valet, Price, were to have the quarters below the captain’s that were usually allocated to the first and second lieutenants. It was just as well, Helen thought, that the Trojan was such a roomy ship, bu
t she was still sorry for the two lieutenants, whose faces she liked, though she had not yet managed to remember their names.
Charlotte and Lord Merritt, it seemed, were old friends. If that was the word, which Helen rather doubted after witnessing Lord Merritt’s unenthusiastic surprise, and Charlotte’s extraordinary outburst of stammering, when they met. Mrs. Standish would be lucky, she thought, if the voyage resulted in an engagement in that quarter. But then, Mrs. Standish had never been in the least aware of other people’s feelings. Of course, it might be young Trenche she intended for her daughter, but it seemed unlikely as he was a younger son, earning his living in attendance on Lord Merritt who was, it soon became apparent, a very rich man indeed.
He liked being rich, and made no secret of it. He had spent his first afternoon on board in a minute scrutiny of the captain’s stores and had then sent so comprehensive an order ashore that Captain Telfair, when the results were swayed on deck, had had to reorganise his entire between-decks cargo.
“Necessities of life,” said Lord Merritt with satisfaction when it was all over.
Helen had come on board at the same time as the last of his cargo. “You look on champagne as a necessity?” The sight of the crates being loaded at the same time as the men’s salt beef and biscuit had shocked her profoundly and she had been more shocked still at her fathers meek acquiescence in this disruption of plans for his ship.
“Part of civilisation. Even if it does come from France.” This was a joke, and Mr. Trenche laughed dutifully, giving the lead to all the others save Helen.
“And how, exactly, do you define civilisation?” Helen had taken a dislike to this plump, middle-aged man in his overfashionable clothes, but thought she was giving him one more chance.
“Interesting question.” He turned to Mr. Trenche. “Philip. Civilisation?”
“The douceur de vivre, sir? And, perhaps,” with a comprehensive bow, “the company of charming ladies?”
“Excellent, excellent. Thoughts in a nutshell.” Merritt flourished his own bow, his eyes on Helen. “Charming ladies,” he repeated Trenche’s phrase. “And ladies . . . most unusual . . . who think.”
This made the compliment pointedly for Helen, but she would have none of it. “I think it is time we went below and saw to our unpacking.” She turned and led the way.
The convoy of merchant ships that the Trojan was to escort to Gibraltar was already assembled; the wind was fair; they sailed that night. By next morning, all the passengers but Helen were very ill indeed, and even she only kept going by resolutely making herself eat small quantities of bread, and spending as much time as possible on the stern deck, away from the multifarious smells of ship. Necessity joined with fresh all to keep her on her feet. Rose, Charlotte’s maid, whom Captain Telfair had grudgingly allowed to accompany the three ladies, was as sick as anyone else. Leaving her to her fate, Helen was kept occupied ministering to her mother and Charlotte, providing basins, rags soaked in vinegar, sal volatile, and encouragement. Price, Lord Merritt’s man, was busy about the same dismal office. She wished she could like him. He made himself invaluable, but all the time she felt that his shifty grey eyes were looking this way and that for advantage to himself. She thought him jealous of Trenche and thought herself absurd to think so.
Too busy to give way, Helen soon began to feel better, and ventured up on deck next afternoon to see the ships of the convoy ploughing along ahead, their sails brilliant white in the sun. Her father was not in sight, but the officer of the watch was coming along the deck to greet her, with a friendly “Good-day,” and then, aware of her difficulty: “First Lieutenant Forbes, ma’am. I had the honour of being presented to you before we sailed.”
She smiled at him gratefully. “Thank you, Mr. Forbes. I’m afraid the last two days have got a trifle confused in my mind.”
“As well they might.” His smile was friendly. “I gather you’re the only survivor so far.” He turned away, with an apology, to shout an order to the helmsman. “It’s difficult to keep our speed down to those tubs.” A scornful gesture indicated the ships of the convoy. “The Trojan could sail rings around them if she wanted to.”
“She’s fast?”
“Said to be. Faster than you’d expect from her build. And Captain Telfair will get every ounce out of her, you can rely on that. You’ll see some action, ma’am, I hope, once we’ve cleared Gibraltar, left this lot behind, and joined the Mediterranean Fleet.”
He seemed to think this so delightful a prospect for her that she had not the heart to tell him that action was the last thing she wished to see. It was extraordinary, and horrible, to think of these shining white decks stained with blood, the sails that sang above her ragged with gunfire, men all around groaning and dying.
“I beg your pardon.” Once again, disconcertingly, he had read her thoughts. “I quite forgot myself. Naturally, I very much hope that we get you and your mother safe on shore before we are lucky enough to go into action.”
She smiled at him gratefully. “Frankly, Mr. Forbes, so do I. If one only knew what that shore was going to be.”
“Yes.” She saw the mask of professional discretion close over his face. Then it lightened again into his rather engaging smile. “Frankly, Miss Telfair, I have no more idea than you do. I doubt if even Captain Telfair knows what will happen to us after Gibraltar.”
“Then it’s not much use worrying, is it?”
But she did worry. It was impossible not to, when Charlotte recovered and appeared on deck, gay as a bird, and still her mother lay in the exiguous cabin they shared, tossing helplessly, eating nothing, endlessly sick. Their plan had been that Captain Telfair would land them at the first Italian port they reached, and Lord Merritt, who planned to make a slow progress southwards to Naples, would escort them to some suitable, inexpensive spot where Mrs. Telfair could be nursed, in sunshine, back to strength.
It had all seemed practical enough at home in Up Harting. Now it struck Helen as little short of madness. The more she talked to the pleasant young officers of the ship, the more she realised how ruthless was naval discipline. If Lord Hood, commanding the Mediterranean Fleet, were to decide that the Trojan must be detached on some dangerous duty, Captain Telfair neither could nor would suggest that first he must put his passengers safe on shore.
Lord Merritt, who claimed to owe his recovery entirely to the extensive consumption of champagne, caught her alone in the main salon and confessed to the same doubts.
“Seemed a good enough plan when Mrs. Standish suggested it. Not so sure now. Perhaps”—here was the point of his remarks—“Speak to your father?”
“It would be no use.” She wished to settle, this once and for all. “With my mother as ill as she is, he would consult her convenience if he could.” It was not true but how was he to know that? “I think, Lord Merritt, that we can do nothing but pray for a fair wind, and the right order at Gibraltar.”
“I wish you would call me Henry.”
Here was an unpleasant surprise. He had achieved a whole sentence; his tone was actually languishing, and he was, to the best of his ability, making eyes at her. It was a deplorably comic performance, and she ignored it as best she might. “My father has such rigid ideas of propriety,” she kept it light. “I am sure you will understand, my lord.”
“Hard world.” He was fretful now. “Buy you—God dammit—buy you Corsica if you wanted. Won’t even call me by my name.”
Worse and worse. And—a comic underthought—what in the world would Aunt Standish think if she learned that her careful plans had come to this? “Dear Lord Merritt” —at all costs she must not quarrel with her father’s affluent passenger—“you are kindness itself, but, do you know, I do not particularly want Corsica.”
“Sensible.” Even this remark, intended to be quelling, met with his approval. “What do we think of Corsica, Trenche?”
“We think it a barbarous island, my lord.” Philip Trenche had just entered the cabin, and Helen was surprised how reli
eved she was to see him.
Chapter 5
IF the Bay of Biscay had been rough, the passage round Cape St. Vincent was tempestuous. While the rest of the party ate their way ravenously through the more perishable of the cabin dainties, Mrs. Telfair lay helpless in her cot, supporting existence on thin soup and Lord Merritt’s champagne, for which Helen now found herself blessing him. She seemed weaker every day, and Helen even wondered whether she should suggest that they go ashore at Gibraltar. But when she managed to catch her father alone and tentatively raised the idea, she got a short answer. “If the wind’s fair for the gut, we’re not stopping at the Rock,” he told her. “Besides, Merritt intends to go in to Italy, and I can’t leave you three women alone here. Spain’s not much more to be trusted than France. You and your invalid might find yourselves standing siege on the Rock.”
“Oh!” She had not thought of that unpleasant possibility. “You mean, we leave the convoy at Gibraltar and go on alone?”
“Just so. To rendezvous with Hood and the fleet off Toulon. And then the sooner I can get you passage on a ship bound for Italy, the happier I shall be.”
There was no more to be said, and in the end they passed the Rock of Gibraltar at night after a flurry of farewell signals from the convoy, whose captains seemed to Helen almost excessively grateful for the protection they had received, considering that they had not sighted a single enemy ship.
“Well, there aren’t many of them,” said Lieutenant Forbes, to whom she had remarked on this. They were in the Mediterranean now, sailing up the east coast of Spain to their rendezvous at Toulon, and Helen was on deck, enjoying the balmy air and steady motion of the ship, and straining her eyes to make out the details of the wooded, unhospitable-looking shore.
“Heavenly air,” she said, breathing it in.
“Yes. It will be hot later. Miss Telfair, I’ve been thinking about your mother. It cannot be good for her to lie in that dismal cabin all day. If Captain Telfair would give permission, I could easily have a cot rigged for her on the stern deck. We could have her carried out, in the daytime, to get the benefit of the sea breeze. The doctor would not agree with me, I know,” he went on bravely, “but I have never thought it could be good for an invalid to lie and breathe the same air over and over again.”
Shadow of a Lady Page 5