by Sheila Walsh
Chapter Five
Madalena lay listening to the clock downstairs chiming the hour ‒ one o’clock. Sleep seemed as far away as ever. It had been a better day, this one ‒ a better week, in fact. Armand, who had been absent on a visit, was home again and had brought his friend, Daniel Merchent with him. He was a very personable young man, this Mr Merchent, and Madalena would have been less than human had she not enjoyed his undoubted admiration.
With Phoebe to make up a four, there had been parties and much laughter. Also, she was able to see Devereux every day ‒ and there was a kind of happiness in having him so near. Almost, she imagined that his manner towards her was softening a little. She sighed and was about to turn over for sleep when there was a sound in the passage.
Pulling on a wrapper, she padded to the door. Armand and Daniel Merchent were creeping towards the stairs, carrying their boots.
‘Armand! What are you doing?’
Guiltily they spun round. Her brother flapped an urgent hand. ‘Doucement, child! You will rouse the house!’
‘You are dressed for the outside.’
‘Just a late stroll,’ murmured Daniel.
‘In so furtive a manner ‒ and at such an hour?’ She looked from one to the other. ‘Oh, this I do not believe!’
‘It matters little what you believe,’ snapped Armand. ‘Go back to your bed.’
‘Not until I know what it is you do, for it is entirely probable that you will take a chill and then you will be ill again.’
‘Tais-toi, imbécile!’
‘Imbécile, yourself! I will not be quiet, for you know I speak the truth.’
‘And I am sick of being pampered! Tante Vernon is worse than Papa! Dr Laidlaw said plenty of fresh air ‒ and I tell you, I have been many times in the night air at Daniel’s without taking a chill!’
‘Children ‒ children! I beg you!’ Daniel soothed them. ‘Mademoiselle Madalena ‒ it is a pleasant night for walking ‒ and perhaps a little exploring.’
‘We have seen a light flashing up near the headland.’
Madalena stirred uneasily. ‘One often sees lights. I think it must be the ships out at sea.’
‘Or your friend Lytten doing a little … trading,’ suggested Armand wickedly.
Daniel Merchent flashed him a warning glance; he looked annoyed.
So ‒ that was it! Madalena made up her mind at once. ‘Wait. I shall come with you.’
‘You will do no such thing!’ hissed her brother. ‘It is no business for girls.’
‘Bah!’ Madalena turned on her heel. As the door clicked shut behind her, she flew to a drawer. Her nightgown slid to the floor and she began to drag on her breeches. ‘Parbleu ‒ c’est infâme! Not for a girl, indeed!’ Impatiently she fastened her shirt and wrestled with the jacket which had grown uncommonly tight. Dieu me sauve! Did she not know more of it than they did, the stupid ones! But what if they ran into Dev ‒ of a surety he would be very angry!
Outside, the two young men had vanished and she went straight to the place where she had encountered Devereux on that first night and where she had watched him take the track to the beach below Lytten Manor.
It was a very different night, this; warm and still, and heavy with the scent of grasses and clover; clusters of wild primroses carpeted the way and mingled with it all, the salty tang of the sea. The deep velvet sky was strewn with stars, fading over the sea to a pale turquoise light that was almost as clear as day.
Madalena began to pick her way down the steep path; halfway down she stopped ‒ there was a noise ‒ like a cry, quickly stifled. She waited, heart drumming, but there was nothing. A sea bird, perhaps. The path began to level out and widen into a flat expanse of grass before the final drop to the beach. Somewhere below here was the jetty where Devereux’s yacht was berthed.
She hesitated ‒ and then, ahead of her ‒ no more than a few yards ‒ she saw the outline of a figure bent over something on the ground.
Now what must she do? It might, of course, be Armand or Daniel ‒ but if it were not? She must inch forward, the better to see …
The blow caught her quite unawares from behind. She was flung to the ground, the breath driven from her body. Gasping, she struggled to rise and found a boot planted firmly between her shoulders.
‘Got the varmint!’
‘Bring him here, Jason.’ Madalena would never have recognized the voice had she not been addressed once before in just such tones. She was hauled unceremoniously to her feet and propelled forward.
Devereux looked down at her, his face a hostile mask in the luminous light from the sea. ‘Well, Madalena, it seems you did not heed my warnings. That was foolish of you.’
Madalena scarcely heeded the cold words; her eyes were fixed on what he held. His glance followed hers to the knife and, without a word, he pushed it into his pocket.
She didn’t want to look at what was on the ground. Her throat tightened to suffocation and fear ran like a chill flame along her spine ‒ but she had to know.
The eyes stared sightlessly upward, and the sudden surge of relief that it was not either of the boys turned quickly to horror, for Madalena at once recognized the man ‒ it was the one who had accosted Devereux that day in the Park ‒ the one with whom he was so angry. The scarred face was unmistakable.
She felt sick. ‘He is dead?’
‘Quite dead.’ His voice was grim.
‘Armand and Mr Merchent are somewhere on the cliffs.’ The words came out in a rush ‒ it was not in the least what she had meant to say. Devereux cursed softly and turned aside to rap out orders to his man Jason, who heaved the body across a broad shoulder and disappeared into the darkness.
‘And now, Madalena ‒ what am I to do about you?’ It was quietly said, but there was cold fury in every word, in the way he looked. Panic suffocated her. She turned to run, but was seized and held in vice-like fingers. ‘No. This time you will listen ‒ unless you want to end up like our late friend. I do not play games ‒ I will not tolerate any unwarranted meddling ‒ from you ‒ or your brother ‒ or his friends.’
He shook her. ‘You will never come near these cliffs again at night, do you hear? You will go home now and you will say nothing. In fact, if you are wise, you will wipe this night’s happenings from your mind.’
Wild-eyed, she twisted from his grasp and this time he let her go. She ran, half-stumbling across the turf and up the path, her feet skidding on the loose shale.
Back at the house there was no sign of the others and Madalena crept up to her room. She flung herself on the bed, hands pressed to her pounding temples; every sense, every nerve end was screaming denial that Dev could be a murderer, but in a corner of her mind a small cold voice was saying that it must be so.
On the following morning Madalena was subdued. Armand attributed her silence to pique and since, incredibly, the two young men appeared to have seen and heard nothing, she confined herself to retorting that she thought their nocturnal jaunt very silly. Daniel Merchent gave her a keen look, but said nothing.
When, later, she arrived at Lytten Manor, it was to find that the Duke had left at first light.
Madalena plucked nervously at her handkerchief. ‘Do you know … what does Dev do when he goes away?’
The Duchess examined closely the white face that was all eyes. She chose her words with care. ‘I do not know, child ‒ and I have always deemed it wiser not to ask. Sometimes, with those we love, it is better just to trust.’
‘Ye…es, but suppose …’ she stopped suddenly, aware how her words might worry her dear friend. ‘Oh, it is nothing, I am being silly.’
She waited and waited, but there came no word of a body being found; doubtless it had been carefully disposed of. The thought made her shudder.
Mr Merchent had made a most favourable impression on his first visit to Ivy Mount. Such a nice boy, Mrs Vernon confided to her husband, and so much more suitable! In spite of Lytten’s being a Duke and having a considerable fortune, one could n
ot but be a little anxious, and Madalena was so headstrong! Still, it had all come to nought, and she had made it quite clear to Mr Merchent that he would always be most welcome.
Since the Brigadier had seldom lent more than half an ear to anything his wife had said in the ten years since his retirement, he merely grunted and observed that de Brussec might possibly desire some say in the ordering of his daughter’s future.
Perhaps fortunately, Mrs Vernon’s attention was at this moment diverted by the arrival of a letter from John Brownlow’s parents, inviting them for a short stay.
Madalena viewed the prospect with mixed feelings. It would be very nice to make such a visit and of course it was kind of the Brownlows to invite her also, but it meant leaving the Duchess, whose health had been the cause of some concern over the past few days.
Dr Laidlaw had been in attendance morning and evening, and with the reluctant permission of her aunt, who thought it undesirable for a young girl to be cooped up so much with an ailing woman, Madalena had taken to spending a good part of each day at Lytten Manor. She was becoming frightened. Her own mama’s last illness was no more than a dim memory, for as children they had been shielded from most of the distress.
But now she must sit for hour upon hour watching her dear friend struggle for breath and grow daily more frail and she no longer believed the platitudes that were handed out to her. Finally, she waylaid the good doctor and demanded without preamble, ‘Doctor, you will please to tell me how bad is the Duchess?’
Dr Laidlaw was a large, comfortable man, a kindly man, and he had taken a fancy to this youngster ‒ and to her brother whom he had treated once or twice, and who was already much improved.
Beneath comical eyebrows, his eyes were compassionate. ‘Her grace has these attacks from time to time. They are distressing to behold, especially for someone as fond of her as I know you are. But we are doing all we can …’
His voice died away under her very straight look.
‘Voyons ‒ you are telling me only what I already know, monsieur. But me, I am not entirely a fool …’ Her own voice faltered for a moment and he saw her gather herself to continue, ‘… and I can see that each attack is worse than the last. I ask myself how long it can continue thus.’
Dr Laidlaw returned her look with eyes grown dark with the hopeless anguish of one who strives to do all that it is in his power to do, knowing that it is not enough. The Duchess had been his patient for many years. He had the greatest admiration for her courage. She radiated a simplicity of joy that only the young in heart possess. Strange that this child should have the same elusive quality.
‘Her heart is wearing itself out,’ he admitted bitterly, ‘and there is little I can do ‒ save to alleviate her suffering.’
‘How long does she have?’
He shrugged. ‘At her present rate of deterioration ‒ perhaps three months, with careful nursing ‒ perhaps less. The human spirit is an unfathomable quantity; I have seen it hold the frailest body alive for an incredible space of time.’ He saw hope spring into her eyes and shook his head. ‘I am sorry, child, but even her grace’s brave spirit cannot long support a heart that is worn out.’
There was complete silence in the room. Madalena held out a hand that trembled slightly and was cold. ‘Merci, monsieur ‒ thank you for telling me,’ she said with careful politeness and his heart ached for her.
When Madalena took her usual chair near the Duchess’s bed, her embroidery frame lay idle in her lap.
The Duchess moved restlessly on the fine lace pillows ‒ and her bright blue eyes, now blurred with drugs, rested thoughtfully on the young face which betrayed so much more than she realized.
‘You are … very quiet … ma petite.’
Madalena jumped. A little colour stained her cheeks. ‘Oh! I am sorry. I thought you wished to sleep. Would you like me to talk ‒ or to read for a little?’
‘I … would like … to know … what is troubling you.’
The girl’s head was bent. She jabbed at her sewing. ‘I was thinking that perhaps I will not go with Tante Vernon and Phoebe, after all.’
‘Because of me?’
‘Oh no,’ she cried, over-brightly, ‘but Phoebe will not need me, you know, when she is to be with her John …’
‘Madalena!’ Her name was whispered with such feeling, but she rushed heedlessly on, almost choking over the words.
‘Of course, it is kind of them to include me, but I should be very much de trop.’
‘Child! Child ‒ you must not mind so much!’
Madalena stared at her, her eyes enormous with tears held back and her mouth twisted awry. With a sob she dropped to her knees and buried her face in the soft pink counterpane.
‘Oh, but I am wicked!’ came her muffled wail. ‘You must have no upset ‒ and be very quiet ‒ and I make a big fool of myself!’
Trembling fingers moved in the red-gold curls, soothing, reassuring. ‘It does not matter, ma chère … it matters only that you are unhappy. And so I think … it will be good for you to go away for a little while.’
Madalena stirred in protest.
‘No … let me finish, child. I know … that it is not good that you spend … so much time with me, but you see … I am too selfish … to send you away.’
‘Oh no!’ This time Madalena did straighten up. ‘You are the least selfish person I know!’
The Duchess was finding concentration difficult, but she was determined to finish. She tapped the tear-stained cheek gently.
‘You will go with your little cousin … to please me. I will promise to be … very good … while you are gone … and you will see … how much better I am … when you return.’
Chapter Six
The small French cove lay deserted and swathed in mist. The track wound up from the beach to where a squat stone building concealed itself behind a wildly contorted windbreak of tree and scrub, stripped in places to the bareness of bleached bones by the constant onslaught of the prevailing winds.
The farm house, too, appeared deserted, but his grace the Duke of Lytten ignored it, making his way instead to the stables at the rear where a tethered gelding whinnied a soft welcome. In a matter of moments he was riding up the track to the road, in his pocket a pass in the name of Philip Mornay on which was scrawled an unmistakable signature. For a moment he paused to look back. Somewhere in the mist below, Jason waited for the tide. In ten days from now he would return.
One kilometre short of Caudebec the horse cast a shoe. Cursing, Devereux dismounted and led the animal, turning off the road presently to follow a succession of smaller roads until he stood at last before a pair of high, wrought iron gates beyond which lay a charming little villa.
A groom appeared at once to relieve him of the horse and then a magnificent black major-domo was ushering him into a purple, gilded salon. Almost at once a vision in deep rose tiffany whisked into the room ‒ petite, blonde and generously endowed with curves.
This was Madame de Marron, a friend of many years standing, a child bride widowed during the Terror who had survived the experience by being spirited away to America through the good offices of friends and with most of her husband’s fortune intact. There she remained until it was deemed safe to return. She now lived for the most part quietly in the country, but her sympathies being frankly pro-Bourbon, she had long since decided to make what contribution she could to hastening the downfall of Napoleon Bonaparte and restoring to France her rightful king.
On one of her infrequent visits to Paris, she had sought out Prince Talleyrand, whose path she had crossed on more than one occasion in America. Over a series of intimate little dinners, she had made her views known to him, and although he had been ambiguously evasive on the question of the Emperor’s successor, he had been pleased to make considerable use of her conveniently situated villa as a safe house for his agents.
She tripped across the room now to embrace Devereux.
‘Janine!’ He stood back at last, retaining her hand
s. ‘Exquisite as ever, I see!’
‘Oh, as to that, chéri …’ She pouted prettily. ‘You find me practically en déshabille. I was not expecting you.’
His gaze became sharply quizzical. ‘No, my dear. However, it has become imperative that I should visit Paris. Paul Leclerc is dead.’
In a few brief words he put her in the picture. ‘I blame myself in part. He was obsessed with the notion that he was being followed ‒ and I fear I dismissed his wild stories as outbursts of hysteria.’
Janine was sympathetic. ‘He was an odd little man, to be sure, but one could trust him implicitly, and that is worth much in these days of plot and counter plot ‒ with Talleyrand the most devious of the lot!’
Devereux grimaced. ‘The old fox will be furious! That is why I thought I had best break the news to him personally. If you can furnish me with a fresh horse …’
‘Oh, but you will stay for tonight? A few hours can make little difference after all.’ She wrinkled her delightful little nose, coaxing, provocative and all woman … the invitation subtly veiled, but unmistakable. He felt the old stirring of the blood. He allowed his glance to encompass the tantalising green eyes, lingering over the softly parted lips and the creamy perfection of her skin ‒ and a picture came unbidden to his mind of a little gamine with a too-wide smile.
Deliberately he thrust the thought from him and accepted her invitation, if she would take him in all the dust of his journey.
‘This is no problem!’ Janine tugged on a bell-rope and almost at once the major-domo reappeared.
‘Samson ‒ Monsieur Mornay will stay for tonight. Provide him with whatever he may require.’
‘Oui, madame.’ The voice was cultured, the manner deferential, but not obsequious.