by Mary Nichols
‘Why did you have to speak to them?’ she demanded. ‘Why? We could have ignored them.’
‘It was you who said you wanted to look the world in the eye...’
‘I did not need a demonstration that we could not do it, I know that already.’
He turned and seized her arms. ‘You would have me ignore his insinuations? For two pins...’
‘It was me he insulted, not you, and I do not care what he says. We often say things when we are hurt that we would not otherwise dream of uttering.’
‘Hurt? He is hurt? Mon Dieu, why do you always have to find excuses for him? After what he called you...’
‘He is like a spoiled child who can’t have what he wants. I don’t understand why you attach so much importance to it. If we are to appear in Society at all, we shall have to become used to being reviled.’
‘I will make him eat those words,’ he said. ‘As heaven is my witness.’
‘And I wish you would release my arms; you are hurting me,’ Maryanne said.
He dropped his hands and mumbled an apology, and they arrived at the house without either of them saying another word. He escorted her to the door, where he lifted her fingers to his lips and turned to leave her.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘I have business to attend to.’
‘Adam, you won’t do anything foolish, will you?’
‘Foolish, my dear Maryanne?’ He gave a cracked laugh. ‘It seems that these days I do little else. Go to bed; I will not wake you when I come in.’
No, he would not wake her, she thought, and how she wished he would! They lived openly as Sir Peter and Lady Adams and yet, in private, they were no more than companions, not even friends. And now there was Mark to contend with. Why had he come to Paris? She had been terrified they would come to blows. As it was, she was not at all sure the incident was over. If she had any idea where Adam had gone, she would have followed him. Instead, she climbed the stairs to a bedroom that was nothing short of luxurious and stripped off her finery, wishing they could go back to the humble lodgings in Montmartre where, because he was dependent on her, they had been so close. Now they were as far apart as ever.
Adam, pacing the streets, could not have wished it any more fervently than she did. He fumed with frustrated fury at a fate which seemed to be determined to deny him the one thing he wanted above all other. Maryanne had been right, he should have walked right out of that restaurant without speaking, but his pride would not let him; he had wanted to show her that they had nothing to fear while they remained in France, that he was master of the situation. But was he? One way or another, he had to resolve his dilemma, even if it meant going back to the man who was the cause of all the trouble. But he could no more indulge in a duel now than he could in London, as Mark very well knew, though with a right arm which was still not functioning properly the odds had certainly turned in the other’s favour.
And Maryanne. What in heaven’s name was he going to do about her? Send her back to England?
‘Choucas!’ The voice came to him from out of the darkness, and he realised he had wandered far from the genteel, civilised side of Paris and was in the Stygian gloom of the narrow alleys of the Quartier de St Antoine. It was here, as a twelve-year-old, he had found himself after the death of Louis Saint-Pierre. Here, he had become known as Le Choucas; here he had fought, eaten, slept and thieved to stay alive, until one day, when he was sixteen, nearly seventeen, his closest companion had died and he had realised that before long he would go the same way, just one more death in the thousands that went unknown and unmourned in a city that did not care.
He had enlisted. But some of his links with that past had survived the years; they were often a source of information no amount of bureaucracy could match, though if any of them realised the use he made of what he had been told his life would not be worth a sou.
He turned to face the speaker who, at first glance, appeared to be a wizened old man, but on closer inspection was found to be no older than Adam himself. ‘Lerue, mon cher ami!’ Adam grinned and held out both hands, which were immediately clasped. ‘How are you, mon vieux?’
‘The same as ever.’ The little man laughed. ‘But you have come up in the world, I can see. Not in the army now?’
‘Discharged.’
‘Come home with me, share a bottle of wine and we will talk.’
‘I am not sure I can,’ Adam began, thinking of Maryanne. ‘I am not alone in Paris...’
‘The English mam’selle can wait. I have something to tell you. That is if you want to hear it?’
‘Yes, but how did you know about the lady?’ Adam asked.
Lerue tapped his nose and laughed. ‘I know. Lady Adams! That is a good joke, n’est-ce-pas? You, who swore no woman could hold you, are enslaved.’
‘It is no jest, mon ami, and I wish you would drop the subject.’ They made an incongruous pair, as they made their way along the dingy street, the one tall, broad-shouldered and elegantly dressed, the other bent and grey-haired and indescribably dirty.
‘Then tell me this, are you turned anglais?’
‘I have never made a secret of the fact that my mother was English,’ Adam said, carefully controlling his voice so as to sound relaxed and easy, but he was acutely aware of the shadows in the darkness. What had they found out? Was he to die in this filthy slum after all?
‘And bourgeois, I know, but you have been forgiven for what you cannot help, and that is not what I meant. There is going to be trouble.’ They had reached a tumbledown hovel tucked into a dark courtyard. Lerue opened the door, ushered Adam inside and groped around for a taper to light a candle.
‘Trouble?’ Adam looked round the filthy, barely furnished room. It seemed incredible that he had once lived like this and it was only by the grace of God that he had escaped. ‘For whom?’
‘Monsieur Villainton,’ he said, using the derogatory name the French Press had given the British Ambassador. ‘He is a great soldier but...’ He paused to fetch a bottle of wine and two cracked cups from a cupboard.
‘But no diplomat?’ Adam guessed.
‘On the contrary, he is proving to be a very good one. He manages to calm the fears of the legislatif while he consorts with the Bourbons and makes an ally of Talleyrand.’
Adam laughed. ‘That is not difficult; the Prince de Talleyrand has turned his coat so often, he no longer knows which side is outside. But if it brings peace, surely that is what you want?’
‘With Louis le Gros on the throne? He is no more than a puppet of les anglais. He would take us back a quarter of a century to the France we shed a river of blood to destroy. Non, mon ami, the people want the return of the eagle.’
‘Ahh.’ Adam let out his breath in a long sigh. So this was what the preamble was leading to. ‘I thought as much. But why are you telling me this, when you clearly have doubts about my allegiance?’
‘I did not say I doubted it, though there are those who do.’ Lerue paused, peering up into Adam’s face. ‘And there is a way to demonstrate your loyalty. You have the ear of the Ambassador...’
‘No.’ It was not something Adam could admit to. ‘I would not be accepted in the rarefied atmosphere of the Ambassador’s court.’ He grinned. ‘It is a matter of the lady...’
‘Pah to that,’ Lerue retorted. ‘The Duke is not innocent in that respect; he understands about l’amour. You must go to him, tell him to leave Paris, or there will be a new bloodbath, beginning with him.’
‘You do not care a fig about the blood of one Englishman, so why do you want him out of Paris?’ Adam asked.
‘If the eagle flies again, Wellington is the only man on earth who can stop him. He is the only man the prisoner on Elba fears.’
‘I can’t go to His Grace with a tale so flimsy, he will laugh in my face. If there is a plot, who is behind it? Bonapartists? The army? The people?’
Lerue smiled. ‘A plot? Perhaps. But be sure of this: for every shako with a white cockade
there is a red cap, for every fleur-de-lis there is an eagle. Tucked into many an otherwise empty cupboard is a treasured tricolors. We are all Frenchmen, Choucas, we believe in the Resurrection.’ He nodded at the cup Adam held. ‘Will you drink to France?’
‘Willingly. To France.’ Adam emptied his cup and it was immediately refilled.
‘And to the eagle.’
‘To the eagle.’
‘Death to our enemies, wherever they are.’
‘That too.’
‘And to peace.’
‘To peace.’
‘To love.’
‘And love.’ This was said softly, with thoughts of Maryanne uppermost in Adam’s mind.
With each toast there was a fresh cup of wine and although they became slightly tipsy they could both hold their drink and were by no means drunk. They moved from making toasts to reminiscing and from remembering things past to thinking of the future, and that brought them round to their starting-point. It was nearly dawn when Adam finally left and made his erratic way home. He was aware that he was being watched and that if he did not persuade Wellington to leave he could expect retribution, but the wine and comradeship of his old friend had dulled his senses; he was in a cheerful mood. He had almost forgotten Mark Danbury.
It was dawn when he let himself into the house and crept upstairs. Outside Maryanne’s door, he paused, putting his hand on the handle, but then changed his mind and went on to his own room. There was no point in waking her; he had nothing to say to her. He changed quickly into riding clothes and then went out again.
He cursed Lerue and his wine and he cursed the headache he had now. How he was going to persuade the Duke to see him he did not know, but speak to him he must. He rode to the Bois du Boulogne where His Grace liked to ride of a morning, only to discover that the Duke had cut short his exercise to return to the Embassy. Adam had no choice but to go there himself.
He was told to wait in an ante-room and then cursed his fate when the aide who came to enquire his business turned out to be Lord Brandon. ‘I don’t know how you have the temerity to come here,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ Adam grinned at the other’s discomfiture. ‘Be so good as to ask His Grace if he can spare me a few minutes of his time.’
‘You surely do not expect him to receive you?’
‘If you tell him I am here, I think I can safely guarantee he will see me.’
‘What can you possibly have to say which will interest His Grace?’
‘I will tell him that.’
‘Then write to him. His Grace is dressing and has no time to see you.’
‘What I have to tell him cannot be entrusted to paper. And he is not the only one short of time. I am in a devilish hurry myself.’ Adam’s sword was out and pointing at his lordship’s throat before the astonished man could do anything about it. ‘You already believe I would not hesitate to kill in cold blood, so conduct me to His Grace, if you please.’
Lord Brandon spread his hands. ‘As you can see, I am unarmed.’
‘Good, then we should have no trouble.’
His lordship, remembering the bloodthirsty tales Mark had told him about the Frenchman, decided not to argue. He led the way from the room and up the stairs where he knocked on one of the many doors.
It was opened by the Duke himself, a habit which frequently astonished his visitors. He was in grey breeches and shirt-sleeves. His uniform jacket hung over a chair and his highly polished boots stood beside it. Adam returned his sword to its scabbard and pushed past Lord Brandon. ‘Your Grace, I am sorry for this unconventional arrival, but his lordship was not inclined to announce me.’
The Duke smiled. ‘He is paid, among other things, to protect me from vagabonds like you.’ He turned to Brandon. ‘You may leave us and make sure we are not disturbed for at least ten minutes.’
Lord Brandon scowled and Adam could not refrain from grinning; it was not the first time he had bested a junior official over whether the Duke of Wellington would see him, but this time he had been less sure of himself. If the events at Castle Cedars had reached the ducal ears, he might very well have been refused.
Knowing that when the Duke said ten minutes he meant exactly that, he lost no time in explaining his errand as soon as they were alone. The Duke listened gravely, but refused to be intimidated by threats.
‘I am aware of the situation,’ he said. ‘And, although I have nothing against making a strategic withdrawal, it would look decidedly odd if I were to pick up my tails and run now, don’t you think? If it is found necessary to withdraw me, then I hope it can be done with dignity, but until then I stay at my post.’ He paused before going on. ‘Rest assured, we will be watchful, Captain.’ He smiled. ‘If you want to be of service, do as you have always done, watch and listen and keep me informed.’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Preferably in the south.’
‘I had planned to go to Challac, Your Grace. It is near Grenoble,’ Adam explained.
‘Good. Good. That suits me very well.’
Adam took his leave; it was no more than he had expected but he didn’t think his old friends would be satisfied with that and was half glad of the excuse to leave Paris. He had been commissioned to look and listen and report what he saw and heard, and he knew that the Duke’s mild way of putting it was an instruction to act positively. He was not expected to sit on his estate and wait for news to come to him. If there was going to be trouble, he ought to send Maryanne back to Robert where she would be safe, but the very thought of parting from her was almost more than he could bear.
Maryanne spent the morning supervising household tasks but returned every now and again to the letter. It had come from England and it was addressed in a flourishing hand she guessed belonged to Robert Rudge. Robert had already sent money, so why had he written again so quickly unless he had something important to tell Adam? About the murder? Or to warn him that Mark was coming to Paris? If so, he was too late and the damage had been done. She felt like going up to Adam’s room and shaking him into wakefulness so that he would come down and satisfy her curiosity.
When he did appear, it was not from his bedroom, but from the street. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded, her anxiety making her speak sharply. ‘You haven’t met Mark again, have you?’
‘No, my dear, if I had intended duelling with him, I would have done it in London. ‘Tis a pity I did not, it might have saved a deal of heartache.’
‘Then where have you been?’
‘I went for a ride in the Bois du Boulogne to clear my head. I am afraid I imbibed a little too much after I left you last night.’
She smiled her relief; it was easier to forgive him for getting drunk than going after Mark. ‘It’s too late for breakfast,’ she said.
‘I am not hungry. I’ll have coffee.’ He picked up the letter and ripped it open while she rang for a servant.
When she turned back to him, she was astonished by the expression on his face. It was alight with joy.
‘She’s alive, Maryanne. Alive. Can it be true?’ He read the letter again while she stood staring at him. ‘All these years...’
‘Adam, who is alive?’
‘Maman. Maman. The Comte de Challac has written to me. I played a small part in getting him out of the hulks at Portsmouth and reuniting him with his wife, did I tell you? Robert has forwarded the letter.’ He handed it to Maryanne. ‘Here, read it yourself.’
Maryanne took the sheet of paper to the window to read what the Count had written.
‘When I heard a rumour that there was an Englishwoman in the Convent of St Margaret, I went to enquire after her, thinking that I might perhaps, in gratitude for my own good fortune, be able to do for her what you did for me and restore her to her home,’ she read. ‘It is many years since I saw madame, but I am almost sure the lady was your mother, though pathetically thin and stooped. The nuns say they rescued her from the prison where she had been kept ever since the Terror, and though they have cared fo
r her devotedly she is very confused. She can remember brief glimpses of the past which fly away as soon as you try to probe more deeply. I beg you make all haste to come and see for yourself. Your old home is hardly habitable, so please come and stay at the château with us. Hortense calls you her saviour and wants, above all, to give you her thanks personally.’
She looked up at Adam when she had finished reading. He looked as though he did not know whether to laugh or cry. ‘If only I had known!’ he cried. ‘I truly believed she had been executed just before her husband. I saw him die, you know. Just before they... just before that, I spoke to him and he said he hoped they had been merciful and I took that to mean... Oh, Maryanne!’
He grabbed her round the waist and swung her off her feet to kiss her. Slowly he set her down, but his mouth did not leave hers; the kiss lingered on and she felt swamped by her love for him. It came over her in waves like the sea pounding on a shore, relentless, undeniable, sweeping away all doubts. It was just as it had been in Dover, so sure, so rock-solid.
‘We must go to her at once,’ she said when he released her.
‘We? You include yourself?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What else would I do but come with you? Wasn’t that always your intention?’
‘Yes, but after last night I thought you might have changed your mind.’
‘What has last night to do with it? You still do not think I want to go back to England, even if I could? There is nowhere for me to go, you know that.’
‘You were the one who did not want to be always running away. You could go back to the Duke of Wiltshire...’
She stared at him, unable to believe that their disagreement of the night before still rankled. ‘That is out of the question and you know it.’
‘I cannot take you to Challac unmarried. It is not like Paris, you know...’ He stopped. Eleanor Saint-Pierre would be able to prove who he was and he prayed she was not as confused as the Count seemed to think. ‘Maman...’