The Danbury Scandals

by Mary Nichols

  But if Maryanne thought that was the end of it she was wrong, and if she thought the Emperor’s arrival presaged the arrival of Adam, she was wrong again. She heard no word from her husband, and the political news was not good either. Before another week had passed, the European Powers had formally announced an alliance to recapture the eagle and put him back in his cage, and the Duke of Wellington had been made Commander-in-Chief in Flanders. War was inevitable and imminent.

  In spite of her bravado about wanting to face the world, returning to England without Adam by her side to give her the strength to defy not only their accusers, but gossiping Society, was something she preferred not to think about. She needed no great persuasion to accede to Maman’s daily request to stay ‘just one more day’ in case Adam arrived. They had parted in anger and that preyed on her mind most of all. Would he come back to her at all, or had her shrewishness made him throw in his lot with the French army to escape her? When, at last, she woke up to the fact that Bonaparte was gathering all his forces to resist the Allies, it was almost too late. The ports had been closed; not even the smallest fishing boat could put to sea, and the only way out of France was through Belgium. But by this time there was another, very strong reason for leaving: she wanted her child to be born in England.

  Chapter Eleven

  The heat was so oppressive that they could hardly breathe. The air was still as a quiet pool; not a leaf stirred, no living thing moved, except Maryanne and Madame Saint-Pierre, plodding wearily across the fields of Flanders. Even the dog, chained to a farm gate, lifted no more than an eyelid at their passing.

  ‘There’s going to be a storm,’ Eleanor said, pausing to look up at the sky. ‘I heard thunder.’

  ‘It’s the guns again,’ Maryanne told her.

  All the previous afternoon they had heard the sounds of heavy guns away to their right as they stumbled across the fields. The ground beneath their ill-shod feet had seemed to throb as if unable to bear the weight of so much concentrated machinery and so many galloping horses. What she could not see Maryanne imagined and, terrified that the battle would come their way, she had hurried Eleanor into the shelter of a church, where they had huddled down between the pews, expecting to be blown to pieces at any moment. The noise had stopped when darkness fell and next morning they had set off again to cover the remaining twelve miles or so to Brussels and, they hoped, to safety.

  Maryanne blamed herself bitterly for the predicament they were in; she should have left Paris weeks before she had, or not moved at all. Her timing, unlike the Emperor’s, had been abysmal. She smiled wryly to herself as they skirted a field of shoulder-high corn. If Adam knew the trouble her delaying tactics had caused, he would be even more furious.

  It had seemed a simple matter to harness their horses to the landaulet and set off for the Belgian frontier, but when they arrived at Beaumont they had found the border closed and the only way they could pass through was to tag on the end of the baggage train following Napoleon’s army, pretending to be camp followers. The marching army had been an awe-inspiring and colourful sight, setting out to war as if going on parade. From the back, their plumed head-dresses reminded Maryanne of a huge exotic bird stepping delicately forward, head nodding. She had spotted the marching columns of the Seventh and, leaving Eleanor driving the carriage, had hurried forward on foot to ask about her husband. ‘If he’s not dead, he very soon will be,’ one of them had said, drawing his forefinger across his throat.

  She dared not stop to ask him what he meant by that threatening gesture; others were eyeing her with more than idle curiosity. She had hurried back to Eleanor and taken the next turning off the main road. At the entrance to the next town she had been directed to the commissariat, who had promptly requisitioned the horses. Pleading with him had been a waste of breath and they had packed what they could into bundles and set off on foot, leaving the useless carriage at the inn where they had stayed the night.

  The ground was hard and dry and they walked briskly, chatting cheerfully to each other. Maryanne was continually surprised by Eleanor’s resilience; she was far more lucid and sensible than she had ever known her; it was as if the excitement and danger had re-awakened a lost something in her which had restored her self-respect, her love of life.

  ‘We ought to find shelter,’ she said now. ‘We will be soaked if we don’t.’

  Maryanne, who had been indulging in a daydream in which Adam appeared from nowhere with a carriage and horses, brought herself back to the present with an effort and surveyed the ink-black sky, just as it was rent with lightning, followed almost immediately by an enormous clap of thunder. A great wind tore across the fields and the heavens opened. In seconds they were drenched and the hard ground was covered in miniature ponds and rivulets.

  ‘There! What did I tell you?’ Eleanor said, standing with her face tilted to the sky, laughing delightedly. ‘At least it’s cool.’

  Maryanne smiled, tugging on her arm. ‘Come, Maman, we must find shelter. There’s a road beyond that field.’

  But when they arrived at the road, their laughter stopped abruptly. The pavé was choked with civilian refugees, wounded soldiers still able to walk, runaway horses with stirrups swinging emptily, men who had become detached from their regiments, deserters who had thrown away their weapons, and carts loaded with wounded. ‘We got good and licked,’ they were told by a red-coated British soldier who limped along leaning on his musket. ‘Boney stole a march on us.’

  In the little village of Genappe they found an inn. ‘There!’ Maryanne said, pointing. ‘The Roi d’Espagne awaits us.’

  She was surprised that no more than a handful of those on the road were prepared to stop and chance being taken by the French, but it made it easier for them to obtain a room and refreshment and they were soon sitting before a roaring fire in their undergarments while their dresses gently steamed on the fender. The rain still poured down outside, but the exodus of refugees had slowed to a trickle and the road was almost empty again.

  ‘How long before Bonaparte’s troops march in, do you suppose?’ Eleanor ventured. ‘What do you think they will do with us?’

  ‘Nothing. Why should they be interested in a couple of bedraggled women? We are French. At least, you can pass yourself off as French and my husband is marching with the French Army...’

  ‘I doubt that.’ Eleanor seemed so sure, but she had never really known what Adam had done in the years she was in prison. No one knew but Adam himself;

  Maryanne certainly didn’t. She stopped her wayward thoughts; now was not the time to renew her doubts. ‘No, but we can say we are, and you speak French like a native.’

  ‘After thirty-five years I should think so!’ Eleanor exclaimed.

  Maryanne could not eat the simple food that had been brought to their room. She felt sick and faint, but it was not so much her pregnancy, but despair which had suddenly swamped her. Her disappointment at not finding Adam with the Seventh, all the days of walking, all the effort to keep cheerful, the rain, those poor wounded men, all heaped themselves up in her head until she wanted to do nothing more than lie down and howl her misery. She pushed her plate away and stared into the leaping flames, her thoughts with a husband who thought so little of her that he could allow her to attempt such a journey alone. She chose to ignore the fact that if she had not delayed her departure she would have been safely in England.

  ‘Maryanne, are you ill?’ Eleanor was leaning forward, peering into her face. ‘Have you caught a chill?’

  ‘No, Maman, I am not ill.’ She smiled; it seemed an appropriate moment to tell her mother-in-law of her pregnancy. ‘I am enceinte.’

  ‘Really?’ Eleanor’s face broke into a delighted smile. ‘Oh, Maryanne, my dear, I am so pleased for you. But why did you stay in Paris so long?’

  ‘I was hoping Adam would come.’

  ‘I know, dear, but now we must make all haste to get you safely to Beckford.’

  ‘Beckford?’ Maryanne queried in surprise.
>
  ‘Of course. That is your home.’ Eleanor paused. ‘Oh, I see, you thought I would deny Adam’s birthright. Oh, my dear, I said some very foolish things, but I did not mean them. And, besides, now I am going back to England with you, it does not matter.’

  ‘It is much more complicated than that.’ Maryanne paused, wondering whether to go on, but she had never felt more in need of someone to talk to, someone who might understand how she felt. ‘His f-’ She stopped and started again. ‘James was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ Madame Saint-Pierre put down her knife and fork. ‘How? Why? Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘They say it was... They accused Adam.’

  ‘Adam!’ She stared across the hearth at Maryanne in disbelief. ‘But that is ridiculous. Who could possibly believe that of him?’

  ‘There was circumstantial evidence. He had been talking to James earlier that day and there were other things...’

  ‘You know it can’t be true,’ Eleanor protested.

  ‘Of course I do.’ How easy it was to say that now. ‘I have been accused along with him.’

  ‘Then you had better tell me all about it, hadn’t you?’

  ‘It is a long story.’

  ‘We have time. I do not propose to move until you tell it all.’

  Maryanne obeyed, beginning with the incident at the ball and the disastrous curricle race and ending with Adam’s theory that Mark himself had murdered his father, making himself the Duke of Wiltshire. ‘What I cannot understand is why Mark should do such a thing. He was James’s heir...’

  ‘No, he was not.’ Eleanor spoke so quietly that Maryanne at first thought she had misheard her. ‘Adam is.’

  ‘Adam? But...’

  ‘You did not know? Adam never told you?’

  ‘No. I do not understand,’ said Maryanne.

  Eleanor sighed. ‘It is so like Adam to keep things to himself. Even when he was little...’

  ‘Please, Maman,’ Maryanne begged, falling to her knees beside Eleanor’s chair. ‘Tell me about it. I am sick of mysteries and everything that comes between us.’

  ‘You did not know that James was Adam’s father?’

  ‘I guessed that, but I thought...’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She paused. ‘Adam is not my son, not my flesh and blood, though I could not love him more if he were.’ She stopped speaking to sip her wine, but Maryanne was too shocked to interrupt. ‘James Danbury defied his family as a young man and married the daughter of one of his tenant farmers and, to escape the scandal, he brought her to Challac. I was an old friend of Anne’s and, of course, Louis and I made them welcome.

  ‘Anne died when Adam was born. James was broken-hearted, as you would expect, and he could never look at his son without remembering the wife he had lost. He was hurt and angry and guilty too, because he had taken Anne from her family. He decided to return home, leaving Adam with us. I believe he joined the navy. He only went home to Beckford when he succeeded his father as Viscount Danbury.’

  ‘Did Adam know all this?’ Maryanne asked.

  ‘There was no need for him to know...’ Eleanor paused. ‘When the Terror ruled France and it looked as though our lives were in danger, we told him he was the son of an English aristocrat. We thought it might keep him safe. We told him that if anything happened to us he was to go to England and see our lawyer there. I imagine that was when he learned the identity of his father.’

  Maryanne sat staring into the fire for a long time, digesting this information. Why had Adam not told her? Would it have made any difference? The murder had still happened, though she thought she could see why now. ‘Mark must have discovered Adam was James’s true heir,’ she said slowly. ‘By killing his father and laying the blame at Adam’s door, he would keep the inheritance.’ She sighed. ‘The trouble is, we can’t prove a thing.’

  ‘I can be a witness to Adam’s birth,’ Eleanor pointed out.

  ‘Yes, you can, but no one witnessed the murder, and if we go back to England, I am afraid there will be more trouble. It is one of the reasons I delayed so long.’

  ‘If there are no witnesses, how can they prove anything?’ Madame Saint-Pierre was far more logical than Maryanne was over it. ‘And if someone tries to manufacture evidence, then we must uncover the culprit. If it was Mark, he will be a very frightened man and will give himself away when he learns that we have all returned to England.’

  ‘But Maman, we don’t know where Adam is. He could be anywhere. He might be wounded and lying in some hospital with no means of telling us. He might even...’ She gulped hard. ‘He might even be dead.’

  Maman patted her hand. ‘I thought he was dead once but he was alive all the time. Like a cat, he has nine lives.’

  Maryanne managed a wry smile. ‘Yes, but we do not know how many he has used up.’ She stood up and went to the window and watched the rain lashing against the glass. ‘I hope he isn’t out in this.’

  ‘Come and sit down, my dear. He is not out there.’

  ‘No, but someone is. There are horsemen coming. Do you think it is the French army? Perhaps Bonaparte himself.’ Maryanne leaned forward to watch the riders. They were led by a man in white buckskin breeches and a big blue cape. On his head he had a cocked hat worn ‘fore and aft’. He was riding perfectly calmly a little ahead of his companions. Maryanne had seen him once before, at Westminster, almost exactly a year ago.

  ‘It’s the Duke of Wellington,’ she said. ‘And he’s stopping here.’ She craned forward as the Duke dismounted. ‘He’s coming in. Do you think if we went downstairs we would learn anything of the battle? He doesn’t look like a man who has been beaten.’

  ‘I doubt he will tell you his plans, Maryanne.’

  ‘No, but one of his aides might. I’m going to dress and go down. I’ll pretend I need some more hot water.’ While she spoke, she was scrambling back into her dress. ‘This will have to do; I don’t suppose anyone expects a ball gown, in the circumstances.’

  She remembered that comment when she went downstairs and the first person she saw, coming out of the inn parlour, was Lord Brandon in evening dress, with dancing slippers on his feet, but so covered in mud that it was obvious he had been out in the rain in them for some time. She stopped on the bottom stair, wondering if he would recognise her, and, if he did, whether he would acknowledge it. He was part of facing up to the world, but she had not expected to have to do that so soon. She found herself trembling as he turned towards her.

  ‘I beg your pardon, mam’selle,’ he said.

  She decided to test her courage and made no move to stand aside. ‘It is Madame Saint-Pierre now, my lord.’

  His mouth dropped open. ‘Miss Paynter... madame. What, in the name of all that’s holy, are you doing here?’

  She smiled. ‘Taking shelter from the rain.’

  ‘But how did you arrive here? Don’t you know you are in the middle of a battleground?’

  ‘Yes, we had a notion we might be when we heard the guns. My mother-in-law and I were going to Brussels and then on to Antwerp to find a boat to England.’

  ‘England,’ he repeated as if his thoughts were miles away.

  ‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘Is there any reason we should not?’

  ‘No, I wish I were going too.’ He smiled slowly. ‘But may I offer you some advice...?’

  She laughed. ‘Avoid the Duke of Wiltshire.’

  ‘Oh, that too.’ A grin spread across his face and she found herself warming to him. ‘No, this is a personal matter. When you reach Brussels, find Caroline and tell her you have seen me. Say I am well and in good spirits and, God willing, I will be with her again soon.’

  ‘Caroline is in Brussels?’

  ‘Yes. She is my wife. We were married in Vienna in February.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. Will you do as I ask?’

  ‘I will try, but will she still be there? I imagine many English people will be anxious to leave...’

  He laughed.
‘Not Caroline.’ He took her arm, as if to emphasise what he was saying. ‘If events make it necessary, if we are defeated or I am killed, will you take her back to England with you?’

  ‘With me? Is Mark not with her?’

  He gave a little grunt. ‘He went home long ago, soon after we saw you in Paris. He prefers to have his little wars at home.’

  She did not ask him what he meant; it did not seem to matter. ‘Have we been beaten? The men we saw on the road seemed to think so.’

  He smiled wryly. ‘It was hardly a resounding victory, but we stopped the French from taking Quatre Bras. It will give us the respite we need to re-group before the Prussians come to our aid.’

  ‘We thought Napoleon was on our heels; you don’t know how relieved we were to see the Duke of Wellington looking so unconcerned.’

  He smiled. ‘He has that effect on the men too. He can turn a lost battle into a victory just by being there. Have no fear.’ He turned as a voice bellowed, ‘Brandon!’ from the parlour. ‘I must go. Please make all haste to leave. I am sorry I cannot escort you, nor provide you with a carriage. We need all the horses we have.’

  ‘I understand. Thank you.’ She turned to go back upstairs. ‘Where will I find Caroline?’

  ‘We have an apartment in the Rue du Damier, number five.’ Lord Brandon paused. ‘Tell her I love her.’

  Maryanne went back to Eleanor to repack their belongings and resume a journey which was becoming more and more exhausting as day followed day. And to top it all she was committed to finding Caroline and conveying loving messages. If only someone would bring her a message, any message at all, so long as it told her Adam was alive.

  In an effort to keep their feet dry, they walked on the paved road, but even that had its problems because they frequently had to stand aside to allow troops, horses and guns to pass, and these threw up so much mud that they were soon as wet as they had been before. They hardly noticed the cart draw up beside them until someone spoke. ‘Would you ladies care for a ride?’

  Maryanne turned to see a plump little man sitting on the driving board of a covered wagon. What surprised her was not that he seemed to be a civilian in the middle of all things military, but that his coat and hat were covered in buttons sewn on haphazardly: cloth buttons of every colour and size, black and brown leather buttons, gold and silver and lace buttons.