“Henry?” Roger asked, then nodded. “Oh yes, I remember. There was another brother. Whatever happened to him? I don’t remember ever seeing him at all.”
“You must have, as a child—or maybe not. When you were still at home, Henry must have been at school. He has ten or twelve years on you, at least.”
“Yes, and by the time he was out of school, I was in. I can see how I never came across him, but why can’t Compton reach him now? Where is he?”
“In France.”
“Oh, lord!” Roger remarked. “What a bufflehead to go to France now. Well, I—”
“No, no,” Sir Joseph Interrupted. “Henry didn’t go now. He lives in France, has lived there since about 1770. Seventy-two or three was when he was married, I believe.”
“He married a Frenchwoman and settled in France? I see.”
“Yes, and don’t say ‘I see’ that way, as if you are confirmed that Henry is buffleheaded. He isn’t at all—at least, not generally, although I don’t understand… Well, let me tell you in a logical way so that you will see why Compton is worried.”
“If he weren’t worried, with what has been happening in France over these last two years, he would be an idiot,” Roger exclaimed.
“Is it so bad as that?” Sir Joseph asked, frowning “I haven’t paid much attention, you know. I’ve never been overfond of the French.”
Sir Joseph’s face was carefully devoid of expression. Roger shrugged his shoulders and gripped his father’s forearm for a moment They had never discussed Solange, although after the gaming room scandal, Sir Joseph had offered to supplement Roger’s income. Roger had refused, assuring his father that in one way he had sufficient funds, and in another the income from the Royal Treasury would not be enough, since Solange’s wants expanded geometrically with the ability to satisfy them. Sensibly, Sir Joseph had never offered his son sympathy. That would have smacked too much of “I told you so”.
“It wasn’t so bad in the beginning, except in Paris,” Roger explained. “There was only a little rioting in the smaller cities and minor disturbances in the towns and countryside, but matters are growing more and more serious. The émigrés say that this constitution, which frees the serfs and revokes the forest laws and such matters, has provoked an orgy of license among the peasantry. Of course, they are bound to be strongly prejudiced, but I believe there is a kernel of truth inside the shell of self-pity. The central government does seem to have lost control of the provinces. The Prussians and Austrians have thrown the French army out of Belgium, and there is good evidence that they intend to invade France itself soon”
“Damn and blast!” Sir Joseph exploded. “I take it all back Henry is buffleheaded. Why the devil did he not come home when he saw everything falling apart?”
“Perhaps he couldn’t,” Roger suggested. “Or he may not have realized how disordered everything was. Often when one is directly involved, one doesn’t see the whole picture. What I don’t like is the fact that Compton couldn’t reach him by letter as early as June. As far as I know, there hasn’t been such a generalized disruption in the country at large that letters wouldn’t have got through. If Compton wrote more than once, as he must have done, and Henry de Conyers was living in the country, and there has been no answer…”
“Well, go on,” Sir Joseph urged impatiently.
“He—he may not be alive, sir, or he may be in serious trouble,” Roger responded reluctantly.
“But you said it was only Paris that was completely out of control,” Sir Joseph protested.
“Unfortunately not, sir, although that has mostly been the case. Still, there have been serious incidents—in Caen and Mouton and a number of other cities I don’t have on the tip of my tongue. Although… Do you know when there was last news of de Conyers?”
“Curse it, no, and Compton didn’t say. I heard from Joseph pretty regularly, at least Alice wrote, but I assume Joseph asked her to do so. But I only heard of Henry through Stour. Naturally I have no news later than 1788 or so.” Sir Joseph paused a moment then sighed. “Damn and blast,” he repeated, but with more resignation than rage. “Something must be done. I suppose I must post up to London and speak to Compton. He will have the latest intelligence. Then I can—”
“I don’t think you should, sir,” Roger interrupted firmly. “London is hotter than the hinges of hell just now. It wouldn’t agree with you at all. Why don’t you allow me to handle this? Perhaps when Compton has told me where de Conyers was when he heard from him last, one of the firms I dealt with in Paris will send a man to give him the news or discover what is wrong.”
Sir Joseph raised a brow at his son. “Trying to prove that you are not impatient to see the last of me?” he teased.
“Not at all,” Roger returned briskly. “In fact, I’m bent on shortening your days to lengthen my own. Since the school holidays will last several weeks longer, I’m trying to preserve my own health and sanity at the expense of yours by leaving my son on your hands while I escape.”
“I should have known better than try to draw you,” Sir Joseph sighed “I never had the last word with your mother, and I haven’t had the last word with you since you were three—that was when you started to talk. You were late at it, but, by God once started…” He laughed. “Thank you, my boy. I shall be most grateful if you will save me this journey. I hope to heaven you have some answer, but if you don’t, at least you will have saved me the trip to London and back before I need to go to France.”
“Father!” Roger exclaimed. “You can’t mean that! Just because Joseph de Conyers named you executor… That will must have been written years and years ago Joseph must have meant to change it.”
“And name a younger man?” Sir Joseph said. “Yes, I suppose he did, but the fact is that he hadn’t gotten around to it, and it is my responsibility. Aside from that, Roger, I wouldn’t like to see Stour’s lands fall into decay while the inheritance is fought out in court. In addition to the disruption caused by not knowing Henry’s fate—which means that the estate will be administered by some fool of a court appointee and be run right into the ground—this is Stour’s son. William would have bailed any of you out of trouble; he hiked Arthur out of a real hole with a woman once when I was in Jamaica. No, if Stour’s son is in trouble, especially trouble he hasn’t made for himself, I couldn’t sit idly by and do nothing.”
Roger felt like shaking his father and telling him not to be an idiot. A man in his seventh decade was not the person to thrust into a nation that—as far as Roger could tell—had gone quite mad and erupted periodically, for no rational reason, into riots. He reminded himself that his father did not know how bad the situation was, but he had no intention of describing it in greater detail than he already had. Roger knew his father. Sir Joseph had determined that Henry de Conyers and his family would be found, dead or alive, and a recitation of the difficulties would not change his mind.
In fact, Roger thanked God sincerely that he had not said more about the situation in France. If his father understood the real difficulties, he would never have accepted Roger’s platitude about getting information through one of the legal firms with which he was associated. Probably Sir Joseph would have started packing already, realizing that the only way to be sure de Conyers was found was to go himself or send someone really trustworthy. Since Sir Joseph was not the man to push dangerous or disagreeable duties onto other people, and was not particularly concerned with prolonging his life—which he knew to have been already unusually long—he would have determined to go himself. Roger shuddered at the thought of trying to dissuade his father, or equally unpleasant, trying to explain to Lady Margaret why he had given his father information that had precipitated him into such an action.
Roger’s mind was busy as he pointed out to his father that nothing could be done until he spoke to Compton, and he had made his decision before he finished the sentence. “I have some business in town anyway,” Roger continued. “It isn’t pressing, b
ut I might as well take care of it now. If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’ll leave today and get matters under way.”
Sir Joseph’s penetrating stare rested on his son for a long moment. He understood rather more than Roger expected, although not the whole. It was at once obvious to Sir Joseph that Roger intended to go to France himself, however, he misunderstood his son’s purpose. Sir Joseph believed that Roger, freed from the weight he had carried for years, was seizing an opportunity for adventure and excitement. Roger had been a most adventurous child, Sir Joseph remembered, always sticking his nose into what did not concern him. Once, he had been lucky to escape with his life when he decided to discover why a herd of ponies had been down on the beach in the cove at night.
That time curiosity had not killed the cat, although it should have. Smugglers were not “gentlemen”. Most of them were hard and ruthless men engaged in a dangerous and illegal trade. If they were caught, their punishment would be brutal. And it was with them that Roger had chosen to get involved. With typical cleverness and persistence, he had visited that cove every day after first seeing signs of ponies, until he had figured out the schedule of when the ponies would be there. If he had only asked, Sir Joseph thought, but no, not Roger—he had to find out for himself. Doubtless it had occurred to the child at once that ponies by the seaside at night were a “secret”. To ask about a secret, to show you knew there was a secret, was to warn those whose secret it was. Roger, even as a boy, could be tight-lipped as a clam.
He had waited, deduced, watched—and had been caught by the smugglers. One part of the gang had immediately produced a simple answer—drop the boy off the cliff. An accident could happen to anyone. Roger had laughed aloud. “I couldn’t help it,” he had told his father when describing the scene later “They were so stupid. How could I have an accident on the cliff? I’ve been climbing there for years and years, night and day. You would have known right away that if I fell it was no accident. One of the men, who recognized me said so too, and the Frenchman agreed with me.”
The Frenchman, Sir Joseph had learned, was Pierre Restoir, the captain of the smuggling vessel, the Bonne Lucie. Pierre had intervened decisively in Roger’s fate, insisting that the boy be released in exchange for a promise not to report what he had discovered to the authorities. Roger had promised readily enough, with the reservation that he must tell his father. The small group of “professional” smugglers had muttered rebelliously, but Pierre’s determination and the reluctance of the local “hired” men to harm a youth so intimately connected with local authority determined Roger’s fate.
Sir Joseph had taken no action, knowing that there were many alternate coves—although not quite so well suited to the purpose. Still, it was most likely that the smugglers would shift their base. In a way he was right, but he had no way of knowing that Pierre Restoir was still very young and a quixotic daredevil to boot, with an insatiable curiosity of his own. He had been greatly drawn to the brave, lighthearted boy for whom he had stood up, and had to know whether his judgment of the child’s character had been correct.
Right at the agreed-upon time Pierre was at the cove, and Roger was there to meet him. It was safe enough for Pierre, who was cautious and cunning as well as curious, even if Roger had betrayed him. This trip his ship was loaded with nothing more offensive than a cargo of newly caught fish, and there were no ponies waiting to carry off illegal merchandise. If Roger had reported to the Revenue Service and their officers were in ambush, Pierre had ready a good excuse for anchoring, and the searchers would have found nothing.
There were no custom men, however, only the eager boy. As a reward, Pierre took Roger aboard the ship and showed him how they dodged the revenue cutters and coastal guard. It was not the last trip they made together, although Sir Joseph knew nothing of the development of a genuine friendship between his twelve-year-old son and the captain of the Bonne Lucie. When Roger was absorbed in the early joys and the bitter disappointments of his marriage, he and Pierre saw little of each other, but after Roger had been called to the bar, their contacts increased dramatically. The aristocracy soon learned that Roger St. Eyre was the man to approach if one had to leave England quietly. For example, a gentleman who had killed his man in a duel and needed to make himself scarce until a pardon could be secured found Roger’s services invaluable. Not only could he arrange transport but he could also arrange transfer of the gentleman’s assets through a highly respectable French law firm, secure introduction to the French court, and in general, provide for life to continue enjoyably.
* * * * *
Sir Joseph did not mention Pierre Restoir—in fact, he did not remember the name of the man involved in Roger’s early adventure. Nor did he connect the smuggler with Roger’s profitable career. Roger never mentioned Pierre to anyone, because every person who knew of him and his trade increased the danger forhim. However, Pierre was well to the forefront of Roger’s mind without mention. Even before he went to tell Philip and Lady Margaret that he intended to post up to London, Roger stepped out of the house to speak to his groom, Shannon, in the stable. He told the man to leave a message at the Soft Berth, the little alehouse south of Kingsdown, that Pierre should call in at Dymchurch House as soon as it was convenient. Then he went to explain to Philip that he would be away for a day or two.
He almost missed his son, who was already on his way out dressed in rough country clothes. His news did not dim the brightness in Philip’s eyes, Roger saw with relief. There was nothing left of the haunted look, the forced smile, with which Philip had accepted such news in the past. Roger smiled. The boy was perfectly happy here. Grandpapa was even more amusing than Papa. The gamekeepers of Stonar Magna were well broke to child and did not mind a boy tagging along and asking questions. The same was true of the grooms and the local farmers. Best of all, Lady Margaret—called Grand-mère, although she was totally unrelated to Philip except by marriage—never scolded over dirt or torn clothing or stable smells. With a clear conscience and a strangely lifting heart, Roger set out for London.
Chapter Two
Leonie de Conyers stared at the solid wooden door of the cellar that was her prison as if the pressure of her gaze could force it open. She would not die! She would escape. Now that Mama and François were dead, the possibilities were much better. A lash of guilt made her wince, but it eased quickly. Leonie knew that if her being in prison could have kept her mother and brother alive she would have remained patiently incarcerated forever. But they were gone and nothing could bring them back. And if she and Papa did not soon escape, they would be dead also.
How? There were so many hows. Not only how to get out of this cellar, but how to rouse Papa so that he would wish to escape also, how to get out of the town, possibly even how to get out of France altogether. Her mind lingered on that for a moment. At least she and Papa had a place to go. Papa was not French-born. He was an Englishman, youngest brother of the Earl of Stour, and he was on good terms with his family. In fact, Papa’s brother had urged him many times in the last two years to “come home” and bring his wife and children. Tears rose to Leonie’s eyes, but she blinked them back. There was no sense in dwelling on such might-have-beens. She glanced at her father and noticed with satisfaction that he was sitting up. Last night he had eaten willingly. Perhaps it might not be so difficult to get him to agree to escape.
The trouble with Papa, Leonie thought, rising suddenly and pacing the confined space, was that he blamed himself for everything, for all the terrible things that had happened to them. That was nonsense. One could not see the future. One could only act as it seemed best at the moment. Nonetheless, Leonie’s mind could not help ranging back, wondering at what point, had Papa acted differently, the whole train of events would never have taken place. She paused. If Papa had refused the nomination to the Estates-General? Instinctively Leonie shook her head in negation and began to pace again. A de Conyers did not refuse a duty to the nation. A de Conyers always fulfilled his or her responsibilitie
s.
Anyhow what had happened had not really started with the calling of the Estates-General. Papa always said the trouble had started long, long ago when Louis XIV gathered the entire government into his own hands, giving power and wealth only to those men who hovered around him. Thus, the nobles were divided from the people, and… Leonie stopped, shook her head again. It was ridiculous. She sank down to the dirt floor. Of course the history of France had affected their lives, but Louis XIV had acted as he had because of the history that preceded him. The abuses that had exploded France into revolution had grown slowly. One could go back and back to Adam and Eve.
Besides, it was not the trouble in France that had thrown them into prison and killed Mama and François. Color fed by hate and rage rushed into Leonie’s face, making her light brown eyes as fierce and golden as a she-wolf’s. The lips of her wide mouth curled back, showing strong, white teeth, and the nostrils of her straight nose flared. Leonie was not, strictly speaking, a beautiful girl. Her features were too strong to satisfy the current craze for porcelain-delicate, pretty dolls. Also, the mingling of her father’s blond and her mother’s dark coloring had produced an odd combination. Leonie was a brunette in complexion, but with honey-gold hair.
Leonie looked down at her hands, which in her tense anger had curved into claws. She sighed and straightened her fingers. Hate was unpleasant and unnatural to her. She had inherited her mother’s temperament, placid and sunny. Hate made her feel shaky and sick, yet there was no other response possible to the memory that had come to mind. Papa had made one mistake. Once only, he had done something that should have been done differently. When Jean-Paul Marot had tried to incite the peasants on Mama’s estates to rebellion, Papa had prevented the people from killing him. The peasants had been enraged against the rabble-rouser because Papa had offered to excuse all rents and taxes—after the poor crops of 1787 and 1788 people were already starving. Jean-Paul Marot had stood up and begun to shout that Papa’s offer was no favor, that it was the right of the people to be free of rents and duties.
The English Heiress Page 2