“Why, what but, ‘Welcome, long lost Brother’? It is, as Chloe says, a somewhat inconvenient circumstance that we should find ourselves, for the moment, in opposite camps. But time will put that to rights—and soon enough, I can tell you. It is but a matter of months until England is a province of the French Empire, and then, little Sister, you will be glad enough to have a friend in Bonaparte’s army. In the meantime, I agree with you that we had best say nothing to your husband, who seems, from all I hear, to be a marvellously stiff-necked English prig and would doubtless make an international incident of me forthwith, which, I know, is what you would not at all wish for any of our sakes.”
Though it was infuriating thus to have him take her course of action for granted, she had to admit the sense in what he said. To present Lavenham with a brother-in-law in the enemy’s camp would be enormously to complicate his position, and at the same time, inevitably, the discovery of Chloe’s clandestine romance would put him fatally out of patience with her. Thus provoked, he might do anything ... would almost certainly send Chloe back to England, and Camilla, who flattered herself that by now she had at least some influence over her volatile sister-in-law, dreaded the consequences of any such drastic action. This affair with her brother was bad enough, but who could tell what mischief Chloe might get up to alone in England? As these thoughts flashed through her mind, she also remembered, with relief, the reason for her coming to look for Chloe. After all, they were leaving for Sintra tomorrow: this would put an end to the lovers’ meetings that had been carrying on, she realised with a shock of dismay, since Corpus Christi.
She had been looking at her brother gravely as these thoughts hurried through her mind, and finding little in his appearance to reassure her. No use to appeal to his better nature, everything about him proclaimed him a gambler like their father, but, she feared, a gambler not so much with money as with life. He was becoming, she noticed with satisfaction, somewhat restive under her prolonged scrutiny, while Chloe, incredibly, had drifted away to pick and nibble at a ripe apricot. Nothing could have brought home so forcibly to Camilla her sister-in-law’s basic childishness. She simply had no idea of the gravity of the situation in which she had plunged them.
It was time to speak: “Come, Chloe,” said Camilla, “your brother is looking for you.”
This recalled Chloe’s wandering attention at once. “Lee? You will not tell him, Camilla? Promise! I dare not face him, else.”
“It is a pity,” Camilla said, “that you had not thought of that sooner. But do not cry, child,” as the easy tears began to roll down Chloe’s cheeks. “I shall not tell Lavenham—yet. M. Boutet is right. Silence, for the moment, will be best. But I must have both your promises that you will not meet again.” No need to tell them this would be impossible anyway because of the impending move to Sintra.
After a quick exchange of glances, both of them promised so readily that Camilla was convinced they had not the slightest intention of keeping their word. It was lucky that circumstances were likely to make them more scrupulous than they intended. She hurried their farewells, ignoring a protest from her brother that she was heartless in calling him M. Boutet like a stranger. “Am I not to be Charles after all these years?”
“I will call you Charles when you behave to me like a brother,” she said austerely. “So far, I see no reason to consider you anything but a stranger. I only wish you were one. Come, Chloe,” she said again. “Your brother will come looking for us if you do not hurry.”
This threat was effective on both Chloe and Charles, whom Camilla began to suspect of being as much of a cowardly braggart as his father. For all his slighting words, he clearly had no wish to encounter Chloe’s formidable brother. One swift look passed between him and Chloe, promising, Camilla was sure, a meeting on the morrow, whatever obstacles might be placed in the way. She merely smiled and took Chloe’s hand. “Goodbye, M. Boutet,” she said. “Give my regards to your friend M. Mireille when you next see him.”
The shot went home. He coloured angrily and withdrew down a shady walk of lemon and orange trees. Alone with Chloe, Camilla did not hurry her away at once. Her threats of Lavenham’s impatience had served their turn, but she did not, in fact, think he would come looking for them. When she had left him, he had been busy sorting papers ready for tomorrow’s move. So occupied, he would not notice the passage of time. And before they went in, she must find out how deeply Chloe had committed herself. Anxiously, she began her questioning and to her relief Chloe, who obviously felt that she was being let off lightly, answered readily enough. Yes, they had met almost daily since Corpus Christi, but in answer to Camilla’s delicate but persistent catechism, she maintained that her beloved Charles had behaved to her with the most perfect propriety, had hardly, in fact, done more than kiss her hand. The naive irritation that she showed in revealing this went far to convince Camilla that she was speaking the truth, and she decided, with a deep inward sigh of relief, that, whatever unprincipled game her brother had been playing, it had not involved actually disgracing Chloe, or at least not yet. It was with an anxious heart and an almost absentminded air that she administered the scold Chloe expected, trying to convey, as she did so, that this was a business too serious for mere scolding. In vain she tried to show Chloe how her behaviour might endanger her brother’s position as a diplomat. Chloe merely sighed, shrugged, and asked what importance the behaviour of a mere girl like herself could have. At last, Camilla lost her temper. “Well,” she said, “fortunately, it is not of the greatest importance that you insist in playing the fool. We leave for Sintra tomorrow. I hope you will have time there to come to your senses.”
Now the tears came in good earnest, convincing Camilla once more that Chloe had not for a moment meant to keep her promise not to see Charles again. For once, she could not find a scrap of sympathy for Chloe’s presentation of beauty in distress, but merely shrugged and turned to lead the way back to the house. “You had best dry your tears, if you do not want Lavenham asking questions.”
Tossing on her sleepless bed that night, Camilla wondered over and over again whether she had been right in what she had done. Should she not have taken this deplorable piece of news at once to Lavenham, whose chief concern, after all, it was? She could not make up her mind. If things had been right between them, she would not have hesitated for a moment, but as it was, she could be sure of nothing—except that he was still overtired from his illness and that she could not bear to put another strain upon him. No, she decided at last, this burden must be borne alone, at least for the time being.
To her relief, Chloe seemed to have decided she had best conceal her reluctance to go to Sintra, fearing, no doubt, that any recalcitrance on her part might end in Camilla’s telling Lavenham the whole story. As a result, the drive to Sintra was less of an ordeal than Camilla had feared and she was even able to enjoy the wild and romantic views of valley and mountain, parched and dry from the summer drought, the occasional aloes, splendid in yellow bloom, and the strange aromatic perfumes that were wafted into the carriage by a fitful breeze. Lavenham, too, bore the rough journey better than she had feared, though he was pale and tired by the time they crossed the desolate heath at the foot of the Sintra mountains and reached the house that was to be theirs.
But here, to her dismay, an urgent messenger was awaiting Lavenham to summon him, at once, to a conference with Strangford and the Prince Regent, who were visiting the mad old Queen at Queluz. At her insistence, Lavenham delayed long enough to drink a glass of wine and eat a handful of dried fruits, but rest longer he would not, starting at once for the ride back to Queluz. Left alone, she and Chloe plunged once more into the business of house cleaning, for here, as at Lisbon, they found the apartments intended for them scarce fit for habitation by a well-bred English pig.
Lavenham did not return until late at night, and then his face was grave as he told them the news. France and Spain together had presented an ultimatum to the Prince Regent, demanding once again that Portug
uese ports be closed to British shipping and that British residents be arrested and their property confiscated. This had plunged the Prince Regent into an agony of indecision and all the English ministers’ representations of the folly of acceding to so unreasonable a request had merely prevailed upon him to delay his answer. The Spanish and French representatives in Portugal were threatening to ask for their passports if Dom John did not agree to their demands, and this, Lavenham explained, would mean war. Undecided himself, he paced about the room, pale with exhaustion and anxiety, as he debated part with himself, part with Camilla, what was best for her and Chloe to do. Ideally, they should leave for England at once, but how? The regular sailings of the packet had been discontinued and he knew of no other ship on which he would trust them unescorted. Camilla seized on this at once. If he did not propose to accompany them, how would he return if war did break out? When he explained that a battleship would certainly be sent to pick up the British ministers, she urged that it would be best for her and Chloe to wait with him, pretending a greater reluctance than she actually felt at the idea of travelling unescorted. For she could not bear the idea of leaving him to the casual mercy of Portuguese servants in his still uncertain state of health. Besides, she did not want to leave him. But this must not be said. Instead, she talked of the hazards of a journey alone and was enthusiastically seconded by Chloe, who had, of course, her own reasons for not wishing to leave Portugal.
In the end, he gave in, reluctantly, and insisting that if a suitable ship should, by any miracle, arrive at Lisbon before the port was closed to the British, as he feared it soon would be, they must agree to sail with her. To this, Camilla yielded readily enough. It would be time for argument when the ship appeared. Besides, Lavenham looked more and more exhausted and had told her that he must be at Queluz again early the next morning. This was no time for unnecessary talk.
From then on, she and Chloe lived a strange life, marooned, as it were, in their country villa. Although the Prince Regent had still not answered the French and Spanish ultimatum, Lavenham was increasingly afraid that he would, in the end, yield to the demands made upon him. In these circumstances, he thought it best that Camilla and Chloe should not appear at Court, but remain as quietly as possible in the country. As for him, he spent every day adding his arguments to Strangford’s in the vain attempt to persuade Dom John that an attack by Bonaparte was inevitable and that his best and indeed only course was to move his entire court to his American province of Brazil and wait out the coming storm in safety there. When Camilla protested at this defeatist advice, Lavenham explained that the Portuguese army was negligible, while both it and the country in general were riddled with secret supporters of France who still believed in Bonaparte as a liberator. Only bitter experience, he thought, would convince them of their mistake and this they were all too likely to have. Strangford, too, who rode back once or twice with Lavenham to dine and sleep at the villa, was gloomy about the prospects and made no secret of his doubts as to the wisdom of Camilla’s and Chloe’s remaining. But as the hot August days followed each other, and the surrounding hills grew more and more parched and brown, no English ship was reported at Lisbon, and Camilla and Chloe remained where they were, force perforce, much to Camilla’s relief. For she was increasingly anxious about Lavenham, who continued pale and withdrawn beyond what the situation seemed to her to merit. He was brief with her, almost abrupt with Chloe, their earlier teasing relationship a thing of regretful memory only. It was almost a relief when the Prince Regent moved his court back to Mafra and the distance was too great for Lavenham to return home every night. Alone together, Camilla and Chloe resumed a seemingly peaceful life of reading and work. The French lessons, whose purpose had been only too obvious to Camilla since she had discovered Chloe’s affair with her brother, had been tacitly discontinued, but both were making rapid strides with their Portuguese. As for Charles, or, as Camilla insisted even on thinking of him, M. Boutet, they never mentioned him. Camilla felt she had nothing to add to the scolding she had administered on the day of discovery, and was indeed only too grateful that Chloe seemed to be bearing the enforced separation so placidly. She wondered, occasionally, whether the lovers still contrived to correspond, but thought it best not to provoke an explosion by enquiring too closely. After all, they would undoubtedly be leaving for England soon enough and this would put an end to everything. For Lavenham, on the rare occasions when he contrived to visit them, was more and more gloomy. Arriving, one night, drenched with the first September rain, he announced that the French and Spanish envoys had, as they had threatened, packed up and left Lisbon. And instead of taking this as the signal for positive action, the Regent continued to hesitate and temporise, now asking the English for assurances of his safety and convoy to the Brazils, now hovering near to granting the French requests, refusing to admit that the time for this—if there ever had been one—was past.
It was later that rainy night, after Chloe had gone off, as usual, early to bed, that Lavenham, who had been pacing restlessly about the chilly room, came suddenly to stand beside Camilla as she sewed. She put down her work and looked up at him in suddenly anxious enquiry.
“I have been meaning to ask you,” he paused for a minute, took another rapid turn about the room, and returned to stand over her again. “The day before we left Lisbon,” he said. “You remember it?”
“Of course.” She was cold with more than the chill of the fireless room. What could be coming?
“You were out in the garden—not ours, the one next door. I came to look for you.” He spoke in short, disjointed sentences. “It was growing late. The dew was falling. I thought it time you and Chloe were indoors.” Again he stopped, listening to the desolate patter of rain on the marble terrace. Then, in a rush, “Who was the man you were talking to?”
“The man?” At all costs, she must have time to think.
“Yes. Do not, I beg, think that I was in any sense spying on you. I heard your voices: that was all. I thought I saw someone with you. I did not wish to seem to intrude. I should have asked you sooner.” He passed a hand over his forehead. “You do not, I think, quite understand, you and Chloe, what a nest of spies we live among.” He was looking at her now, almost, it seemed appealingly. What a blessed relief it would be to tell him. But how could she, now, so long after the event, expose poor Chloe, who thought herself safe, to the explosion of his wrath? It was all over: let it be forgotten. And yet, how she hated to lie, and to him, of all people. She looked up from her sewing, where it lay, neglected in her lap. “What man?” she said. “I remember no one.” She regretted the lie as soon as it was spoken, but, to her relief, he seemed to accept it.
“Strange,” he said. “Can my memory have been playing me tricks again? I was positive ... You are sure you were not talking to one of the gardeners?”
“So late at night? You know they would not think of working after evening. But ask Chloe, if you are still in doubt.”
“What?” He took her up on it at once. “As if I would not trust your word. No, no ... I must have imagined it. I shall be glad when we are back in England. My mind has not recovered its tone since my accident ... it is the pressure of events, I suppose. I am wretched company for you and Chloe, I’m afraid. I only wish I could send you home.”
She rose and put away her sewing. “You are worn out,” she said. “That is all the trouble. Let me give you some laudanum to make you sleep.”
“No, no, thank you just the same. My mind is troubled enough. I will not tamper with it further. But neither will I keep you up talking here. It is too cold to be sitting so late without a fire. I only wish we could move back to Lisbon, where the house is more fit for cold weather, but the Prince Regent seems fixed at Mafra and so long as he stays, I must. Nor do I think it safe for you and Chloe to return without me.”
“No, anything rather than that.” His sudden questions had reawakened all her anxiety on Chloe’s behalf. She hoped, of course, that M. Boutet would have left with th
e rest of the French mission, but nothing was certain. Much best not risk exposing Chloe once more to his dangerous proximity.
Lavenham was looking at her strangely. “You really prefer it here, with all the discomfort of draughts and cold?”
“Of course. So long as you are here.” So much, surely, she could say.
He smiled at her more kindly than he had done for some time. “Very well, that is settled, then. So long as I remain, you and Chloe shall do so too. We will all freeze together.” Alone in her own apartments, Camilla allowed herself the relief of a passion of tears. If only she had had the courage to tell Lavenham the truth ... Now, looking back on it, she was sure she had been wrong to shield Chloe at the expense of a direct lie. It was frightful to have convinced Lavenham that his memory was playing him false, while his kindness, his confidence in her and refusal to apply to Chloe for confirmation of what she had said were more than her guilty conscience could bear. If he should ever learn that she had lied to him, he would never trust her again.
She woke next morning feeling ill and wretched, her first thoughts of the unlucky interview of the night before. But it was too late now for regret, she had committed herself to the lie and must stick to it. Resolutely putting the thought of it out of her head, she dressed and went down to the breakfast room, where she found Lavenham already eating a hurried meal preparatory to leaving for Mafra. She sat down across the table from him, but the sight of food sickened her. She crumbled at a roll, pretended to drink her coffee, and made an early excuse to leave the room. To her relief, Lavenham appeared to notice nothing. He was busy giving last-minute orders to the steward, for this was to be an absence of some duration. He had had news that Antonio de Araujo, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, had been urgently summoned to Mafra, and as he strongly suspected Araujo of belonging secretly to the French party, neither he nor Strangford would think it safe to leave the palace so long as he remained there. But he urged Camilla to have everything ready for a sudden move to Lisbon in case this should become necessary. She promised to do so, said the formal goodbye that was all she allowed herself, watched him anxiously as he rode away along the hillside, and then retired to her room to be sick.
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