“Why no,” said Camilla, “for I believe I have not either.” And they returned contentedly to their digging.
News came to them rarely, by way of the Prioress, for Dom Fernando, much concerned with the problems of the French occupation of his country, did not dare visit them in person, nor write often. They knew, however, that the French were behaving more like the masters they were than the liberators they pretended to be. “We are unable to entertain you as friends, nor to resist you as enemies,” Dom Fernando had told them, but, as time went by, their behaviour proclaimed them all too clearly as enemies. It was a long, hungry winter for the Portuguese, who found themselves penalised by severe laws and heavy, enforced contributions to the war chest of France. Writing of this, Dom Fernando told Camilla that, for them, and for all true friends of Portugal, it was good news. “The spirit of revolt is growing,” he said. “It will not be long now.” He had other good news for her, too. Her brother had been recalled to France on the very day Junot had taken over Lisbon, and had not returned. “So long as he is away, I think you safe enough.”
Reading this, Camilla found herself blushing. How extraordinarily good Dom Fernando had been to her; it was reassuring just to think of it. The very fact of his keeping away from her now was proof of his thought for her. He had never referred again to that scene at Sintra. No doubt his cousin the Prioress had told him of her condition and his only thought was to make things as easy as possible for her. How different from Lavenham’s behaviour. And then, angrily, she repudiated the thought. After all, Lavenham had never asked her to love him. She had taken him on his own terms and must abide by them. Or, must she? Alone in the garden, she thought that their child must change all that. If she ever lived with its father again, it must be on her terms, not his. But then, the chances of their ever doing so were slight enough. But Dom Fernando wrote encouragement: it was only a matter of time before he would contrive to smuggle them out of the country and home to England. He was still in touch with the English fleet that continued to blockade Lisbon, and hoped that, sooner or later, the French’s vigilance would relax and he could find a way to get them home. Later was soon enough for Camilla. She was very big now, very placid, and more than ready to wait out her time in this quiet corner of Portugal, where no one expected anything of her except Chloe, who merely wanted her to drink goat’s milk and rest in the afternoons.
They were excellent friends now, each of them glad of the sister she had never had. Chloe had grown up a great deal since the shock of discovering what a fool she had made of herself over Charles Boutet, or rather, as Camilla insisted, how he had contrived to fool her. Camilla blamed herself as much as Chloe for their plight. She should have suspected that Chloe and Charles were still meeting and done something about it, but, absorbed in her own relations with Lavenham, she had been almost wilfully blind. Chloe would not allow this, insisting that the fault had been entirely hers, and they soon abandoned the fruitless subject. Nor did they talk about Lavenham, since each, in her heart of hearts, could not help but feel that he had failed them, and either would have died rather than admit it. So they lived contentedly enough from day to day, baking their bread and working in their garden, and turning, as Chloe often exclaimed, into a quite capital pair of housewives. No one had ever taught her anything more useful then beadwork and embroidery, and as Camilla’s domestic education at Devonshire House had been almost as frivolous, they found themselves shamefacedly compelled to go to the fat and jovial convent cook for lessons in cookery, which involved their learning a good deal of Portuguese, since she spoke nothing else.
Dom Fernando, paying them one of his rare visits early in April, congratulated them heartily on the progress they had made in the language. It would be invaluable when the time came for them to make their escape. For he had almost abandoned hope of being able to get them out to the blockading fleet, and thought they would have to make their way northward across country to make contact with one of the British ships that called, from time to time, to drop spies, or—as they were more politely called—military agents, in the little harbours around Oporto. Their chances of getting successfully across so much occupied territory would be much increased if they could speak enough Portuguese to pass as visitors from the Brazils, who might be expected to speak with an outlandish accent.
The news Dom Fernando brought them was mixed bad and good, with the bad preponderating. No word had been received from the Brazils, but no news, he said, was good news. In Europe, Bonaparte seemed all powerful. Russia and Austria had given up the struggle, and England faced him alone. But in Spain and Portugal, he told them, the scene was changing. Spain, too, had been occupied, treacherously, by Bonaparte’s armies and there, as in Portugal, the people at large were awaking slowly to a realisation of disaster. Passive at first, the people of both countries were rousing to fierce resistance under the goad of French tyranny. “They have learned at last,” Dom Fernando said, “that France is not the saviour they hoped. Now, when it is too late, they begin to sigh for their lost rulers. I think we shall have a hot summer of it in Iberia; I only wish I could see you safe home before the fighting really begins. How long do you think ...?” He stammered to a halt.
Camilla laughed. “Not long now,” she said. “Sister Maria says it is a matter of days.”
“Good.” He rose to take his leave. “I confess I shall breathe more freely when you are safe away from here. I find that your identity is an open secret in the village by now: they are all your devoted friends and I hope you have nothing to fear ... but,” he shook his head and repeated, “I shall feel safer when you are gone.”
Camilla laughed. “And so shall we! It seems little less than a miracle that we have been unmolested so far.”
He smiled at her very kindly. “Perhaps it is one. Who knows?” And took his leave.
Two days later, Camilla roused Chloe in the small hours of the morning. “Chloe, I think it is time to go for Sister Maria.”
Chloe was out of bed in a flash. “Are you sure? Will you be all right while I am gone? Oh, Camilla, I wish we were at home.”
“So do I, but never mind; it has happened before, and will again. I have no doubt I shall do well enough ... only, hurry, Chloe.”
Chloe ran all the way to convent, but Sister Maria, who was as lazy as she was good-tempered, refused to be hurried: “Time enough, time enough,” she said, in her broad, country Portuguese. “These first mothers always think the end of the world is at hand, but, I promise you, we will have time for breakfast—yes, and lunch too, before we see his young lordship.” Wheezing with the exertion, she packed up her sinister-looking tools, and Chloe, equally alarmed by her grimy equipment and the delay, could finally bear it no longer and ran on, alone, to their cottage. As she crossed the garden, a sudden almost unrecognisable scream from Camilla gave wings to her feet. She entered the tiny bedroom, gasping for breath, just in time to receive her squalling nephew. Sister Maria, arriving placidly ten minutes later, found herself with nothing but the tidying up to do and could hardly forbear scolding Camilla for her unlady-like speed. But Camilla, white and exhausted, was too happy to care. “Edward,” she whispered, and fell asleep.
It was Sister Maria who first noticed the thin webbing between the baby’s smallest toes and pointed it out, with eldritch shrieks, to Chloe. Chloe, an aunt and entirely grownup now, merely dismissed her from the house with unearned thanks and a string of beads the sister had admired and now accepted with enthusiasm: “For the blessed Virgin, of course.” Then she returned to the little room where Camilla and the child slept peacefully. If she could help it, Camilla should not be troubled with news of her child’s deformity before she was strong enough to bear it.
To her delighted surprise, Camilla’s return to strength was very much more rapid than she had expected. It almost seemed that there was something to be said for bearing a child in an atmosphere of domesticity and gardening and without society’s benefits of laudanum plasters, devoted relatives, and straw in the st
reets. At any rate, by the fourth day, Camilla insisted that she was tired of lying in bed and wanted to bathe her son herself: “You are not to have all the care of him, Chloe. Aunts have their rights, I know, and you have most certainly earned yours, but his mother must come first.”
Chloe protested, but in vain, and watched in anguished expectation while Camilla removed little Edward’s clothes with loving unskilful hands and held him gently in the large cooking pot they used for a bath. In a moment, Camilla looked up at her. “I see,” she said. “That is why he was always dressed. Did you think I should mind it, Chloe? I shall only love him all the more. Do you know, I was beginning to be afraid there was something really wrong with him, but this—who cares about this?”
“Not I, for one,” said Chloe robustly, but could not help adding. “I only wondered—Lavenham and Lady Leominster ...”
“Who cares what they think, or the world for that matter? And, besides, why should anybody know? It is not yet the fashion that I know of for gentlemen to dance barefoot, is it, my precious?” And she bent to concentrate on the intricate and unfamiliar task of washing her son, who was beginning to wriggle in her hands like the fish he resembled.
He was a wonderfully well-conducted baby, but then, as Camilla said, so he should be, with the entire attention of a devoted mother and aunt. When Sister Maria called to see how he and Camilla were going on, she was amazed to find them both out under a huge cork tree in the garden and raised her hands in horror, prognosticating all kinds of disasters from such an early risking of fresh air. As for the baths, when she learned of them she was convinced the baby would not survive its second week. “And perhaps as well,” she said to Chloe, who was shepherding her out of the garden, “poor little monster. What good can come of it? Let me but baptise him and he will be better off with the angels.”
Grateful that Camilla had not heard, Chloe paid a visit to the convent that night and begged the Prioress, who had always been their understanding friend, to prevent Sister Maria from visiting them again.
The old nun nodded her comprehension. “Yes,” she said, “perhaps it would be best. Sister Maria is well enough for the peasant women, and even for our own girls when they go astray, but perhaps I will take her place from now on. She has told me, of course, about the poor little boy. We can only pray that it will prove, by God’s grace, a blessing to him in disguise.”
Chloe could hardly see how it could do so, but was too relieved at the success of her mission to care. From then on, the Prioress visited them daily, cheering them with her robust common sense and her hearty and convinced praise of the baby, who grew and throve in daily contradiction of Sister Maria’s prophecies.
He was a month old, and a picture of placid health, when Dom Fernando paid them an unexpected visit. He arrived late in the evening, when the shadow of the cork tree had lengthened across the sunny garden and they were beginning to think about bed. One look at him told Camilla that something was wrong, and she helped him to hurry through the formal greetings and congratulations as fast as possible. He came quickly to the point: “I am more relieved than I can say to find you so well, for I fear I bring bad news.”
Camilla turned white. “Not Lavenham?”
“No, no. How could I be so stupid? I have good news of him. We have heard at last that the Court are arrived safe at Bahia, though after a sufficiently grievous voyage, poor things. Your husband is alive and, so far as I know, well. No, my news is not of him but of Charles Boutet, who is returned to Lisbon and who, I fear, must have learned that you did not escape with the fleet as he first thought. I discovered only this afternoon that he has been tampering with my servants, asking them all kinds of questions about my movements. That is why I am come so late; I did not dare let anyone know where I was going. But now he has started making enquiries it is only a matter of time—and not very much at that—until he discovers your whereabouts and then, I gravely fear, I would be powerless to protect you.”
Camilla had taken Chloe’s hand. “But what shall we do? Where can we hide?”
He answered her with another question. “Are you truly better? Strong enough to face a journey, and, I fear, an exhausting one?”
“To go home?” Camilla asked. “I could face anything for that. And indeed I am entirely recovered. Chloe will tell you that I have been working in the garden all afternoon, and none the worse for it.”
“I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear it. No hope, now, of getting you out to the blockading fleet. Since Boutet arrived, the French vigilance in the harbour has been redoubled. It was with the greatest difficulty that I made the crossing to visit you tonight. To attempt to get out to the British ships would be to court disaster. But I have another plan which I begin, now I see you so well, to think may be possible. There is a British agent, a Mr. Smith, who is returning from a visit to Spain. He is to be picked up by a British frigate north of Lisbon, where the French watch is less close, and I have suggested to him that you might accompany him.”
“You have seen him, then? Where is he? Can we really go with him? What did he say?”
He smiled a shade reprovingly. “One question at a time, I beg. Or rather, the fewer questions, the better. The less you know, in fact, the safer for you. But, yes, he has agreed to take you with him, always provided that you are strong enough to stand the journey. He has vital information to take home to England and asks me to warn you that he must travel fast and can stop for nothing. Luckily his rendezvous is not for another three days or he could not wait for you. But as it is he will be delighted to escort you and, indeed, thinks that your company will much improve his chances. The French are, we believe, on the lookout for him, but are not likely to suspect a family travelling together. Only,” he paused to look anxiously at Camilla, “are you strong enough? And what of the baby?”
“To get home,” Camilla said again, “we can face anything.”
CHAPTER 11
Neither Camilla nor Chloe slept that night. Excitement would have prevented it, even if there had not been so much to do. Before he left them, Dom Fernando had explained that Mr. Smith could not risk the detour to join them; instead, they must make their way along the south side of the Tagus and would find him waiting for them at the crossroads just before the first bridge across the river. He would, of course, recognise their little party easily enough and would identify himself by asking them, in Portuguese, “What news, today, in Setubal?” To make assurance doubly sure, Camilla must then answer, “None worth the hearing.”
After they had met Mr. Smith, Dom Fernando warned them that they would have two days’ hard riding over rough country, if they were to keep their rendezvous with the frigate. His cousin the Prioress would provide them with mules, peasant costume, and a man to escort them to the meeting place with Mr. Smith: after that, they would be in his hands. He left at last with many good wishes for what seemed a mad enough venture, and promises of a happier meeting when Bonaparte was defeated and peace restored. At the last minute, he came back with a final injunction: “I had almost forgot. Mr. Smith urges that you make yourselves look as much like peasant women as possible. The clothes my cousin will provide will help, but can you, perhaps, bring yourselves to dirty your faces and untidy your hair?” And on this semi-comic note he left them.
The Prioress came bustling over soon afterwards and added her advice to his. Better than advice, she brought a jar of black and viscous fluid with which she urged Chloe to dye her hair: “Those golden locks of yours are as good as an advertisement that you are a foreigner.” Chloe made a face, but agreed, and by morning her hair had been turned a muddy black and her face liberally streaked with the glutinous dye. She insisted, somewhere between laughter and tears, that Camilla, too, daub herself with this strong-smelling substitute for dirt, and by the time they had put on the bedraggled clothes the Prioress had brought them, and tied dirty black shawls over their heads, they made, in their own opinion, as convincing a pair of filthy peasant women as anyone could wish to see. The P
rioress, however, was not so sure, and insisted, at the last moment, that the baby, too, must be wrapped in one of the grimy shawls she had brought. Camilla nearly rebelled at this, but her good sense made her yield soon enough, and she even rubbed a very little of the black dye on Edward’s pink and somnolent cheek, where it stood out like a clown’s paint.
By now, it was morning, and the man was waiting outside with the mules, of which, they realised at the last moment, the Prioress was making them a present. Protests were vain. There was no possible way to arrange for the animals’ return, and they left with a warm feeling of gratitude and the kind old nun’s blessing in their ears. They rode for the most part in silence, since Dom Fernando had urged them to speak as little as possible, and never in English: “Imagine that the very aloes have French ears.”
They had to admit the justice of his advice, although the enforced silence added very considerably to the misery and fatigue of the day’s journey. In order to be sure of their rendezvous, they must ride steadily through the noontide heat, pausing only for brief rests, to feed the baby and to encourage themselves with the lavish refreshments the Prioress had provided. Their guide was silent to the point of taciturnity, the sun blazed down, their only consolation was that little Edward, carried first by his mother and then by his aunt, slept like an angel, soothed, no doubt, by the rocking gait of the mule.
Towards evening, however, he woke and began to whimper in his mother’s arms; the fatigue of the journey had made him hungry earlier than usual. But their guide rejected Camilla’s suggestion that they stop to feed him with a surliness that was all too evidently the mask for anxiety. They were late already, he said. There was an hour’s hard riding still to the crossroads and Dom Smith would be already awaiting them there—if he waited, added the man gloomily, troubled by visions of having to escort his awkward companions back to the convent.
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