Marry in Haste

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  Half angry, half amused, Camilla did her best to convince the old lady that she was far wide of the mark in her suspicions. The Duke had never showed the slightest partiality for either of them, she said, and had indeed tended all too obviously to treat them as the encumbrances they must have been to him. “Though,” her natural fairness forced her to add, “he could not, in truth, have been kinder. He even carried little Edward much of the way.”

  “What!” exclaimed Lady Leominster. “Best not noise that around, if you wish him to remain your friend. But I begin to think I see—treated you as encumbrances, did he? No wonder Chloe is so out of charity with him. Well, I think we had best go to London at once.”

  Camilla, who pined for nothing more than a long rest in the peaceful, unfamiliar greenness of the English countryside, protested in vain. Lady Leominster had made her decision and nothing would shake her. There were, she pointed out, a few weeks left of the London season: it was of the most vital importance that Camilla should make her appearance in society at once. “I wish Lavenham to find you thoroughly established when he returns.”

  Camilla, who could not help seeing the good sense of this, merely asked, “And Chloe?”

  “Chloe comes too,” said the old lady. “She has been kept in the schoolroom long enough. And, besides, who knows what may come of it?”

  Chloe, of course, was delighted with the idea of London and even Camilla became gradually reconciled to it after she had won a short sharp battle with Lady Leominster about Edward. His devoted great-grandmother had found a wet nurse for him and arranged for him to stay at Haverford Hall and was quite amazed when Camilla, fierce for once in her gentle life, sent the wet nurse packing and announced, once and for all, that where she went Edward went too. “If he inconveniences you, ma’am, it is but to open our own town house instead of staying with you.”

  That silenced Lady Leominster, who made no secret of the fact that she wanted both girls under her immediate eye during their first tricky weeks in society.

  As it turned out, she need not have worried about their reception. London was Spain-mad. Bonnets, dances, military jackets ... everything had a Spanish name, and the two heroines from Portugal found themselves taken to society’s heart. No breakfast was complete, no ball a total success unless they were present. The fact that Camilla either insisted on taking Edward with her, or left early in order to feed him, merely added to the glamour that surrounded her. Not only was she a heroine: she was the best kind of modern mother. It was all very exciting, and, after a while, rather boring, since Lady Leominster insisted on their accepting every suitable invitation, and as Chloe said, yawning, one hot July morning, one breakfast was really very like another, and each conversation the same as the last. “And if anyone else asks me if I do not adore the dear Duke of Weston, I vow I shall throw something.”

  “Yes,” came Camilla, “I do not altogether blame him for beating a retreat from London and going to join Sir Arthur Wellesley in Ireland, though I own I could wish to have seen him and thanked him before he went.”

  Chloe tossed her head. “If he had wanted to be thanked,” she said, “he could have stayed in London till we got here.”

  “Perhaps he will come back when Sir Arthur sails for Portugal,” said Camilla, for Wellesley had been given command of the expeditionary force that was to sail from Cork, any day now, to the relief of the Portuguese, and ultimately the Spaniards.

  “Much more likely he will go too,” said Chloe crossly, and as it turned out she was right. When the news came that the British expeditionary force had sailed at last, they learned that Weston had gone too as an additional aide-de-camp. “I should think he would be of the greatest assistance to Sir Arthur,” said Camilla. “Think how well he knows the country and the people.”

  “Yes,” said Chloe, “I expect he has gone back to some black-haired girl in Lisbon.”

  “Very likely,” said Camilla.

  “Or several,” said Chloe.

  “Why not?” said Camilla, whose heart was increasingly heavy these days. It was all very well to be the toast of the town, but where was Lavenham? He had applied for leave to return and received it weeks ago. And still time dragged on and there was no word from him. The season had drooped to an end by now and Lady Leominster had agreed at last to the longed-for move back to Haverford Hall, since neither Camilla nor Chloe had showed the slightest enthusiasm for her suggestion that they should follow the beau monde to Brighton.

  Their determination was amply justified when they reached Haverford Hall and found a letter from Lavenham awaiting his grandmother there. She read it quickly, with pursed lips and furrowed brow, then handed it, silently, to Camilla.

  Chloe watched impatiently as Camilla in her turn struggled to decipher the fine, small handwriting of the letter, which had been many times redirected and, it seemed, at some time thoroughly soaked in water. “Well,” she asked at last, “what does he say, Camilla? Where is he?”

  Camilla handed her the letter with a hand that shook. “In Portugal,” she said, “looking for us.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Lavenham had reached Portugal only a week after his wife and sister left. Landed secretly, at night, some distance north of Lisbon, he had made, in reverse, almost the same journey that they had, and had contrived, after lying low for a few days, to get in touch at last with Dom Fernando. The news he received from him was part good, part bad. At last he knew that he had been right in his instinctive refusal to believe that Camilla and Chloe had gone willingly with Charles Boutet. Better still, he knew that they had escaped, but of the end of their story Dom Fernando himself was ignorant. He had learned, from his agents, of their near capture by the French, but at that point his information failed. They must hope, he said, that, since there was no further news of them, they had succeeded in making contact with the frigate and were now safely in England. “I only hope your son survived the voyage.”

  “My son?”

  “You did not know? Dona Camilla gave birth to a fine boy while she was staying in my cottage. You have an heir, senhor.” He did not, being a kindly man, add, “I hope.” He hurried, however, to assure Lavenham that his wife and sister had the best possible guide in the shape of “Mr. Smith,” a British agent of whose daring and ingenuity he had heard amazing stories. “If anyone could get them home safe, he would. But now, we must think of you. Lisbon is no place for you these days. The French tyranny grows worse every day; they know that a British landing is imminent and are trying to terrorise us out of joining them. They are wasting their efforts,” he went on proudly. “I can tell you that when your countrymen land the Portuguese will rise to a man. There are rumours, which the French strenuously deny, that

  Oporto is in a state of revolt already, and we only await the opportunity to follow their example. The Spaniards are not the only ones with courage to resist a tyrant. But in the meanwhile, we must think what we can do to hide you. I fear that I am the most dangerous of hosts. Charles Boutet is my sworn enemy and he is all in all with Junot these days—I will not dignify him with his title of Count of Abrantes.” Once more, as he had done to Camilla, Dom Fernando explained the maddening impossibility of getting a boat out to the British squadron which still blockaded Lisbon harbour. They were talking in his house which overlooked the harbour and could see the lights of the British ships as they spoke, but, Dom Fernando said, to reach them, in the teeth of the French guard, was impossible. “No, my friend, you must await the English landing.”

  And so Lavenham spent a month of infuriating inactivity working as a gardener on Dom Fernando’s estate in Sintra. He had much to think about. He had a son—or had he? As so often before, he tortured his brain in a hopeless effort to remember what had really happened that night when he rode wounded and exhausted home to Camilla. That obstinately, despite everything, he loved her he now admitted ... Could her story be true then? In that moment of light-headed exhaustion could he really have forgotten his long loathing of women? Surely incredible, if
so, not to remember. And yet, if not he, who was the father? Something about Dom Fernando’s reception of him had convinced him at least that suspicions in that direction were unjustified—shameful. Apologising, in his heart, to Dom Fernando, he let his circling suspicions range once more, until inevitably, they settled on Charles Boutet. All women were false. Suppose Chloe had been lying all the time to protect Camilla. And yet, all his instincts cried out against this explanation. In the teeth of everything, some instinct in him insisted his wife was innocent. The result, after some days of intolerable thought, was a dreadful hatred of Charles Boutet. Ignorant of his true relationship to Camilla, he came finally to the conclusion that, not content with making love to Chloe, the Frenchman must have seized some unguarded moment to rape Camilla. This explanation, at last, had the ring of possibility about it. It would explain everything except Camilla’s lies to him ... If only (here he savagely cut away a whole swathe of baby grapes), if only she had told him the truth: he would have cared for her, protected her ... He stopped and gazed, for a moment, in astonishment at the drooping vine leaves on the ground. He had come a long way from hating women.

  That night one of Dom Fernando’s servants rode out with the news that the British had landed at last, north of Lisbon, and been joined already by a Portuguese contingent. Helpless himself in Lisbon, Dom Fernando advised that Lavenham make his way north to join them, and, in the hope that he would succeed in doing so, sent him a packet of reports on the state of the French defences to be delivered to the British commander, Sir Arthur Wellesley. Delighted to have something to do at last, Lavenham set out at once but found the countryside alive with French troops, so that it took all his skill and knowledge of the district to avoid them through a day of arduous hill walking. By evening, he found himself on a little hill commanding a view of the British camp, but saw, to his dismay, a thin line of French outposts strung out between him and it. But there was no time to be cautious. Wellesley must have the papers tonight. He tucked them more securely into the secret pocket he had contrived in his rough peasant’s jacket and started to make his way inch by inch down the hillside. He had memorised the positions of the different French pickets as best he could from his point of vantage, but as he worked his way along the winding bed of a little stream he soon found it hard to be sure exactly where he would encounter them. His progress grew slower and slower, with frequent pauses, in the gathering dusk, to look and listen for any clue as to the whereabouts of the enemy.

  Just the same, he was almost upon them when a sentry’s muttered curse made him shrink back among the bushes that grew along the stream. Watching and listening, he realised that the valley that had seemed so promising had, in fact, brought him directly towards French headquarters. Its sides were too precipitous to be climbed; there was not the slightest chance of going forward; he would have to retrace his steps to the head of the valley. It was dark, now, with only the promise of moonlight later, and it was lucky for him, as he felt his way back up the valley, that the attention of the French was concentrated in the other direction, towards the British lines. Otherwise, they must surely have heard him as he tore and fumbled his way, almost by feel alone, through the thick undergrowth.

  Back once more on his hilltop, he had to admit to himself that the position, for the time being, was hopeless. He would have to wait for first light and make another attempt at crossing the French lines then. Having decided this, he settled himself philosophically for a few hours of uncomfortable sleep. Waking with the first glimmerings of dawn, he was aware of a stirring of activity in the British camp. His hopes flared up at once. If they were preparing an attack, his chance of getting through to them, in the confusion of the fighting, would be enormously improved. Forcing himself to patience, he waited and watched, chewing meditatively on his last dry crust. He must know the direction of the attack before he set out to try and get through to the advancing forces. As the light gradually strengthened, and he was able to get a better view of the British and French positions, he found himself increasingly certain of what must be the direction of the British advance. Inevitably, before they could march towards Lisbon, they must dislodge the French from the little village of Brilos, which commanded the route they must take. If he stayed where he was, he would almost certainly be taken in the course of the day. He decided to stake everything on his interpretation of the British plan and set out for Brilos.

  His best route, at first, took him back into the hills, and for a while the going was easy enough, with a thick screen of shrubbery masking him from the nearest French position. Both armies were awake now, and he could hear, in the clear morning air, the echoes of commands from the two camps. These sounds, with their suggestion of the comradeship of a soldier’s life, intensified the loneliness and danger of his own position and he found himself, for a moment, near to despair. What was the use of going on? He was merely courting inevitable capture and death. And yet, what had he to live for? Camilla and Chloe were almost certainly dead, through his fault. How could he face England without them? He did not even want to. Strange to realise that Camilla had become the most important thing in his life. If she and her child should, by any miracle, have survived, he would forget everything and acknowledge the boy as his heir. The decision, towards which he had slowly been coming for several days, brought him an immense happiness and in its sudden glow he turned a corner too fast and walked straight into a French picket. Alerted by danger, he began to call furiously for an imaginary mule, pretended belatedly to see the Frenchmen, and demanded in peasant Portuguese whether they had seen an imp of Satan, in the form of a big wall-eyed mule, pass that way. With many curses he described how the beast had escaped him and began to hope, as they showed signs of tiring of his monologue, that they would let him go without question. But one of them, more alert than the others, interrupted him. “That is all very well,” he said in French, “but we have orders to take in anyone we find for questioning.”

  His heart sinking, Lavenham pretended he did not understand, and the man turned impatiently from him to shout to one of his companions. “Here, you, Francois, you said you were cold. Here’s an errand to warm you; take this cretin to Captain Boutet. It was he who wanted to examine all these canaille ... let him have them.”

  For a moment, Lavenham wondered whether to make a dash for it, but decided his better chance lay in sticking to his character of an ignorant peasant and praying that the English attack would come soon. He knew this countryside pretty well, but not well enough to pose for long as a native. Francois tied his hands behind him and then drove him ahead of him down the little path that led to headquarters. Stumbling obediently along, Lavenham had much to think about. He was being taken to Captain Boutet. Could this possibly be Chloe’s and, as he now thought, Camilla’s betrayer? The long bitterness boiled within him and, if he could have escaped, he would not.

  The question did not arise. Five minutes’ uneventful walk brought them to the little farm that served as the French headquarters. Outside it, a slim figure in captain’s uniform was standing drinking a beaker of coffee. Was this the same man he had seen, once, so indistinctly in the garden of the Marvila palace? Infuriatingly, he could not be sure, but stood, inwardly fuming, outwardly a picture of peasant stupidity while Francois described his capture in rapid, vulgar French.

  Boutet listened impassively, then dismissed the man. He stood for a moment gazing thoughtfully at Lavenham, whose hands were still tied behind his back, then, carelessly fingering his pistol, he spoke, in English: “Welcome to our camp, my dear brother-in-law.”

  Lavenham could not believe his ears. “What?”

  Boutet laughed. “So they never told you, the dear girls. Well, to tell truth I rather wondered whether they would. Yes, my Lord Lavenham, I am your wife’s brother, and hope soon to complete our delightful relationship by becoming your sister’s husband. In the meanwhile, we must consider what use to make of your not altogether opportune appearance. You are searching, I collect, for my sister—and your
s. You will not find them, though I might contrive a meeting once you have given your consent to my marriage to Chloe. It is not, by the way, a matter of the slightest moment to me whether I have it or not, but we French, as you know, treat family ties with a good deal more respect than you British seem to. Chloe will be grateful to marry me on whatever basis, but I for my part would prefer to do everything gracefully and in order. So come in, my dear brother-in-law, and give me your consent in writing.” Still lightly touching his pistol, he gestured Lavenham ceremoniously into the main room of the little farmhouse.

  Obeying in helpless silence, Lavenham thought he had never known despair before. Ever since he had talked with Dom Fernando, he had hoped against hope that Camilla and Chloe were safe home in England; now it seemed that they were in Boutet’s hands, and Chloe dishonoured beyond repair. Anguish for her was mixed with a baffled questioning about Camilla. Boutet was her brother? Scoundrel though he clearly was, it was not possible that he was the father of her child. Tormented with new doubts—could it be Dom Fernando after all?—he hardly listened to what Boutet was saying but watched almost without interest as he produced paper and pen and began rapidly to write. “There,” he said at last, “that I think should do it.” He held up the paper for Lavenham to read. “We shall have to unbind your hands so that you may sign, but I trust you will not attempt to take advantage of it. My men are within call, and—they do not love the British overmuch.” As he spoke, he had quickly untied the rope that held Lavenham’s hands behind him, and now laid the paper on the table with his left hand and stood back, covering him with the pistol.

  The paper was a brief and comprehensive statement of Lavenham’s entire approval of Chloe’s marriage with Boutet and a guarantee of his assistance (if such should be needed) in bringing it about.