Ruth picked up her bonnet. ‘There is something I must do,’ she said. ‘Will you excuse me? I’ll tell them to bring wine,’ she told Mercy. ‘Monsieur Brisson looks worn out.’
‘Dear Ruth.’ He took her hand. ‘Thank you. But – no wine. There’s so little time …’
‘God bless you,’ she said, and left them.
He turned to Mercy. ‘A girl in a million. Now quick, tell me why this sudden change of plan. You know your husband is in the Tower and yet plan to leave for France without even seeing him?’
‘I think I have to. How much do you know about the riots in London?’
‘A great deal. Like you’ – he pointed to the pile of newspapers – ‘I have been reading about them.’
‘Then you know that there is talk that they were instigated by the Americans.’
‘Or the French. And no truth in either story.’
‘If only I could be sure of that. Don’t you see, my husband is accused of being one of the ringleaders, of being, in fact, an American spy or agent provocateur? And then I arrive, a known spy … Oh, it’s no fault of yours. Do not for a moment imagine that I am blaming you. I am sure your advice to come was good. How were you to know what I would find when I got here? As it is, I see nothing for it but to get over to France and await events there.’
‘Your husband asks this?’
‘I’ve not heard from him direct. His cousin came to see me yesterday. Miss Julia Purchas. With messages. With the warning of the harm I might do him by my presence.’ Telling him this, she found it more extraordinary than ever that there had been not one scrap of word direct from Hart.
‘Madame.’ He took her hand. ‘Mercy. Will you forgive me? I must ask you. What do you know of this Miss Purchas?’
‘That I do not like her. But that is nothing to the purpose.’ She had no right to tell even this good friend more.
‘You have heard the talk then? I’m sorry, I do not like to be the one to tell you.’
‘About her and my husband? She told me.’
‘Ah! And asked you to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are going. And on a ship of her choosing? So – you believed her.’
‘Yes, I believed her. How could I help it? And – you had heard of it? It is being gossiped about.’
‘I am afraid so. Paragraphs in the papers. You would not have recognised them. They have been together constantly, madame, since he reached England. At the playhouse, at … at other places of public amusement.’
‘She is his cousin.’ But what was the use of saying that? She knew the gossip about Hart and Julia was all too horribly founded in fact. ‘But it’s not because of the gossip that I am going,’ she went on. ‘It’s because I endanger Hart’s life by staying.’ She owed it to this good friend to tell him the whole truth. ‘When I accepted the offer of passage tonight, I told Miss Purchas that I would agree to nothing else until I had heard from Hart himself. I am his wife,’ she concluded proudly, fighting tears.
‘Dear madame,’ he said. ‘Dear Mercy. You love him still?’
‘Yes. I think I did not quite know how much until this.’
‘Then do not go!’
‘No? But—’
‘Listen to me, Mercy, who love you and have fought the temptation of the devil to tell you this. You must believe me because it costs me so much. I have found another ship bound for France. A safe one. The captain’s a friend. I could get you a passage on her. Take you with me. Comfort you … Hope that one day you would turn to me for consolation. But no, when you learned the truth, you would never forgive me.’
‘What truth?’
‘Miss Purchas is deceiving you. Oh, no, I’m sorry! Not about what has happened between her and your husband. That is indeed public knowledge. He was seen everywhere with her, at places of not the most savoury reputation. What you decide to do about that is your own affair, only, as you think of it, I beg you will remember that there is one heart that will love you always.’
‘I’m sorry …’
‘You do not care! You are mad to hear what it is I am trying to tell you about your husband. Very well. You know me for what I am. A spy. Well, at least I am a well-informed one. There is no truth in this tale Miss Purchas has told you of danger to your husband. There may have been for a while perhaps. In the first reaction from the chaos in London there were all kinds of wild stories going about. I am not sure that the Tower was not the safest place for him. But now … the small fry have been examined, tried, executed … There has been not a shadow of evidence to implicate either French or Americans. The government may have been tempted at first to mount a state trial and try and whip up some anti-American feeling, but they learned their lesson over Wilkes; they’ll not risk having such a trial blow up in their faces for lack of evidence. They are merely waiting until feelings have calmed to release your husband.’
‘You are sure of this?’
‘Would I tell you if I was not?’
‘No.’ She reached out to take his hand. ‘I do thank you, Monsieur Brisson.’
He raised her hand to his lips. ‘Love is a strange thing. I think I understand yours by my own. You will forgive your husband. I will never stop loving you. There we are. But you see, instead of taking this dangerous passage to France that Miss Purchas has arranged for you, you should be asking yourself why she has lied to you. I think, if I were you, I would go to Dick Purchas at Denton Hall.’ He turned over her hand and kissed the palm. ‘I must leave you, Mercy. I have stayed too long already. I am on my way back to America. If things go well with you here, and I pray that they do, you will remember me as a friend who loved you. If they go ill, come back to America, Mercy. Give me my chance to comfort you.’
‘Dear Charles, what can I say?’
‘Nothing. Kiss me, Mercy, as you did before. God bless you. And good-bye.’
XIX
Hope, Hart found, was almost as restless company as fear. A mixed batch of papers, brought him by the gaoler the morning after Dick’s visit, confirmed what he had said of the change in public tone. The riots were a thing of the past. English life was back to normal. The city fathers, meeting at the Guildhall, had been far from unanimous in passing a motion thanking the King for his care and attention to the citizens of London during the late riots. More significantly still, the Aldermen, meeting on July 18, had decided it was time to stop the allowance to the troops who had saved the City. At a hundred pounds a day, the expense of this had already amounted to four thousand. Quite enough in their view. The allowance would stop as from Saturday, July 22. After all, the executions were over, and the city quiet.
For Hart, the days dragged horribly. No visitors. No letters. Mr. Purchas’s deadline had come and gone long since. Thanks to Dick, the gaoler continued obliging enough but turned a deaf ear to Hart’s pressing requests for a lawyer. ‘No orders,’ he would say, and that, so far as he was concerned, was that. Hope sickened. Hart began to fear madness as much as, before, he had feared death. He made himself count things. Days. Nights. Ravens on the grass. The gaoler’s visits. He was at the cell window, counting ravens, when he heard voices in the corridor. The gaoler’s, fawning, pleading, and another, a gentleman’s … Familiar? He was doubtless imagining things.
Rattle of keys. The cell door opening. Piers Blanding, falsely bonhomous, coming forward, hand outstretched. ‘My dear Purchis, deepest apologies for being so slow in getting you out of this hellhole. Never thought it could take so long to obey a command of Miss Purchas’s but you’ve not been popular, dear boy, not popular at all. Took all my talent for special pleading to convince my revered principal that you’d be less of an embarrassment out than in.’ He looked round the cell with distaste. ‘Is this the best you could do for him, Miggs?’
‘Orders,’ said the gaoler, with a pleading glance for Hart.
If he had not disliked Blanding quite as much as he did the gaoler, Hart might have mentioned the original, sordid stinking cell from which he had been removed
before Dick’s visit. Why bother? If he was really getting out, nothing else mattered. ‘You mean to tell me I am free?’ he asked instead.
‘Free as the air, dear boy. That will do, Miggs; I’ll call you when I need you.’ He moved closer to Hart as the gaoler left them. ‘To tell truth,’ he said, ‘we now find ourselves a trifle embarrassed by your plight. Had a bad time, by the look of you. Sorry about that! No intention of ours. Failure of communication. You know how it is. Less said, the better? Painful for the family. Things bad enough with them as it is. Rumours all over town about George Purchas. Sad business, but now a dead horse, don’t you think? Hard on the family to have the the whole thing opened up again. And not what Government wants either.’
‘Oh?’ Where was this leading?
‘You’re a man of the world. Been reading the papers, I see. Well – things have settled down. No use stirring them up again, what? Trouble for Government; trouble for the family; very likely trouble for you.’
‘I’ve had enough of my own.’
‘Just what I’m saying. I’m authorised to make you an offer. Out of here, out of England, and no more said.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that. There’s a closed carriage outside, will take you to Portsmouth. Enquire at the George for Mr. Smith, and he will arrange your passage to France. Oh’ – he reached into a pocket and brought out a bulging wallet – ‘you’re somewhat embarrassed financially, I understand. This should take care of things for you until you reach France and can make your own arrangements.’
‘And the terms of my release?’
‘A gentlemen’s agreement. Purely verbal. You trust us; we trust you. And – you’re out of here.’
‘Thank you.’ He wished he had not always disliked Piers Blanding so much. ‘Very well then.’ He picked up the portmanteau he had brought from Denton Hall. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Your word that you’ll say nothing about George Purchas?’
‘Given.’
‘Right.’ He pushed open the cell door, and Hart, following him down the corridor, thought that his own dislike was richly returned.
The sun shone. The River Thames sparkled under the bridge. The hired post chaise was comfortable, if not luxurious; the driver seemed civil. There had been a moment when Hart had thought Blanding meant to accompany him on the first stage of the journey. Instead, ‘You’ll lose no time?’ he had said.
‘Trust me for that.’ Hart remembered the exchange as the chaise rattled through Southwark, where burnt and blackened buildings still spoke of the savagery of the late riots, and so, gradually, out into the country. It was good to see green fields again. There had been a time when he thought he never would. And now? Time to face it. What was he going to do? He had promised Blanding that he would not speak of George Purchas’s involvement in the riots. But he had not been asked to give any promise about the offered passage to France. Presumably it had not occurred to Blanding that one was necessary. After all, he had every inducement to get clean out of England as fast as he could.
It was early yet. With four horses, changed frequently, he could be at Portsmouth by night, maybe in France tomorrow. That was undoubtedly what Blanding expected. The temptation was monstrous. France tomorrow. A fast ship for America. Home … and Mercy. If she was still alive. He would not believe her dead. He thought he would have known if she was dead. The bond between them, strained in those difficult frustrated days on the Georgia, felt strong as steel now. Night after night, in that grim cell in the Tower, he had dreamt of her in his arms and waked himself calling her name.
Portsmouth tonight. France tomorrow. Away from Julia; away from Purchas; away from debt. And away from Dick. Only Dick would know him for a coward. And Dick, he was sure, would say nothing. Might even be relieved? He did not want to kill Dick; still less, in the new delight of liberty, did he want to be killed by him. And yet … and yet … He had been brought up to the strict code of honour. He knew he would never respect himself again if he did not give Dick the chance of fighting him.
Denton Hall was not too far away from the Portsmouth road. He could spend the night there, send a message to Dick, who was probably still in London, offering a meeting within twenty-four hours. Then, if he survived, he would surely still be in time to find Mr. Smith at Portsmouth. If by any unhappy chance he had killed Dick, he would be even more in need of Smith’s good offices.
It was horrible. And he had to do it. Or rather, he had to try to do it. There had been no way of telling, from the brief exchange that had taken place outside the Tower, to what extent the driver of the post chaise was in Blanding’s confidence. He might refuse to consider the proposed change of plan, and then, Hart felt, honour really would be satisfied.
But the driver did nothing of the kind. Approached with a casual suggestion of a detour and a night at Denton Hall, he agreed readily enough ‘so long as the dibs are in tune.’
Bribing him with some of the money made available by Piers Blanding, Hart was glad he disliked that young man so much. Was it government money, he wondered, or had it been made available by the Purchas family? He wished now that he had asked more questions but knew well enough that he would have received no answers.
It was late afternoon when he saw the long line of the downs and the clump of trees Dick had told him was called Chanctonbury Ring. Dick … Was he really going to Denton Hall, where he had been so kindly welcomed, made a member of the family, to try to kill Dick? Had he not done them enough harm? The point of honour? The point of dishonour? Madness. He reached for the checkstring, then hesitated. He had come this far. He would go through with it, but fire into the air. Would Dick do the same? Well, he would find out.
Dick might even be at Denton Hall. It was some time since he had visited him in the Tower. Very likely he owed him his freedom, though Blanding had spoken rather of Government than the Purchases as concerned in it. The carriage swung through the little village of Denton and in at the lodge gates. He had walked along this drive with Julia, already her slave. It had been the first day, the day he learnt of his mother’s death. They had gone to see old Granny Penfold, Dick’s foster mother, and Julia had told one of her habitual minor lies. It was only now, remembering, that he even recognised it, but she had implied that Dick did not bother to visit his foster mother. When it became obvious that Dick had already been there, she had hurried rather crossly away. Captivated, he had not even noticed at the time but, looking back, thought it a characteristic, significant scene. Extraordinary, now that his eyes were opened and her glamour had lost its magic for him, how much he found he disliked her.
The carriage swung round the last bend of the drive, and he saw the hall as he had that first time, warm in afternoon sunshine. The front door stood hospitably open. Someone must be at home. Who? He was not ready for a confrontation yet. Once again his hand went automatically to the checkstring. Too late now. Absurdly, ridiculously too late, and thinking this, he saw the woman’s figure on the sunlit terrace below the house.
Julia? Horrible. This he could not face. Julia in black? Of course, George’s death. But – this was not fashionable black. The skirts were not wide enough; the dress was too plain, cut too high; the bonnet was almost Quakerish in its concealing simplicity. A young woman. As the carriage drew nearer, she bent gracefully to smell a rose. Something about the way she moved … A wild, fantastic idea was growing in his mind. Absurd, impossible; it was only because he had been thinking so constantly of Mercy that this stranger reminded him of her.
Stranger? Now, violently, he pulled the checkstring. He was out of the carriage before it stopped, over the ditch that divided the driveway from the terraced rose garden. ‘Mercy!’
She turned, saw him. ‘Hart!’
‘Well, I’ll be jiggered,’ said the driver to the postillion as they watched the long embrace that followed. ‘It almost looks like they was old friends, wouldn’t you say?’
‘It almost does,’ agreed the postillion, enjoying the spectacle. �
�Just the same,’ he went on a few minutes later, ‘maybe we should leave them to it and find the horses something to eat. He’s just out of the Tower, didn’t you say? Lord knows what’ll happen next.’
‘Let’s wait and see,’ said the driver, but the postillion was responsible for the horses, and prevailed.
‘Hart,’ said Mercy at last. ‘Oh, my darling Hart, you have me backed against a rosebush. I believe I shall be marked for life.’
‘Our life,’ he said. ‘Mercy, it’s a miracle. But how did it happen?’
‘You may well ask. I can’t believe it. Not yet. Hart!’ He was kissing her again. ‘We’re in full sight of the house. Your driver! The postillion!’
‘They have very sensibly gone away,’ he told her. ‘There’s a summer house.’ He had flirted in it with Julia; it did not matter a tinker’s curse. He put his arm round Mercy to lead her towards it. ‘I nearly turned tail and fled,’ he told her, ‘when I saw you. I was afraid you were Julia.’ Absurd. What could she know of Julia?
Apparently a good deal. She turned in his arm to look up at him. ‘Did you so?’ she said, the mischievous smile he remembered so well lighting up her face. ‘Lord, we’ve a lot to talk about, you and I.’
‘And a lifetime to do it.’ Was he taking too much for granted? ‘Mercy.’ He paused in the doorway of the summer house, his hand under her chin, gazing down at the beloved, well-remembered face. ‘You are going to forgive me?’
‘Is there so much to forgive?’ She met his eyes directly, as she always used to do.
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