‘Come the peace,’ she interrupted him, ‘I hope what you do, or do not do, will be no affair of mine.’
He opened the door for her with elaborate courtesy. ‘I am sure your wish will be granted, Rapunzel, and so, goodnight.’
Sonia and Elizabeth both slept late the next morning and came downstairs to learn from the maid, Marthe, that Vincent had already gone out. ‘He had a visitor, very early,’ Marthe explained, ‘and went out without so much as a cup of coffee.’
‘Oh? Anyone we know?’ Sonia was pouring her own coffee as she spoke.
‘No. I never saw him before in my life. He’d come from far, if you ask me, and—fast.’ She looked as if she would have been glad to say more, but Elizabeth changed the subject.
‘And the news in the town?’ she asked.
‘There’s talk of a new attack.’ Marthe shrugged. ‘Of course you can’t believe all you hear. Only—madame’—to Elizabeth—‘would you let me do the marketing today? It might be—safer.’
‘You think we should not go out?’
‘I would feel happier if you did not. Well—you know how it is, madame. We’ve had it bad enough, we French, for years past—there’s not a family in town that doesn’t mourn a husband—a brother.’
‘But you can’t blame us for that,’ said Sonia. ‘This war is none of our seeking, Marthe.’
‘Could you convince Mme Béguèt of that, who lost her husband at Moscow? Or Mlle Moisson who lost two brothers at Trafalgar? And besides, there are the Cossacks… They have done things in the countryside that I could not tell you of, mademoiselle.’
Sonia was very white. ‘And I have seen the French do things—oh, forgive me, Marthe. It’s no use, is it?’
‘No use at all. Only, I wish you will stay at home until things are quieter. So long as Napoleon is on the offensive—I’d feel safer. But here comes monsieur. Ask him what he thinks.’
Charles Vincent pooh-poohed the idea. ‘It’s nothing but a flash in the pan on Napoleon’s part,’ he said. ‘Stay indoors today, if you like, and go out tomorrow to hear the news of victory. I am only sorry that I shall not be here to enjoy it with you.’
‘Not here?’ Sonia’s voice rose. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have to leave town for a few days.’
‘Leave town now? Leave us alone here? You can’t, Charles. Elizabeth, tell him he can’t.’
‘I must.’ He turned to Elizabeth. ‘I received an urgent message this morning. It leaves me no alternative but to go.’
‘Oh, absolutely.’ Sonia dropped her sewing and jumped up to face him, eyes flashing. ‘Duty calls, does it, Charles? Of course, we should know by now that when that happens you cannot be expected to spare a thought for us. If the French should be so inconsiderate as to retake the town while you are gone—well, it will just be our bad luck, will it not?’
‘Don’t be absurd, Sonia. Napoleon’s miles away, involved with Blücher, and—even if by some fantastic chance the Allies should be forced to retreat, the members of the conference here have diplomatic immunity.’
‘Yes, dear Charles, but we are not attached to the Congress.’
‘That is precisely why I saw young Haverton this morning and asked him to have an eye to you while I am away. And his cousin too, of course.’
‘Haverton!’ said Sonia.
‘And Denbigh?’ said Elizabeth.
‘He would be a powerful friend, if need were. But of course it will not come to that. You are starting at shadows, ladies.’
‘I do so hope you are right,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Right?’ said Sonia. ‘Charles is always right, aren’t you, Charles?’
Chapter Nine
Charles Vincent rode away that night, promising to return as soon as he could, though Elizabeth privately suspected that his ‘few days’ might be very much more like a week. She did not at all like to see him go, and was angry at her own dependence on him, angrier still at the idea of being thrust upon Denbigh’s protection. How could Charles! But of course he knew nothing about that old affair. It was her own fault for refusing to let Sonia tell him. And yet—she could not really regret this. Sonia’s conscious looks when the days passed and Denbigh never came near them had been hard enough to bear. Absurd, of course, to have minded. She let her work fall in her lap and considered it for a moment. Yes—that was it. As she had said to Sonia, there was no reason in the world why she and Denbigh should not meet, now, as mere acquaintances. Indeed, she had had her words of casual greeting all rehearsed and ready. But—to be treated as a leper, to be given no chance to show how completely she had forgotten the past. It was only reasonable to have felt this acutely.
She jumped to her feet. Now, he might at last feel compelled to call and promise his protection. Well, if he came tonight, he would not be admitted. She rang the bell and told Marthe that since M Vincent was away, they would be at home to no one. ‘Well make an early night of it,’ she concluded.
‘And a good thing too.’ Marthe already assumed all the familiarity of an old family retainer. ‘You don’t look well at all, madame, and so I was telling mamselle only the other day.’
‘Nonsense! Too many late nights is all my trouble. We’ll all be the better for a quiet evening.’
Even Sonia admitted herself glad of it. ‘No cards tonight, thank God.’ She had wandered into Elizabeth’s room in her negligée, brushing her hair as she came. Now she moved over to the window and drew aside the heavy curtains to look out into the darkness. ‘It’s snowing again. Lord, what a brute of a winter. Charles will be perished with cold—and serve him right. What’s behind this new start of his do you think, Elizabeth?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Elizabeth had her own doubts about Charles but did not mean to discuss them, even with Sonia. ‘Shall I give your hair a brush for you?’
‘Do.’ Sonia sighed luxuriously. ‘Who cares about Charles anyway? We two can manage excellently on our own account, can we not?’
‘Of course we can.’ Elizabeth wished she were sure of it.
‘I just hope he gets pneumonia for his pains—or frostbite,’ Sonia went on. ‘And without us there to nurse him either. That would teach him we’re not the useless creatures he seems to think. Oh, there’s someone at the door.’
‘Never mind. We’re not at home, remember.’
‘I should think not indeed. Imagine Philip Haverton’s face if I received him like this!’ A glance in the glass showed she was well aware of how she looked with her golden curls loose about her face. ‘I imagine it is Philip.’
‘I expect so.’
‘I wonder if Lord Denbigh has come too. He should, you know, after being left in charge of us like this. I wonder what he thinks of that.’
‘I would much prefer not to know.’
‘Oh, I don’t believe he will mind it so much. After all, his affair with you is an old, old story. You said yourself it was over and done with. He might be glad of a chance to show he had forgiven and forgotten.’
‘Forgiven?’ Elizabeth bit the word off angrily. ‘As to forgetting, it’s clear he’s done that right enough.’
‘Yes, he really should have called, just once, should he not? Having warned Philip against me, though, he could hardly come calling on you, could he?’
‘Warned Haverton? What do you mean?’
‘Did I not tell you? Oh, no, of course—it was Charles…and it’s been such a day. Poor Philip, he made me a proposal in form last night. I’d be more flattered if I didn’t think it was mainly because Denbigh had told him not to. We’re a very suspicious set of characters, I’ll have you know. Lord’—she broke off to laugh—‘how angry that poor Denbigh must be at being saddled with looking after us.’ And then, casually: ‘I refused Philip, of course, and he concealed his relief gallantly. Poor thing, suppose I’d accepted him! I’d have loved to see Lord Denbigh forbidding the banns.’
Elizabeth’s hands clenched in her lap. Quiet, she told herself, quiet: the child does not mean to be cruel. ‘Yo
u’re talking nonsense, my love, and you know it.’ With an effort she recaptured the old, governess’s tone. ‘Off to bed with you, child. I meant it when I said I wanted an early night’
‘Of course. Poor darling, you do look tired.’ Her expressive glance rested on their reflections side by side in the glass. ‘Sleep well, darling Liz, and be better in the morning.’
‘Don’t call me Liz!’
‘I beg your pardon.’ A laughing curtsy. ‘Dear Mrs Barrymore, forgive me. How cross Lord Denbigh sounded when he called you that at Frankfurt, remember? I collect he thought you should have been wearing the willow for him all this time. Will you never explain?’
‘No!’ Explosively. ‘Sonia, I asked you not to talk about it’
‘You’re angry with me I’ A child’s surprise in her voice. ‘I’m sorry, darling Barry. I’ll never do it again—word of a von Hugel.’ She moved to the window. ‘Look at the snow! How cold Charles will be. And serve him right. When will he come back, do you think?’
‘When it suits him. Goodnight, Sonia.’
Elizabeth woke next morning with a curious sense of something wrong. She lay for a few moments, eyes still closed, trying to work out what it was. Well, plenty was wrong, of course. Sonia had been tiresome last night; she winced a little at the memory and wondered if Sonia would ever quite get over the shock she had had. And then there was Charles—but that was not it. And her own private misery, but that would be with her, she thought, always. She sat up in bed. Of course. She had not heard the Allied sentries going their rounds through the streets. Usually, their exchange of command and challenge was the first thing she heard in the morning. She jumped out of bed, threw her negligée around her and hurried over to the window.
The first sight that met her eyes was a group of French dragoons, lounging nonchalantly on the street corner, surrounded by an eager little crowd of black-gowned women. As she watched, the crowd grew; a courier in the uniform of the National Guard galloped down the street. It was impossible to believe—and yet, appallingly, true: the town must have fallen to the French in the night. She huddled her clothes on and ran next door to Sonia’s room. The curtains here were still drawn and Sonia peacefully asleep. ‘Quick’—she shook her—‘wake up. The French are in the town.’
‘What?’ It was usually a long business waking Sonia, but not today. ‘It’s not true?’
‘I’m afraid it is.’ Now, remembering Sonia’s previous experience, she wished she had not waked her so suddenly. But Sonia, though white, was admirably calm. ‘What do we do, Barry?’
‘Hope for the best—and keep ourselves as quiet as possible. I wonder…!’ She had been so occupied with what was going on in the street that she only now noticed an unnatural quiet in the house.
‘Marthe?’ Sonia had noticed, too.
‘Yes, I suspect she has taken French leave.’ She peered cautiously this time, from behind Sonia’s curtains. ‘Yes, there she is—look.’
Sonia joined her, buttoning her bodice as she came. ‘Talking to those dragoons! I’d never have thought it of her.’ Her face, white before, was chalky now. ‘If she tells them of us—’
‘Wait here; watch. I must make sure that the door is bolted. Thank God there’s only one.’ It had been, before, a source of irritation that their little house, squeezed between two shops, had no back entrance. Now, running downstairs on silent, stockinged feet, Elizabeth felt it a crowning mercy. And the front windows, downstairs, were securely shuttered as they always were at night. She drove the great bolt of the heavy front door into its socket and stood for a minute leaning against the door, breathing fast and wondering how long its hinges would hold. Like Sonia, she could not help remembering the scene at the castle; the gate slowly yielding… But this was a town…the French were, basically, a civilised people…that other time, after all, it had been largely the fault of Sonia’s father. Arguing so, she was trying in vain to convince herself, before trying to convince Sonia, when she was roused by an agitated whisper from the head of the stairs. ‘She’s coming back—Marthe—alone. What do we do?’
The latch of the big door rose and fell, unavailingly, since it was held by the heavy bolt. A whisper—from outside this time—Marthe’s voice, her quick dialect French: ‘Madame! Let me in, madame, quickly, before they see.’
‘Don’t I…’ Sonia’s voice, almost simultaneously from above.
But already, Elizabeth was pushing the big bolt back. She had come alone, Sonia said. They could not afford to lose a friend. A blast of cold air, and Marthe almost fell into the hall. ‘Shut it! Shut it, quick!’ And then, as Elizabeth did so, ‘You know, then?’
‘The French are in the town?’
‘Yes. Since early this morning. The Allies are in full retreat. Troyes has fallen too. I have a friend’—she coloured—‘a dragoon; I saw him in the street. He says the Little Corporal has them on the run at last. Won’t stop this side of the Rhine, he says. Oh, don’t look so scared, mademoiselle, you’ll be all right, you and madame. We’re not brutes, we French; we know our friends. Still’—she started a little, as a noise of shouting swept down the street outside—‘you’d best stay quiet. I wish M Vincent was here.’
‘Trust him not to be, when he’s needed.’ Sonia turned from Elizabeth to Marthe. ‘You didn’t tell them about us.’
‘Of course not. What do you take me for? You have been good to me, you and madame. I tell you, we are not barbarians, we French. But—I wish you were part of the Congress.’
‘So do I.’ Elizabeth was disconcerted at finding Marthe thus aware of their precarious status in Châtillon. ‘We shall need all our friends.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Marthe was more a fellow conspirator now than a servant. ‘That’s why I thought I’d best find out what I could from Jacques—my friend.’ She explained. ‘He says they have the strictest orders that none of the delegates to the conference is to be molested in any way. He has a list. The mayor gave it to him.’
‘That’s a pity. We won’t be on it’
‘Precisely, madame. But—it could be worse. The main army is not coming here to Châtillon at all; only the National Guard and a few dragoons to keep order. It’s but to stay quiet, madame, and all should be well. Only—if you could get some kind of document—just in case anyone comes to the house. Do you think M the Duke of Vincenza?’
‘Caulaincourt? Of course.’ Elizabeth had been thinking along the same lines. ‘I will write him a note at once.’
‘And I will take it for you, and wait for his answer. Only—admit no one when I am gone, madame. We may not be barbarians, we French, but we’re not angels either. Jacques has some stories to tell about what’s happened in our villages… Don’t open the door, madame. And—are you armed?’
‘Armed? Mr Vincent must have taken his pistols, but—Sonia—your little gun?’
‘Of course.’ She ran upstairs to get it. ‘Not much use against a crowd.’ It looked very tiny in her hand.
‘As a weapon—none. But as an arguing point.’ She held out her hand. ‘Is it loaded?’
‘Of course. Here you are.’
‘Thank you.’ It fitted neatly into the capacious, unfashionable pocket of her dress. ‘And now to write M Caulaincourt.’
Ten minutes later, she shot the bolt behind Marthe and turned to face Sonia. ‘And now—breakfast’
‘Food? I couldn’t touch a thing.’
‘You’d better, Sonia. It may be a long wait—goodness knows where Marthe may have to go to find Caulaincourt. And one’s much braver on a full stomach.’
‘Suppose she does not come back?’
‘Marthe? Why should she not?’
‘Why should she? Or bringing Jacques and his friends. And you talk of eating!’
‘I don’t just talk of it.’ She had already crossed the hall to the big flagged kitchen. Marthe had made up the stove before she went out, and the room was pleasantly warm after the early morning chill of the rest of the house. ‘I’m going to do something abo
ut it. Coffee, I think, today, and—yes, there are some rolls. Marthe won’t betray us; she wouldn’t look after us so well if she didn’t like us a little.’
‘I’m glad you’re so sure.’ But when they were ready, Sonia did, in fact, drink a little hot coffee and nibble at a roll, and Elizabeth, forcing herself to eat and talk as if nothing was the matter, saw with relief that her colour was beginning to come creeping back.
‘Just the same.’ Sonia had been holding the heavy coffee cup in both hands to warm them. Now she put it down on the kitchen table. ‘Where is Marthe?’
‘Following Caulaincourt all over town, I expect. As Napoleon’s representative at the Congress he’s bound to be busy seeing that none of the foreign ministers is molested: that would be the last thing Napoleon would wish.’ Elizabeth wished she felt as calm as she contrived to sound.
‘I just hope Marthe really is looking for him, not just sitting in a café, drinking with that Jacques of hers. Odd, don’t you think, that we never so much as heard of him before today?’ And then, ‘What’s that?’ The kitchen was at the back of the house and yet they could hear the confused noise of shouting from the street at the front. Without a word, they rose and ran up the narrow stair to Elizabeth’s bedroom. Looking out cautiously from behind the curtains, they saw that the street was now crowded with people. It seemed a good-humoured enough crowd, and the sound that had alerted them was the cry, now repeated, of Vive la France, vive l’Empereur!’ The cause of it was a detachment of the Old Guard, now disappearing into the main square of the town. The crowd closed in across the road behind them. All the civilian population of Châtillon must be there, Elizabeth thought, and all in holiday mood. She saw Mme Béguèt, who ran the grocery where Marthe shopped, talking with unwonted gaiety to Mile. Moisson of the butcher’s shop. And there, too, was Marthe’s friend, Geneviève, who worked a few doors down the street… Surely there was no danger in these people who had been their friends. Mlle Moisson always let Marthe know when her father was slaughtering… Geneviève had drunk many a glass of sirup ‘to the ladies’ good health.’ Absurd to be afraid of them. Or—was it?
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