The Adventurers

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘She’s had no breakfast.’ Sonia had returned and was busy mopping up the spilt milk. ‘And no more have you,’ she added as Denbigh rose to follow Elizabeth. ‘Is everyone gone mad this morning? No use going after her, if that’s what you had in mind. You can see she’s in no mood to be thanked. Thank me instead or, better still, tell me you think there’s no reason why we should go on being cooped up in the house. If you can go out, why can’t we?’

  ‘I would not advise it. As Mrs Barrymore said, you should have seen the National Guard last night.’

  ‘They were really after Charles?’

  ‘They were indeed. I don’t like to think what would have happened if they had caught him. It was lucky for him that Mrs Barrymore was still awake.’

  ‘And of course I had to sleep through it all. Sometimes I just can’t bear myself.’

  ‘You?’ Absurd child. ‘Only consider what pleasure you give to others.’

  ‘Me? Do you really mean it?’ and then pouting, ‘But I wish you would not call me “child.” I am eighteen, you know.’

  ‘A very grave and serious age. I wish you were safe home in England, Miss von Hugel.’

  ‘So do not I. Besides, I have no home.’

  ‘How can you be so sure? Have you written to your grandfather?’

  ‘No, why should I? He never wrote my mother; Elizabeth and Charles are all the friends I have.’

  ‘And very good ones too, but it is different for them. This is not at all the kind of life you ought to be leading.’

  ‘I don’t see why it’s different for Elizabeth. Charles, of course, is a man, and they are always to have everything their own way, but aside from being a little older, and having so much more sense, how is Elizabeth any different from me?’

  ‘Why, in having been married, of course. You must see that it makes all the difference. I do wish, Miss von Hugel, if you will not do it yourself, that you will let me write to your grandfather on your behalf. I could send it in the diplomatic bag. There is no reason why you should not have an answer in a week or two. Only give me his direction, Miss von Hugel. I tell you, I should not like to see a daughter of mine in your situation.’

  ‘But I am not your daughter. And as for Elizabeth—oh, good morning, Mr Haverton, have you roused yourself at last? Shall I give you some coffee, though it’s more than you deserve, coming down so late.’

  ‘I could not bring myself to face the fact that it was to be my last meal in this happy house.’ He took the full cup from her. ‘Do we really leave today?’

  ‘Yes.’ Denbigh had risen from the table and spoke from the doorway. ‘As soon as you are ready, Philip.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Philip asked as the door closed behind Denbigh. ‘Blue-devilled, like me, at the thought of leaving?’

  Sonia laughed. ‘I doubt it. Counting the moments till he’s safe away, I should think. Though—I don’t know. He’s very kind, isn’t he? Not a bit frightening when you get to know him. He wants to write to my grandfather on my account.’

  ‘And have you sent back to England? You won’t let him?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m very happy where I am. Besides, I couldn’t think of leaving Elizabeth.’

  Elizabeth appeared at the very last moment when Denbigh and Haverton were standing ready in the hall. ‘I am so sorry.’ Her hands were covered with flour. ‘I have been helping Marthe with her baking and quite forgot how late it was. Are the streets quiet?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’ Sonia came running downstairs. ‘I’ve just had a look out of my bedroom window. You’d hardly think it had all happened, would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Denbigh. ‘But it did. We are enormously indebted to you, Mrs Barrymore.’

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ said Elizabeth almost tartly.

  And, ‘Nobody thanks me,’ said Sonia.

  Denbigh took her hand. ‘I wish you will think about what I said to you. Let me write to your grandfather on your behalf. I am sure Mrs Barrymore will agree that it is much the best thing for you.’

  ‘Of course—if she wishes it.’

  ‘Which I do not.’

  ‘Very well. But if you should change your mind… And now, we must not keep you longer from your baking. My thanks again.’ A deep, formal bow for Elizabeth. ‘And to you too, Miss von Hugel. Come, Philip.’

  Haverton turned from an anxious consultation of the glass. ‘Am I fit to be seen with this bandage?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Sonia. ‘Since I put it on…’

  The big door closed behind them. ‘Well,’ said Sonia, ‘so much for that. And now, I am going to see Charles?’

  ‘In his bedroom?’

  ‘I don’t remember that that prevented you from visiting Lord Denbigh, my love.’

  ‘He was ill.’ Elizabeth’s colour was higher than ever. ‘You know perfectly well that that was quite another matter.’

  ‘Oh, I do, do I? And so, I suppose, was your running away when he tried to thank you. You are to be free to behave as madly as you please, while I’m to be all prunes and prisms. You should have heard Lord Denbigh on the undesirability of my position here. If I were his daughter, he would not like to see me so situated. It’s all very well for a widow, like you,’ and then, horror-stricken at the change in Elizabeth’s expression, ‘Oh, Liz, I did not mean it. Why don’t you explain to him?’

  ‘Why should I? It’s no affair of his.’

  ‘You really don’t care anymore?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’ Angrily. ‘I wish you’d stop chattering, Sonia, and turn your hand to something useful.’

  ‘I will. I’ll fetch down Charles’ tray. You know how much Marthe’s got to do.’ And before Elizabeth could protest further, she had crossed the hall to tap on Charles’ door. ‘Charles! It’s I, Sonia. May I venture into your den and fetch your tray?’ And then, as he opened the door for her, ‘So you decided to come back to us at last! And with the National Guard at your heels, too, adventurous Charles. How I wish I’d been awake to see it!’

  ‘Sonia! I owe you an apology.’ He spoke as if the words had been fretting his mind for a long time. ‘You were right and I was wrong. I should not have left you. If anything had happened, I’d never have forgiven myself.’

  ‘That would have been a great comfort to us, I’m sure. No—don’t shut the door, Charles. Elizabeth’s shocked to the marrow already, poor darling. Did we ever decide, by the way, just what kind of cousins we are? Not very close, I imagine, judging by the way you abandon us. No thanks to you we weren’t murdered in our beds—or worse.’

  ‘Don’t! Sonia, you can’t possibly say anything that will make me feel worse than I do already.’

  ‘Then I’m wasting my time, am I not?’ She picked up his tray. ‘No need to look so conscience-stricken, Charles. We’ve had a splendid adventure—and been splendidly protected. Well—of course Haverton was very much what you’d expect. Do you know, he actually swoons at the sight of blood. But you should have seen Lord Denbigh. He was superb. Now there’s my ideal of a really gallant gentleman; I believe there must be something in what they say about English breeding after all. Such manners, such an air—and then, his courage…but of course Elizabeth will have told you all about it, I won’t bore you any more with the story of our adventures; you must tell me, instead, about yours. I wonder, though; Lord Denbigh is so wonderfully kind, perhaps I should let him write to Grandfather on my behalf.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Elizabeth, hovering in the hallway, was surprised at the vehemence of Charles’ question.

  ‘Why, Lord Denbigh thinks it most compromising for me to be gallivanting about Europe with only a couple of giddy cousins for protectors. He wants to write to Grandfather by the diplomatic bag—did you know it goes by way of Paris and Calais, by courtesy of Napoleon? He says he could get an answer in a week or so, and then, if it was favourable—which, with such a sponsor, you would think it must be—who knows? He might even escort me home. Think what pleasure—and what comfort, to trav
el, as it were, in the diplomatic bag. And how could Grandfather reject me, so protected?’

  ‘You cannot be serious! And leave Elizabeth here alone? After all she’s done for you?’

  She snatched up his tray. ‘You need to take some lessons in manners from Lord Denbigh. Try it the other way, Charles: “Oh, Sonia, don’t leave us. How could we manage without you?” I cannot imagine how you expect to succeed in diplomacy—if that is really what you are playing at these days—I can only say I pity those poor Bourbons.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Sonia yawned enormously. ‘This is the outside of enough! Two whole days and neither Haverton nor Denbigh has thought fit to call and thank us for our hospitality!’

  ‘But Lord Denbigh wrote.’ As usual, Elizabeth was busy sewing.

  ‘Yes, a diplomat’s letter, full of polite nothings. Do you think he’s forbidden Philip to call? Does he really think our reputations so tarnished?’ She looked, as if for reassurance, into the big glass over the hearth. ‘Perhaps I should have paid more attention to that terrible lecture he read me. Shall I write him, Liz, and ask him to write Grandfather on my behalf?’

  ‘Why not do it yourself?’

  ‘Write Grandfather? I’d never dare. Besides, I don’t mean to leave you, Liz; not till the adventure is over. I mean to be there when the Allies march into Paris, if it’s the last thing I do. No, no, Grandfather can wait. But Denbigh’s another matter—and Philip! Think of his staying away two whole days.’ Once more she consulted her reflection almost anxiously.

  ‘Perhaps you have teased him once too often.’

  ‘Much more likely he’s waiting for a new waistcoat to be sent from home. Or maybe his scar’s not healed to his satisfaction. Yes, of course, that will be it. And as for Lord Denbigh, I’m sure it’s all your fault, Liz. He must have been affronted by the curt way you said goodbye. Baking indeed! I ask you!’

  ‘I think it much more likely that he was grateful.’ Elizabeth could not quite keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  ‘Liz, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She might as well as said, ‘Everything.’ Deep in a private misery, she had not even the spirit to try and dissuade Sonia from her light-hearted new habit of calling her Liz. But what had happened to the old respectful relationship of pupil and governess? Would she be able, now, to influence Sonia in any new crisis?

  ‘Well, at least—’ Sonia had wandered away to the window. ‘It’s thawing at last. Listen to the rain! Philip will never come today; he might get his ruffles wet. But I can’t imagine Lord Denbigh being stopped by a little thing like the weather, can you? Charles is raging, by the way. He says if he can’t get out soon, he’ll go mad. So shall I, for the matter of that, and I’m not confined to one room as he is. Don’t you think we could venture today, Liz, just to find out what the news is?’

  ‘Caulaincourt particularly asked that we do not.’

  ‘Oh, fiddle!’ And then, on a new note: ‘Look! Here comes Philip.’ She was back like a flash to the glass to pat her curls into place. ‘I shall give him a tremendous scold, I promise you.’ And then, as Marthe showed him in: ‘Well, there you are at last. Better late than never, I suppose.’

  ‘And full of apologies.’ He was his immaculate self once more, a neat court-plaster patch over his scar. ‘But I have news that will make you forgive me. The Allies are on the advance again. Unless Napoleon achieves one of his miracles, my cousin thinks Châtillon will be in our hands again tomorrow. And I suspect the time for his miracles is past. My cousin sent me to tell you.’

  ‘That was kind of him,’ said Elizabeth. And, ‘You would not, of course, have come on your own account,’ said Sonia.

  ‘How can you be so cruel? Mrs Barrymore, intercede for me. I have positively not been fit to be seen these last two days. Why—what’s the matter?’

  Sonia had gone off into a peal of laughter. ‘Just what I said! Forgive me, Philip, I must be grateful to you for proving me right. But where is your cousin? What is his reason for not visiting us?’

  ‘Oh—I clean forgot. He sent his respects, and thanks for your hospitality. He was summoned urgently to Chaumont yesterday. Something’s going on there. Lord knows what. He never tells me anything.’

  ‘I don’t wonder,’ said Sonia. ‘Charles! Is this wise?’

  ‘Why not?’ Vincent strolled across to the window. ‘The French are beating the retreat. The episode is over. Oh, good morning, Haverton. What now, do you think?’

  ‘My cousin says—’ He coloured and stopped. ‘My cousin has gone to Chaumont. He left a message for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. If you have news for him, he says, will you go to Chaumont.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Vincent’s eyes were very bright. ‘I’ll remember that.’

  In London, the air smelled deliciously of spring. There, too, it had been the hardest winter in living memory, and with the first hint of milder air there had been a hurried, overnight dismantling of the booths that had driven a thriving trade on the frozen Thames since Christmas. Now, Henry Fessingham returned from his morning walk in his garden with a snowdrop in his buttonhole.

  A footman met him at the garden door. ‘A messenger, sir, from Whitehall.’

  ‘Good.’ He took the little packet of letters into the study, shuffled quickly through them and opened the one in Denbigh’s handwriting first. It had come fast, he saw with satisfaction. The courier service through Paris was working well. ‘But a mistake, nonetheless,’ he murmured, as he spread out the letter on his desk and prepared to decode it. ‘Much better to accept no favours from Bonaparte. Mistakes all round…’ He frowned as he began to read the brief letter. Denbigh always wrote shortly, and to the point. He wanted an investigation made into the background of one Charles Vincent: ‘Half French, half English; I know little more about him, except that he is the cousin of an old acquaintance of mine, a Mrs Barrymore, and also of a young lady called Sonia von Hugel, whose grandfather is English. His name is Delverton and he’s a parson, somewhere, I think, in the home counties. As for Mrs Barrymore, her father (also called Barrymore—she married a cousin) used to be vicar of Trumpington. My sister may, perhaps, know something of him.’ Fessingham would never know what it had cost Denbigh to write those words. He concluded, briefly: ‘Vincent has approached me as a Bourbon agent, and might be a valuable asset—if I can trust him.’ He ended with a reiterated emphasis on the urgency of the business. ‘He promises to come to me, shortly, bringing an accredited representative from the royalists in Paris. It is urgent that I should know to what extent he is to be relied upon.’

  Fessingham looked quickly through the other letters. Nothing urgent there. He rang the bell: ‘My carriage, at once, and while it is preparing, send me Mr Jones.’

  Mr Jones, his secretary, took his orders with his usual competent calm: two vicars, both elderly, one called Delverton, the other Barrymore and perhaps still resident at Trumpington. ‘Yes, indeed, I’ll have the details for you when you return.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Fessingham pulled on his gloves and went out to the carriage which was already at the door. It was his coachman’s pride that it could be ready, day or night, in five minutes.

  Lady Elinor Burnleigh had opened up her brother’s house in St. James’s Square. It was too agitating, she told her friends, to be cut off in the country at a time like this. ‘After all, anything might be happening to poor Giles.’

  She was sitting in her morning room when Mr Fessingham was announced. ‘Henry Fessingham! Not bad news, I hope. Show him in at once.’ And then, to her companion, ‘No, no, my dear, don’t go. I may need your support.’

  Shown into the room a moment later, Henry Fessingham found them both apparently busy with their netting. Lady Elinor dropped hers at once and rose to hurry towards him. ‘Mr Fessingham! My brother! I have been so anxious—’

  ‘No need to be.’ He took her hand reassuringly. ‘He writes that he is in the best of health.’

  ‘T
hank God for that. Oh—in my anxiety, I clean forgot. Allow me to present Miss Cerne, who is helping me to bear the suspense of my brother’s absence.’

  ‘Enchanted.’ He took the soft little hand in his and gave her one of his quick, comprehensive glances. A pretty child, just out of the schoolroom, huge dark eyes almost hidden by the tangle of black curls; a general effect of some wild creature of the woods, half tame, half timid. ‘You are staying with Lady Elinor?’ However urgent his business, he knew he must play out the social game if he wanted his hostess’s help.

  ‘Yes.’ The voice was almost inaudible. ‘Since I left school. Lady Elinor is so good…’ She stammered to a blushing halt.

  ‘The daughter of my oldest friend,’ put in Lady Elinor briskly. ‘I mean to take her to Paris with me.’

  ‘To Paris?’

  ‘Surely it won’t be long now?’

  ‘I hope not. But—surely you will not wish to visit a defeated, an enemy city?’

  ‘Why not? It’s still Paris. And—Giles will be there, will he not?’

  ‘I expect so.’ He suddenly felt sorry for Giles Burnleigh. ‘And that brings me to the purpose of my visit. I had a letter from your brother, only this morning.’

  ‘And none for me!’

  ‘He wrote in great haste, and on official business.’

  ‘Which must always come first. Did he condescend to send me any message?’

  ‘His fondest love,’ Fessingham improvised, and then, more happily: ‘He shows his confidence in you by urging me to consult you on a point of some importance.’

  ‘Oh?’ The frown vanished as she raised her eyebrows.

  ‘Yes. He wishes me to trace a Mr Barrymore, who used to live at Trumpington. He thought it possible that you might have some idea of his whereabouts.’

  ‘What!’ She half rose, then seated herself again with her back to the window, but Fessingham could see that she had gone very pale, leaving two tell-tale patches of rouge on her cheekbones. ‘Mr Barrymore?’ She managed a lighter tone now. ‘Well, that is ancient history! My dear’—to Miss Cerne—‘I had no idea that Mr Fessingham’s visit was a business one. Perhaps, after all…’