The Adventurers

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘I rather wish I could convince myself.’ Elizabeth looked at him thoughtfully. There had been a great change in him since they had first met. ‘You are serious about this, are you not?’

  ‘Never more so. I think this journey so important that, frankly, I shall go, whatever you say.’

  Sonia jumped to her feet. ‘Precisely,’ she exclaimed. ‘You make yourself most delightfully clear, Cousin Charles.’ Her tone made a mockery of the familiar address. ‘So—there is no more to be said, is there? Mr Haverton, our apologies for boring you with our family discussions, and indeed, yes I should be happy to take a turn through the town with you. I find the atmosphere indoors oppressive this morning.’ And then, over her shoulder. ‘Goodbye, cousin. Perhaps we shall meet again, some day. Liz, remind me, tonight, that there is a letter I must write.’

  ‘Sonia!’ He moved towards her, then apparently changed his mind. ‘Enjoy your promenade.’ He opened the door for them, said a formal farewell to Haverton and then stood oddly still for a moment, silently watching as she made a little business of finding hat, pelisse and gloves for her outing.

  At last, he re-entered the room, closed the door gently behind him, met Elizabeth’s sympathetic eye and shrugged. ‘She’ll write to her grandfather, I take it?’

  ‘I imagine so. And, really, I cannot think it a bad idea. My plan, you know, has always been to get her to England. It will be much better if she is expected, has some hope of a welcome.’

  ‘A welcome! With the damaged reputation I seem to have contrived for her? You are too patient with me, Elizabeth. Your very silence makes me feel more guilty than any amount of reproaches would.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Believe me, that was not my intention. Truly, Charles, I do not blame you for anything. Indeed, I do not like to think what would have become of us if Sonia had not had the luck of meeting you. As it is, we are at least much nearer England.’

  ‘England, yes, but what about the fortune I promised you?’

  ‘Oh, Charles, I never believed in that, nor yet in the brilliant marriages you and Sonia were to make. I have lived too long in the world to imagine that kind of miracle. If I can just get her safely to her mother’s people, I shall feel I have done well enough.’

  He was pacing up and down the room now. ‘A country vicar I. And a man who cut off her mother for her rash marriage! Have you thought, Elizabeth, what is going to happen when it comes out that we are none of us cousins?’

  ‘Frequently. I try not to let it keep me awake at night. Sometimes I think that that engaging, devoted boy is the only answer.’

  ‘Haverton! For Sonia! You’re out of your mind. She’s worth six of him, and you know it.’ He had moved over to the window to stand gazing down into the street. Sonia and Haverton had just emerged from the house and crossed the road, Sonia was hanging on his arm; her head thrown back, she was smiling at him as if she had not a care in the world.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ His tone made her cross the room to join him. ‘Take care of her.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her eyes followed his and she wondered if he was aware, as she was, that Sonia knew that they were watching.

  He turned impatiently from the window. ‘I ought to be on my way. Elizabeth, forgive me—and—try to make Sonia understand.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ But she could not help wondering how much she herself understood.

  Lord Denbigh’s servants noticed that he was unusually restless. Leaving Châtillon for Chaumont, he had, for once, been repetitive in his insistence that any letters should be brought on, at once, by hand. And now, when Allied Headquarters was moving back to Troyes, the same scene took place. Once again, a servant was left behind with particular instructions about letters. ‘It is urgent!’ reiterated his lordship, swinging himself up on to his horse.

  ‘Yes, I somehow rather gathered it was,’ muttered the groom he had left behind. ‘Writes to England one day, and wants an answer the next—never saw his lordship so unreasonable. At least—not for years. Well, I wonder?’ Since his audience was now entirely French, he got no further with his wondering.

  The expected letter had still not arrived two days later, when Charles Vincent reached the house Denbigh and Castlereagh were sharing at Troyes. ‘Vincent—and a friend,’ Denbigh told Castlereagh. ‘And I’ve not heard a word from Fessingham as to his background.’

  ‘But the “friend” is doubtless the emissary from Paris he promised to bring you?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing for it but to see them—and sift them as best we may. Encouraging news from Paris might make all the difference just now.’

  ‘It might indeed—so long as we can believe it.’

  ‘I shall leave you to be the judge of that. See Vincent and his “friend” first alone, will you?’

  ‘And leave you as our second line of defence? Good.’

  Half an hour later, Denbigh reported himself convinced. ‘Of Charles Vincent, I admit, I still have my doubts, but as to the stranger—he is undoubtedly what he claims to be, an emissary from Paris, and with a message, at last, from Talleyrand.’

  ‘Ah. And that is—?’

  ‘That we are crawling when we might walk. In fact, that Paris—or at least the better half of it—will receive us with open arms. There does seem, by the man’s evidence—he wishes, for obvious reasons, to remain anonymous—to be a considerable body of opposition to Bonaparte.’

  ‘And support for the Bourbons.’

  ‘There, frankly, I am not so sure. That there is a royalist party is obvious enough—Vincent has had messages, before this, from the Duke of Dalberg, who seems to be its leader—but the most significant thing, to my mind, is that Talleyrand, in his own message, does not commit himself on this point.’

  ‘You mean we must go to Paris—and see?’

  ‘That seems to be what it comes down to. Vincent does not think so, of course. Since he visited the Comte d’Artois he is a fanatical royalist’

  ‘I wonder what he will say when he sees the King—if he ever does.’

  Denbigh laughed. ‘The descendant of St. Louis, in velvet boots. Yes, I wonder too, but that is neither here nor there. I have promised him that you will see them both, and if you find them as convincing as I have, take them to the Allied chiefs—and, most important, to the Czar.’

  ‘Yes, convince him and it’s settled. There was no talk of Bernadotte?’

  ‘None repeatable. I think that dream of the Czar’s is just that—a dream.’

  ‘I hope your stranger can convince him of that. If he does, he will have done our cause a powerful service. As for Vincent—you still have your doubts of him?’

  ‘None of his loyalty to the Bourbon cause. But of his general reliability—well, you must judge for yourself. I am inclined to think him dangerous just because of his enthusiasm; there is no fanatic so desperate as the adventurer who has found a cause at last.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a pity we know so little about him. But you must hear from Fessingham any day now. Anyway, let us see your fanatic, and his convincing friend. How pleasant it would be to find ourselves in Paris for Easter.’

  That was a day of unusual activity at Allied Headquarters. Vincent and his companion saw Castlereagh, saw Nesselrode and Stadion, finally, late that evening, saw the Czar himself. He listened with his usual courtesy to what the stranger had to say about Paris; professed himself highly gratified at Talleyrand’s message, but shook his head over the Bourbon claim. ‘Time enough for that when we are at Paris.’

  And still nothing was decided. The Emperor of Austria was at Dijon and must be consulted. Schwartzenberg was prostrated with an attack of the gout; the King of Prussia would follow any decision of the Czar’s—when the Czar decided. And all the time, Vincent and his companion had to stay kicking their heels at Headquarters. It was hard to tell which of them took it worst. The stranger wanted to get to the Comte d’Artois, Vincent fretted over the position of his companions at Châtillon.

 
; Denbigh, who had agreed with Castlereagh that Vincent must be kept under observation till Fessingham’s report on him arrived, did his best to allay his fears. ‘Lord Aberdeen—and Haverton, of course—will look after your cousins if the Congress does break up: there is not the slightest cause for anxiety on their behalf.’

  ‘No? Not with Bonaparte on the rampage again? Anything might happen.’

  ‘It’s his last fling. I promise you.’

  ‘I wonder. Something tells me that when Bonaparte makes his last fling, the earth will shake with it.’

  His anxiety reached fever point when the Czar gave his companion leave to go, with messages as vague as they were friendly, to the Comte d’Artois, who was believed to be still at Nancy. It was obvious now that, though ostensibly Denbigh’s guest, he was being kept in a kind of protective custody. Then, one drizzling March evening, his chance came. An urgent messenger summoned Denbigh to Nesselrode’s lodgings and for once he did not suggest that Vincent accompany him. Alone at last, Vincent did not waste a moment. A brief note, part defiance, part apology, for Denbigh and he strolled out to the stables. Here too luck was on his side. Denbigh’s groom had accompanied him, and the stable boy saddled up Vincent’s big chestnut readily enough. ‘You’d best not ride far, though,’ he warned. ‘The gates are closed at nightfall.’

  ‘I know.’ That was part of Vincent’s plan. Once safely outside the gates, he settled down to ride steadily all night. There was no sign of pursuit, nor did he expect any. After all, he had never been told, in so many words, that he was a prisoner.

  His spirits rose with the miles and he allowed himself to imagine the meeting. It seemed, now he was on his way at last, an age since he had seen the girls, since he had watched Sonia walk away down the street, laughing and chattering with Haverton. She had been angry with him for going—had almost quarrelled with him. And yet he was smiling to himself as he thought of that last morning and her angry little manner of a ruffled kitten. Had she, then, really minded his going? Did she—but there would be time for these thoughts later. Soon, he told himself, soon now—and set spurs to his horse.

  The sun had risen now, with all the promise of a fine day. Would the girls be up already and at breakfast? Would Sonia jump up to greet him, to forgive him because she had been angry? Imagining the little scene, he turned his horse down the riverside promenade that led into Châtillon, then pulled up suddenly and listened, grey-faced. To what? To silence. Where were the sentries’ challenges? The early morning bustle of the occupation troops? Faster now, pressing his tired horse on to confirm what, in his heart, he already knew. The town was quiet, empty, dead. The Congress must have broken up. Sonia had been right again.

  Reaching their house at last, he knocked, but without hope. He could feel its emptiness already in his heart.

  Marthe’s first words, when, finally, she came grumbling to open the door, confirmed his fears: ‘You’re too late, m’sieur. They left yesterday, with Milord Aberdeen and the other bigwigs—for Chaumont.’

  ‘Chaumont? But why? Headquarters are at Troyes.’ Anxiety piled on anxiety.

  She shrugged. ‘How should I know? They’ve gone, is all I can tell you, and not best pleased about it either. Especially Mamselle Sonia. She was all for waiting here for you, but madame wouldn’t hear of it—nor yet M’sieur Haverton. And of course they were right; I’d do my best for them, but—well, you know how things are, m’sieur. Lucky for you you’d pass as a Frenchman anywhere. But come in—you look worn out—and famished, too, I wager.’

  The house had the desolate look of a place hurriedly abandoned. Elizabeth’s workbox, Sonia’s embroidery, all the little things that had made it seem a home, had vanished. Marthe read his thoughts: ‘They packed up everything,’ she said. ‘Your things too. And what an argument they had about that. Don’t look so anxious, m’sieur; they’re well cared for. M Haverton rides with them—Milord Aberdeen has them under his protection.’

  But Vincent’s anxiety was as fierce as it was, apparently, unreasonable. He drank some of Marthe’s good coffee, and ate a couple of rolls, standing, then went out to look at his weary horse.

  Marthe followed him. ‘Mamselle had to leave her pony behind,’ she said. ‘She was in tears about that too, but I told her you were sure to come, and would take it to her.’

  His heart lifted suddenly. In tears about that too, Marthe had said. Had Sonia cried, then, at the idea of leaving without him? Suddenly, everything seemed possible. Surely the luck was changing. With Marmion to spell his own chestnut, he should easily be able to catch up with the diplomatic cortege, which would move at the snail’s pace of its slowest carriage.

  ‘You want to go carefully.’ Marthe had been packing him a small bag of food. ‘Jacques was here last night—he’d taken English leave to bid me goodbye: the Little Corporal’s on the march again, he says.’

  ‘Did he say which way?’

  ‘No, for he did not know. But you want to keep your eyes open. I don’t mind telling you I’m happy to know you’re rejoining the young ladies.’

  ‘So shall I be—when I find them.’ Anxiety was driving him again. Marthe’s quiet, competent preparations seemed intolerably slow, the time needed to saddle up Marmion too much to bear. But at last he was riding out through the streets that were crowded now with black-clad women going about the daily business of living, their wooden shoes clicking on the paved streets. He hardly saw them, nor noticed the glances, some curious, some amused that his odd figure drew as he rode down the street on the little pony, with his big chestnut following. Over and over again he told himself that his anxiety was absurd—out of all proportion to the facts. Marthe had told him that the diplomatic cortege had consisted of twelve carriages, with a well-armed escort of hussars and Cossacks. So guarded, the girls should be perfectly safe. It was no use. Something in his heart refused to accept these arguments of comfort.

  Spurring on the willing pony, he came, a few miles out of town, on a sight that confirmed, all at once, the very worst of his fears. The last time he had ridden this way, he remembered thinking how untouched the country looked, with fields and woods shooting into the first delicate green of spring. Since then, very recently indeed, an army had passed, leaving the usual trail of desolation. Or—two armies? What had been happening here? And—more important—whatever it was, had the girls escaped it? Now anxiety, openly admitted, made the pony’s steady pace seem a snail’s. Concerned more with speed than with caution, he emerged too quickly from a little wood—straight into the arms of an Austrian picket. Luckily, he still had the pass Schwartzenberg had given him. The signature of their commander in chief made them his friends at once and in answer to his impatient questions they told him what they knew—which was not much, and what there was of it, confusing. Schwartzenberg, apparently, was still laid up with the gout: ‘That’s why we retreated,’ explained one. ‘Or why we didn’t advance,’ put in another. ‘Then Boney turns up—bold as you please, and it looked like we were going to retreat all over again.’ ‘But in pops the Czar, like the devil on horseback, and his Cossacks with him, and the next thing we know we’re advancing again, and a bloody day we had of it, too, at Arcis-sur-Aube.’

  ‘Two days ago, that was,’ put in the other, ‘and what’s happened to Boney since, his friend the devil may know, for I’m sure we don’t.’

  ‘But who won at Arcis-sur-Aube?’ asked Vincent.

  The corporal in charge of the party shrugged. ‘Damned if I know. They said we did; well, we didn’t retire, but neither did Boney—not that night, that is. We thought we’d be at it again in the morning, hammer and tongs, but, hey presto, come dawn, the Frenchies had vanished. What with that and no word from old Blücher for God knows how long, they’re in a pretty state of confusion at Headquarters, I can tell you. There’s talk of retreat to Switzerland; talk of advancing to Paris; your guess is as good as mine. Ladies? Twelve carriages full of diplomats?’ He scratched his head over the question. ‘No, I’ve heard nothing about them, but
I can tell you one thing, they’re in trouble if they’ve gone to Chaumont; the tocsin was ringing for the attack when we came past there last night. And you’d best go carefully if you’re heading that way; it wouldn’t surprise me if the French weren’t between us and it. Boney moves fast when he moves, you have to give him that.’

  At this point, one of his companions interrupted him. ‘I heard tell of some ladies,’ he said, ‘when I was out first thing looking for forage—like getting blood from a stone in this country; I had to go miles—and then nothing but some rotten oats, half straw, for my pains.’

  ‘But the ladies—’ Vincent interrupted what showed signs of being an interminable lament. ‘What of them?’

  ‘I met a friend of mine; couple of miles from here, I suppose it was, he was talking about them. Came away from Chaumont in a hurry when they saw how the land lay there, and bivouacked with the army, a whole party of them, ladies and all, he said. Young ladies, they were, he couldn’t get over it. Lucky for them it cleared up; fancy their sitting round a campfire all night.’

  ‘And today? Do you know where they are now?’

  ‘That’s what my friend found so funny. When it came time to march this morning, the ladies’ carriage was bogged in the mud; that’s the worst of the thaw; the snow was bad enough but, believe me, this is worse.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘A mighty argument, my friend said. Leave their things and take a ride with some other lady, or stay with their things and part company with the convoy, and that’s all I know. My friend left them still at it.’

  ‘Where was all this?’

  The man scratched his head. ‘That I don’t rightly know, sir, but I can tell you where I met my friend Michel.’ He did so at some length, with a wealth of countryman’s detail. ‘But this was all two hours ago at least,’ he concluded, dampeningly. ‘I shouldn’t reckon they’re there still.’

  ‘Where was the convoy heading?’