Standing up in the stirrups, she looked back for an instant to where, above the treetops, the roofs of Selton stood etched against the ruddy glow of the fire as though against a bloody dawn. An indistinguishable murmur of voices reached her but, for Marianne, the insubstantial barrier of trees had become a symbol, cutting her off forever from a world already falling into ruins. It was right that it should be so, and, thinking she had wasted enough time, she raised her hand in one last gesture of farewell to the monument and then, digging in her heels, made off at a canter into the woods. The wind of her going filled her ears, drowning out the roar of the fire.
In her present terrible plight, there was only one person who could help her. Her godfather. Marianne knew that if she was to save her neck, she must leave England. The abbé de Chazay was the one man capable of assisting her in this. As ill luck would have it, he was probably off on one of his long journeys. He had told her, the previous evening, that he meant to travel to Rome in answer to a summons from the Pope and, as he kissed his goddaughter goodbye, he had mentioned taking ship at Plymouth the following morning. Marianne, too, must be on that boat.
Fortunately for her, she knew the country well and there was no lane or by-way with which she was not familiar. She travelled by a short cut across country which brought her to the outskirts of Totnes, from where she had nearly twenty miles to cover to reach the great port before the tide but her mount, one of the best hunters in the stables, had strong legs.
There seemed to be a faint lightening of the darkness. The rain had come on more heavily, driving away the mist, and the moon, shining out between thick blankets of cloud, nonetheless gave sufficient light to enable Marianne to see her way without difficulty. Bent over her horse's neck, her hood pulled well down over her eyes, she hunched her back against the downpour, disregarding the water trapped in the sodden folds of her frieze cloak and concentrating wholly upon the route she had to follow.
When at last she caught sight of the ruined towers of an old Norman castle looming in the darkness above a village of straggling white houses, Marianne turned off into the hills that lay on her left and rode full tilt for the sea.
***
The boy lifted his arm and pointed out into the roadstead.
'Look! That's the Fowey. Just turning into the Sound.'
A wave of despair swept over Marianne. Too late! When, breathless and exhausted, she had fallen rather than dismounted from her horse on the old quay at Plymouth known as the Barbican, the abbé de Chazay had already left. Out there, on the sparkling water plucked by the wind into choppy wavelets, the lugger was plunging gaily out to sea under full sail, carrying with it her last hope.
'You are sure,' she asked the boy without conviction, 'that the French priest was on board?'
He raised his hand and spat with dignity. 'Sure as my name's Tom Mawes! Carried his traps from the Crown and Anchor meself, I did! Take you there, if you like? Best inn in town, right by St. Andrew's Church.'
With a shake of her head, Marianne declined this offer and the boy shrugged and strolled away, muttering under his breath something about 'blasted females' with no proper notions of the reward due to goodwill. Marianne walked on a little way, leading her horse, and sat down on one of the large stone capstans used for tying up vessels. All her strength and courage had drained away. Out there, on the green water, the little ship was slowly disappearing into the pale sunlight of a wintry morning that had clothed the hills around the bay in bluish mist. This was the end. Now, she had not one friend left on English soil, no one to whom she could turn for help. Now, she had only herself to rely on. It was necessary to escape, and to escape quickly, but where could she go?
The deserted Barbican was slowly coming to life. Fishing boats came in and the heaped baskets were swung up onto the stone quay, filled with plaice and sole, still wet and shiny. Granite-coloured crabs waved their black pincers from inside lobster pots and there were great clumps of greenish seaweed studded with deep purple mussels. Housewives hurried by, their starched caps bobbing, bearing great baskets on their arms and casting curious glances at the pretty, tired-looking girl dressed in boy's clothes and holding a blood-horse by the bridle.
At last, their silent scrutiny brought Marianne back to an awareness of herself and she got up, unable to endure the continued bombardment of so many curious glances. At the same time, she realized one simple fact. She was starving hungry. It may have been the sight of all that fish, the intoxicating smell of the sea, the fresh breeze, but whatever the cause, her stomach was crying out for food as only a seventeen year old stomach can. Yesterday, at that dreadful wedding dinner, she had been too agitated to eat much and she had taken nothing since.
Was it really only yesterday that she had married Francis! It seemed an eternity since that wedding ceremony. So, it had needed only a few hours to make her first an outraged wife, then a widow and now a criminal and a fugitive from justice who would soon be hunted down, if they were not already on her track. But when she thought of those who had so cruelly wounded her, no remorse troubled her mind. They had deserved their punishment and in striking them down she had done no more than avenge an insult to her honour, as any man of her family would have done. Only, when she thought of Francis, she was conscious in her inmost heart of a kind of vertigo, as though she stood on the brink of a precipice, and a bitter taste of ashes in her mouth.
With an effort of will, she drove out these gloomy thoughts. Marianne was young and strong and determined with all the force that was within her to overcome the malign fate which dogged her and to do that, it was necessary to remain alive. And, first and foremost, to eat, rest and think. She looked around her, searching for the boy she had spoken to earlier but he had vanished. However, she remembered what he had told her. The Crown and Anchor was the best hostelry in Plymouth and situated not far from St Andrew's Church. And there, rising above the steep pitched roofs, was indeed a Gothic tower which undoubtedly belonged to the former Catholic cathedral. A narrow, twisting street led her towards it and before long, she discerned the ancient timbered facade, gleaming leaded casements and impressive sign of a substantial old inn. Giving her horse into the care of a groom who appeared as though by magic, Marianne entered the inn and descending a few steps found herself in a large and welcoming common room adorned with much gleaming copper and brass with a large table in the centre and a number of smaller tables disposed around it, all covered with clean white cloths. A good peat fire burned in the hearth and a number of lusty serving wenches, their cheeks red and polished in the glow from the fire, tripped about the room bearing loaded trays.
There were few people about as yet and Marianne was able to slip unnoticed into a seat at a small table somewhat in the shadow of the wide chimney piece. From the maid-servant who appeared almost at once, she ordered oysters, a crab, a dish of the clotted yellow Devonshire cream she adored, as well as tea and toast. Then, as the girl sped away in a whirl of crisp petticoats to carry out her order, she tried to take stock of her position. Everything that had happened to her seemed so very improbable. Not even her beloved novels brought any guidance! None contained any situation remotely comparable to her own. She had, to be sure, a little money, but so very little. It would not enable her to subsist for more than a week. Then, she had to find a passport without having recourse to the authorities in the county, and find a boat prepared to face the considerable risks involved in running the blockade which had existed on all traffic between England and France for the past three years. All that would take money, probably a great deal of money. Marianne still had the pearl necklace she had brought with her but if she were to sell that here, quite apart from the dangers involved in such a sale and the questions to which it would give rise, she would have very little left to live on wherever she eventually took refuge, or where fate might decide to place her. And, to tell the truth, it mattered little to the fugitive where the winds might carry her provided they put a sufficient distance between herself and the hangman's noose
. So, she must keep the necklace.
Suddenly she thought of her horse. He was a valuable animal and by selling him she might perhaps obtain enough money to pay her passage on some vessel whose master would not be over scrupulous in the matter of payment. At all events, it would be less dangerous than the necklace.
Somewhat heartened by her plans, Marianne did full justice to her breakfast and, by the time she had swallowed the last mouthful of cream, she was feeling very much better. Her clothes had dried. Warmth and nourishment had restored some measure of elasticity to muscles chilled and stiffened by hours on horseback. A gentle drowsiness crept over her and, bit by bit, her eyelids began to droop.
All at once she sat up with a start, wide awake on the instant. A man had come into the room, from the staircase leading to the upper floor where the guest bedchambers lay.
The newcomer was tall, thin and very ugly, grey-faced and hollow chested; he was aged about fifty but looked at least twice that on account of his evidently decrepit state of health. He was followed closely by two servants who hovered anxiously in the way of those members of a superior household whose duty was to be constantly alert to attend to their master. His out-moded garments, red heeled shoes, bob-wig and three-cornered hat suggested the émigré, and so indeed he was. Marianne knew him. Only the day before, he had been present, along with Monseigneur de Talleyrand-Périgord, at her marriage. It was the duc d'Avaray the confidential friend and favourite of Louis XVIII, the Castor to his Pollux, out-of-office Sully to his would-be Henri IV.
Yesterday's ceremony had been interrupted more than once by the duke's cavernous coughing, and he was coughing again now on his slow progress through the coffee room at the inn. It was no secret that the duc d'Avaray was dying of consumption.
He sat down heavily without seeing Marianne at a table close to hers occupied hitherto by a middle-aged man, a steward to all appearances, who rose at his approach. But the first words they exchanged made the girl prick up her ears.
Pushing aside the dish of steaming mutton set on the table with an expression of disgust, the duke sipped his tea slowly and sighed.
'Well, my good Bishop, have you found a vessel?'
'I have found one, Your Grace, though I had a job,' the man answered speaking with a strong Welsh accent. 'The man is a common smuggler, a Portuguese but his ship is seaworthy and sufficiently commodious. He has agreed to carry you as far as Madeira. We sail on tonight's tide.'
D'Avaray's sigh betrayed more resignation than delight.
'Excellent. Now I can only put my trust in the gentle climate of the island. I may perhaps recover.'[3]
Marianne listened to no more. Hope surged up in her. This man was leaving England, he had a vessel and since that vessel was a smuggler her master could not be too particular in the matter of formalities. For her, this meant safety, luck beyond hope which she could not afford to lose. She shrank back in her corner, hardly daring to breath, observing the two men and watching for the right moment to introduce herself. The duke was a sick man himself and could not but feel compassion for her distress. If he were willing, she would care for him, make herself his nurse, his servant – she was prepared to offer any devotion in exchange for a helping hand.
The two men finished their meal in silence then, as the duke ordered a fresh pot of tea, Bishop took his leave, saying he would carry the news to Monseigneur de Talleyrand-Périgord, who had accompanied his friend d'Avaray to the port but was at that moment visiting some émigrés settled in the town. The room had gradually emptied of company and now the duke was alone. Marianne judged that the moment had come. She rose to her feet.
As she stood before him, the old gentleman was seized by another fit of coughing.
'Your Grace – with your permission. It is imperative I speak with you—'
Watery eyes gazed up from a congested face.
'What – d'ye want?' he gasped. 'Go away!'
For answer, she slipped into the seat vacated by Bishop and, pouring some water into a glass, offered it to the duke.
'Drink slowly, it will soothe you. Afterwards, we will talk—'
Mechanically he obeyed. He emptied the glass and, by degrees, recovered his normal complexion. Taking out a large handkerchief, he mopped the sweat from his yellowed brow.
'I thank you,' he said unsteadily. 'What may I do for you?'
Marianne leaned forward so that the firelight fell directly onto her face.
'Look at me, my Lord Duke. Yesterday at Selton Hall, you were present at my wedding. Today, I am lost without your aid.'
Marianne's voice was hoarse with emotion and she almost choked over the last words while the duke's lack-lustre eyes grew round with astonishment.
'Mademoiselle d'Asselnat! Lady Cranmere, I mean. What are you doing here? What has happened?'
'Something very terrible. Yesterday I had a house, wealth, a husband and a name. It is all gone, nothing remains.'
'Nothing? How is this possible?'
'The house is burned down, the fortune lost, the husband dead and the name such as I shrink from—'
Swiftly, righting down her grief, Marianne described for the duke the events of that terrible night. As she spoke, she felt the horror and misery sweep over her again. She was still little more than a child and a child oppressed by burdens too heavy for her to bear. It was a relief to confide in someone even this stranger who did not, however, appear to be greatly struck with compassion. On the contrary, as the tale advanced, Marianne saw to her dismay the gentleman's weary face assume a closed expression while his eyes hardened with suspicion. Clearly, he did not believe her. She tried to add more urgency to her appeal for help but, when she had finished, the duke merely observed shortly:
'A strange tale, to be sure! So you killed your husband in a duel? Who do you think will believe that?'
'Why, you, since it is the truth! He did me a great wrong. I called him out and killed him.'
D'Avaray gave a weary shrug.
'My child, you will have to think of something else. No man worthy of the name would ever cross swords with a woman. Besides, who ever heard of a woman whose sword play was good enough to kill a man in the prime of life? Not since Joan of Arc and you are no Joan of Arc, I presume?'
Stung by the sarcasm, Marianne said bitterly:
'Your mockery is misplaced, my Lord Duke. As God hears me, I swear I have spoken only the truth—'
'Do not swear! I am no believer in oaths. You women use them as you like—'
'Very well, if I am lying, what do you think happened?'
'I will tell you. Your husband staked your fortune and lost it. I have heard sufficient of Lord Cranmere's reputation to accept that that may well be true. But, rather than confessing it to you, he went instead to his cousin. All the world knows he was her lover. You surprised them and, in a frenzy of rage and jealousy you stabbed your husband, struck down his companion and to make doubly sure they would not escape, set fire to the house. After all, it no longer belonged to you—'
'You forget Jason Beaufort – and Lord Cranmere's shameful bargain with him—'
' – A bargain which exists only in your imagination. You needed some justification for your murderous act.'
'He can bear me out. He knows I have spoken the truth.'
'If that is so, you may confidently place yourself in the hands of the law. You have only to send for him. With him as your witness, you may well prove your case—'
'But where is he to be found?' Marianne cried desperately. 'He is a sea captain – a pirate, I daresay – and the sea is very large.'
'If I have understood your story correctly, he is a sea captain without a ship. He must either get another or have one built. Search the English ports and you will find him soon enough.'
'Do you expect me to run after a man I hate, who has taken everything from me and would have taken even my honour? Do you expect me to beg his help, his evidence to clear me of a crime I have not committed?'
The duke rose with an effort a
nd nicked a speck of dust off his old fashioned lace cravat.
'I have no expectations at all in the matter, my child. It is, quite simply your only chance—'
A heavy silence followed. Marianne saw her best hopes disappearing.
'You mean, you will not take me?'
D'Avaray spread his wasted arms helplessly before replying.
'You cannot think it! It is true, I am going for the sake of my health but I am still high in the confidence of his majesty King Louis XVIII. The King's position is such that no breath of a scandal must come near him. And yet you ask me, his friend, me, Antoine de Bésiade duc d'Avaray to give protection to a murderess fleeing from the English justice? It is madness!'
'My parents gave their lives for their sovereign and yet when I, their daughter, ask for help it is denied me. The King is my King as well as yours. I, Marianne d'Asselnat, have a right to claim aid and comfort from him.' There was pride in the girl's voice.
'By your marriage, you are English. The King of France can do nothing for you. What little power he has, he owes to those who are worthy of it!'
Stunned by the old duke's harshness, Marianne felt suddenly very tired, tired to death of this exhausting battle with a man who refused to understand. Determined to make one last, desperate effort, she said hopelessly:
'But if you help me, would he ever know? I do not ask you to take me to Madeira. Only, set me ashore anywhere, even France. What does it matter?'
'It may not matter to you but you forget the hounds of Bonaparte. In France, Madame, I am a proscribed émigré. Merely to approach my country is to risk my head. But if it is your desire to go there, you may easily find some fisherman who deals in contraband, here in this very town, who for a consideration will certainly put you ashore somewhere on the coast of Normandy or Brittany.'
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