by Mary Nichols
He hurried her through the crowds gathering to board the packet, towards a spot on the beach where two men were busy launching a small fishing boat. They had covered half the ground when they heard a shout behind them. ‘Halt!’
Maryanne glanced over her shoulder, though she did not need to look to know that Mark had found them. He was standing with two burly men higher up the beach. The men held sporting guns and Mark had a pistol which he was levelling at Adam. ‘Stop or I fire!’
‘Run!’ Adam commanded, pushing her away.
She hesitated, then flung herself between Mark and his quarry. ‘Stay where you are, harlot!’ Mark shouted. ‘You need not think I will desist for fear of hitting you. Stand aside or you will die too.’
She hesitated only a second, but it was enough for Mark. She heard the crack of the pistol, saw Adam fall and, in that brief moment, knew with terrible certainty that Mark did not intend to take him alive.
Chapter Eight
Maryanne gave a huge gasp of relief when she saw Adam stumble to his feet. ‘For God’s sake, keep going,’ he said breathlessly, seizing her by the arm and dragging her along, as another shot sounded loud in her ears. ‘He has to reload.’
‘Fire, damn you!’ She heard Mark’s voice screaming at his companions. ‘Don’t let them get away.’
Bullets kicked up the sand behind them as she struggled through the water towards the boat with Adam behind her. She felt herself being dragged across the side with her petticoats up round her waist, as the men in the boat reached out to haul her inboard. There were more shots as they turned from her to grab Adam by his coat and pull him in beside her, where he landed in a heap at her feet. The crew left their passengers to fend for themselves while they set about pushing the boat off the sand and floating it. Only when she felt the jar as the craft lifted on the surge of the outgoing tide and saw the sails begin to fill did she allow herself a peep over the side.
It was broad day now and she could see Mark and the two men standing on the beach, up to their knees in water, trying to reload their weapons before their quarry sailed out of range. She turned to Adam with a cry of triumph which became a cry of horror when she saw his coat was covered in blood. His face was deathly pale and his eyes were dark pools of pain.
She fell on her knees beside him, opening his waistcoat to see the extent of the wound. The bullet had entered his shoulder, but there was no exit-point. ‘We’ll have to go back, you need a surgeon,’ she said.
‘I have no intention of letting a little scratch turn me back,’ he muttered. ‘Bind me up. I’ll be as good as new in a day or two.’
She tore up her petticoat to make a bandage and tied it round him, making him wince, though he did not complain. ‘I’m no good at this sort of thing,’ she said ‘You must have a doctor.’
‘Later,’ he muttered. ‘Later, if necessary.’
She finished her task and made a pillow for him with Jeannie’s cloak. ‘Can’t we put in somewhere else along the coast?’
‘Not on this side of the Channel. There is no safe harbour for us in England now.’ He struggled to sit up, then hauled himself over to the man in the stern. ‘Enough of playing the invalid; give me the tiller.’ The man relinquished his place and went forward to help trim the sails, while Adam settled down to steering the small craft. ‘Don’t look so glum, my dear,’ he said, smiling at Maryanne, though even that was more a grimace of pain. ‘All will be well.’
She wished she could believe him. She was miserable and unsure of herself and, now she had nothing to occupy her, felt desperately ill because the seas were running high and the boat was being tossed on the waves like a piece of driftwood. And that was all they were - driftwood, floating aimlessly on a sea without a haven.
Beckford was not exactly a haven, but it was home and, though she did not think she would ever have married Mark, even if she had not met Adam, at least she had friends there: the rector and the village people, and James... Her wayward thoughts were halted abruptly by the realisation that James was no more. The events of the last twelve hours came flooding back, the arguments, the indecision, Jeannie’s lecture and that kiss of Adam’s which had dispelled her doubts. But had it? While his lips were on hers, his arms around her, yes, but they could not be forever in each other’s arms; could she have the same kind of faith when he was distant? Every time they had a disagreement or a set-back would her doubts return, as they were doing now?
‘Can we never go back to England?’ she asked, moving over to sit beside him.
‘One day we will, but not now.’ He paused to concentrate on a change of tack, and then went on, ‘Seasickness and homesickness are a deadly combination. Fight them, fight them for all you are worth, because I need you to be strong.’ His eyes were bright but his skin had a pallor which frightened her; it was as if all the blood had drained from him, leaving him an empty grey shell. ‘Take the tiller, will you? Hold it so.’
She had hardly changed places with him, when he fell in a heap at her feet. She cried out in alarm and one of the other men came to his aid.
‘Keep her on course,’ the man said brusquely, before helping Adam to the tiny forward cabin. She dared not leave her seat, and the agony of not knowing what was happening made her forget her own sickness. ‘Let him not die,’ she prayed, all too conscious of the fact that it was because he was saddled with her that he was in danger of it. Alone he could have eluded his pursuers. ‘Please, God, be kind to him.’
The man came back. ‘I’ll take over here, miss, you will do him more good than I can.’
She did not need a second bidding and for the next four hours she sat on a stool beside the narrow bunk on which he lay and watched over him as he fought to retain his hold on a life which seemed to be ebbing away. She had already used one of her underskirts to staunch the loss of blood from his shoulder, and now she tore up another layer to dip in water and bathe his brow. That was what he meant when he had said he needed her to be strong; she had to take over the ordering of their lives, to make the decisions. And she was torn by doubt and anxiety.
‘Where are we?’ she called to the men. ‘Can we turn back?’
One of them put his head in the door. ‘No sense in doing that, miss, we’re over halfway and the wind and tide would be against us if we tried to turn.’
‘Can we go any faster?’
He smiled. ‘We are in the Lord’s hands, He sends the weather.’
She turned back to Adam, who was thrashing about on the narrow bunk and in danger of falling off it. She pinned his arms down and soothed him and he seemed to fall into a peaceful sleep. ‘You knew what you were about, didn’t you?’ she whispered. ‘You knew if you could hold on until we had passed the halfway mark there would be no going back. But how am I to get you ashore? And, when I do, what happens next?’
Four hours later, while she half dozed on her stool, the elder of the two fishermen called, ‘Land ahoy! We’ll beach in half an hour.’
She left Adam to allow herself a brief glimpse of a distant shore, then returned to try and rouse him. ‘Adam, wake up, we’ll be there soon; please, please try and stay conscious.’
He moved and groaned and uttered something unintelligible, then first one eye and then the other opened, and they were clear and bright.
‘Praise be!’ she said. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Sore.’
‘Try sitting up.’
He had a strength and resilience which amazed her, and, although he moved slowly, a few minutes later, with her help, he was standing upright with his arm round the mast, scanning the coastline. ‘Can you take her along the coast and into the river mouth?’ he asked the men. ‘I know a spot where you can tie up.’
Under his direction, they sailed slowly and silently up a quiet estuary and into the mouth of a river. There were a few people on the towpath, going about their lawful business, and they looked up in curiosity as the English boat crept forward on the minimum of sail. When the wind failed, the two men jumped asho
re and towed the craft, pulling it along like a couple of barge horses, aided by half a dozen short-skirted fishwives who were thrown a few sous for their trouble.
They were about a mile up river when they came upon a tumbledown little inn with a tiny quay. Here they tied up and the men helped Adam to disembark, supporting him between them.
Adam was looking very ill again and Maryanne, following them into the inn, realised that the effort of remaining in command of his senses and directing operations had taken their toll. She decided it was time she took charge.
‘A bed for the gentleman,’ she ordered the innkeeper in her best French. ‘And please send for a doctor, he has been wounded. And the other two need food and drink.’
‘Oui, madame.’
The few people who were about were already pointing at the boat and chattering among themselves, and before long they would begin asking direct questions. The sooner they moved on, the better.
‘Bed for you,’ she said to Adam.
He managed a wry grin. ‘I’ve never succumbed to petticoat government yet and I don’t intend to start now.’
‘As you please. Bleed to death if that is what you want,’ she retorted.
‘The lady is right, Captain,’ said the elder of the two fishermen. ‘We will help you to your room.’
‘Very well, if I must, but I shall go alone.’ He rose awkwardly and made his way over to the stairs, moving from one piece of furniture to the next. Maryanne went to help him, but he shrugged her off. ‘Leave me be. Don’t fuss.’
‘Fine wife I’d look if I allowed you to struggle on your own,’ she retorted, following him up to the room which had been prepared for him.
He grinned lop-sidedly and allowed her to help him off with his coat and boots. ‘I can do the rest myself.’
‘Why so coy?’ She undid his cravat as she spoke and then looked about her for something sharp to cut away his shirt. ‘You would allow a nurse to help you, wouldn’t you?’
‘That’s different.’
She found a small pair of scissors on a table by the window and set to work removing the blood-stained shirt. The sight of the ugly wound in his shoulder made her feel faint and the only way she could continue was to take a deep breath and make herself forget that this was Adam Saint-Pierre, whom she loved, and pretend it was a stranger who needed her help. ‘Why is it different? You think I am too squeamish, is that it?’ she asked.
She heard a discreet cough behind her and whirled round to face a plump little man who had come unannounced into the room. Flustered, she smoothed her skirts, and stepped away from the bed. ‘Are you the doctor?’
‘Oui. Now stand aside, madame, and let me see the extent of the injuries. A gunshot wound, I ‘ave been told.’
‘Damned excisemen,’ Adam said in the sort of terrible French an Englishman might use. ‘Took a potshot at me, didn’t seem to realise the war had ended.’
The doctor smiled. ‘If you will indulge in these dangerous pastimes, you must expect a leetle trouble.’
He began poking about in the wound with an instrument he had taken from his bag, making Adam grunt with pain. ‘How long ago did it ‘appen?’
‘Ten hours, around dawn this morning.’
‘Ten hours! It is a miracle your whole system ‘as not been poisoned. I shall ‘ave to do - what do you say? - a leetle excavating.’ He turned to Maryanne. ‘Go and order ‘ot water and a bottle of brandy to be brought ‘ere, then find somet’ing to do for the next ‘alf-hour.’
She passed on his request to the innkeeper but she had no intention of leaving Adam and quickly returned to his side. She poured a generous measure of brandy into a glass and took it to the bedside.
‘Take ‘im the bottle, madame, the bottle,’ the doctor said impatiently, then added. "Ave you ever seen your ‘usband dead drunk, madame?’
‘No. ‘
‘Then you are going to now. Give ‘im all of it.’
‘Send her away,’ Adam said, taking the bottle and tipping it up to his mouth. ‘Send her away.’ He was gulping at the fiery liquid, as if he could not find oblivion quickly enough.
She made no move to leave, but stood and watched as the contents of the bottle diminished and the doctor prepared his instruments. Adam began to sing, but that soon fell away into a mumble and then the bottle dropped from his hand.
The surgeon set to work, probing gently at first, but when it became apparent that Adam had lost consciousness completely he worked more swiftly, delving deeper into the shoulder. Maryanne handed him his instruments when he asked for them, gulping to stop herself from feeling sick or faint, and watched Adam’s face for signs of returning consciousness.
‘‘Ere it is.’ The doctor’s calm voice made her turn, as he extracted a hard metal object from the pool of blood in which he was working, and dropped it into the empty brandy glass. ‘Now, let us bind ‘im up before ‘e comes to ‘is senses.’
She helped him to do that, while Adam remained unconscious, his face whiter than the rather grubby sheet that covered him. The doctor, satisfied with his handiwork, reached for his coat. ‘Madame, your ‘usband ‘as lost much blood, but ‘e will soon make it up. ‘E must have rest and have good food and no more sailing, nothing energetic...’
‘When can he travel?’ she asked, looking down at the invalid and praying for his complete recovery.
‘Not for a week and then only if you go very doucement. Where were you going, madame?’
She did not know. ‘Paris,’ she said.
‘It is too far. You must wait until that wound ‘as properly ‘ealed.’
She wondered if Adam would obey that instruction when he regained his senses, but she smiled and said, ‘I will make sure he rests, Doctor, and thank you.’ He had to be paid and she had no money, so there was nothing for it but to go to Adam’s coat, which had been thrown across the back of a chair. ‘Your fee, monsieur?’
‘An English guinea will do very well, madame.’
Feeling more like a thief than a wife, she put her hand inside the pocket and was surprised to find it was unusually roomy, almost like a poacher’s pocket. From it she withdrew a sheaf of papers and ruffled through them looking for a purse or paper money, but what she saw brought her up with a start. In her hand she was holding what were obviously legal documents and they bore the Danbury crest!
For a moment she was unable to move because she had realised with a dreadful certainty that these were the papers which had been stolen from James’s desk on the night of the murder.
‘What are you doing?’ Adam’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. She whipped round guiltily to find him watching her with eyes which were bright with fever, but there was no doubt he was fully conscious. For a moment she did not speak and they looked at each other with a great chasm of suspicion between them.
‘I’m sorry, my dear,’ she said, and astonished herself with the calm way she spoke. ‘I was looking for something to pay monsieur.’
‘Give it to me.’
She bundled everything together again and handed it to him. Then she said, ‘Excuse me,’ and fled downstairs and out of the door.
She ran along the towpath, her mind in such a whirl that she did not know where she was going. That was why he had refused to give himself up, that was why he made such elaborate plans to escape and why it was so important to him to remain conscious and in control until they had gone too far to turn back. He was not an innocent man, unfairly accused, but a guilty one fleeing from justice. And she had thrown herself at him and told him she would go with him anywhere! How stupid she had been and how he must be laughing at her! And Jeannie Clavier too. She stopped suddenly and sat down on the bank beneath a weeping willow to gather her wits and decide what to do.
The water was clear and she could see her own reflection. It looked the same as it always had, except for the lines of fatigue around the eyes, but it belonged to a different woman from the one who had owned it twenty-four hours earlier, and that woman had been differe
nt from the girl of six months before. She should have no compunction about handing him over, but to whom and how? She was in a foreign land, with no money and no friends and her French was too inadequate to explain her predicament to anyone. She put her face in her hands and groaned in anguish.
‘Oh, Adam, Adam,’ she whispered. ‘How can I love you after this?’
‘Miss.’ It was the elder of the two fishermen, who had come to find her. ‘The tide is on the turn and the wind is with us. We must set sail now, if we are to get back to England tonight.’
England! Should she ask to go with them? Should she leave Adam to his fate, whatever that was, and return home? Once the fishermen had left, her last links with her homeland would be broken and she would be entirely alone. Except for Adam. Did she really want to turn her back on the man who lay so ill in the inn behind her, and who, until a moment ago, she had trusted with her life and her future? Because she had doubts, did that mean she did not love him enough? She had to get to the bottom of the whole affair if she was ever going to know peace of mind again, and there was only one way to do that.
‘Have you been paid?’ she asked, dreading the thought of having to go back to Adam for more money.
‘Yes, most generously. If you ever want to return, you have only to send for us.’
‘Thank you, I’ll remember that.’ She watched the men manoeuvre the boat out into the river, where the sails picked up the breeze and sent it slowly downstream, then she took a deep breath to calm the swift beating of her heart and returned to Adam.
The doctor had left and the patient was sleeping peacefully. Some of the money lay on the table by the bed, but there was no sign of the documents. His coat had been hung on a hook behind the door and she wondered if he had left his bed to do it, or asked someone else to hang it up. Silently, she went to it and felt in the pocket. It was empty, which could only mean that Adam knew she had recognised the papers for what they were and had hidden them away. She needed to know what they contained for her own peace of mind and began a systematic search of the room, looking for them. She had to give up when Adam became restless, moving his head from side to side and flinging out his arms.
