Kitty, suddenly remembering Thomas, who was sitting silently contemplating the fire, turned to her mother-in-law. ‘Mama, may I present Captain Thomas Trent, a friend of Jack’s.’
The Countess turned to face him, her face alight. ‘Captain Trent,’ she said, reverting to English. ‘You ‘ave news of Jack? You ‘ave seen ‘im?’
‘Yes, I have seen him.’
The Earl came in at that point. He had dressed in breeches and shirt, but no neckcloth, and his feet were encased in soft slippers. Fletcher must have told him their visitor came from France, for he would never normally appear in a state of undress. Like Kitty, his first thought had been of Jack. He was closely followed by Nanette who had hastily flung on a muslin day gown and pulled a brush through her hair.
‘Maman!’ She flung herself on her knees in front of her mother’s chair. ‘Oh, Maman! I could not believe it when the maid told me. It is so good to see you.’ She paused and looked round the room. ‘But where is Papa?’
Her mother reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair. ‘My darling, your papa …’ She paused to swallow. ‘He is dead.’
‘Dead?’ She looked wildly round the room. ‘How? What happened? Was he ill?’
Her mother leaned wearily back in her chair. ‘Let Captain Trent tell you. I don’t think I can bear to recount it.’
Everyone turned to Thomas, who cleared his throat before beginning the tale. He was aware of Kitty watching him, knowing she was anxious to learn what he had to say about Jack, but holding back for Nanette’s sake. In any case, the two stories were really one.
‘The Marquis was denounced,’ he said. ‘I don’t know who it was, one of the servants, I suspect. He and his wife were arrested.’
Nanette turned to her mother. ‘You too?’
‘Yes. They took us to Lyons prison. They said Louis was a friend of the ci-devant King and went to Paris last year with the purpose of helping in the escape of the Royal family. When they failed, he had connived in the escape of a wanted criminal and an English spy.’
‘I can hardly believe it,’ Kitty said. ‘Why, he was at great pains always to placate the new regime, you know that. Thomas, you were there when he informed on Jack …’
‘He informed on Jack!’ his lordship repeated. ‘You did not tell me this.’
‘No, it would have made no difference and I wanted to spare the Countess.’
‘Continue,’ his lordship instructed Thomas.
‘They had been in prison less than two days awaiting trial when Jack turned up unexpectedly …’
‘At the château?’ Kitty asked.
‘No, he had more sense than to do that. He came to my cottage. He was injured. During the abortive attempt to free Antoinette, he took a musket ball in the shoulder.’ He ignored Kitty’s gasp and the little cry from the Countess, who was sitting bolt upright in her chair, with the Earl standing behind her, his hand on her shoulder. ‘He had friends who took the bullet out and other friends who nursed him, but he missed the rendezvous—’
‘I knew it,’ Kitty interrupted. ‘Oh, please go on.’
‘He decided to try for Toulon, which was why he came to me. He was very weak, having walked most of the way, and had not dared to call on his old contacts for help.’ He paused to sip his coffee. No one else spoke.
‘As soon as he heard about the arrest of his uncle and aunt, he insisted on trying to free them. It was madness. The Marquis …’ He bowed his head towards the Marchioness. ‘Begging your pardon, my lady. The Marquis had already betrayed Jack to the authorities; they knew who he was and would be only too eager to get their hands on him. I tried to dissuade him, but it was useless.’
Kitty hardly dared breathe. This story was looking more and more like the tale of a man determined on death. Thomas’s next words seemed to confirm that. ‘His plan was nothing short of reckless. I told him it would fail, that he would forfeit his life, but he didn’t seem to care. He had a wild sort of look about him. I thought he had a fever from his wound.’
‘He went ahead despite that?’ Kitty murmured.
‘Yes. His idea was to waylay the tumbril on the way to the guillotine.’
‘By ‘imself?’ Justine gasped.
‘No, I helped him and two others. There was a big crowd round the guillotine and all along the route, all very noisy and shouting for blood. We planned to ambush the cart when it passed the end of a narrow alley that went under the houses to the road on a lower level. Lyons is like that, you know, full of secret little tunnels and alleyways. One of us would pull the horse up and tackle the driver, two others were detailed to pull the prisoners out of the cart and bundle them away. Jack was to fight off anyone who tried to come after us.’
‘They managed to free me because I was on the near side,’ Anne-Marie said in French. ‘But they could not reach Louis. One of the guards clubbed him over the head with his musket so that he fell unconscious into the bottom of the cart.’
‘Jack struggled with the guards,’ Thomas said. ‘He fired his pistols, but I do not know if he hit anyone. He shouted to us to go, he would follow.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry. I wanted to stay with him, but I had the Marchioness to look after and she was all but fainting in my arms.’
‘You think he died?’ the Earl asked.
‘I don’t know how he can have survived. I am sorry, but the last I saw of him one of the guards had floored him and …’ He looked doubtfully from Kitty to the Countess.
‘Go on,’ her ladyship said. ‘I want to know it all.’
‘He was sticking his bayonet into him. I went back into the town later, after I had taken the Marchioness to safety. The Marquis had been guillotined, that much I could confirm, but no one would admit to knowing anything about Jack. I dared not tarry.’
‘No, of course not,’ Kitty reassured him, though it was an effort to speak at all. She could imagine the scene, could imagine her brave, proud husband taking on the guards single-handed. If he had not been suffering from a wound, he might even have succeeded. ‘You did your best.’
‘We came by sea from Toulon,’ he went on. ‘It is still in British hands, though how much longer it will stay that way I do not know. The Revolutionary Army with all its conscripts is being surprisingly successful.’
‘Thank you for telling us,’ the Earl said as his wife began to sob quietly. He sat down beside her and put his arm about her. ‘Let us hope his end was mercifully quick.’
‘You were very brave,’ Kitty said.
‘No braver than Jack,’ he said. ‘He was truly a great man. And I can do no better than follow his example. I have to return, there is still work to be done.’
‘You must stay and rest first,’ his lordship said. ‘Nanette, take your mother up to your room until one can be prepared for her.’ He bent to his wife. ‘Come, my dear, you need to rest too. I shall have a tisane sent to you.’
He gave orders to the servants, a task his wife would normally have done, but she was clearly incapable of it. And Kitty, who might have deputised for her, was numb, though dry-eyed. She could not believe they had really been talking about Jack’s death. She could not mourn him; it seemed too unreal. How could he have died and she not know it? She had been living with hope for so long that it would take time to realise it had been dashed.
Thomas left again and a few days later Nanette and James took Anne-Marie to Richmond where they had acquired a little house not far from the park. It was peaceful there and yet within a day’s ride of London, a good place for the Marchioness to recover and for James to continue his chosen career as a writer.
Their departure left Chiltern Hall very quiet. Kitty tried to lead a normal life, keeping her mother-in-law company, sewing, visiting friends and neighbours and writing letters during the day, reading or playing the harpsichord and singing a little in the evenings. But her thoughts constantly returned to France, to the château on the hill at Haute Saint-Gilbert. To Jack. Her husband. The man she loved.
She found herself more and more
thinking back over what had happened. She had run from home. Anyone could have taken advantage of her. She could have been robbed or raped; she could have been flung into the gutter and left to die. Instead, a kindly fate had sent Jack Chiltern. It was not so much that first meeting of strangers, but the later one on the packet to France which had sealed her fate.
Something had passed between them when he kissed her, a flash of something akin to lightning. No, she decided on reflection, it was nothing so violent. A thread perhaps, passing from fingers to fingers, lips to lips, or heart to heart, a thread so fine it was invisible, so strong it could never be severed. It had been there all through their long journey from Paris to Lyons, even when they quarrelled, even when he had taken her so forcefully on their wedding night.
It had survived the journey to Toulon, and home. She was quite sure it was still there, linking them when he left again. If he was somewhere, alive and well, wouldn’t he be able to feel it too? Had it at last been broken? Would she have felt it go? But how could it, when she carried his child in her womb? That link was unbreakable.
For her child’s sake, she must be strong, to accept what had to be accepted, but, oh, how she wished she had told Jack of her love before he disappeared. They would not have parted so coolly. Or would they? He had shown no sign of wanting to end their estrangement. ‘It will not happen again,’ he had said. And he was a man of his word.
When, the week before Christmas, they learned that a French army officer named Napoleon Bonaparte had recaptured Toulon, that all foreign invaders had been forced to retreat from French soil and all counter-revolution suppressed, even the Countess admitted she had given up hope of seeing her son again. Kitty, seeing the dull misery in her mother-in-law’s eyes, felt the last vestige of her own hope shrivel to nothing.
‘It will soon be Christmas,’ her ladyship said, sitting with Kitty in her boudoir, staring into the fire, as if conjuring up images in its flames. ‘Jack loved the festival when he was a child. We would help bring in the Yule log and deck the hall with holly. And after we had been to church, we would eat goose and roast beef and apples and nuts. All the servants would put on their best clothes and come to eat with us. Jack was such a favourite. I could not have any more children and …’
‘Please, don’t,’ Kitty said, putting her arm round the older woman’s shoulders, weeping herself. ‘I can’t bear to see you cry.’
‘No, I must not. It upsets ‘is lordship and I would not for the world upset ‘im. ‘E is such a strength to me, but underneath ‘e is as miserable as we are, more because Jack was his heir.’ She sniffed and rubbed at her cheeks with a minuscule lace handkerchief, forcing herself to smile. ‘But we shall soon have another heir and we must look to ‘im.’
Kate did not have the heart to wonder whether it might be a girl and not a boy. Whichever it was, it would be an only child. ‘We can still enjoy Christmas,’ she said. ‘I am sure Jack will be with us in spirit. He will always be with us, don’t you think?’
‘Of course. You are right. Life must go on and it is expected of us. We cannot let our people down, can we?’ She got up from her chair. ‘I must go and give the orders. We must cook festive pies and cakes and kill the goose.’
‘And tomorrow, we will bring in the holly and the Yule log,’ Kitty said. ‘It will be a pleasant diversion decorating the house.’
Her ladyship, her hand on the door knob, turned back to Kitty. ‘You are so good for me, Kitty. Every day I thank God Jack brought you to me. It is almost as if ‘e knew.’
‘Knew what?’
‘That I should need comfort and solace and that you were the one to provide it. I think ‘e must have loved you very much.’
And that was more than enough to make Kitty cry. She managed to hold back her tears until Justine had left the room, and then she sank to her knees on the hearthrug and allowed them to fall unheeded. She did not deserve their good opinion of her. If she had had a little more sense, been a little more mature about it, she and Jack would not have quarrelled and he would not have made that last trip to France. They could have had a good marriage. Now it was too late.
No one knew of her tears, she told no one of her feeling of guilt, she simply scolded herself and joined in the preparations for Christmas as if her sanity depended on it.
The next day, dressed in a voluminous cloak which disguised her condition, she set out for the nearby woods with half a dozen servants to take part in the traditional task of dragging home the Yule log. The day was crisp and frosty and the sun shone, gleaming on the crystals which hung from the branches.
They selected a huge branch which would fill the hearth of the hall and everyone had a hand on it, dragging it through the fallen leaves, laughing as they went, their breath hanging in the frosty air. Kitty gave only token assistance, but she was happy to be involved and walked alongside the workers, carrying an armful of berry-laden holly wrapped in canvas to protect her from its prickles.
When they came out of the wood and could see across the park, they stopped to rest a moment and it was then Kitty looked up and saw a hired carriage bowling along the road towards the gates of Chiltern Hall. She stood a moment, watching it, shielding her eyes with her hand, the better to see it in the strong sunlight. Strange carriages were a rarity at Beauworth, where everyone instantly recognised a neighbour’s equipage.
It turned into the gates and made its way up the drive. It stopped at the front door and a man alighted. ‘Jack!’ she cried aloud, dropping the holly and gathering up her skirts in order to run.
It was not her husband, she decided, as she came a little nearer; this was an older man. He walked slowly and stiffly, his shoulders hunched. She paused, panting for breath. But supposing he had news? Good news or bad? From a distance he did not look joyful. She watched as the door was opened and Fletcher came out and hurried down the steps to help the caller inside. The carriage was driven away. He was obviously known to the footman. She began to run again and, reaching the front door, raced in in time to see the newcomer disappearing into the library. He turned when he heard her.
She stood and stared for several moments before she found the voice to speak. ‘Jack! It is you!’
He was as thin as a beanpole, his normally tanned face ashen, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets, his clothes hanging on him in loose folds. One arm was tucked uselessly inside his coat. He could hardly stand and was still being supported by Fletcher. She curbed her inclination to throw herself at him; she would bowl him over. A feather would fell him.
She stopped. ‘Jack! Oh, how good it is to see you!’
‘Good?’ he queried with a twisted smile. ‘A wreck of a man appears on the step and you call it good.’
‘At least you are alive. Fletcher, does the Countess know he is here?’
‘I was about to inform her, my lady, as soon as his lordship was seated.’
‘I’ll go and tell her. Jack, can you climb the stairs? You should go straight to bed.’
‘Later,’ he said, pushing the footman away and walking unaided towards the library. ‘I need a drink first.’ Kitty ran to support him. He waved her away. ‘I can manage, I am not ill.’
She stood back and watched him, afraid he would fall. ‘Fetch the Countess,’ she said to Fletcher. ‘Then see that his lordship’s room is made ready.’
Fletcher disappeared at a run as Jack sank into an armchair before the hearth. Kitty went and knelt beside him, taking his hand in both her own. ‘Oh, Jack, we have been so worried, especially when Thomas arrived with the Marchioness …’
He gave a twisted smile. ‘They made it, did they?’
‘Yes. Nanette and James were here when she arrived. She went back to live with them.’
‘Not an entirely wasted trip, then.’
‘No. Thomas said you were very courageous. In fact, he said you were reckless considering you had been wounded in the attempt to free Antoinette.’
‘That very nearly succeeded,’ he said. ‘It would have if certain
people had had a little more backbone.’
‘Not everyone can be as brave as you are, Jack. But do not talk about it now. It will tire you and you need to rest.’
‘Rest,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, I think I may rest now.’
‘Jack! Jack!’ Lady Beauworth ran into the room, her skirts bunched in her hand. ‘Fletcher tells me …’ She stopped at the sight of her son. ‘Oh, my dearest, what ‘as happened to you?’
He tried to rise, to make his obeisance, but sank back into the chair. ‘A slight wound, Mother, nothing serious …’
‘Not serious! You look at death’s door.’ She came forward to kneel at his feet and take the hand Kitty had relinquished. ‘You must go to bed at once and Dr Seward sent for.’
‘Don’t fuss, Mother. All I need is rest.’ But it was evident there was more than fatigue wrong with him. He was in a state of collapse.
The Countess called Fletcher back to carry Jack to his bedchamber, sent his valet to him, sent a groom on horseback to fetch the doctor, another to find the Earl who was out riding somewhere on the estate, and ordered the cook to prepare nourishing broth.
Kitty waited until the valet came out of Jack’s room and then went to sit with him. He was delirious and did not know her; he hardly seemed to know where he was. She sat watching him, wringing out a cloth and mopping his brow every so often, trying to stop him thrashing about.
The doctor arrived half an hour later. Kitty left the room while he made his examination and paced up and down the corridor outside. Justine came to her, her soft skirts rustling. ‘How is he?’
‘I cannot tell, he is not fully conscious. Dr Seward is with him now.’
‘‘Ow did he manage to come home like that? Fletcher said ‘e came alone, there was no one else in the carriage that brought ‘im.’
‘He is in no condition for explanations. We must wait until he has recovered.’
‘Yes, of course. Let us give thanks that ‘e is back with us.’
‘No! I will not have it!’ The sound of Jack’s voice came clearly through the closed door. ‘Clean it up, then leave me.’
Jack Chiltern's Wife (1999) Page 23
