However, neither Bennigsen nor anyone else could be certain about the true extent of the disaster. Sometimes events looked worse in the beginning than they actually were, and as yet only early dispatches, from the third week in October, had reached Bennigsen’s headquarters. When an army is defeated and scattered in a hopeless rout, it might take weeks for the dispersed units to be reassembled. Furthermore, not all of the army had been involved in the battles of Jena and Auerstedt. Kleist von Nollendorf had been at Halle, Blücher at Lubeck, York von Wartenburg at Radkan. Any or all of the divisions these men commanded might be capable of continuing the fight.
Never afraid to put himself forward to increase his own power, Bennigsen conceived the idea of making personal contact with the Prussian command—whatever was left of it—rather than waiting for information to travel first east to St. Petersburg and then west all the way back to him. No one could blame a general for desiring firsthand information as quickly as possible. There were advantages to sending two of his own aides to look around. Perhaps he could sift the truth from the falsehood in their reports, and that might help him to sift the truth from the falsehood in the reports sent by Kamansky; then he might be able more accurately to interpret the situation in Königsberg.
Bennigsen had guessed what would happen as soon as he heard about Prussia’s declaration of war. Those overcautious fools on the Prussian general staff, particularly the aged duke of Brunswick, would fail to take advantage of the declaration of war. Instead of attacking immediately, overrunning the French strongholds and supply depots, and then regrouping they had hesitated until Bonaparte brought up his full army and ran over them. Bennigsen was not likely to make that mistake—if he ever had a chance to act.
His own condemnation of too much caution spurred Bennigsen to immediate action, and he began to consider which of his aides he could best spare. Two leapt to mind—Pëtr Pavlovitch and Lord Kevern. Both were recommended by their rank and manners, for it would be useless to send rural boors into a court, more especially a shattered one that might misconstrue any tiny infraction and blow it up into an insult. One more moment’s thought to review his other aides decided the general that his original choice was best. Pëtr Pavlovitch was clever, a natural leader; it would be just as well to be rid of him for a few weeks.
The Englishman, on the other hand, Bennigsen trusted—or rather, mistrusted less than he mistrusted others. He was quick, efficient, and accurate in carrying orders and never seemed to do anything he wasn’t told to do. That was a front, of course. Lord Kevern looked stupid and never said much—and when he did speak his French hurt one’s ears—but he was not stupid. He was a British agent, and at the present moment there was no harm in that. Bennigsen realized that British interests and Russian interests were aligned just now in their common goal to stop the French.
Another matter that concerned Bennigsen was that in trying to lay the blame elsewhere than on themselves, the Prussian generals might have chosen as scapegoat the allied Russians, who had not come in time to assist them. In this, however, he was mistaken. The Russians were potential saviors, if a trifle late. It was the English against whom most animosity was directed. In Prussian opinion, the English were acting like corpse robbers after the defeat of Jena-Auerstedt.
William had been as delicate about it as possible, but the facts of his mission could only be disguised to a limited degree. Actually he was asking King Frederick William to cede all future rights to Hanover in return for rather nebulous support—nebulous because at the time William had been sent out, the newly formed British government was not at all sure what they had to offer. Naturally the bald facts had been disguised as well as possible and later Lord Hutchinson and his military attaché, Sir Robert Wilson, had been sent out from London with more concrete proposals but the warmth of their welcome by the king and queen was spurious.
Had Bennigsen known of this, he would never have sent Perce and associated himself, even indirectly, with the English. However, he did not know and, suspicious as he was, he was not so foolish as to believe his aides could gather information without knowing the facts. Thus, just before Pëtr Pavlovitch and Perce were to leave, Bennigsen relayed to them the outlines of the Prussian debacle and the retreat of the court to Königsberg, which was basically all he had learned himself from the dispatches he had received.
It was fortunate that Perce had blanked all expression from his face as soon as he entered the general’s quarters and that Bennigsen required his aides to stand at attention while he spoke to them. Thus, Perce was already braced to hide any emotion he might feel. Nonetheless, if Bennigsen had not been so self-centered, he could not have failed to see that every vestige of color left Perce’s face when he heard of the defeat and the taking of Berlin.
Pëtr Pavlovitch, closer to Perce by the width of a handsome desk—Bennigsen had naturally commandeered the best house in the town for his quarters—heard his companion’s breath hiss in as if he had been physically hurt. Pavlovitch’s head moved fractionally in a quickly aborted gesture of inquiry. This drew Bennigsen’s attention and a brief reprimand. Perce, too frozen with horror even to breathe, escaped notice. For ten minutes more, Bennigsen issued detailed instructions concerning what they were to discover and how they were to obtain this information.
Pëtr Pavlovitch’s acknowledgment of his orders woke Perce from his agony of fear for Sabrina. Had she been left behind in Berlin and taken prisoner? Surely not, he told himself over and over. Elvan was no fool whatever else he was. Surely he would have sent his wife to safety as soon as the first news of the defeat had come. But Perce was not convinced by his own reasoning. There were too many incalculable factors.
Sabrina had never mentioned the situation between her husband and herself in her letters. What if Elvan did not care what happened to her? What if the ship on which he had sent her away had been captured, or overloaded because of the panic? And Sabrina herself was of a daring disposition. She would attempt the craziest antics trying to keep up with Philip and himself. Perce barely stifled a groan when he remembered that they had encouraged her fearlessness with praise and laughter. What if Sabrina had refused to go?
That question hung in his mind even while he replied affirmatively to Bennigsen’s sharp questions as to whether he understood his orders. He must have looked more than usually idiotic, for the general then told Pëtr Pavlovitch to explain it again until he was sure Lord Kevern understood what was necessary. Then, mercifully they were dismissed. Perce began to shout for Sergei to bring his horse before they were quite out the front door.
“Kevern, what’s wrong with you?” Pëtr Pavlovitch asked, seizing his friend’s arm. “The defeat is bad, yes, but not the end of the war. And perhaps it is not even so bad as it seemed at first.”
“The French have taken Berlin!” Perce groaned.
“But the king and queen were not there. Prussia has not yielded, even if the capital is taken.”
“Prussia!” Perce snarled. “Who gives a damn, about Prussia? Lady Elvan was in Berlin.”
Pëtr Pavlovitch blinked. He did not know who Lady Elvan was; had never heard her name before, but a great many questions he had been too polite to ask his English friend had been answered—at least to Pëtr Pavlovitch's satisfaction. It was clear to him now. This Lady Elvan must be Kevern’s mistress. That was why Kevern was so resistant to lures cast out to him by women in St. Petersburg. Pëtr Pavlovitch asked no questions and merely tightened his grip on Perce’s arm.
“You cannot go to Berlin,” he said. “If it were possible, I would go alone to Königsberg, but it is not possible. Kevern, you are too English, and I am too Russian to go to Berlin for you. But it is in Königsberg that you will find the answer to what has happened to this lady. How does an English lady come to be in Berlin anyway?”
For a moment Perce stood rigidly still, but Pëtr Pavlovitch’s painful grip on his arm had checked his first hysterical impulse to ride off to Berlin that minute. His companion’s log
ical remarks sank into the maelstrom of fears roaring around in his mind and steadied them so he could get a hold on them. The last question was even more helpful than the preceding reasoning. Perce shuddered and uttered a deep sigh.
“Her husband is a diplomat. He came to find out whether a pact with England could be arranged after Prussia broke with France.”
Having said it, Perce regained self-control. Elvan would have followed the court if he possibly could. Pëtr Pavlovitch was right. The place to find out what had happened to Sabrina was Königsberg. He was still racked with fear; but it was no longer uncontrollable. He urged speed and more speed both in leaving camp and traveling, but he was not unreasonable. He was able to understand that they would be more delayed in the long run by exhausting their horses than by giving the beasts the rest they needed along the way.
It was unfortunate for Perce’s nerves that traveling was so slow. The nights were bitterly cold, and twice it snowed. This made the roads as slippery as glass in early morning and then a sticky morass when warmer temperatures and travelers melted the ice and snow into mud. It was rare that the horses could go faster than a walk and too often they could do no more than plod along, pulling each hoof from the gluey surface with effort and a disgusting squelch.
Perce was not a very amusing companion during the six days of travel, but Pëtr Pavlovitch was patient. He, too, had been in love. He had also suffered. Nonetheless he felt that Kevern was allowing himself to be carried away. He could only assume it was his peculiar English disposition that caused this. It was logical that a man of high spirit, which Pëtr Pavlovitch knew Kevern to be, must express that spirit somewhere.
Since Kevern did not allow himself to fly into screaming rages or into suicidal fits of despair over the meaninglessness of life or any other profound questions, and since he did not respond with ecstasies to music and expressed his appreciation of art in the mildest and most moderate terms, it was reasonable that he should run mad for love. Even in this Pëtr Pavlovitch felt a faint disappointment. He did not doubt the depth of Kevern’s feeling, but his expression of it was faulty. His friend did not rave or tear his hair or weep. He only grew silent and pale and spent half his time during rest periods making sure the horses were attended as though they were sick children. When not engaged in such tasks, he questioned every local person he could about the quickest, shortest route.
This practicality, no matter how disappointing to the emotional Pëtr Pavlovitch, saved them considerable time. Just before the light failed and a heavy fall of snow immobilized them on November twenty-third, they rode into Königsberg to present their papers to the officials in military headquarters. Long before the papers had been passed up the line to a properly august personage, Perce’s fears were set at rest.
He had asked whether Lord Elvan was in Königsberg when they first entered the city and registered as foreign visitors. He had been told that both Lord and Lady Elvan were in residence and had even obtained their direction. The question and answer were overheard by the aide who had come to take them to military headquarters. The aide had wanted to know whether Perce was also English and, when Perce, admitted he was, had asked a multitude of questions. These Perce answered absently until, when another aide came to escort them the rest of the way, the young man lifted an eyebrow and warned Perce with a grin that Lady Elvan was a woman of whom to beware.
Such a remark naturally drove Perce to ask the next aide whether Lord and Lady Elvan were well known. William was dismissed with a nod—another cursed diplomat—but it seemed Lady Elvan had made a greater impression. Perce was assured she was safe and well, in the highest beauty, just like a angel, that she danced like a fairy—although not recently, of course; there had been no balls—and that she was a great favorite with the queen. But such a woman! A look of disapproval or awe or perhaps regret followed. And then they were at their destination, and the story was interrupted. During the next interlude Perce tried again. Oh yes, Lady Elvan—again the odd expression, the laugh, the warning to beware.
Relieved of all his fears, Perce began to react with indignation. What had Sabrina done to get herself known and talked about this way?
At long last they reached General Estoque, who had accepted Bennigsen’s letters. By then, Perce could not make up his mind whether he would kiss Sabrina or spank her when he saw her. Released after a mercifully short interview, Perce told Sergei to take the horses and go with Pëtr Pavlovitch to find out where they would lodge. When he had the information Sergei should come to the cobbler Braunscheid’s house where Lady Elvan now lived.
Perce then rushed off, barely noticing the broad, sympathetic smile on Pëtr Pavlovitch’s face, but the meaning of it finally penetrated his mind when he was not far from his goal. He stopped and turned. He should have explained that Lady Elvan was his best friend’s sister, that he had known her nearly all her life. A brief review of his behavior the past week flashed through his mind. Cursing himself for a fool, he started for the cobbler’s house again. It was no use going back now. Pëtr Pavlovitch would never believe the “Philip’s sister” story.
Damn that Sabrina, Perce thought. If she hadn’t made herself the talk of the town, I wouldn’t have rushed off like an idiot. If he had explained the “little sister” involvement to Pëtr Pavlovitch first, it might have worked. Now it was too late, and all because Sabrina was acting like a hoyden. How any girl could look so ethereal and get into so much trouble was a mystery to Perce. His sisters didn’t look like angels, but compared, with Sabrina they acted like them.
He came to the door just as the cobbler, who had stopped work when the light failed, was stepping out. To Perce’s request for Lord Elvan, Herr Braunscheid gestured toward the back of the shop and said, “Abovestairs.” Perce climbed one flight but it was apparent there were no candles lit behind the ill-fitting doors. Without thinking that it was not possible that Lady Elvan should be expected to live in two small rooms at the top of the house, Perce climbed the next flight two steps at a time.
One room was dark, the other lit. Perce scratched on the door. Sabrina did not turn from the small dressing table with its awkwardly placed mirror where she was preparing to attend a small musicale later in the evening. Each time she used the mirror, she vowed she would tell Charlot to get a man to move it or to go out and buy a decent dressing table; however, the moment she was not using the irritating piece of furniture it slipped her mind. There were more important worries than needing to bend and twist to see her own face.
Preoccupied with her thoughts and her mild irritation, Sabrina called, “Entrez.” She had heard the footsteps hurrying up the stairs and had assumed it was Charlot coming to tell her of an urgent message or a visitor. William was out, dining in all-male company at Lord Hutchison’s house, another commandeered, makeshift diplomatic residence, although somewhat grander than Sabrina’s own pied-à-terre. Katy was there, too, and had been nearly all day. In their haste and terror most of the courtiers who had fled with King Frederick William had left their servants behind in Berlin. When they arrived in Königsberg they had snatched at any servants available. Thus the late arriving Lord Hutchinson had to do with a totally untrained staff, and Katy was trying to prevent a disaster by assisting with the dinner Lord Hutchinson was hosting.
Perce entered in response to Sabrina’s summons, automatically closing the door behind him to keep in the heat. His heart had already leapt into his throat at the sound of her voice so that he could not speak, but he was completely paralyzed by the vision that greeted his eyes. First he saw the two beds. Instinctively he looked away from the evidence of his blunder only to have his eyes fall on Sabrina’s image in the mirror. She was leaning well forward and down in order to see the curl she was trying to fix in place, and her peignoir had fallen open to reveal her bosom.
It was a brief vision, two or three seconds at most before Sabrina realized that Charlot was not coming toward her. She jerked upright, aware suddenly that her gown was displaying far more of
her than was modest. Furiously, she turned to castigate Charlot. Of course, in normal circumstances Charlot would never enter her bedchamber. No male servant would, unless specifically summoned. Nonetheless, servants didn’t see such things. They were paid to be blind if such an accident should occur.
The angry words were never uttered. For a long breath-held moment Sabrina was as paralyzed as Perce. Then she opened her mouth to call his name, only no sound would come, and she stumbled to her feet to run to him, only she tripped on her gown and would have fallen if he had not jumped forward and caught her in his outstretched arms.
Neither had made a sound, and they did not now as they embraced fiercely and their mouths met. The kiss was like the first sip of soup to the starving. It did not allay but stimulated the need. More and richer sustenance was desired. Sabrina’s hands knocked Perce’s fur cap to the floor, scrabbled at his high, furred collar. The wide sleeves of her gown fell back, baring her arms, and they came in contact with the melting snow on Perce’s shoulders. It was cold! The shock made Sabrina aware that her peignoir was soaked where she had been pressed against Perce and across her back where his arms had gripped her. She would have put up with the cold without complaint to go on kissing him, but the kiss was not enough. She began to fumble for the buttons of his greatcoat.
Perce pulled away wordlessly, his eyes fixed on her as he shed the garment. But even as he was pulling it off his arms and allowing it to drop to the floor, Sabrina was reaching for the buttons on his waistcoat. She was not really thinking of what such a gesture would imply, only of the need to be nearer, really to touch him. Perce was not thinking at all. Every intellectual process was blocked, swallowed up in the tidal wave of desire that flowed over him. For months he had been racked by doubt and longing, and those emotions had been topped by intense fear and spiced with anger. Thought was beyond him. He did not stop with his tunic, which followed his greatcoat to the floor, but tore off waistcoat, shirt, boots, breeches, and smallclothes with frantic haste.
The Kent Heiress Page 15
