The Kent Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  He said what was expedient, trying to insert into Bennigsen’s consciousness that a final end to the war with all of Europe and England, too, under the heel of the French would be a final end for him.

  “Doubtless my country should have contributed more,” Perce commented somewhat later, “but I am convinced that their failure was a mistake owing to a lack of understanding. Of one thing I am certain, England is unalterably opposed to Bonaparte’s ambitions. What I fear is that the tsar will agree to conditions that will lead to the conquest of England.”

  Bennigsen laughed. “That is a most reasonable fear. It would not suit you at all.”

  “It would not suit you, either, sir,” Perce said soberly. “When England’s resistance is over, do you believe Bonaparte will stop? There will be one nation and one nation alone that has not been conquered—Russia. Do you really believe Bonaparte will permit two emperors to exist?”

  “That maybe true,” Bennigsen remarked cynically, “but for all the good England did us, we might as well have fought alone.”

  That was the wrong tack. Perce raised one eyebrow. “I doubt, if England is conquered, you will have a chance to fight. You know there was no need to end the war over one lost battle that was not even fought on Russian soil. The tsar has lost the will to fight. It is in his mind that he was defeated, not on the battlefield. England’s destruction will only confirm that conviction of helplessness. So, when Bonaparte encroaches and makes more and more demands, Alexander will yield each time. And whom do you think will be blamed each time—England?”

  Bennigsen said nothing for a long few minutes. Kevern had stated what he himself feared—that his name would be synonymous with ultimate defeat. His one chance would be a resumption of the war, during which he could redeem himself.

  Shortly afterward Bennigsen roused himself to dismiss Perce. For several days he was not summoned, and the general barely acknowledged his presence when they met accidentally. However, on the evening of July fifth, Perce was approached rather secretively by a personal servant of General Bennigsen, who asked him to report to the general’s quarters. There Perce found Bennigsen standing rigidly and looking out of the widow. Without turning, he gestured Perce toward the desk and told him to write out his resignation, adding that England and Russia would be at war within a few months.

  “You have done good service, Lord Kevern,” he said stiffly, “and I am sorry to lose you, but you must understand that it is not reasonable for me to have as an aide a national of a county with which we are at war.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Perce replied formally.

  He sat down to write what was required, but his eyes examined the desk minutely. He wondered whether he had been told to sit in order to find the information he wanted concealed somewhere. There was nothing. Perce’s heart sank. Bennigsen had decided against helping England, he feared. And yet, that could not be. There could be no other reason for a servant to approach him quietly. Then, to his dismay, as if reading his mind, Bennigsen answered that.

  “I asked you to come here privately,” he said, “to allow you the choice of leaving with or without good-byes to your fellow officers. It makes no difference to me, of course.”

  “Thank you, sir. That is kind.”

  Although it was reasonable to leave the resignation on the desk, Perce stood up with it in his hand. It was clear enough that Bennigsen wanted to be rid of him as quickly as possible. He approached the general, wondering whether it would be worthwhile to render him unconscious and search him and the desk. Just before he was close enough to strike, Bennigsen turned and drew a folded sheaf of papers from his pocket.

  “I have here a letter stating that your service was satisfactory and honorable, plus a passport, which will enable you to cross into Russia. From there you can take ship for England or wherever else you like.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  There was nothing else Perce could say, but he was furious. It seemed that he had misjudged Bennigsen, until he took the sheaf of papers in his hand. It seemed far thicker to him than a single letter and passport should be. His eyes flashed from the papers to Bennigsen, but the general had turned away again. Perce strangled the far more grateful “thank you” that rose in his throat, stowed the papers casually in his pocket, saluted smartly, and left the room without further ado.

  In the street he hesitated. The first thing he had to do was look at those papers. A private room at the nearest inn satisfied all the requirements. Perce ordered a bottle of brandy. He actually had two drinks while he examined what be had, after which he emptied half the bottle into the fireplace. Bennigsen had not disappointed him. There in the packet, along with the passport and report of service, were the clauses of the Treaty of Tilsit. Perce’s eyes widened as he quickly scanned the pertinent passages. Bad! It was very bad. If the information Bennigsen had given him was true, the general had urged his speedy departure for good reason. Bonaparte, with Russia’s compliance, intended to seize the navies of Denmark, Spain, and Portugal. Good God, that would give Boney superior numbers to the British navy.

  Perce did not expect any trouble in leaving and did not have any. To be on the safe side, he committed the articles of the treaty to memory and concealed the papers between the outer shell and inner lining of his portmanteau, but no one ever examined his effects. Nor was there any surprise when he gathered his friends that night and told them he leaving.

  The young men with whom he had served were sorry, but they were not surprised by his haste. They assumed it was bitterness—hurt that his long, honest service was set at naught—and they offered fervent assurances of their trust and undying friendship no matter what the future relations between their countries should be. Perce returned these with sincerity, even when they embraced him and kissed him and wept over him—displays he never got used to and that embarrassed him very much.

  Before dawn, when all others were abed sleeping off the farewell party, Perce rode northeast out of Tilsit with Sergei and two extra horses carrying baggage. They were in Riga two days later, and the next morning Perce found several British ships hastily loading cargo and preparing to leave. The news of Friedland and the meeting of Bonaparte and Alexander was known all over the city, and every merchant with British connections was trying to send and receive all the merchandise he could before the expected order ended trading.

  Having arranged his passage on a ship that would leave the next day, Perce had at last confronted the problem of Sergei. He had grown deeply attached to the man and believed the attachment to be mutual, but he could not believe Sergei would be happy in England. He took the man up to his bedchamber, appalled at the scene he feared would ensue.

  “I must leave for my country tomorrow, Sergei,” he began.

  “Yes. What do you want me to do with the horses?”

  “There’s something more important than that,” Perce said. “I don’t believe I will ever return to Russia.”

  “That’s bad,” Sergei remarked calmly. “It’s a good country. You have friends here, too.”

  “Yes. I suppose you want to stay here—or, rather, go back to wherever—er… Well, you can keep the horses, and—”

  “Stay here? Go back? Go back where?” Sergei interrupted with an expression of astonishment. “How can I stay or go anywhere if you don’t go? I belong to you. Where you go, I must go.”

  “Now you know that isn’t true,” Perce said, avoiding the question of belonging. “Not every serf goes with his master.”

  “Of course,” Sergei replied, “but they stay on their master’s land. That’s the same thing. You don’t own any land in Russia, so I go with you.”

  Perce sat a moment in silence. What Sergei said could have betokened ignorance or even stupidity, but Perce knew perfectly well that neither was true. In fact, he was being put in his place. Sergei’s expression showed he understood quite well what Perce was suggesting—that Perce did not intend to sell him but was offering him his freedo
m. Sergei’s answers had been characteristic—a sly and extremely shrewd deliberate act of refusal, a deliberate reminder that Perce had accepted responsibility for him and was stuck with it!

  “Don’t be a fool, Sergei,” Perce exclaimed. “I’ve paid you well, and you’ve saved a great deal of your salary. I’ll give you all the money I can now, and I’ll send you more. You can buy a piece of land and even marry. I don’t think you’ll like England. It’s even wetter and warmer than Prussia. Besides, you can’t belong to me in England. By law, any serf or slave who touches English soil becomes a free man at once.”

  “I know that. She told me often enough. Nag, nag, nag. Be a man. Men aren’t slaves.” Sergei shrugged dyspeptically. I probably won’t like England. It’s full of crazy people, so far as I can tell, but I can get used to it. You’ll take ‘my lady’,“—his tone altered on the two words to one of profound respect—”soon, I guess, and I’ll take her. It will be best that way. We can all stay together.”

  Perce was again silent, but this time because he had been stricken mute with shock. When he finally managed to say, “Her? Katy?” his voice squeaked like a rusty hinge.

  Sergei nodded sadly. “I belong in England, I think. Would a sane man take such a woman? Nag, nag, nag. Your shirt is dirty. You stink. You drink too much.” He turned reproachful eyes on Perce. “It’s all your fault.”

  Perce took his head in his hands, carefully, as if he were afraid it would burst or fall off. He didn’t know to which shocking statement to apply himself first. How could any of this be his fault? Should he deny he would soon “take” Sabrina? How could he deny it? He certainly intended to take her as soon as he could. But how did Sergei know? Did Katy know too? Had they planned this together?

  Katy? And Sergei? Prim, proper, neat-as-a-pin Katy and Sergei? Perce looked at his man, patiently squatting on his heels. Take away the current hangdog expression and Sergei was quite a man. His dark hair was slightly touched with gray, but still thick and curly; his dark eyes were expressive, bright with shrewd intelligence. His body was like the trunk of an old tree, thick and strong. Perce wondered what Katy’s first husband had been like. Fishermen didn’t always smell too sweet either.

  “You are agreed on this?” Perce asked, his voice creaking with shock. “I mean, does Katy—Mrs. Petersen—has she accepted you?”

  “We never talked about it,” Sergei replied “but she’ll take me.”

  “Now wait, Sergei.” Perce was suddenly fearful of hurt for this man of whom he was very fond. Sergei was shrewd, but after a life in the army, what could he know about women? “Are you sure you aren’t believing what you want to believe? Don’t forget, you and Mrs. Petersen don’t really speak the same language. You could have misunderstood her. Also, customs differ in different countries. Maybe she didn’t mean what you thought she meant. It’s a long way to England if there’s nothing but disappointment at the end of the road.”

  Stubbornly, Sergei shook his head “I’ll have less trouble getting mine than you’ll have getting yours. It’s later I’ll have the trouble. Nag, nag, nag.”

  Perce opened his mouth, shut it, then got out, “Lady Elvan is married.”

  Sergei didn’t answer that beyond a single glance. What he said was, “What do you want me to do with the horses?”

  They were back where they started. Perce shrugged. If it didn’t work out, he could always send Sergei back to Russia. If it did work out… A surge of desire washed over him. He had rarely allowed himself to think of Sabrina since their parting in February. It was not the physical frustration he minded but the feeling of helplessness, knowing he had no right to prod her to leave her husband, knowing he had no way to protect her if she did, until she was free. Any hint that there was more than casual friendship between them could do her infinite harm.

  Sergei stood up, interrupting Perce’s thoughts. “The horses?” he repeated.

  “Sell them,” Perce said, “privately, if you can. Otherwise look over the stock of the dealer to see that the animals are decently cared for.”

  After the battle of Eylau, Perce had not had the heart to buy fine animals again, but he did not want even the dull creatures he owned to be mistreated. As Sergei left, his mind came back to Sabrina. He had had letters, of course, but they had been purely friendly. He had warned her that his mail would probably be examined. Nonetheless, it was the receipt of such a letter that had caused him to forget himself and write what he had no right to put on paper. He could not remember exactly what he had said in the letter he had sent through Lady Leonie, but he had been drunk and aching with longing, and like a fool had given it to Sergei to put in the post bag.

  He was not afraid the letter could have caused any trouble. Lady Leonie would have seen that it got to Brina in private. Only he had not had an answer; he had not had any letter from Sabrina since that one must have arrived. Perce gnawed his lip. It was ridiculous to think Sabrina might have been offended. Or was she? Could she have thought such a letter implied contempt on his part? Could she believe he thought she was soiled, lowered by their relationship?

  It would do him no good to speculate. As soon as he saw Sabrina, he could clear up any misunderstanding. The first business was to return to the ship and book passage for Sergei. That done, he wandered restlessly around the city until it was time for dinner, seeing nothing no matter where he looked, except some very fair women. It was infuriating that there should be so many blondes. Perce’s heart lurched every time a fair creature stepped out of a shop or into a carriage.

  He ate slowly, trying to kill time, trying to think only of his food, but it did not work. The fear that Sabrina had withdrawn kept nagging at him. He walked around again trying to tire himself enough to sleep, but the exertion seemed only to make him more tense. Finally he came back to the inn and began to drink. Eventually that must have worked, because Perce did not remember going to bed; however, for a long time he remembered being wakened the next morning. Seldom had he had so excruciating a hangover—and so futile a one. Physical misery only seemed to intensify the conviction that he had lost Sabrina.

  The trouble with an uncomfortable idea is that the harder one tries to push it out of one’s mind, the more one actually thinks about it. And there was no external relief. The voyage to England was peaceful and tedious. Perce tried to read and talk to his fellow passengers, but he could not shake off his fears.

  Arrival in London did not ease matters. Perce had been agonizingly tempted to make for Stour Castle from the port at which he arrived, but he knew that the information he carried was urgent. To his dismay he found he had to follow Foreign Secretary Canning to his country seat. The news was too important for deputies. All he could do was write to Sabrina at Stour with an attached note to the housekeeper to send the letter on to Lady Elvan or to Lady Leonie if they were not in residence. It was not much of a satisfaction because he could give no return address except his own chambers in London. He had no idea how long Canning would keep him or whether they would return to London.

  The latter actually occurred, and Perce found a message from Leonie that she was at Stour but that Sabrina had gone to Portugal with William. This information was followed by an urgent request that Perce come to Stour as soon as possible. Perce nearly had a fit. There was a note of urgency and anxiety in Leonie’s brief letter that sent his heart right up into his throat, but it was impossible for him to leave London now. Minister of War Castlereagh and First Lord of the Admiralty Mulgrave were on their way and insisted on speaking to him personally; neither of them trusted Canning. The welfare of all England might hang on the discussions forthcoming, because if Canning put up the backs of the War Office and the Admiralty, action to subvert the special clauses in the Treaty of Tilsit might be delayed.

  Logic and patriotism notwithstanding, Perce decided he could post up to Stour this afternoon. True, he would arrive about ten o’clock and might have to wake Leonie, but she would not mind. Having heard what she had to tell him,
he could travel back during the night. He realized he might not be very wide awake at the conference the next day, but he would be no better able to function if he could not stop worrying about Sabrina for a single minute. He was just about to shout for Sergei to call his groom when Roger walked into his sitting room.

  “I understand,” he said, “that you are the savior of the nation. I have all but been kissed on both cheeks by Portland because he had been told you were sent out to Russia on my recommendation. How the devil did you convince—”

  “Never mind that,” Perce interrupted harshly. “Why the hell did you let Sabrina go to Portugal with Elvan? Don’t you know—”

  “Sabrina?” Roger echoed, baffled by the deep anxiety displayed on Perce’s face.

  Roger opened his mouth again, but nothing came out and an expression of mingled anger and revelation appeared on his face. Perce bit his lip, repressing a strong desire to burst into tears. Altogether, he thought, he was behaving as if he were ten years old, when he first met Roger. Clearly Roger was not aware of Leonie’s letter to him.

  “I beg your pardon,” Perce got out. “Won’t you sit down? Wine?” Roger being still speechless, Perce turned his head and shouted, “Sergei!”

  “What now?” Sergei asked, sticking his head in from Perce’s bedroom.

  “Bring up some sherry and some claret,” Perce said, then turned to Roger. “Will that be all right, sir?”