Marry in Haste

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “It will be best for everyone,” said Boutet significantly, “if you sign without delay.”

  “I must see my, wife and sister first.”

  “Do you think so? How droll. But, first things first, my lord. I do not believe you would wish to see them as you might if you refused to sign.”

  The threat was all the worse for being so vague. Lavenham picked up the pen. “But how do I know you have them?” he asked, playing at once for information and for time.

  “How do you know? Because I tell you so. Word of a Foret.”

  “Oh?” Dryly. “I have had some experience of your father’s word.”

  Boutet turned sallow with rage. “Enough of this. You will sign at once, or—you will regret it.”

  “Shall I?” Lavenham took up the pen again and shifted the paper a little on the table. If only something would distract Boutet for even a second, he might have a chance now that his hands were free. “How soon shall I see my wife and sister?”

  “I said enough of this talk!” Boutet was interrupted by the sound of shots and shouting outside. It was the distraction for which Lavenham had prayed, and in the moment when Boutet’s attention shifted, he swung the heavy table in his face, seized a sword from a pile of arms in the corner of the room, and leapt for the door.

  Boutet was after him in an instant, with a shout of “Stop him,” but, like Lavenham, he was distracted by what he saw. The British attack had begun in good earnest and the little detachment that had been based on the farmhouse were fighting for their lives. For the moment, Boutet’s duties as commander outweighed personal thought and he was too busy shouting orders to his hard-pressed followers to spare more than a curse for Lavenham, who threw himself headlong into the thickest of the fray.

  It was a risky enough action, since he wore the uniform of neither army, but his furious onslaught on the French rear did much to break their spirit. Imagining themselves surrounded, they broke and fled, leaving only Boutet and a few of his men still fighting furiously against the outnumbering British. Once more, Lavenham threw himself into the little knot of fighting men, his one idea, now, to preserve Boutet’s life. He must learn from him where Camilla and Chloe were.

  Most of the British had gone on in pursuit of the fleeing French, but an officer and a few men were still engaged in hand-to-hand combat with Boutet and his followers. The result was a foregone conclusion. The French had never recovered from the first shock of surprise and, even as Lavenham ran up, all but Boutet had fallen or surrendered. The rest of the little English force was busy with the prisoners, while their officer was engaged in a furious sword fight with Boutet. Lavenham, waiting his chance to intervene, could not help admire the Frenchman’s cold skill as a swordsman. As he watched, a skilful thrust disarmed the Englishman and another would have finished him, since none of his men was near enough to come to his assistance. But this was the moment Lavenham had been waiting for. His sword flashed out and sent Boutet’s flying. “Surrender!” He spoke in English, and, quickly, to the officer, “I am English, though I may not seem so. It is of the greatest importance that this man live.”

  “Oh?” The English officer calmly retrieved his sword. “I should be inclined to say I did not see the necessity of it, but I owe you something; my life. I rather think; and you are welcome to his—if you want it.” He gave a quick succession of orders to those of his men who had come running up. In a moment, Boutet was disarmed and bound. “And now,” he held out his hand to Lavenham, “pray tell me to whom I am indebted for this most timely assistance?”

  “My name is Lavenham.” He was surprised to find his hand being furiously wrung.

  “The lost Lord Leominster? My dear sir, this is a happier encounter than I had dreamed. I am Weston, and more at your service than I can say. But come, I am afraid my rascals may run into trouble if they follow the French too far.”

  “One moment.” Lavenham turned to Boutet. “If you wish to live,” he said, “tell me where my wife and sister are.”

  Boutet spat. “Why should I?”

  The Duke of Weston intervened. “Lady Leominster and Lady Chloe?” he asked. “What has this rascal been telling you of them? It is not long since I had the pleasure of escorting them to England. If his only usefulness lies in a pretended knowledge of their whereabouts, I suggest we dispose of him at once.”

  “Good God.” Lavenham looked at Boutet with loathing. But, “No,” he said, “favour me so far. Neither she nor I have much cause to love him, but he seems to be my wife’s brother.”

  Weston whistled. “Lady Leominster’s brother? How devilish inconvenient. We really do not want a brother-in-law in the hulks, do we?”

  While Lavenham was digesting this startling remark, Weston gave a series of quick orders to his sergeant, and then, “So much for that,” he said. “Will you give me the pleasure of your company while we round up these idiots of mine before they get themselves into real trouble?”

  Horses were brought up and as they mounted Lavenham asked, “You said, ‘We do not want a brother-in-law in the hulks’?”

  “Why yes. I have been trying to forget Lady Chloe for the last six weeks, but I begin to think it would be simpler to marry her. With your permission, of course.”

  CHAPTER 14

  In the end, Camilla and Chloe went to Brighton after all. It was much against Camilla’s will, for she could not help a superstitious terror that by leaving Haverford Hall she might fail to receive some vital message from her husband. But in the country quiet that was to have refreshed her, Chloe pined so visibly from day to day that at last Camilla had to give in to old Lady Leominster’s insistence that what they all needed was a touch of sea air and society. Everyone who was anyone was at Brighton courting the Prince of Wales, for who knew whether his father might not plunge finally into madness and leave him master of the country.

  “Not that I care two straws about that,” said the old lady robustly to Camilla, “but, frankly, I am anxious about your sister. If you ask me, she is pining for that young scapegrace of a duke, and it seems, unfortunately, as if he has forgotten that she so much as existed. The only cure I ever found for a broken heart was another one, and I suggest we take her to Brighton and see what we can do about it.”

  Having wrung reluctant agreement from Camilla and a listless acceptance of the plan from Chloe, she gave them no time to change their minds but went to work with a will to find them a suitable house in Brighton. This was no easy matter, since all the most eligible houses had been taken long since, and Camilla had just begun to hope that they would be able to stay at home after all, when Lady Leominster announced triumphantly, one morning, that her agents had secured her a charming house on the cliff above the town and that they were all to set out next day.

  It proved indeed a delightful house, and though Lady Leominster’s friends muttered gloomy warnings about the chances of being held up and robbed on one’s way home at night, Camilla and Chloe liked its position somewhat out of the town, and the extent of grassy hill that stretched away behind it. Nor did they find themselves entirely immune to the delights of Brighton, particularly since they were welcomed even more enthusiastically here than they had been in London. Sir Arthur Wellesley had landed in Portugal by now and society talked of nothing but his position, his chances, and, inevitably, Portugal itself. Camilla and Chloe, who had actually been there, who had seen the country over which many a son and brother must now be marching, found themselves the objects of all attention, the centre of every conversation. So courted, so admired, so listened to, they found it impossible not to enjoy themselves a little. After all, when the Prince of Wales took the trouble to cross the room and talk to them, they must, inevitably, warm to him and to life in general.

  Seeing them surrounded with would-be partners for the dance when they visited Brighton’s Assembly Rooms, or listened to like oracles at one of the Prince’s musical evenings at the Pavilion, Lady Leominster was almost alarmed at the success of the cure she had wrought. A super
ficial old creature herself, she had not the perception to realise that it was all on the surface. The only time of day when Camilla and Chloe really lived was when the mail came in. Mutually aware of this, they tacitly helped each other in a thousand dodges to ensure that they were always at home at this all-important moment, and as the hot August days wore on they found themselves closer friends than ever in their silent, shared anxiety.

  They were at the Pavilion for an afternoon concert when the news of Wellesley’s victory at Vimeiro began to be rumoured about. No one knew how the rumour had started, but as usual Camilla and Chloe found themselves the centre of an eager little crowd of enquirers. They had actually been to Vimeiro? What was it like? Would the terrain favour the English forces or the enemy? Were the French soldiers really such raw troops? Would the Portuguese come out strongly on the side of their old allies? Torn with anxieties of their own, the two girls nevertheless did their best to answer these questions, which themselves sprang from the terrors of many a mother and sister.

  Presently Camilla looked about her. “But where is the Prince?”

  “He retired, hurriedly, this half hour past or more,” said one of Chloe’s admirers. “Perhaps he has received despatches at last.”

  The questions continued, but Camilla and Chloe answered at random, their eyes and thoughts fixed on the entrance to the Prince’s private apartments. One good lady was surprised to be told that Vimeiro was a thriving city (Camilla was thinking of Lisbon) and another that Lisbon was an insignificant village (Chloe, of course, had Vimeiro in mind). Both their thoughts were taken up with the same, all-important question. If the Prince had indeed retired to read the despatches describing the battle, would Lavenham—or the Duke—be mentioned? In some ways, Camilla’s anguish was the greater. After all, Chloe knew that the Duke was in Sir Arthur’s army. If he had been killed, it would certainly be reported, so that for her even silence would be good news. But all Camilla knew about Lavenham was that he had been landed north of Lisbon. He might have perished weeks since at the hands of the French. It was when she was thinking this that she told a particularly portentous dowager that the French were gallant allies, and the Portuguese raw troops.

  The old lady raised her eyebrows and began an elaborately sardonic query, when Chloe interrupted her unceremoniously.

  “Look,” she said, “the Prince.”

  The door of the private apartments had been thrown open and the Prince appeared, his plump person magnificent as usual, with, behind him, two gentlemen in travelling dress. As he paused for a moment, looking about the room, Chloe caught Camilla’s hand.

  “It is,” she said. And then, “Can it be?”

  Camilla was chalk white. “Yes.”

  Followed by the two dusty and unsuitably garbed gentlemen, the Prince crossed the room to where Camilla and Chloe stood, holding hands for courage.

  “My dear Lady Leominster, Lady Chloe.” The Prince received their curtsies with his usual affable dignity. “I bring you, you see, the best of news. We have won a great victory. These gentlemen have but now brought me the despatches; they are covered with glory, as well as with dust; you will welcome them, I know, for my sake as well as their own.”

  And then, with the royal act of which he was sometimes capable, he turned away to answer the eager questions of the crowd, leaving Camilla and Chloe face to face with Lavenham and the Duke. It was a moment of almost unbearable tension. Camilla had not seen her husband for almost a year; Chloe had not seen the Duke since she had been so rude to him on board the Indomitable. To make it worse, they knew themselves the target of all eyes. Camilla, who had tormented herself with imagined meetings with Lavenham, had never conceived of anything so frightful as this.

  He was kissing her hand: “At last,” he said.

  The Duke was kissing Chloe’s. “If I dare?” His eyebrows rose in a grimace reminiscent of Mr. Smith. And then, “My dear Lady Chloe, allow me to congratulate you on being once more a blonde.”

  “Oh, you are impossible,” fumed Chloe. “Camilla, everyone is staring: let us go home:”

  “Yes,” said Lavenham. “Let us indeed go home.” He urged the Duke to accompany them, but Weston refused. “You will have much to say to each other. I will not risk Lady Chloe’s further displeasure by intruding myself on your reunion. Besides, I intend to ride over, this evening, to visit my mother. I will give myself the pleasure of calling upon you tomorrow morning, if I may?”

  The remark was addressed equally to Camilla and to Chloe, but it was Chloe who answered, “Tomorrow morning? Absurd! The Duchess lives clear at the other side of the county.” Then she coloured, furious with herself at having betrayed too much knowledge.

  He merely bowed, took her hand in farewell, and repeated, “I shall see you, I hope, betimes in the morning. Though I can hardly hope to find you still sleeping as I did, once, on our travels.”

  This reminder of the enforced intimacies of their journey at once infuriated and silenced Chloe. Colouring up to her exquisite eyebrows, she retrieved her hand, which he had somehow managed to keep, and followed Lavenham and Camilla from the room. Catching up with them, she broke into angry speech. “I can see my grandmother was right. He is nothing but an overgrown schoolboy after all. Ride across country and back in a night, indeed! I have never heard of anything so ridiculous.”

  “You would not have thought him ridiculous,” said Lavenham mildly, “if you could have seen him on the field of Vimeiro. He was mentioned in despatches, remember.”

  “And so were you,” said Chloe, “and with more reason, I’ll be bound.” She fell silent, gazing steadfastly away towards the sea to conceal, Camilla suspected, the tears she could not control. A strange, electric silence fell on the three of them as they stood there, waiting for their carriage. There was so much to say, but how to begin? Normally, Chloe might have been relied on to plunge in with question and exclamation, but today even she was silent. It was a relief to all of them when their carriage appeared at last and the little bustle of installing themselves provided a momentary slackening of the tension.

  As the carriage moved forward, Lavenham and Camilla both began to speak at once, then fell silent, deferring to each other. At last, Chloe laughed. “At this rate,” she said, “we shall arrive home without the slightest inkling of each other’s adventures and my grandmother will think us quite absurd. Come, Lee, you begin: tell us what you have been doing, racketing about in Portugal, and how you came to fall in with that braggadocio Duke of Weston.”

  “Why, if you must know,” he told her gravely, “we saved each other’s lives—and from a friend of yours, too, a Monsieur Boutet! ...” And then, sparing her confusion, he turned to Camilla. “My dear, why did you not tell me he was your brother?”

  The endearment, the affectionate tone of the question were almost too much for Camilla. Swallowing tears, “I ... I did not dare,” she stammered.

  “Was I so formidable a husband? Truly, I have much to answer for, and you much to forgive.”

  Unable to speak, Camilla was grateful when Chloe burst in with a question. “You encountered Charles? And saved Weston’s life? But, tell me, what did you do to Charles?”

  “Why, that was Weston’s affair, since he was in command of the troops that rescued me and took Boutet prisoner.”

  “A prisoner?” Camilla breathed. “In England?”

  “No, no,” Lavenham took her hand, “do not distress yourself about him. I do not know exactly what instructions Weston gave his men. I can only tell you that by the time we reached the main body of the army, your brother had escaped.”

  Camilla breathed a heart-felt sigh of relief as Chloe spoke. “Really, sometimes that duke shows glimmerings of sense.” And then, anxiously, “Lee, you did not tell him about Charles and me?”

  “Why, no. I did not think it my business. I merely told him what Boutet himself had just told me, that he was my brother-in-law.” He smiled to himself as he recollected the Duke’s reaction, and Chloe teased him in vain
to find out what had amused him.

  The carriage had left the town by now and was rolling up the hill towards their house. When Chloe pointed it out, Lavenham pulled the check string and told the coachman to stop. “We have much to talk of, you and I,” he said to Camilla. “Can I persuade you to walk the rest of the way with me?”

  Panic seized her. She had counted on Lady Leominster’s support at this crucial moment. But instinct answered for her, a faint, half-intelligible, “Yes.”

  The carriage had stopped. Lavenham jumped lightly down, held out his hand for Camilla, and apologised quickly to Chloe for leaving her. Then he gave Camilla his arm and led her away from the road to the grassy path that ran up over the cliff. The carriage rumbled away; they were alone with the voice of the sea below and the larks above. For a little while, these were the only sounds. Lavenham walked on in silence, and her quick, anxious upward glances showed him a little pale, a little forbidding. At last he spoke.

  “You have a son,” he said.

  She stopped short. It was now or never. “We have a son.”

  He looked down at her, surely more kindly than she had expected. “That is your story still? I wish you would tell me the truth. I have tortured myself so, these long months, trying to understand, to believe ... But how can I? Only this I do believe, you were never, purposely, false to me. It is not in your nature—Only tell me what happened, what disaster befell you there, alone—and through my fault—in a strange land, and we’ll speak no more if it. The child shall be my heir.”

  Too much moved for words, Camilla clung, for a moment, silently to his arm, searching vainly, in face of this extraordinary generosity, for the best way to tell him that the child was provably his. But, preoccupied with each other, they had approached the house without noticing, and now saw Lady Leominster and Chloe coming to greet them.

  Lady Leominster took them quickly through the first greetings, her bright, observant eyes travelling, as she did so, from Lavenham to Camilla and back. Then, “But why do we linger here? You must be impatient to see your son, Lavenham. He is asleep, but I told the nurse to expect visitors.” And, her bright eye fixing his, “He has the Lavenham foot. My poor Camilla was in despair till I explained it to her.”