Take, Burn or Destroy, page 26
“I should have sent her away,” Madame Adair whispered to herself, unaware that she spoke aloud.
The floor clock in the entrance hall measured the endless night—a strict, metronomic clicking that somehow brought to Hayden’s mind that other machine that measured human lives—and brought them to an end. So far apart were the chimes that cried each hour and each half that Hayden wondered if the mechanism had ceased to function.
Many days into the night, footsteps pulsed up the lane from the distant road, the pace frightening. The footsteps slid to a stop in the gravel and approached the door followed by a palm dully thudding on wood.
“Madame,” came a breathless whisper. “It is me—Prévost.”
Madame Adair rushed to the window. “Prévost,” she said, “what is it?”
“They have the doctor. And they come this way.”
“Do they go to Brest, Prévost? Or do they come here?”
“I cannot say, madame. Let us hope it is Brest. I must go. Good luck, madame. May God be with you.”
“And you, Prévost.”
“Merci, madame.” And the footsteps stole away, hushed now, not madly running. Perhaps across the fields, Hayden thought, in the shadows of the hedgerows, as he had done once not so very far away nor so long ago.
Madame Adair stayed by the window, her hands upon the sill, leaning out, listening. Hayden crossed the room and stood vigil beside her, one hand upon the sill and one upon the frame. He could hear Madame Adair breathing—sharp little gasps as though her lungs were already full and she could take in nothing more.
A susurration through the willow leaves as the breeze sighed, and then, faintly, a hollow clatter—horses.
Madame Adair glanced at Hayden, such fear and appeal in her eyes that he felt a compulsion to take her in his arms, to protect her. But what could be done against the Jacobin madness?
At the foot of the lane voices could now be heard—arguing, Hayden thought, but he could not be sure. This went on a moment, and then the sound of horses making their way up the path of beaten earth. Again a voice raised in protest.
“It is the doctor!” one of the servants said. She had risen from her chair and stood a few paces behind Hayden. “Madame, it is the doctor!”
The horses stopped and another heated exchange occurred. Hayden could pick out the doctor’s voice now. “Everyone knows she hated him,” the man declared. “Everything about him. To kill such a woman because of the beliefs of a man she despised . . .”
Several voices rose and a little breeze through the leaves obscured the words. Hayden and Madame Adair both leaned as far out as they dared, desperate to hear what was said. Ten minutes this lasted, Hayden was sure. The clock in the hall chimed, and this seemed to silence the men in the lane. The breeze, too, fell still.
“It grows late,” one complained. “Can we not decide? Either we take her now or we go home!”
What was said then was too quiet to be heard. And then the horses moved again.
“God save us,” Madame Adair said, unable to stay silent. “They are coming.”
“Listen . . .” Hayden hissed. “Are they not turning around?”
Every soul in the room held their breath. The hooves clattered dully on the ground; the breeze whispered among the branches. And then the little zephyr sighed and fell away. The sound of the hooves had grown fainter. They were upon the road, travelling towards the nearby village.
Madame Adair turned away and collapsed back against the window opening. A servant came forward just as Hayden reached out and took her arm. They guided her to a chair and she slumped down in it, muttering thanks to God and weeping almost silently.
“Oh God,” she choked out. “Oh dear God. They were coming for me . . . and then they went away.”
“It was the doctor, madame,” one of the servants said. “He convinced them to leave you . . . But he is lost.”
This caused many a sob and prayers for the poor doctor.
“We are spared this night,” Madame Adair declared at last, and rose to her feet, wiping away tears. “Let us go to bed. Sleep is the best defence against the trials of tomorrow.”
Everyone filed out, and Hayden returned to his chamber. Instead of bed, though, he pulled up the chair and opened his window and shutters. Dawn was three hours distant. He knew that he must slip out of this house before any officials came again, but the chances of him making his way to the coast and stealing a fishing vessel in his present state—and alone—were very slim. It was unlikely he could walk as far as the village. There was no way to send word to England of what he had learned from Mr Stephens’ spy.
A Royalist family might hide him—but since the uprisings had been put down such families were keeping their loyalties utterly secret. Even if he thought Madame Adair might hide him he would not ask it of her—and there was no reason to believe she would. Her husband might have been a Girondist, but that made them supporters of the revolution—not opponents of it. Even so, she was now in as much trouble as he.
The latch on his door turned, a narrow crack appearing as the door pushed in. He thought it was the breeze, but then the crack widened a little more until whoever was outside could see him sitting in the spare moonlight. Before Hayden could speak Madame Adair let herself in, closing the door silently behind. Hayden rose from his chair and was about to speak, but she put a finger to her lips and crossed the room to where he stood.
“Are you well, madame?” he whispered.
She shook her head, and even in the feeble light Hayden could see the glimmer of tears pooling in her eyes. “They will be back,” she whispered. “Whoever sent them will be angry that they did not do as they were ordered and they will be sent again—or some others.”
“You must get away. Is there no one you trust who will hide you?”
“I would not ask that of anyone . . .” She looked down at the floor, a hand to her forehead. Then she took the hand away and raised her face so that she looked up at Hayden. “There is one chance, Capitaine Mercier . . .” But her voice or perhaps her nerve failed her.
“What? What is it?”
She took a deep but ragged breath. “They will not put me upon the guillotine, monsieur . . .” Another difficult breath, and then in a whisper so soft he barely heard, “. . . if I am with child.”
She could hold his gaze no longer and hung her head, a little sob escaping, but she stifled it. Reaching up, she put a small hand lightly upon his breast and met his eyes again. “There is no one else who might help me. I can hardly ask . . . a servant. Discretion is imperative.” She closed her eyes a second. “The Jacobins will come back for me. Tomorrow, most likely. There is no recourse. If they come for me I am doomed. I have only this one chance; to be with child. My life would be preserved . . . if only for a few months—but this madness, it cannot last for ever. Do you see? My only chance to live.” Tears welled over. “I have a daughter . . .” But she could say no more and began to weep almost silently, hiding her face with her hands.
“Shh.” Hayden took her hands away from her face and gently led her towards his bed; it took him only that long to decide. It was not done out of desire, or for conquest, nor even affection—though he did feel gratitude and great fondness for her. Survival was their motive. The Jacobins would murder her—without cause—and he could not bear the thought of it.
For a second she paused to shed her gown, so that she wore only a light shift. Into the bed they crawled, awkward, embarrassed, both still frightened by what had happened earlier. The fear inhibited them at first, but they pressed close and clung to each other until their desire began to rise, and then she guided him atop her, pulling up her shift. In the waning moonlight, the fine lines of her face disappeared and she appeared less troubled and weary, as though the moon gave back her youth. They were gentle with each other, but she buried her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck and very softly moaned close to his ear, whispering endearments in French.
After, she lay on top of him, her hair tickling his face.
“I can tarry but a moment,” she whispered. “Do not let me sleep.”
But she did not rise immediately, and Hayden sensed her reluctance. All of life was so uncertain, yet here was this small moment of contentment, if not safety—each of them wanted to cling to it and draw it out even five minutes more. Who knew what the next day would bring?
A zephyr sighed in the open casement and then the nightingale began to sing, clear phrases offered up to the stars, far above human strife and suffering.
Twelve
Mrs Carthew, who had not raised six daughters by being indecisive, ordered everyone but Elizabeth out and called for Nan, a servant who had nursed all of the girls through their childhood illnesses so that everyone had come to think of her as having healing powers. Dinner was forgotten, Henrietta borne up to her room, and the rest of the family scattered to various corners of the house with their nearest confidant, to weep and whisper.
“Thank God it was not Captain Hertle!” was perhaps the sentiment expressed more often than any other.
Some time after the letter had been read, Penelope came rushing into the library to find Elizabeth seated by the fire, the recent missive from her husband laid upon a small table near to hand.
“It is a letter from him!” Penelope blurted out.
“What, pray, is a letter from him?”
“The letter that Sandra and Anne have. It is from him—the one who died.” She waved at Elizabeth’s letter.
“Captain Hayden?”
“That is the one. Henrietta’s Navy man. I heard them whispering. They said they were going to burn it.”
“Are you certain, Penelope?”
“Yes. Well, mostly.”
This made Elizabeth hesitate. “And where might one find them, pray?”
“In the little sitting room. Where Mama likes to hide.”
“I shall go to see them . . . alone.”
Penelope’s face fell in disappointment. Clearly, she wanted to see her sisters, who had seen fit to exclude her from this plot, get their comeuppance. Elizabeth thought she might say something at this point about the propriety of eavesdropping upon the conversations of others but wanted to reach Anne and Cassandra before any letter might be destroyed.
Cassandra and Anne were indeed in the small sitting room, and Anne settled a pillow hurriedly as Elizabeth entered. The two young women could hardly have looked more guilty.
Elizabeth was not quite certain how to proceed. She would much rather the girls speak up and tell her what had been done—if anything. Confronting them would surely lead to retaliation against the informer—and it would not take them a moment to work out who that might be.
“Is something the matter?” Mrs Hertle enquired innocently. “You both look as though you are to be sent into exile. Do tell me we have not received more bad news . . .”
Neither answered for a few seconds, and then Cassandra spoke. “We have done something that perhaps we should not have . . .” she said very softly.
“Oh dear,” Elizabeth replied. “And what terrible deed could this be?”
The two girls glanced at each other. “A letter came a few days ago for Henrietta. It was from Captain Hayden—the late Captain Hayden, though we did not know he was late at the time. We carried it home from town where we had retrieved the post and . . . after lengthy discussion, apprehended it.”
“Apprehended it?”
“Yes. We kept it secret and told no one . . .” Cassandra coloured noticeably.
“We knew you had burned Captain Hayden’s letter and thought . . . Well, we thought that a letter from a dishonourable rogue could contain nothing that would cheer Henrietta but perhaps a great deal that might cause her distress. And as she was getting on so well with Frank, who we both believe is her true intended—”
“You did not burn it . . . did you?” Elizabeth interrupted.
Cassandra produced the letter from beneath the pillow and passed it into the hands of her older cousin.
“You had said you burned Captain Hayden’s letter and would not read it . . .” Anne repeated rather defensively.
“That is true, but the letter I burned was addressed to me. Had it been addressed to Captain Hertle I would have delivered it to its proper recipient.”
“Do you think we have done wrong, then?”
“With the best intentions, I have no doubt, but yes, I do. Whatever the effect of the letter might be, it is Henri’s to read . . . or not read. Only she can decide.”
“Will you take it to her, then?” Anne asked.
“And will you tell her that we . . . held it for a time?”
“Could you not tell her we forgot? She has enough to distress her as it is without being angry with us as well.”
“Normally, I should never lie to protect you from the consequences of your own actions. But in this one case I shall not tell, and for the very reason you have just stated. Henrietta has experienced quite enough sorrow this day. I do hope this letter will not bring her more.” She hesitated a second. “I will keep this letter and give it to her on the morrow and allow her to think it came with the post. But the two of you must never tell. Not as long as you live.”
“Oh, thank you, Lizzie!” Cassandra said. “We shall never breathe a word, shall we, Anne?”
They almost threw themselves at her feet, they were so grateful.
Elizabeth tore herself away, but stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Mark my words,” she said to her cousins, “I shall not lie for you ever again. Next time you get yourself into difficulty, you shall have to get yourselves out. Is that understood?”
Satisfied that she had been suitably strict, and feeling that she had taught the girls a valuable lesson, even if she could not say exactly what it was, she went in search of Penelope. If she was going to tell a lie—even one of omission—she would be certain those who might reveal her duplicity had all sworn a most solemn oath of secrecy.
Henrietta insisted that she would not lie abed the day after they had received the terrible news from Captain Hertle. Instead, she forced herself to go through the motions of a “normal” day and begged a walk with only Elizabeth for company.
“He betrayed my confidence, broke my heart, exposed me to the worst public humiliation, and yet I am as devastated as I would have been had he done none of these things. Some small part of me should be thinking, ‘There, Charles Saunders Hayden, you got the comeuppance you so richly deserved!’ but I do not feel that in any corner of my being. Had none of this occurred—his betrayal and marriage to that woman—I would hardly be more desolate.” Henrietta shook her head.
There had been a distinct and uncharacteristic lack of tears this morning, as though the reservoir had been drained that night, for certainly Henri had hardly slept. She was as pale as flour, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed. Even her beautiful, musical voice sounded thin and worn, and she appeared to stoop a little as she walked.
“You were in love with him, Henri. I believe what has happened is worse than his mere betrayal. Once a woman’s feelings have been attached, it takes no small amount of time to sever that attachment. You have both been betrayed by a man you trusted and cared for, and you have lost the man you hoped to marry. It is a blow doubly cruel, and the fact that you have even raised your head from your pillow this day is . . . well, it speaks to your great inner strength, Henri. Few others could do it.”
“I do not feel particularly strong, Cousin. Mama never coddled us. We could not lie abed for every little ache and complaint. We must be dizzy with fever and near delirium before we could stay abed. I dare not do as I wish—pull the coverlets over my head and hide from the world for a fortnight, at the very least.”
“Well, I suppose the air will do you good.”
This caused Henrietta to smile, though quickly it twisted to a wince.
Elizabeth carried the intercepted letter in her pocket, and she was as aware of it, with every step, as though it were made of wood, not paper. Although she did not know its content, she feared terribly that it would be but another blow to her beloved cousin, and she was now as reticent as Cassandra and Anne had been to deliver it into Henri’s hand. In truth, one moment she would decide to withhold it until a more propitious time, or until Henri seemed at least a little recovered. But then she would think she had no right to do so and had lectured Anne and Sandra on this very subject. The letter belonged to Henrietta—for good or ill. But then she would glance her cousin’s way and one sight of her would have her again thinking that withholding the letter a few days, perhaps a sennight, might be a far kinder course. What harm could be done? Charles Hayden was dead. The letter could cause nothing but more heartache, and clearly Henrietta had all she could bear at that moment.
They came to an overlook, and beneath an ancient hornbeam found the little bench that was the object of their outing. Elizabeth brushed it clean with a hanky she had brought for this very purpose—as well as two others in case Henrietta had need of them.
A moment they sat, and then Henrietta released a sigh so laden with sadness and confusion that Elizabeth covered her cousin’s hand with her own.
“And then there is Frank . . .” Henrietta said softly. “I do not know what I shall do with poor Frank. His offer could hardly have come at a worse moment. It is so unfair to him that he has been almost entirely driven from my thoughts. I feel wretched about it.”
