Take, Burn or Destroy, page 28
“I am not so enamoured of this line of flattery as I was the last.”
“Then have I remarked upon your great beauty, Miss Cassandra?”
“Not with a frequency that would do it justice.”
“Of course, a gentleman must approach such a subject with delicacy.”
“My beauty is such that simply to behold it banishes all indelicacies—or so I have been told.”
“Of course that is so. Where to begin, though . . . I should say, Miss Cassandra, that your nose is the most perfect hillock in the entire south of England.”
Cassandra laughed. “Mr Wilder! Surely you exaggerate! It might not even rival the most perfect hillock in Kent!”
“I never exaggerate,” he stated firmly, as though mildly offended that she might even suggest such a thing.
“Do forgive me. I cannot think what made me say it.”
“As I was saying, your nose is the most perfect hillock in the south of England . . . perhaps beyond.”
Cassandra stifled a giggle.
“And your eyes . . . I am quite certain they see much further than any of your sisters’.”
“Mr Wilder, if you keep this up you shall turn my head, I am quite certain of it.”
“And your feet! Your perfect, delicate, tiny little feet. How rapidly they carry you about; how certain they seem of where they go. I dare say they have never taken you any place you did not intend. How many can make such a claim? I should say not a single soul in all of this sacred isle.”
“You would appear to be saying my feet are quite reliable?”
“Reliable!? Faithful, trustworthy, steady, loyal. The English language cannot begin to do them justice.”
“Loyal . . . What woman does not all but swoon to hear her feet so described. If I tumble from my saddle, I do hope you will catch me?”
“My dear, I am quite certain your feet will catch you before a mere mortal, such as myself, would be able. And I have not even mentioned your knuckles.”
“No. No, Mr Wilder, I must protest. Another word and I fear I shall no longer be the master of my own feelings. If you are indeed a gentleman, you must desist, I beg you.”
“Though it is difficult to stop singing your praises, Miss Cassandra, if you insist, I shall give it over . . . for now. But I might have to take it up again at some future time. How could I not?”
“Yes, I dare say, it is a bit overwhelming for mere mortals, such as yourself.”
“I do not think you could begin to understand.” Something took Wilder’s attention from his companion at that moment. “Is that Miss Henrietta and Mr Beacher—there, in the garden?”
Cassandra straightened a little in her saddle. “Is it not, rather, my cousin Elizabeth? Henrietta has no dress with skirts that colour. Surely it is Lizzie. See the way she walks. She does not glide as does Henrietta. I wonder of what they speak?”
“It can be but one thing—or person, I should say.”
“Henrietta?”
“So I would assume.”
“Will she agree to marry him? Frank, that is?”
“You are her sister, surely you know better than I.”
“I believe she will. I do hope so, anyway. Frank will make her very happy. Much happier than she could ever have been with that Navy man . . . no matter how dashing he might have been.”
“I never met the captain myself, but Frank has been my friend for several years and I do not hold a higher opinion of anyone in our circle.”
“Not even yourself, Mr Wilder?” She let just a hint of a wicked smile show.
He turned his attention to Cassandra, suddenly completely serious. “Most especially myself.”
Thirteen
Henrietta felt the spring sun soak into her skin, infusing each layer with warmth and health as it drove out all the cold and dampness of winter. She sat upon the bench with her face turned up to the sun, thinking that when she felt the sun reach her bones and flood them with warmth she would begin to mend from all the misfortune that had befallen her these last weeks. Healing would not be quick, but even to feel that it had begun would be more of a relief than she could say.
Spring spread all around, trees in new leaf, grass so green it appeared to glow from within as though it contained its own fire. Flowers pushed up through the crust of the earth and each day grew an inch until they opened their comely blossoms to bumbling, droning bees. The scent of the weeping willow, a few feet distant, was like a faint perfume of distant China, from which place the tree had once been carried as the tiniest sprout. The earthy aroma of spring welled up from the ground all around, laden with the fragrance of decay and renewal.
When the warmth reaches my bones, Henrietta thought, then I shall join in this renewal and become whole again. Even my torn heart shall be knit back together.
“There you are, my dear. I have searched everywhere. Certainly, I should have known you would be by the pond. But your face is all pink! Should we not move into the shade?”
Henrietta opened her eyes to find her cousin Lizzie standing over her, a look of concern upon her face.
“I am happy in the sun. I feel the warmth of it seeping into my flesh and mending me in some way I cannot explain.”
Lizzie took a seat beside her on the bench. “You are not a plant, you know.”
“I believe there is a little plant in all of us but most are unaware of it.”
“It is a strange belief.” Lizzie glanced at her cousin. “But if it makes you happy to believe it, then you may.”
“Mmm.” Henrietta closed her eyes and attempted to return to basking. The sun had come so near to her bones, and now Lizzie, whom she was always pleased to see, had come to interrupt, if not the process, at least Henrietta’s awareness of it. And the awareness seemed to her to be as important, if not more so, than the outcome.
“I was speaking with Frank Beacher earlier,” Lizzie said after a moment. Henri could tell by the studied casualness of the statement that Lizzie was reticent to bring it up.
“I observed the two of you walking.” Though did not join you was left unsaid but far more significant.
“He did say that if there was anything he might do for you, dear Henri, you had but to ask. And also that you may rest assured, given the series of circumstances that have occurred since he spoke, you need not feel the least obliged to answer until you are much recovered. He said this most emphatically.”
“Dear Frank. He is so obliging—and genuinely so. He has been that way since the age of six—and perhaps before.”
“He is a very kind young man.”
Henrietta closed her eyes and tried to feel the progress of the sun into her being, but she had lost the way of it. “I would be safe with Frank, would I not?”
“It depends, my dear, on what you mean by ‘safe.’”
“I mean my heart. As safe as could be. Frank is not about to become adventurous. I should not have constant nightmares of him drowning or dying in some terrible eruption of violence. I have known Frank Beacher all my life and I trust him utterly.”
Perhaps Elizabeth felt she must have something to say on this matter, for after a moment she offered, “I believe one might safely say that about Frank Beacher. He is virtuous and trustworthy . . . to a fault.”
“I do not think that either of those characteristics could be called ‘faults,’ Lizzie.”
“No, certainly they are not. And his profession will never put him in harm’s way. I also understand that he stands to inherit a sizeable estate?”
“Not so large as Box Hill, but adequate.”
“And you will have Aunt Hertle’s house in Plymouth and some other monies she will bequeath you. You shall never lack comfort.”
“I feel there is a good deal to be said for comfort—a homely house, children, if I am so blessed, an income that can be relied upon, and a husband who comes through the door each evening and tells me of his day’s activities over a proper dinner.”
“It does sound . . . certain,” Lizzie whispered.
Henrietta opened her eyes just long enough to find her cousin’s hand and squeeze it within her own.
“No more Navy men for me, Lizzie.”
Elizabeth swallowed with difficulty. “I understand,” she said softly. “Life is uncertain enough.”
“I do not approve of gambling at cards—gambling in the truly important things is . . .” She glanced at Lizzie, realizing what she was about to say might appear a judgement. “I will marry Frank Beacher and he will love me until the end of his days. I am quite certain of it.”
“So which have you chosen, my dear Henri? Knowledge or contentment?”
“Was that my decision? Or some other’s?” She looked over at her cousin, appealing. “What do you think I have chosen, Lizzie?”
Elizabeth shook her head and for a moment said nothing. “I did not understand,” she began, a little edge of sorrow in her voice, “when first I married, that I would send my very heart to war . . . and far oftener than I would choose.” She took a long breath, but there were no tears. “I now possess the deepest knowledge of what a hollow creature I should be without it. You have made an intelligent choice, my dear. I . . . I would expect nothing less.”
“Do you think me a coward?”
Lizzie looked over at her and smiled bitterly. “Because you do not wish to risk your heart? It is a most sensible decision.” Tears welled up in her eyes. With difficulty she whispered, “I just do not know if it is truly possible.”
Fourteen
Hayden’s conscience awoke an hour before the household stirred and left him lying in the early dawn, thinking of Henrietta. He tried to tell himself that they were estranged and therefore what had occurred with Madame Adair was of no concern to Henrietta—but he knew the “estrangement” was due to a mere misunderstanding that could be cleared away by a single conversation. He did not think what he had done was wrong under the circumstances, but certainly it was a betrayal of trust and Henrietta would certainly see it as such. Of course, he had promised Madame Adair on the soul of his mother that he would keep their secret as long as he breathed. Henrietta would never learn of it . . . but he knew and it made him feel low and unworthy.
Where did I get this schoolboy sense of honour? he wondered.
It had also occurred to him that Madame Adair’s plan had only the smallest chance of success. From his meagre knowledge of these matters, Hayden was aware that when a man and a woman wanted a child they could lie together every night without success. But when a child was not the first desire, a single night together would almost always see the job done. Poor Madame Adair—her ruse would be found out within a month. He knew that she hoped the madness would be over by then, but he feared this was but fancy; the guillotine would persist in its terrible duty for some time to come.
When he heard stirring in the house, Hayden rose, fatigued from lack of sleep, and anxious about the day.
Madame Adair had already broken her fast by the time Hayden arrived downstairs, and Charlotte was being bundled off to visit neighbours, much to her chagrin.
“But why must I go, Mama? You know how I hate her!”
“Do not torment me with questions, child. You have made excuses several times before, and this time you must go. It is only polite.” She held up a hand, anticipating Charlotte’s next words. “Argue further and I shall send you again next week.”
So Charlotte acquiesced, though frustrated and mystified by the strange logic of adults.
The sun was barely risen when poor Charlotte was taken off by servants. Madame Adair curtsied to Hayden but did not meet his eye or betray any familiarity whatsoever. She excused herself and instructed a maid to serve him his breakfast in the garden.
Settling himself at the table beneath a flourishing chestnut tree, Hayden gazed off at the distant road that wound north towards Brest. From that quarter would come the Jacobins—although if Madame Adair had spoken the truth, they would not come for her by day. There had been an uprising against the revolutionary government in this part of the country already; the Jacobins did not want to provoke another and so did their work under cover of darkness.
Carts and drays did appear from time to time, and now and then a man on horseback, some of whom were Army officers. A sizeable carriage went by apace, a whirl of dust in its wake. But no gangs of Jacobin thugs, he was relieved to see. The aura of fear and anxiety that overlay the farm began to ease a little. The day was shaping up to be exceptionally fine, fleets of benign clouds sailing across the blue surface of the sky. Birds went winging this way and that, bearing straw and string to build their nests with, and, in the branches above, overladen bees trundled from one blossom to the next, humming like contented hobbyists. One could almost imagine that all was well with the world.
After he had eaten, Hayden set out to walk about the fields, trying to regain his strength. A herd dog attached herself to him, perhaps thinking he went to fetch home the cows, but the cows had already come in to be milked and fed, so she was bound for disappointment on that score.
The farm was spread over countryside as rolling as a stormy sea, the fields all slanting this way or that, hardly one level. Within a quarter of a mile, Hayden was forced to rest upon a little section of tumbledown stone wall. He was out of breath, shaking and slippery with sweat. To escape across country he would need to be able to manage several miles in a few short hours. The only way to hasten his recovery, so that he might undertake this ordeal, was to force himself to exercise. Walking to begin, and then he would start helping with the light farmwork. What the farmhands would think about an officer in the French Navy doing farm labour he did not know. He would tell them it was the age of equality or something of that sort.
Forcing himself up, Hayden went on, finding a stick for a cane, his attendant herd dog, rushing ahead, then returning to verify his progress, as though he were her charge and she dare not lose him. After another quarter-mile Hayden stretched out on a dry, south-facing slope and fell asleep in the spring sun. Indeed, he could not remain awake, so exhausted was he by walking a mere half-mile!
He woke sometime later, pink-cheeked, frowzy, and overheated. Going on was out of the question, so he grumpily decided to turn back, disappointed with his recovery.
“Back to the damn farm!” he informed the herd dog in French (certainly, the dog did not understand English, he reasoned). “I feel I have grown old before my time. I am certain I did not manage half a mile.”
And the half-mile back was much longer. He teetered into the farmyard, shaking and thirsty, only to find men sprawled beneath the shade trees in little knots, two servants with buckets plying among them, offering water. A French Army officer of unknown rank sat in the chair Hayden had occupied that very morning, and all around a small company of soldiers stood sentry, muskets at the ready.
Prisoners, Hayden realised, and before his exhausted mind could comprehend what this meant, one of the men jumped up and exclaimed, “Captain Hayden! Praise God! You are alive, sir!” It was Gould, and all about rested the officers of the Themis.
Other men broke into grins and began to rise as well, muttering both astonishment and thanks. Too late, Hayden replied in French, gesturing with his hands, expressing polite bewilderment at this odd mistake. Immediately, the French officer rose and approached him. Archer, meanwhile, had jumped up and taken Gould by the arm.
“This is not Captain Hayden,” he said to the midshipman. “Whatever are you thinking? Can you not see this is a Frenchman? Your brain must be addled by the sun.”
The French officer appeared to look Hayden up and down. “Who are you, sir?” he asked.
“I am Capitaine Gil Mercier,” Hayden claimed confidently, showing now some resentment at this foolish mistake. “I was a guest of Capitaine Lacrosse aboard Les Droits de l’Homme. These Anglais were prisoners aboard. That is why they recognise me, though apparently they do not know my name.”
The officer motioned Archer forward and then asked him, “Do you know this man?”
“Yes,” Archer answered in bad French. “He sailed with Capitaine Lacrosse and was wrecked with the rest of us. Capitaine Mercier. He saved many lives, monsieur, and we are much in his debt.”
“What did this other man call him?” he motioned to one of his soldiers. “Bring that Anglais forward.”
Gould was helped to his feet and led forward.
“Ask him what he called Capitaine Mercier,” the officer instructed Archer.
Archer complied and then repeated. “‘Hayden’ is what he said, and he apologises for not knowing the Capitaine’s name. He is very chagrined to have made such a mistake.”
Madame Adair appeared at that moment and the officer made a small bow to her. “Madame, is this man known to you?” He gestured to Hayden.
“Of course, yes. He was brought here from the wreck almost dead. It is a miracle he is still among us. His name is Capitaine Gil Mercier, sir.” She looked at Hayden, suddenly concerned. “Capitaine? Are you well. Bring a chair!” she called to the men bearing water buckets. “Sit, Capitaine. You are not yet recovered enough to go so far. Please . . . sit.”
Hayden tumbled down into the chair, dizzy and suddenly hot.
Even the Army officer looked concerned.
“Then you are certain he is Capitaine Mercier?”
“He was brought here by a local doctor who was on the beach when the ship broke up. He wore a captain’s uniform—shall I have it brought out for you?”
He shook his head. “That will not be necessary. My apologies, Capitaine. I wish you a speedy recovery.” The Frenchman returned to his chair, speaking quietly to one of his men.
Hayden wanted to retreat—into the house or anywhere beyond the gaze of his men. He also did not want to appear to stare but was desperate to know who had survived their ordeal.
