Marry in Haste (13 page)

“No one knows? No doctor?” He looked more puzzled than ever. “But why not?”

A cold finger of fear touched her heart. “But do you not remember?”

“Remember? Let me see.” His head moved restlessly on the pillows. “I was dreaming of my mother ... but that’s not it. Ah, now I have it. I went to Spain, did I not? And was attacked, returning ... Poor Jenks, was he killed, or did I dream it?”

“You told me so.” She watched his restless movements anxiously.

“And then—what? I remember nothing more. I must have come home somehow, for here I am. And you have not had the doctor to me— Of course, it was all to be secret. I remember planning it with Strangford. He thinks Dom Fernando less than a friend. Has Fernando been here?”

“Yes, soon after you arrived, but do not trouble yourself, he knows nothing, although, I think, he suspects much.”

He managed a flicker of a smile. “So you have nursed me single-handed and kept the world at bay. I see I am more indebted to you than ever. It was a lucky day for me when my grandmother made us marry. But you must be worn out. Tell me, how long have I been ill?”

“Only three days.” Her thoughts were in a turmoil. His tone, as much as his words, told her that he remembered nothing of the night that had changed her world. What could she do?

He was looking at her anxiously. “Have I been so great a trouble? I wish I could remember ...” Again his head moved restlessly among the pillows. His colour was rising.

She reached out to feel his pulse: “Do not trouble yourself about anything. You must rest. You will remember soon enough.” Deeply and desperately she hoped it was true, as she sat and watched him drift off again to sleep. If he did not? What could she do? The answer was obvious: nothing. That moonlight night must be forgotten. She must return to the old formality, the old pretence. She had never known such chill despair before, but sat there, quietly, by his bed, watching him as he slept, while, silently following each other, the tears ran down her cheeks.

There was at least some consolation in his rapid and continued recovery, but with it came no blessed return of memory. In answer to his questions, she had told him of his exhausted return and of how, between them, they had kept Dom Fernando’s curiosity at bay, but this did not, as she had hoped, rouse any answering gleam of remembrance. “So you got me to bed and I turned lunatic on your hands,” he concluded. “What a plague I must have been to you. It is no wonder you look exhausted. We must lose no time in moving to Sintra, where I hope the cooler air will refresh you.”

She laughed. What an effort it was to get back the old lightness of touch. “You are scarce flattering. Am I indeed looking so haggard?”

He reached out to press her hand. “You look like someone who has just saved her husband’s life,” he said.

She slept better that night. Surely, it was only a matter of time, and all would be well. Dreaming she was in his arms again, she woke to fresh hope and renewed resolutions of patience. Lady Leominster had said she must be patient as Job and had come nearer the mark than she knew, for by now Camilla had learned only too well how an unguardedly tender word or look could startle her husband back into his lonely shell. At all costs, she must keep up the light and teasing relationship she had managed to evolve between them, and leave the rest to time.

Luckily for her, as soon as Lavenham was well enough to go out, he plunged into the arrangements for their move to Sintra, and indeed the idea of a mountain change after the dusty July heat of the city was most welcome to Camilla. But to her surprise, Chloe proved almost mutinous. They were well enough where they were, she said. What was the use of going off to ruralise in the mountains and exposing themselves at the same time to all the tedium of attendance on the Court. For the villa Lavenham had taken would be all too convenient both for attendance at the Prince Regent’s court at Mafra and for visits to his estranged wife, who was living on her estate of Ramalhao in Sintra itself. It was in vain that Camilla pointed out how necessary such attendance was for the success of Lavenham’s mission. Chloe refused to be comforted and sulked ostentatiously until Camilla could have shaken her. Not for the first time, she found herself grateful for Lavenham’s detachment, which kept him from noticing his sister’s bad behaviour.

He came home early one evening to announce, rather sooner than Camilla had expected, that all was ready: they could make the move to Sintra next morning. Camilla’s own preparations were well in hand, but she suspected that Chloe had done little or nothing about getting ready, and hurried out into the garden to break the news to her. Not finding her in the shady walks of their own garden, she crossed the little stream that separated their estate from the deserted gardens of the Marvila palace next door and wandered through the overgrown thickets of myrtle and jasmine calling softly for Chloe. But the evening wind, fiercer than usual tonight, was tearing early fruit from the plum trees and her voice was lost in its wailing among the branches.

So it happened that she turned the corner of one of the orange groves and came, unawares, on Chloe, sitting on a rustic bench, her arm entwined with that of a man Camilla had never seen before.

“Chloe!” At the sound of her voice, the absorbed couple sprang to their feet, and apart. Chloe coloured crimson; the man, who was thin, brown, wiry and considerably older than she, made a low bow and stood his ground, still holding Chloe’s hand in his, somewhat, Camilla suspected, against her will. For a moment, the silence stretched out. Chloe was tongue-tied; Camilla could think of nothing to say that would not seem unduly melodramatic; the stranger looked, she thought angrily, faintly amused. It was he who broke the silence at last.

“Well,
mon ange
,” he said to Chloe, “will you not make me known to your sister—and mine?” He spoke in English, but with a marked French accent.

Camilla would not believe her ears. “What do you mean?”

He made her another bow, elegant, courtly—infuriating. “I would have known you anywhere,” he said. “Your likeness to our lamented mother is startling. But it seems I have the advantage of you, and since this dear child will not do it, allow me to present myself: M. Boutet, the butcher’s son, or, being translated, your long lost brother. Is this not a touching reunion?”

“I do not understand. Chloe, what does this mean? When did you meet this gentleman?”

Chloe spoke at last. “At Corpus Christi,” she said. “He brought me home, when Lavenham would not even trouble himself to look for me. I was like to sink when he told me he was your brother, Camilla. Is it not the most romantic circumstance? Of course, it is tedious that he is one of the enemy Lee fusses about, else I would have made him known to you long ago. Indeed I am glad you have discovered us now; you can give us your counsel as to how best to make Lee see reason. How can I be expected to come to Sintra when my heart,” she made a wide dramatic gesture, “my heart is here.” Camilla had never been so angry. She looked at her brother and wished that his strong and discouraging likeness to their father did not convince her of the truth of his claim. “I do not know what to say to you.”

“Why, what but, ‘Welcome, long lost Brother’? It is, as Chloe says, a somewhat inconvenient circumstance that we should find ourselves, for the moment, in opposite camps. But time will put that to rights—and soon enough, I can tell you. It is but a matter of months until England is a province of the French Empire, and then, little Sister, you will be glad enough to have a friend in Bonaparte’s army. In the meantime, I agree with you that we had best say nothing to your husband, who seems, from all I hear, to be a marvellously stiff-necked English prig and would doubtless make an international incident of me forthwith, which, I know, is what you would not at all wish for any of our sakes.”

Though it was infuriating thus to have him take her course of action for granted, she had to admit the sense in what he said. To present Lavenham with a brother-in-law in the enemy’s camp would be enormously to complicate his position, and at the same time, inevitably, the discovery of Chloe’s clandestine romance would put him fatally out of patience with her. Thus provoked, he might do anything ... would almost certainly send Chloe back to England, and Camilla, who flattered herself that by now she had at least some influence over her volatile sister-in-law, dreaded the consequences of any such drastic action. This affair with her brother was bad enough, but who could tell what mischief Chloe might get up to alone in England? As these thoughts flashed through her mind, she also remembered, with relief, the reason for her coming to look for Chloe. After all, they were leaving for Sintra tomorrow: this would put an end to the lovers’ meetings that had been carrying on, she realised with a shock of dismay, since Corpus Christi.

She had been looking at her brother gravely as these thoughts hurried through her mind, and finding little in his appearance to reassure her. No use to appeal to his better nature, everything about him proclaimed him a gambler like their father, but, she feared, a gambler not so much with money as with life. He was becoming, she noticed with satisfaction, somewhat restive under her prolonged scrutiny, while Chloe, incredibly, had drifted away to pick and nibble at a ripe apricot. Nothing could have brought home so forcibly to Camilla her sister-in-law’s basic childishness. She simply had no idea of the gravity of the situation in which she had plunged them.

It was time to speak: “Come, Chloe,” said Camilla, “your brother is looking for you.”

This recalled Chloe’s wandering attention at once. “Lee? You will not tell him, Camilla? Promise! I dare not face him, else.”

“It is a pity,” Camilla said, “that you had not thought of that sooner. But do not cry, child,” as the easy tears began to roll down Chloe’s cheeks. “I shall not tell Lavenham—yet. M. Boutet is right. Silence, for the moment, will be best. But I must have both your promises that you will not meet again.” No need to tell them this would be impossible anyway because of the impending move to Sintra.

After a quick exchange of glances, both of them promised so readily that Camilla was convinced they had not the slightest intention of keeping their word. It was lucky that circumstances were likely to make them more scrupulous than they intended. She hurried their farewells, ignoring a protest from her brother that she was heartless in calling him M. Boutet like a stranger. “Am I not to be Charles after all these years?”

“I will call you Charles when you behave to me like a brother,” she said austerely. “So far, I see no reason to consider you anything but a stranger. I only wish you were one. Come, Chloe,” she said again. “Your brother will come looking for us if you do not hurry.”

This threat was effective on both Chloe and Charles, whom Camilla began to suspect of being as much of a cowardly braggart as his father. For all his slighting words, he clearly had no wish to encounter Chloe’s formidable brother. One swift look passed between him and Chloe, promising, Camilla was sure, a meeting on the morrow, whatever obstacles might be placed in the way. She merely smiled and took Chloe’s hand. “Goodbye, M. Boutet,” she said. “Give my regards to your friend M. Mireille when you next see him.”

The shot went home. He coloured angrily and withdrew down a shady walk of lemon and orange trees. Alone with Chloe, Camilla did not hurry her away at once. Her threats of Lavenham’s impatience had served their turn, but she did not, in fact, think he would come looking for them. When she had left him, he had been busy sorting papers ready for tomorrow’s move. So occupied, he would not notice the passage of time. And before they went in, she must find out how deeply Chloe had committed herself. Anxiously, she began her questioning and to her relief Chloe, who obviously felt that she was being let off lightly, answered readily enough. Yes, they had met almost daily since Corpus Christi, but in answer to Camilla’s delicate but persistent catechism, she maintained that her beloved Charles had behaved to her with the most perfect propriety, had hardly, in fact, done more than kiss her hand. The naive irritation that she showed in revealing this went far to convince Camilla that she was speaking the truth, and she decided, with a deep inward sigh of relief, that, whatever unprincipled game her brother had been playing, it had not involved actually disgracing Chloe, or at least not yet. It was with an anxious heart and an almost absentminded air that she administered the scold Chloe expected, trying to convey, as she did so, that this was a business too serious for mere scolding. In vain she tried to show Chloe how her behaviour might endanger her brother’s position as a diplomat. Chloe merely sighed, shrugged, and asked what importance the behaviour of a mere girl like herself could have. At last, Camilla lost her temper. “Well,” she said, “fortunately, it is not of the greatest importance that you insist in playing the fool. We leave for Sintra tomorrow. I hope you will have time there to come to your senses.”

Now the tears came in good earnest, convincing Camilla once more that Chloe had not for a moment meant to keep her promise not to see Charles again. For once, she could not find a scrap of sympathy for Chloe’s presentation of beauty in distress, but merely shrugged and turned to lead the way back to the house. “You had best dry your tears, if you do not want Lavenham asking questions.”

Tossing on her sleepless bed that night, Camilla wondered over and over again whether she had been right in what she had done. Should she not have taken this deplorable piece of news at once to Lavenham, whose chief concern, after all, it was? She could not make up her mind. If things had been right between them, she would not have hesitated for a moment, but as it was, she could be sure of nothing—except that he was still overtired from his illness and that she could not bear to put another strain upon him. No, she decided at last, this burden must be borne alone, at least for the time being.

To her relief, Chloe seemed to have decided she had best conceal her reluctance to go to Sintra, fearing, no doubt, that any recalcitrance on her part might end in Camilla’s telling Lavenham the whole story. As a result, the drive to Sintra was less of an ordeal than Camilla had feared and she was even able to enjoy the wild and romantic views of valley and mountain, parched and dry from the summer drought, the occasional aloes, splendid in yellow bloom, and the strange aromatic perfumes that were wafted into the carriage by a fitful breeze. Lavenham, too, bore the rough journey better than she had feared, though he was pale and tired by the time they crossed the desolate heath at the foot of the Sintra mountains and reached the house that was to be theirs.

But here, to her dismay, an urgent messenger was awaiting Lavenham to summon him, at once, to a conference with Strangford and the Prince Regent, who were visiting the mad old Queen at Queluz. At her insistence, Lavenham delayed long enough to drink a glass of wine and eat a handful of dried fruits, but rest longer he would not, starting at once for the ride back to Queluz. Left alone, she and Chloe plunged once more into the business of house cleaning, for here, as at Lisbon, they found the apartments intended for them scarce fit for habitation by a well-bred English pig.

Lavenham did not return until late at night, and then his face was grave as he told them the news. France and Spain together had presented an ultimatum to the Prince Regent, demanding once again that Portuguese ports be closed to British shipping and that British residents be arrested and their property confiscated. This had plunged the Prince Regent into an agony of indecision and all the English ministers’ representations of the folly of acceding to so unreasonable a request had merely prevailed upon him to delay his answer. The Spanish and French representatives in Portugal were threatening to ask for their passports if Dom John did not agree to their demands, and this, Lavenham explained, would mean war. Undecided himself, he paced about the room, pale with exhaustion and anxiety, as he debated part with himself, part with Camilla, what was best for her and Chloe to do. Ideally, they should leave for England at once, but how? The regular sailings of the packet had been discontinued and he knew of no other ship on which he would trust them unescorted. Camilla seized on this at once. If he did not propose to accompany them, how would he return if war did break out? When he explained that a battleship would certainly be sent to pick up the British ministers, she urged that it would be best for her and Chloe to wait with him, pretending a greater reluctance than she actually felt at the idea of travelling unescorted. For she could not bear the idea of leaving him to the casual mercy of Portuguese servants in his still uncertain state of health. Besides, she did not want to leave him. But this must not be said. Instead, she talked of the hazards of a journey alone and was enthusiastically seconded by Chloe, who had, of course, her own reasons for not wishing to leave Portugal.