Marry in Haste (16 page)

CHAPTER 9

For Camilla there followed an interval of blessed unconsciousness. The doctors came, sighed, and shook their heads. It was brain fever, said one, and recommended shaving off her hair. It was merely the culmination of a nervous affliction, said another, and urged frequent bleeding. It was homesickness, said a third: Lavenham had best send her back to England without delay. In the same breath he warned that it would mean certain death to move her. None of them discovered her condition, and Lavenham, racked with an intolerable uncertainty, at once cursed and congratulated himself for his silence on this point. If she was false as he mostly believed—what better than that she should die, undisgraced, here in Portugal? But—suppose her story was true? Pacing the house, sleepless, night after night, he tortured himself with the doubt, and the vain attempt to remember. It was true enough, that when he had waked, the morning after he came home wounded, he had remembered nothing of what had happened the day before. Camilla had had to tell him. And how could she have told him this? And yet how easy for her to use his brief forgetfulness to mask her own guilty secret. True, Chloe had confessed the whole of her affair with Charles Boutet, though suppressing, from a delicacy of her own, the fact that he was Camilla’s brother. But there were other men ... Suspicious of women since childhood, Lavenham found it impossible to believe one now.

And yet, as Camilla lay there, day after day, so white, so silent, so nearly dead, it was impossible not to be moved by that strange feeling—could it be love?—that had crept upon him, almost unawares, since the first day when he had seen her in his carriage, drooping, exquisitely asleep—his wife. Sometimes, as he paced his room, those still, intolerable nights, he found himself praying for proof of her innocence, for another chance, for life ... But still she lay there silent, the doctors came, their advice conflicted on every point, and Lavenham and Chloe, united in an uneasy truce over the sick-bed, agreed tacitly to ignore it. As for the maid, Frances, she had fallen into such a state of panic since the first decree against the British that she was worse than useless and the main burden of the nursing fell inevitably on Chloe and Rosa, the plump, kind-hearted Portuguese girl who acted as her maid.

Despite his racking anxiety and tormenting doubt over Camilla, Lavenham still had to spend much of his time with the Prince Regent at Queluz. Things were moving rapidly to a crisis. It was only a matter of days, perhaps of hours, he told Chloe, before the Prince Regent signed the decree confiscating British property. And still the promised British squadron had not arrived—not that its coming would do them much good, as Chloe gloomily pointed out, since the one point on which all the doctors were agreed was that Camilla could not be moved without grave risk to both life and reason. Fortunately, when the decree was signed, it excluded the property of diplomats, and Dom Fernando, whose solicitude for Camilla’s health had been unfailing, and had added considerable fuel to Lavenham’s suspicions, arranged for a police agent to be stationed at their house to ensure that they were not molested. But it was uncomfortable enough, just the same, to hear of the forced sale of such British possessions as had not been already disposed of, and Chloe was not surprised when Frances’ nerve gave way entirely and she accepted an offer of a passage home with an Englishwoman who had contrived to bribe her way on board an American ship.

Chloe was glad enough to see her go. She had been more of a liability than an asset for some time, and, besides, it was a relief to have no English ears to hear the bitter scenes between her and her brother. For the discovery that it was Chloe who had been associating, all the time, with a known French spy had combined with Lavenham’s suspicions of Camilla to reawaken all the old bitterness against his mother, and through her, against women in general. Only the fact that most of their meetings took place over Camilla’s sickbed saved Chloe from the full tide of his wrath. Inevitably, he blamed her more than himself for Camilla’s illness and found her devoted nursing the smallest of amends. Conscience-stricken herself, she bore his reproaches for some time with the patience of guilt, but gradually her spirit reasserted herself and she turned on him roundly. Whose fault, after all, was it that she and Camilla were still here? “I do not blame you on my own account,” she went on, “since I begged to come and must take the consequences, but as Camilla’s husband I should have thought you would have taken more thought for her safety. The truth of the matter is you want a wife for your convenience but do not propose to yourself to take any responsibility for her. And besides,” she was well and truly roused now, “if you ask me, the main cause of Camilla’s illness has been your continued neglect of her. She has borne it like the angel she is, and therefore, I have no doubt, you have not even perceived that she felt it, but I have. It has never, I collect, since you are incapable of such a feeling yourself, occurred to you that she loved you and suffered from your treatment of her. If you could not
feel
towards her as a husband, you might at least have compelled yourself to
behave
like one. I only wish I knew what madness made you propose to her in the first place—or her accept you, for the matter of that.”

Thus roundly attacked, Lavenham was silenced for once, and he left soon afterwards for Queluz with much to think about. It was a relief, both to him and to Chloe, when circumstances kept him there for several days. When he next came to Lisbon, it was to announce the imminent arrival of the British squadron and to bring bad news arising from it. Lord Strangford had felt compelled to ask for his passports and intended to go aboard Sir Sidney’s flagship as soon as he arrived to begin his blockade of Lisbon harbour. To make the gesture complete, it was essential that Lavenham should accompany the Minister Plenipotentiary. He came to ask Chloe whether she thought it safe to take Camilla. Once more the doctors came, and once more they shook their heads. There had been no change in Camilla’s condition, she still lay in the stupor into which she had fallen, accepting Chloe’s ministrations passively, like a child, or, more frightening, an imbecile, but otherwise entirely withdrawn into some shadow world of her own. The doctors looked grave, each one blaming her failure to recover on Lavenham’s refusal to take his original advice. As for moving her—and on board ship at that—they were unanimous in agreeing that it was out of the question. Death or madness were the alternative consequences. Then, gravely accepting their fees, they shook their heads a last time and took their leave.

Alone with Chloe, Lavenham turned to her in despair. She had had the main charge of Camilla; what did she think? Reluctantly, she found herself compelled to agree with the doctors. “But do not trouble yourself, Lee. I shall stay with her. We will do well enough. Dom Fernando will protect us, and you will be within easy call, will you not? If the worst comes to the worst, and, for any reason, Sir Sidney proposes to leave Lisbon, we will have to risk moving her, but until then, I think she and I had best remain here.”

However reluctantly, Lavenham found himself compelled to admit the sense of what she said. Since the terrace of their house commanded a clear view of the harbour, he arranged a code of signals by which Chloe would be able to communicate with him on Sir Sidney’s flagship, and promised to seize every opportunity of visiting her. At last, reluctantly, he took his leave, all his earlier fury forgotten in the unwilling respect he found himself feeling for her. But when he tried to say something of this, she just laughed at him: “Never mind, Lee, you will have plenty of chances to be in a passion with me again before we are old and grey and gouty.”

He returned to Queluz, to join Strangford in making arrangements for their move aboard ship, with an uncomfortable feeling that he was not, somehow, showing up very well in contrast to his flibbertigibbet younger sister. It was a new experience for him, and one, like his torturing doubts of Camilla, and Chloe’s own disconcerting attack on him as a husband, that kept him awake for many an uncomfortable night’s tossing on the uncertain water of Lisbon harbour.

His only comfort, those wretched days, was that he had at last told the whole story of Chloe’s indiscretion to Lord Strangford. The confession, though painful enough, had at least been an easier one than if it had concerned his wife instead of his sister. Luckily for his peace of mind, Chloe had not thought it wise to tell him that her French lover was Camilla’s brother, and Camilla had been in no state to do so. He had been soundly rebuked by Strangford for not keeping his household in better order, had felt, with dislike, that he deserved the rebuke, but had at least had the consolation that Araujo’s blackmailing overtures had not been repeated. His career was safe, but as the gloomy November days passed, it seemed more and more likely that it had been saved at the expense of his wife’s reason. Night after night, the signal Chloe flashed from the shore indicated no change in the invalid’s condition, and night after night Lavenham paced the decks for hours, in turns blaming and excusing himself. If only he could
remember.
If Camilla was indeed carrying his child, how different the world would be to him ... And yet, how could he believe it? Never trust a woman, his father had said. What cause had he to do so now? And yet ... and yet ... Camilla had
seemed
so different, so calm, so good ... so lovable. Still, despite himself, he loved her, and his love, stronger than any reason, argued the truth of her story. If it was indeed his child ... and he had destroyed mother and child together—So he went on, suffering, doubting and arguing with himself, hour after hour, in a squirrel’s cage of wretchedness, until Strangford, increasingly anxious about him, was almost relieved when an urgent messenger summoned them to the Prince Regent at Queluz.

The news was as bad as possible. A French army, under Junot, who had once been French Minister in Lisbon, had entered Portugal. And now, at last, the Prince Regent had been forced to open his eyes. By some freak of luck an old copy of the Paris
Moniteur
had reached him, and in it he had read Bonaparte’s announcement that his house of Braganza had ceased to reign in Europe. Even he realised that the time for compromise was past. He summoned his Council of State and announced his immediate departure for Brazil; a Provisional Government, of which Dom Fernando was a member, was named to rule Portugal in his absence.

The news brought chaos to the city, and despair to Lavenham. It was to be his honourable task to accompany the Portuguese royal family on their arduous voyage to the New World. Out of the question that Camilla should accompany him, but equally imperative that, at whatever risk, she be placed on board one of the British ships that were to return to England. With Strangford’s permission, he made a detour on his way back from Queluz to visit Chloe and tell her the news. She received it with unconcealed anxiety. There had been no change in Camilla’s condition; the risk of moving her was as great as ever. She led her brother upstairs to Camilla’s bedroom, where she lay, white and still, her only movement a restless convulsive clutching and unclutching of her fingers.

“What is she holding?” Lavenham asked.

“Her wedding ring. She has been doing it for some days. It is the only change.”

They stood together, silently, for a few minutes, then Lavenham spoke with a brisk cheerfulness he was far from feeling. “Perhaps it is a good sign. Should we have the doctors again? No?” As Chloe shook her head vigorously. “I am inclined to agree with you. Very well, then. We must simply arrange to move her, as gently as possible, and at the very last moment. It will take some days for the Court to embark ... many of their ships are still fitting for the voyage; the provisions of others need replenishing. We can count, I think, on four or five days’ grace ... and, besides”—he looked gloomily out the window and across the harbour—“if the wind does not change, it will be impossible to sail anyway.”

“You mean Junot may catch us here?”

“It is possible. By all reports, he is only a few days’ march from the city and no attempt has been made at stopping him. General Freire and his troops are still on the coast. So far as I know they have not even heard of Junot’s advance. They have certainly made no move to check it. Not,” he added with his usual fairness, “that they would have the slightest hope of doing so. Junot’s troops, I understand, are something of the rawest, but the Portuguese army can hardly be said to exist at all. The fact remains that Araujo has made no move to alert it. I am more and more convinced that it has been he, all the time, who has played the traitor. I owe Dom Fernando a hearty apology for my suspicions of him ... and hearty thanks, too, for his care of you and Camilla.”

Chloe smiled wickedly at him. “I am not sure that it is not Camilla who should be thanked for that. If he is not head over heels in love with her, I miss my guess very sadly. But what are we going to do, Lee?”

“Why, leave her here until the last possible moment. This movement of her hands is new, and I don’t like it. Who can tell what other change it may presage? Come out on the terrace every night at first dusk. If the fleet is ready to sail, and the wind favourable—if, in short, I feel that the time has come when, at whatever risk to her, you and Camilla must come aboard, I will burn a green and a red light, together, on the stern of the
Hibernia.
That is your signal to get the men to carry Camilla, as gently as possible, down to the cove below the house. I will meet you there, with one of the
Hibernia's
boats. We must just pray God that the movement does not hurt her.”

“Yes,” Chloe said, “I do not see what else we can do.”

Camilla’s dreams had been troubled and restless. Now, waking suddenly, she was relieved to see Chloe bending anxiously over her. Chloe had been in the dreams, surely? And Lavenham, too? She was sure of it, yet could remember no detail. She was tired, too tired for remembering, or even for thought. But she must think. She must consider Chloe, who looked thin and pale, and who was, unaccountably, crying. To confirm this, a large tear splashed on to Camilla’s right hand, which was clasped, she noticed, over her left, the fingers rubbing feebly over—oh, her wedding ring of course. Lavenham ... Chloe ... bad dreams. It was no use, she could not remember.

Chloe’s voice distracted her “Camilla! Can you hear me?” What an effort it was to speak. “Of course. Why not?” The question left her exhausted and she lay with closed eyes, trying to take in Chloe’s answer. She had been very ill: that was why she was so tired. Of course, that was all ... She was beginning to remember now; a little, slowly. And at once there was another question. “Lavenham?” she asked.

“Coming for us tonight,” Chloe said, and then, in a rush that sounded more like her usual self: “Oh, Camilla, I am
glad
that you are better. But no more questions now. Rest ... try to sleep. It will be tiring enough tonight.”

It was good advice. Camilla was glad to close her eyes. Only, as she did so, another memory came to her and she opened them again. “And the baby,” she asked, “what does Lavenham say now?”

Chloe’s look of puzzlement was answer enough. “The baby? Camilla, what do you mean? ... Are you? ...” and then, in a rush, “Oh, those doctors! ... Oh, Camilla!” Again her tears began to fall and then, unaccountably, she was laughing. “Oh, Camilla, I am so
pleased
—and Lavenham kept it to himself! ... Just wait till I see him.”

“No, no ...” It was all too much. She was relieved when her protest was interrupted by the girl, Rosa, who brought Chloe a note. Chloe read it, coloured, and rose to leave the room, telling Rosa to watch by Camilla and urging Camilla, once more, to rest. Drifting off to sleep, Camilla found herself a prey to a vague anxiety. Chloe had had a note ...