The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (13 page)

“No, sir? Are you familiar with army life?”

“I was a soldier for several years.”

“Did you fight at Waterloo?”

“I did, much to my sorrow.”

While she had doubtless been staggering around the nursery and taking her first unsteady steps, he had joined his father's old regiment and gone to war.

That had been the kind of young man he was. Brave, hot-headed, impetuous, restless, longing to fling himself into battle against the foe. At that age, any foe would have done. It happened to be the French, so he fought the French. How he had loved the life, then, with all its privations and hardships and dangers. For five years he had soldiered in the Peninsula; five years that saw him grow from eager youth to competent manhood. He had made friends and endured the bitterness of watching them fall in battle or die by the roadside of dysentery. He had served under good men and indifferent men and downright dangerous officers. He had laughed and fought and wenched his way across Spain and Portugal and back again. He had been sickened by the terrible sights at the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo, exulted by the victory at Salamanca, bored by retreats, driven on by his thirst for danger.

“That was a great battle,” Alethea said politely. Apart from the reported death of their neighbour Tom Busby, which turned out to be no such thing, merely a case of amnesia, she had been untouched by the war, and by the end of it that came with Waterloo.

“War is a terrible thing, Mr. Hawkins,” said Titus sombrely.

His hot blood had deserted him when he was what, five-and-twenty? Until then he had been immortal, and utterly sure that he had been born to be a soldier. He could not conceive of any life other than that of the army.

Two things had happened, apart, he reflected, gazing with unseeing eyes into the flames, from the inevitable fact of his growing up. He had received a savage wound, which had nearly cost him his life, and he had seen his oldest friend, a companion from his childhood and schooldays, die in agony from a bullet that lodged in his guts.

He fought on, serving his country to the best of his ability, but the guiding light had gone out of his life. The burning desire to fight and kill had become a cold matter of duty, and he despised himself for the life he was living. He was aware that he had acquired a reputation as a hard man. New recruits, as fresh-faced and smooth-cheeked as this girl sitting here by the fire, arrived and had him pointed out to them. “Don't cross the major,” his men warned. “He has the very devil of a temper, and never, ever, be seen to neglect your duty while he is about.”

It occurred to him that Alethea had the rare gift of being contained within herself, unbothered by silence. She had made attempts at conversation, as manners dictated, but now that he was lost in his thoughts, she left well alone. No doubt she had thoughts of her own to occupy her mind, although he sincerely hoped ones less grim than his.

Waterloo. He sighed, closing his eyes for a second only to see the muddy ground churned up by tens of thousands of hooves and boots. Mud, itself besmeared with blood. Death everywhere, the stink and horror of death. Wellington, with tears coursing down his drawn face as he read the list of men lost in battle.

“Waterloo was terrible,” he said aloud, though speaking really to himself. “Don't ever believe it when men tell you of the glory of victory. There was no glory that day.”

Titus had sold out of the army at the end of the Peninsular campaign. His elder brother had died of an ague, and his father wanted him to learn to manage the estates that would one day be his. He had given up the life of a soldier with considerable relief.

Only to return to it with a heavy heart, driven by his keen sense of duty, when Bonaparte escaped from Elba and it became obvious that once again, war-weary England must fight yet another battle. What choice was there? This was not a war of expansion, a war waged at the whim of political masters or the kings of olden days. This was a war to keep the England he loved safe. Where would he be now, or those others keenly watching the fall of cards, or Emily, setting her stitches with such precision under the light on the round table over there?

What of Alethea Napier, so improbably sitting there in her man's clothes on the other side of the fireplace? She would have grown up in an England whose ancient liberties and independence were cast aside by a Napoleon. If that man had achieved his goals of France's hegemony over the whole of Europe, what a different world they would all be living in. Not a better one, neither, whatever one's sympathies for the Revolutionary cause might be.

For a moment, he wished he were eighteen again, on the threshold of his adult life, with no war to be fought and won, with no savage memories to etch themselves on his unwilling brain. He envied Alethea, with a spurt of feeling that astonished him by its intensity, for her youth, her ignorance of such horrors, for being at that age when an adventure was just that, an adventure, and a good night's sleep cured all ills.

Looking up he met her eyes. He was even more startled by what he saw there. Not innocence, nor ignorance. This chit was carrying horrors of her own, he was sure of it. He began to wonder what kind of man Napier might be under that pleasant exterior, and exactly what he had done to his young and beautiful wife, not merely to cause her to run away, but to carry that look of absolute bleakness in her eyes.

“Drink your wine,” he said abruptly, wanting to jerk her out of whatever personal hell her mind had taken her to. “It will do you good.”

 

“Your hands are like ice,” Figgins scolded, chafing them with her own. “I thought as how there was a fire in there.” Lordie, she hated to see Miss Alethea look like that. Whatever had turned her spirits, when she had been so light-hearted and sure that she was doing the right thing all the way here?

“It's this waiting about and not knowing if we're going to be swept away by snow or floods.”

“Mrs. Lessini's maid speaks some Italian, she's half Italian herself, as you can tell from that dark skin and those eyes like they have. That's why her mistress engaged her, having the language and so on. I dare say it's handy, having a servant that can understand what's been said around her.”

Figgins sounded aggrieved, and she was. Used to relying on her keen ear and quick wits, she found it hard not to know exactly what was going on.

“However, she looks a frail creature,” Alethea said. “Mrs. Lessini may yet wish she'd brought a stout English abigail with her. After all, once she is in Italy, she may engage any number of Italian servants, all speaking the language fluently.”

“I don't have anything against Maria,” Figgins said. “And it's useful, what she picks up from some of the people here at the inn. Half of them seem to speak Italian as well, for all that country's over the other side of these dratted mountains. She has told me that the snow is melting away in the warmer air, and that we may expect to see the first arrivals from the other side at any moment.”

Alethea looked more cheerful. “I most sincerely hope so,” she said with a yawn. “I long to be away from here, and apart from this company. I do not find them a set of congenial persons. The Lessinis are the best of them, but there is such tension in the air—I suppose on account of Mr. Manningtree and his previous connection with Mrs. Lessini—that even they are not such agreeable companions as they might be in different circumstances.”

Figgins gathered up Alethea's shirt. “I'll wash this out; you haven't so many that you can leave any behind, and who knows, we may be off tomorrow.”

A thunder of knocks at the chamber door. Footsteps echoing on the wooden floor above. An Englishman's voice shouting for his boots.

What was going on? Alethea, still half-asleep, sat up in bed, tousled and bewildered, to find Figgins stuffing clothes into her portmanteau.

“Get up,” she was crying out. “For if we are not ready inside a quarter of an hour, we shall miss our chance.”

“Our chance for what?” said Alethea, tumbling out of bed and taking the shirt Figgins held out to her.

“Our chance to be off from here, to be away over these dratted mountains and down into a place where, please God, May is May, with no snow nor floods of icy water.”

“What time is it? Do we leave at dawn, is that the plan?”

“Dawn! No, indeed, it lacks some few minutes to three o'clock, there is to be no idling about until dawn. You must be quick, for they will not wait for us.”

Alethea hopped about on one foot, trying to pull on a boot that seemed to have shrunk since she last wore it. “Do we travel alone?”

“We do not. They will not have it, we travel as a party or not at all, there are not the drivers nor the guides to take us separately.”

A strange cry rent the air, making Alethea jump. “There's Mrs. Vineham screeching at Sarah. I wouldn't be an abigail to that woman for a hundred pounds a year.” Figgins gave a tug at a buckle and tucked the leather strap in place. “There, now, and what's forgotten will have to wait. I've a bag full of wet shirts and I don't know what else; it's to be hoped we find a decent inn on the other side.”

“It may be a night on the bare mountain,” Alethea said, reaching for her greatcoat. “Where is my hat?”

Figgins passed it to her, and Alethea jammed the beaver over her short, springy hair.

They were downstairs with barely a moment to gulp down a bowl of strong black coffee before Herr Geissler threw open the doors to let in a gust of icy wind from the darkness outside.

Mrs. Vineham gave another screech and wrapped her voluminous travelling cloak more securely about her person. “Give me that,” she said, snatching a huge muff from her maid's hands. “And mind you stay within earshot, you stupid girl, in case I have need of you.”

“The servants will travel in a separate vehicle,” the innkeeper told her. “The carriages must stay close together, to be of assistance in case of an accident.”

“Accident,” cried Mrs. Vineham, drawing back into the shelter of the inn. “What is this about accidents?”

Oho, thought Alethea, she is going to make a scene and delay us all. Look at the inn servants eyeing her as though she were a creature in a zoo. If I were in my petticoats, I, too, could flutter my eyelashes and cry out in alarm. Signora Lessini, in complete contrast, stood cool and collected as she waited for her husband to escort her to the chaise.

“My dear Mrs. Vineham,” Signora Lessini was saying, “calm yourself; remember that every journey involves danger, and any crossing of the Alps is bound to be a more arduous journey than most. Place your trust in God and I am sure we shall arrive safely on the other side.”

Mrs. Vineham's maid took her arm. “Come, madam, the driver is waiting; if we do not go now, we shall be left behind.”

Alethea heard Bootle muttering under his breath that if God had any sense, He'd strike Mrs. Vineham a swift one with a thunderbolt and spare them all a deal of playacting, and she grinned inwardly.

“Mr. Manningtree,” Mrs. Vineham called out as Titus's tall figure appeared at the door. He was booted, cloaked, and crackling with energy as he swept Alethea and Figgins before him, telling Mrs. Vineham that the party was leaving, and it was up to her to stay or go as she chose. “We have a long journey ahead of us, and cannot delay a moment.”

Outside, Alethea felt heady as she breathed in the clean, fresh mountain air. It was a perfect night, with a velvety sky thick with stars, stars that were more than usually dazzling in the pure atmosphere.

A touch at her elbow brought her back to earth, and she went to board the waiting chaise that Titus was indicating to her.

Mrs. Vineham, she was thankful to see, was travelling in the other chaise. Complaining still about her rude awakening, the unreasonableness of the hour, the darkness, the cold, she climbed in beside Lord Lucius, and could be heard demanding to borrow his smelling salts.

“Never tell me that man carries a vinaigrette,” Alethea said as the carriage jolted into motion and she was flung back against the seat of the chaise.

Her travelling companions were Titus and Mr. Warren; the Lessinis were with Mrs. Vineham and Lord Lucius. Titus found the vinaigrette amusing, too, but George Warren looked at her in a bored way and said that many men of fashion carried smelling salts.

Alethea took no notice of his early morning sourness. For herself, she was in high spirits, glad to be away from the confines of the inn and on the road once more and relishing the prospect of an exciting journey through the mountains.

“Why such an early start, sir?” she asked Titus, who was leaning in a corner of the carriage, his long legs stretched out crossways.

“The journey will not be an easy one, and can take many hours; we are unlikely to reach Domodossola before the late afternoon.”

“Mrs. Vineham will not be pleased to hear that.”

“Which is why we all took pains not to inform her of it.”

Warren snorted and pulled his hat down over his eyes. “I intend to sleep, since it is the middle of the night,” he said. “Therefore I would be obliged if you could refrain from conversation.”

Titus shrugged, raised an eyebrow at Alethea, and withdrew into himself. For her part, she was happy to travel in silence; she wanted to savour every moment of her journey. The carriage was cold, and she was glad of the hot bricks put in by the inn servant as she looked out at the wintry scene, the snow high above them gleaming under the starlight in contrast to the patches of deepest shadow cast by pine trees and the mountain itself.

At first, there was no snow on the road, and the coaches kept up a steady, slow pace, climbing all the while. The sky lightened, turned to a pale grey streaked with pink, and as the sun rose, Alethea saw the drifts of snow on either side of their wheels. The sun, a May sun, was blazing with a summer's heat, but now they were high enough for it to seem more like a cold, bright January day.

The mountains seemed to be closing in on them, vast snow-covered peaks above and walls of snow on either side. For the first time, Alethea felt a stirring of fear. Seen from down in the valleys, the mountains were immense, but distant, like the sky or the stars, indifferent to humanity. Now, as they climbed towards the distant peaks, winding their way up into the heart of the mountains, they became threatening and hostile.

In his corner, Titus stirred out of his reverie. “This is where it becomes interesting,” he observed.

George Warren slept on. “Should we wake him?” said Alethea. “He must be sorry to miss such sights.”

“I dare say he's seen it before, and he's a surly fellow in the morning; let him sleep off his temper until we have to leave the chaise, then we can rouse him.”

“Leave the chaise? Do we continue on foot?”

Titus gestured to the window. “See for yourself. Those great swathes of snow are from avalanches, and the streams have turned into torrents; they bring boulders and rocks down with them. I don't doubt they have blocked our path in places, and we shall have to descend from the chaise and walk part of the way.”

Titus was right. Within a half hour, the drivers were calling out to one another in their unintelligible Schwyzerdütsch and the chaises came to a standstill. Titus thrust his head out of the window. “Yes, it is as I thought,” he said, drawing it back inside before unfastening the door. “There is heavy snow ahead, and a stream beyond it. They will take the horses and carriages through, but we shall have to go on foot.”

Warren woke up, stretched, yawned, and swore in disapprobation when informed that they had to descend from the chaise. “What a cursed bore,” he said. “And in May, it's too bad; we might as well be here in February or March for all this trouble.”

“I hope you find your journey worthwhile,” Titus said.

“I shall, Manningtree, I shall,” Warren said with a curl of his lip that might have been a smile, but could just as well have been a sneer. It certainly didn't reach anywhere near his eyes; what a disagreeable man he could be, especially when there were no ladies about to put on a pleasant face for.

What was the cause of the hostility between the two men? Alethea asked herself as she jumped down to the ground. It was icy and slippery underfoot, and she would have fallen if Titus hadn't put out a strong hand to steady her. An old rivalry? The contempt of a soldier for the man who prefers not to fight? Some ancient family feud? Although they didn't, apparently, hate one another to an equal degree; it seemed to be Titus Manningtree who was full of anger against Warren, while Warren seemed merely to dislike the other man.

Her attention was drawn away from such theorising and to the immediate, physical certainties of the icy water swirling above her ankles. Stream, indeed. This stretch of water, that tumbled and sucked against the stones and boulders carried down by the volume of water, was a positive torrent, and one that she would much rather not cross.

Mrs. Vineham's rising notes of complaint stirred up her courage, and there was a resolute Figgins ahead of her, sliding and stumbling, but making steady progress and, she noticed, never more than knee-deep in the water. As women, they might be able to exclaim and help one another; as men, they would be expected to take it in their stride.

How much of woman's weakness was genuine, how much a matter of expectation? Triumphantly arrived at the other side, Alethea removed a boot to shake out the freezing water, leaning on Figgins's shoulder as she did so. She did the same with the other boot, watching from the corner of her eye the uncertain crossing of Mrs. Vineham, held aloft by two sturdy Swiss, who stoically ignored her shrieks and cries to heaven. They set her down on her feet, none too gently, and plunged back into the water to tender assistance to Lord Lucius, who had lost his eye-glass.

Signora Lessini had waved away offers of help, relying instead on the support of her husband, and they came across in a resolute fashion, her skirts raised well above the surface of the water. This drew another scream from Mrs. Vineham, a genteel scream against such immodesty as a lady revealing her legs in the presence of so many men. “Not all of whom have seen them before,” she added.

Titus gave her a look of contempt. Lord Lucius, his glass restored, tittered, and George Warren laughed aloud, the laughter resonating back off the sheer cliffs to either side.

Signora Lessini took no notice of the vicious remark, nor the laughter, but pulled a large handkerchief from her husband's pocket and calmly set about drying her feet and legs as best she could.

“I admire her for that,” Alethea said, sotto voce. Titus, standing within earshot, and obviously possessed of keen hearing, nodded his agreement. “An admirable woman,” he said quietly.

They made their way back into the coaches, somewhat chilled, and glad to learn from their driver that the first rest house was only a little way ahead, and there they could get hot coffee.

Alethea had never in her life enjoyed a coffee more than the steaming bowl offered at the guest house. Yawning, she sniffed the aroma, blew on the surface to cool it enough to drink, and sipped it sitting on a bench in the hot sunshine, looking out across the gleaming snow, so bright it hurt her eyes.

The drivers chivvied them back to their places. Still damp, but warmed by the coffee and the sun, Alethea sank back, leaning her head against the seat, feeling suddenly very tired. She pulled her greatcoat closely around her and felt her eyelids droop.

The scrunching of the wheels through the snow, the clink of the horses' bits, and the incomprehensible sounds of the Swiss coach drivers merged in her head to form an uneasy lullaby. She didn't sleep, but fell into a drowsy state, the chill from outside seeming to creep within her. Images came unbidden into her mind; images she had no power to resist, unwelcome as they were.

Instead of Mr. Manningtree and Mr. Warren, she had a fancy that she was in a coach with Penrose, and for a moment she felt a rush of joy. Then Penrose's face distorted and grew dim, and, clear as though she were physically there, in London, she was back at the dance, that fateful dance, at the Danbys' house.

She was wearing her aquamarine ball dress. Looking down at her skirts, she could see the tiny bouquets of flowers on the festoons of flounces in perfect detail. The dress was a favourite one, net over a satin slip, falling in full folds that allowed her much more freedom of movement than many of her evening dresses.

He was standing before her, with a smile on his lips and admiration in his eyes. Charles Danby, a cousin on Penrose's mother's side, made the introduction. “May I have the honour to present—?” Penrose made a leg, begged the favour of a dance. He had on a blue coat. She wore a diamond necklace; he had a chaste but fine diamond pin in his gleaming white stock. He was young and handsome and tall enough not to make her feel uncomfortable as he took her hand and led her into the dance.