The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (32 page)

Alethea tried to imagine how he must have looked then. Tall and dashing in his regimentals, she was sure, and that air of easy authority no doubt meant that he had been a good and successful officer. No wonder a Portuguese beauty had attached herself to him. Probably she attached herself to one or other of the officers whenever the army was in town.

Alethea had never had the least interest in the military life. She had been saddened when a neighbour's son, a childhood companion, had apparently been killed at Waterloo, and that was as close as the war had come to her life. She numbered various colonels and majors and captains among her acquaintance in London, but had always found any talk about army life, or campaigns, or the late war a tedious subject.

Now, however, she found herself eager to listen to Titus's account of his time in this country, unaccountably keen to learn something of his past life.

“Our lines lay over there,” he said, pointing beyond extensive groves of orange trees. “My brigade occupied Alhandra while the French were massing on the frontier. All the civilians had left, it was a deserted town when we arrived, very different from how it is today.” He stood up, and offered her a hand. “I'll show you where we had our lodging, myself and a comrade.”

They rode back through the main street of the busy little town, and Titus stopped outside a church.

“A church?” said Alethea. “How came you to lodge in the church? I thought I had stayed in strange places these last few weeks, but we never resorted to a church.”

“We made ourselves snug in the sacristy,” said Titus, peering into the dark interior of the church. “If there is no interfering priest about, I shall show you our quarters.”

There was a priest, but he was young and incurious, and a gift of alms caused him to shrug his shoulders in calm agreement when Titus said what he would be about, and he obligingly supplied them with a lamp, although such a dim one that Alethea thought it would be little use.

“What a gloomy room,” she whispered as they stepped into the lofty chamber, a place of shadows in the faint glimmer of their light. “Who are those dismal people in the niches in the walls?”

“Images of saints, I suppose.”

“Why are they dressed in black robes, like monks? I wish their eyes didn't glare so. Look how their garments stir in the draughts; what a creepy place it is, to be sure. How Griffy would love to see this, it is so exactly like a page out of one of her novels. Were you not dismayed to find you had to share your quarters with such depressing companions?”

“Not a bit. We were cheerful, hungry, and tired, so we had neither time nor energy to spare for dead monks. Our watch-cloaks were very damp, I do remember that, and we were more concerned with trying to get ourselves warm and dry than with a few departed saints. Luckily for us, the priests hadn't taken their vestments with them, so we each had armfuls of gaudy pontificals to use as bedding. We slept as soundly as anything, quite undisturbed by our surroundings or our companions up there in the walls.”

The brightness outside made Alethea blink. “It is impossible to imagine what such a life must have been like. Do you not miss the excitement and the adventure of it all?”

“My fighting days? That was an occupation that belonged to that time of life, when I was young and filled with patriotic fervour. The romantic illusions of a youthful and heated folly, a friend of mine has called it. We did have some good times, some very good times, but then there is the sheer brutality of war that in the end wears down the spirit of any man who has half a heart or mind. And the loss of so many friends and companions; that sense of loss stays with one always, I suspect, although at the time one thought little of it, it was the daily lot of the profession of arms, and we had little time to grieve.”

“And there were compensations in the form of a shapely Portuguese miss.”

“Oh, as to that…Our horses are standing in the shade over there. We need to be starting back to Lisbon. Coletree hopes to catch the tide this evening.”

“So our time here is finished?”

“It is.”

Southampton. Another harbour, but what a different scene, with low, angry clouds scudding across a rain-sodden sky. Alethea shivered, and Figgins went below to fetch up her greatcoat.

Titus was talking to Coletree and the deck was alive with the sound of running feet and sharp orders as the
Ariadne
eased into her mooring place. He looked alert and quite oblivious of his wet hair and face. He came over to Alethea and bade her a good morning.

“We must take care how we arrange the final part of our journey. It will be best if we go directly to the Crown. It is the largest and busiest inn in Southampton, there is always a bustle there, so our arrival will not be remarked. Neither will our departure, for you must enter the inn as Mr. Hawkins and valet and leave it as Mrs. Napier and her maid.”

“You are very free with your musts,” said Alethea. “I think I may make my own arrangements; I see no reason not to continue as I am until I am nearer Herefordshire. We shall have to spend at least one night on the road, and I am more comfortable travelling as Mr. Hawkins.”

“Believe me, it is best that you do not spend any time in England as Mr. Hawkins. Were you to be recognised, and that is more likely in England than abroad—and even there, heaven knows, you had to run into a cousin—then your situation, already difficult, would become impossible.”

Lady Hermione had advised Alethea to return to her proper identity the moment she stepped ashore, and Alethea had admitted the sense of her argument. That didn't mean she would let Mr. Manningtree order her about in his customary way.

“I do not think it can be worse.”

“It can, believe me. This is the time of year when people of fashion and rank travel all over England, to their country seats, to stay with friends, on excursions and trips for pleasure. You are bound to run into some aunt or a girl you were at school with who won't be deceived by the trousers and the short hair. I assure you it is so.”

Figgins, who had openly listened to their exchange, settled matters. “I'm shifting into my own clothes as soon as ever may be, and if you stay as Mr. Hawkins, I shall ask Mr. Manningtree to find a place for me on the Accommodation coach and I shall go directly to London. I heard what Lady Hermione said, and she's a lady with a head on her shoulders if ever I saw one; she knows what's what. You aren't wishful to become Mrs. Napier again, that's what it is, but Mrs. Napier you are, like it or not, and will be so until Old Nick comes to claim his own and leaves you a respectable widow, able to marry again.”

“Oh, how I wish that might happen!” said Alethea.

“A divorce will set you free of your husband,” Titus said quietly.

“There can be no question of a divorce,” said Alethea. “Are you acquainted with the Earl of Lullington? He is the head of our family, and although Papa does not pay much attention to what he says, he carries a great deal of influence generally. He is a man of a narrow outlook and severe morals; he would regard the divorce of anyone connected with him as being quite unacceptable. No, a separation is the most I can hope for, and even that will not be easy.”

“We weren't put upon this earth to have things easy,” said Figgins.

Alethea knew these bracing moods; her maid's sharp tongue always covered her greatest concern. If Figgins thought she ought to become Mrs. Napier as soon as they were ashore, then she was probably right.

“Very well,” she conceded, not noticing the concerned look on Titus's face at the dreariness of her tone. “The Crown it is. How are we to proceed to Shillingford?”

“Post,” said Titus. “I keep a carriage here in Southampton, since this is where the
Ariadne
generally lies in England. I wish your journey to be as comfortable as may be.”

“Thank you,” said Alethea.

The Crown was indeed a-bustle, its yard full of horses and carriages awaiting passengers or discharging weary-looking travellers who would have time for no more than a quick swallow of coffee before they had to catch the tide.

No one noticed the four of them go into the inn. Bootle swiftly arranged for a private chamber, Mr. Hawkins and manservant disappeared up the wooden stairs, and some fifteen minutes later, down came Alethea, in the dowdy gown, accompanied by her maid, to join Mr. Manningtree in the parlour for breakfast.

“Figgins is distressed by my appearance,” Alethea told Titus as she made a hearty meal of ham and eggs and several slices of toast. “I suspect she is more worried about my meeting some fashionable acquaintance in such a gown as this than she was about my disguise.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” said Titus, frowning. “Of course, you will need clothes. You can hardly send to Tyrrwhit House for them; what is to be done?”

“There will be some of Camilla's clothes at Shillingford,” said Alethea. “I am taller than she, but Figgins will contrive to make them wearable. I wish I may not incur her anger when she returns to find herself tripping over the hem of her favourite gowns.”

She spoke as though in an unreal dream. Clothes, Shillingford, Camilla: they would doubtless appear in her life in due course, but for now her life had narrowed to the immediate present, to this room in the inn, and, half an hour later, the interior of a well-sprung, well-appointed carriage.

“We shall lodge tonight at Oxford,” said Titus as he mounted his horse. “And reach Shillingford some time tomorrow night. It is a gruelling journey, but I think we need to travel as fast as ever we can.”

Alethea hadn't been to Shillingford Abbey since her sister Camilla's wedding. The newly married couple had gone abroad immediately after the ceremony, calling on Mr. and Mrs. Darcy in Constantinople before wintering in Egypt among the tombs and pyramids, an experience that Camilla had greatly enjoyed, judging by her ecstatic letters to Alethea.

The rain and her state of mind made the journey to Herefordshire one to be endured rather than enjoyed. How grey it was outside the windows of the carriage, rain-sodden fields, unhappy country folk trudging along with what protection from the elements they could contrive; even, in one village, a bucket upturned over the head of a hurrying youth. That made her laugh, and laughter made her feel more cheerful.

“We are nearly there,” she said to Figgins, recognising the church in the village and the long, mellow brick wall that ran along the edge of that part of the grounds. The carriage made the sharp turn into the gate, and then they were bowling along beside the ha-ha, the abbey ahead of them, with a shaft of sunlight just breaking through the clouds as a signal that the worst of the summer storm might be over.

“There will be no problem with Mrs. Burden, the housekeeper at Shillingford,” Lady Hermione had said. “She will know you at once for Camilla's sister, she never forgets a face. And she may appear a trifle waspish, but no one who knows her can doubt the kindness of her heart. Titus will bear witness to that.”

“Yes, Mrs. Burden and I have been friends these many years.”

Now the carriage was at the door, the butler was waiting, a footman in his country livery running to open the carriage door and let down the steps. A groom came running from the direction of the stables to take the reins from Titus as he dismounted. “Mr. Manningtree, sir, I heard as you were in foreign parts; it's good to see you again. This'll be that mare from the King's Head in Hereford. I recognise her by that white sock. One of the boys will take her back when she's had a rest and a rub-down.”

Mrs. Burden was in the great hall, on to which the front door opened. Small and thin, she smiled when she saw Titus.

She welcomed Alethea, took in her stride the news that her sister's closet was to be raided for clothes for her to wear, and gave orders for her to be taken to her room.

“You will want to rest after your journey,” she said to Alethea. “I shall send down to the kitchen directly with orders for a supper to be prepared for you. You may prefer to eat it in the small saloon; the dining room has been all closed up since Mr. and Mrs. Wytton are away. Mr. Titus, will you not stay to eat?”

“No, no, I must away. I shall call in the morning, I dare say, to see how Mrs. Napier does.”

And he was gone, before Alethea could thank him or say good-bye. She felt strangely bleak, but put it down to tiredness from rattling along in a carriage for so many miles. “I think every tooth in my head has been shaken from its socket,” she told Mrs. Burden as she followed her up the stone staircase to a bedchamber on the first floor.

She fell asleep as soon as Figgins had drawn the curtains round the old-fashioned four-poster bed, and woke to find cracks of sunlight peeping through the joins. She yawned and slipped out of bed to go to the window and drink in the landscape, a paradise of summer greens, a haze predicting a fine day, the countryside alive with the sound of birds. A cockerel crowed, late to his duty, and in one of the paddocks a horse whickered to its companion. It was all so peaceful. She heaved a deep sigh of pure pleasure and rang the bell for Figgins. How late was it? How she had slept, and how hungry she was!

Figgins had also slept, but not so long, and had found time to adjust one of Camilla's gowns so that it more or less fitted Alethea. “Which it would be a better fit if you had more flesh on you, skin and bones still, though not as bad as you were.”

Alethea made a good breakfast, and then took herself off to the music room. Her brother-in-law had a fine piano, she remembered, a Broadwood. She hoped it was in tune; a few chords reassured her and she began to search through the piles of music. How long it was since she had had the indulgence of playing so many of her favourite pieces.

Her fingers were woefully out of practice, and she settled down to some serious work. Absorbed in the music, she neither heard the sound of a horse's hooves, nor the rapid footsteps approaching the music room. The door was flung open without ceremony.

“Of course you would be in here.”

“It is very early for a morning call, Mr. Manningtree, you will shock the servants.”

“Never mind the servants, I had to come immediately I heard the news.”

“What news?”

“Only this, that Napier, your husband, Norris Napier, is dead.”