The Danbury Scandals (23 page)

‘You don’t
think the bad times will return, do you? Surely everyone is sick of war and
anxious to make peace.’

He laughed. ‘You
wouldn’t think so with all the bickering that is going on. They are trying to
carve up the Continent as if it were a slab of cake, and the French people wait
and watch.’

‘For the
Emperor’s return?’

‘I don’t know.
Perhaps for a sign that their lives will improve.’

‘Surely that is
up to those who govern them?’

‘Precisely.
That is one of the reasons for going home; I must do what I can for my own
people.’

‘How long is it
since you were at home?’

‘Not since...’
He paused, trying to remember. ‘I believe it was six years or more ago. I was
quartered near by and decided to go and see what the old place was like. It was
a mistake.’

‘Why?’

‘Memories,
Maryanne, memories of times which could never return, some happy memories of
childhood but others too painful to dwell on. I did not stay.’

‘Then why are
you going back there now?’

‘It is time to
try again. The place cannot be left to fall apart and we need somewhere to lick
our wounds, do we not?’

‘If you get
there alive,’ she said sharply. ‘This journey is madness.’

‘Have you a
better idea?’

She did not
answer, because answer there was none. She could not leave him, even if she
wanted to; she was committed to staying with him at least until he was well and
she had unravelled the mystery of James’s death. And, in any case, for all his
saying he would arrange to send her back, she doubted he would do it, not after
telling her she knew too much. She wished she did know; most of all she wished
she knew what went on in that head of his. Innocent or guilty? Why would he not
tell her? ‘Only the guilty flee,’ she said. ‘So what are we guilty of?’

He smiled.
‘Flying in the face of Society. We are outcasts, you must know that.’ He
sighed. ‘You are travelling alone with me, not only unmarried, but disinclined
to remedy it, so would you have us travel openly?’

‘I did not mean
that and you know it. I was talking about the night we left Castle Cedars.’

‘What do you
want to know? That I did not kill the Dukes of Wiltshire?’ He gave a cracked
laugh. ‘Either of them.’

‘Yes.’

‘Very well. I
did not cause the death of either man.’ It wasn’t exactly a straight answer,
but it had to suffice. ‘But you know who did?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was it?
Why did you not denounce him?’

‘I have yet to
prove it and until I do no one will believe me.’

‘I might.’

He smiled. ‘I
doubt that.’

‘Tell me
anyway. I want to know.’

‘The man you
were betrothed to marry.’

‘Mark?’ She was
shocked. ‘I don’t believe it. The idea is preposterous. He would not kill his
own father.’

‘I notice how
quick you are to defend him,’ he said with a twisted smile; her words were
almost as painful as his shoulder, which was causing him agony with each turn
of the wheel. ‘You have never been that sure of my innocence. I wonder why?’

She did not
answer and they journeyed on in silence, each thoughtful, each aware of the
presence of the other, sitting so close that they could touch hands and where
every jolt threw them against each other. And every time it happened he grunted
with pain and she felt guilty, terribly, terribly guilty. She found her eyes
filling with tears and wished they could start again, trusting each other.

‘What have I
done?’ he asked softly, seeing her misery. ‘You were right. I was mad to
contemplate such a journey.’

‘We can always
stop until you have rested.’

‘I was not
talking of my state of health. It is you.’

‘Me? What have
I to do with it? I am no more than baggage and not to be trusted.’

If it were not
so painful and if she had not been so serious he would have laughed aloud at
her choice of words; as it was, he confined himself to a wry twist of his lips.
‘Trust is a mutual thing, Maryanne; it has to work both ways.’

‘So it does,’
she said angrily. ‘If I had not trusted you I would not have come.’

‘But not
enough, my love,’ he said. ‘Not enough.’

‘Why do you
call me your love, even when we are quarrelling?’

‘Because you
are my love, and nothing you say or do will alter that. You are my one and only
love, now and for always, and if I live a few days or many, many years, nothing
will change it; it is unchanging and unchangeable.’

His tenderness
made Maryanne burst into tears and for several minutes her sobs were
uncontrollable. He moved awkwardly to try and comfort her. ‘I never knew such a
woman.’ He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and attempted to dry her eyes.
‘I didn’t realise a declaration of love could reduce someone to such tears.
Come, dry your eyes and we will talk.’

‘T... talk
about w... what?’

‘Whatever you
like, the weather, the scenery. France was beautiful once, but look at it now.’
He nodded at the countryside through which they were passing. ‘Devastated by
war, all the men gone, nothing but women who work like cart horses, old men and
children. How long do you think it will take to recover from that?’

‘It is not only
France,’ she said.

‘No, the whole
of Europe.’ She was not sure if he wanted to cheer her up, or to avoid
answering questions. He need not have worried; she was incapable of thinking
clearly. ‘I pray we are given the time to put things to rights. Take that
chateau over there; it looks beautiful with the sun shining on its roof, but if
we were to go closer I’ll wager we would find it in ruins. My old home is like
that, but we will do what we can to bring it back to life, you and I.’ When she
did not reply, he went on, ‘It is especially beautiful in the autumn when the
trees around it are changing colour and the vines have withered and all that’s
left on them are the big purple grapes of the late harvest, so full of juice,
it makes you feel thirsty to look at them. They make the best wine of all, did
you know that?’

She shook her
head. Her sobs had subsided but she could not bring herself to look up into his
eyes for fear of another outburst. Why was he so kind and gentle with her? Why,
if he were a murderer and knew that she knew it, did he carry on as if
conducting her on an afternoon’s ride through the park?

‘I’ll teach you
about wine,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you how they tread the grapes, how they store
the vats underground in huge vaults. I’ll take you to the cellars where the
monks make a local liqueur, which is smooth as silk and tastes of heaven.’ He
bent to kiss her without passion. ‘Just as your lips give me a taste of
heaven.’

‘Oh, Adam, I
don’t know what to think any more...’ Maryanne sighed.

‘Then don’t
think. Trust me now and time will do the rest.’

If only they
could be sure of being allowed that time. Would they both end on the gallows,
unable to prove their innocence? Dared she allow herself to hope? He had said
he loved her; she had to believe that, or what was the point of going on?

‘You need to
rest,’ he said firmly. ‘Looking after an invalid can be very tiring, especially
when he is as contrary as I am, but I am on the mend and feeling stronger by
the minute, so close your eyes, my lovely Maryanne, and I will watch over you.’

Exhausted, she
lay back against the cushioned seat and shut her eyes. What was the good of
fighting? She was lost before she had even started. His voice continued to
murmur endearments in her ear, like a softly sung lullaby, and, in spite of the
jolting, she was soon asleep.

She awoke
briefly when they stopped to change the horses, but soon drifted off again,
unaware that his shoulder was giving him so much pain that he was having to
fight to remain conscious. How long he could keep going he did not know, but they
were still too near Calais to relax. When darkness came and with it the need to
stop for the night, he forced himself to walk into the inn they had chosen, as
if his wound were no more than a minor irritation. The place was, like
everything else, run-down and dirty, but his request for separate rooms was
accepted without question when he explained that he was likely to be very
restive and would disturb his wife.

Maryanne had
stopped thinking for herself, because to do so was painful, and even knowing that
she was living in a fool’s paradise and sooner or later she would have to face
reality did not rouse her from her lethargy. It was almost as if she had been
drugged, drugged with soft words and a soothing voice. Tomorrow would be soon
enough to have it all out with him: the possession of the documents, the
implication that she knew too much to be left behind, all the doubts and
suspicions, once and for all. Tomorrow, she would insist on being told exactly
what had happened at Castle Cedars on the night James died and why he had
accused Mark. Tomorrow, not tonight.

But the next
day she could not speak to him on the subject because he was so obviously
worse. When he appeared at the breakfast table, his face was grey with pain and
there was fresh blood on his shirt. She was allowed to renew the dressing on
his shoulder, but that was all; her arguments that they should stay at the inn
and rest until he recovered were swept aside with bad-tempered intransigence.
‘We go on,’ he said. ‘Don’t fuss, woman.’

She followed
him out to the coach, convinced she would have a corpse on her hands before the
day was through and unable to do a thing about it. Pain or no pain, he was
still strong enough to clamber in the vehicle and order the driver to go on.
There was nothing for it but to climb in beside him and hope that her prayers
for him would be answered. She told the driver that
monsieur
was very
ill and ordered him to drive very slowly and carefully.

In spite of
that, Adam could not leave the coach when they stopped for a midday meal and a
change of horses; he remained ashen-faced, spread out on the seat, too ill to
move, almost too ill to argue. Food was brought out to him, but he could not
eat and Maryanne knew she would have to defy him and take him to a doctor. When
she enquired for one, she was told the nearest and best would be in Paris, and
as that was now only a few kilometres further along the road she decided,
whatever he said, that they would stop there and find help.

As it happened
he did not protest because he was no longer conscious. So much for avoiding the
main roads, she thought, as they rumbled up to a rough wooden palisade and
through tall gates guarded by indolent soldiers into a city which was a
labyrinth of narrow, ill-paved streets and crumbling old houses. Lanterns,
strung across the streets, swayed in the wind and cast pools of sickly yellow
light in which could be glimpsed throngs of noisy, ill-clad people who made
Maryanne shiver with fear. She ordered the coachman to hurry through without
stopping and to find a small hotel in a more salubrious area. ‘Clean,’ she
said. ‘And respectable, but not luxurious. And not in the fashionable area.’

He grinned and
took them to a small lodging house at the lower end of Rue Lepic within sight
of the Moulin Rouge. Adam became conscious as the concierge’s husband and the
coachman lifted him down and carried him indoors. They took him up to a
bedroom, where Maryanne made him comfortable while she waited for the doctor to
arrive. Here they were and here they would have to stay until he was completely
recovered. Challac and the vineyards would have to wait. And the confrontation
she had planned would likewise have to wait. So would proving his innocence -
or guilt - and so would a wedding ceremony. She smiled, as she bathed his
feverish forehead with cold water; what price her reputation now? Thank the
good Lord there was no one who knew them in Paris.

Chapter Nine

It was a month
before Adam improved enough to take notice of his surroundings, a month during
which Maryanne watched over him and nursed him with devotion and care, but it
was also a month in which she found time to search every particle of his meagre
belongings looking for the tell-tale documents. But they were not to be found
and she reluctantly came to the conclusion that he had disposed of them. It
proved one thing above all else, he trusted her no more than she trusted him.
How could love, either his or hers, be based on such suspicion? How could they
come together with such a chasm between them?

While he lay so
ill she did not often move far from their tiny room but it was necessary to
shop for good food to help his recovery, for ointments to put on his shoulder,
for fuel for a fire and mops and brushes to clean their quarters. At such times
the concierge would sit with him and Maryanne would escape from the noisome air
of Montmartre for the city, where at least some effort had been made to clean
up the evidence of the last days of fighting in which so many young soldiers
had died.

At such times,
on her way to and from the markets of Les Halles, she would step aside to
explore. She found the other face of Paris: the wide tree-lined boulevards, the
Palais Royal, the Ile de la Cite, Notre Dame, the restaurants and pavement
cafes, the Royal parks with their statuary and fountains, the Louvre crammed
with Napoleon’s stolen art treasures, the Arc de Triomphe, begun after
Napoleon’s victory at Austerlitz but yet to be completed. Here Paris played
host to visitors of all nationalities: British, Russian, Prussian; they seemed
to have a wild determination to enjoy themselves, to make the most of what the
city had to offer, as if it would all blow away, like dandelion seed, at the
first puff of wind.