The Danbury Scandals (21 page)

It was broad
day now and she could see Mark and the two men standing on the beach, up to
their knees in water, trying to reload their weapons before their quarry sailed
out of range. She turned to Adam with a cry of triumph which became a cry of
horror when she saw his coat was covered in blood. His face was deathly pale
and his eyes were dark pools of pain.

She fell on her
knees beside him, opening his waistcoat to see the extent of the wound. The
bullet had entered his shoulder, but there was no exit-point. ‘We’ll have to go
back, you need a surgeon,’ she said.

‘I have no
intention of letting a little scratch turn me back,’ he muttered. ‘Bind me up.
I’ll be as good as new in a day or two.’

She tore up her
petticoat to make a bandage and tied it round him, making him wince, though he
did not complain. ‘I’m no good at this sort of thing,’ she said ‘You must have
a doctor.’

‘Later,’ he
muttered. ‘Later, if necessary.’

She finished
her task and made a pillow for him with Jeannie’s cloak. ‘Can’t we put in
somewhere else along the coast?’

‘Not on this
side of the Channel. There is no safe harbour for us in England now.’ He
struggled to sit up, then hauled himself over to the man in the stern. ‘Enough
of playing the invalid; give me the tiller.’ The man relinquished his place and
went forward to help trim the sails, while Adam settled down to steering the
small craft. ‘Don’t look so glum, my dear,’ he said, smiling at Maryanne,
though even that was more a grimace of pain. ‘All will be well.’

She wished she
could believe him. She was miserable and unsure of herself and, now she had
nothing to occupy her, felt desperately ill because the seas were running high
and the boat was being tossed on the waves like a piece of driftwood. And that
was all they were - driftwood, floating aimlessly on a sea without a haven.

Beckford was
not exactly a haven, but it was home and, though she did not think she would
ever have married Mark, even if she had not met Adam, at least she had friends
there: the rector and the village people, and James... Her wayward thoughts
were halted abruptly by the realisation that James was no more. The events of the
last twelve hours came flooding back, the arguments, the indecision, Jeannie’s
lecture and that kiss of Adam’s which had dispelled her doubts. But had it?
While his lips were on hers, his arms around her, yes, but they could not be
forever in each other’s arms; could she have the same kind of faith when he was
distant? Every time they had a disagreement or a set-back would her doubts
return, as they were doing now?

‘Can we never
go back to England?’ she asked, moving over to sit beside him.

‘One day we will,
but not now.’ He paused to concentrate on a change of tack, and then went on,
‘Seasickness and homesickness are a deadly combination. Fight them, fight them
for all you are worth, because I need you to be strong.’ His eyes were bright
but his skin had a pallor which frightened her; it was as if all the blood had
drained from him, leaving him an empty grey shell. ‘Take the tiller, will you?
Hold it so.’

She had hardly
changed places with him, when he fell in a heap at her feet. She cried out in
alarm and one of the other men came to his aid.

‘Keep her on
course,’ the man said brusquely, before helping Adam to the tiny forward cabin.
She dared not leave her seat, and the agony of not knowing what was happening
made her forget her own sickness. ‘Let him not die,’ she prayed, all too
conscious of the fact that it was because he was saddled with her that he was
in danger of it. Alone he could have eluded his pursuers. ‘Please, God, be kind
to him.’

The man came
back. ‘I’ll take over here, miss, you will do him more good than I can.’

She did not
need a second bidding and for the next four hours she sat on a stool beside the
narrow bunk on which he lay and watched over him as he fought to retain his
hold on a life which seemed to be ebbing away. She had already used one of her
underskirts to staunch the loss of blood from his shoulder, and now she tore up
another layer to dip in water and bathe his brow. That was what he meant when
he had said he needed her to be strong; she had to take over the ordering of their
lives, to make the decisions. And she was torn by doubt and anxiety.

‘Where are we?’
she called to the men. ‘Can we turn back?’

One of them put
his head in the door. ‘No sense in doing that, miss, we’re over halfway and the
wind and tide would be against us if we tried to turn.’

‘Can we go any
faster?’

He smiled. ‘We
are in the Lord’s hands, He sends the weather.’

She turned back
to Adam, who was thrashing about on the narrow bunk and in danger of falling
off it. She pinned his arms down and soothed him and he seemed to fall into a
peaceful sleep. ‘You knew what you were about, didn’t you?’ she whispered. ‘You
knew if you could hold on until we had passed the halfway mark there would be
no going back. But how am I to get you ashore? And, when I do, what happens
next?’

Four hours
later, while she half dozed on her stool, the elder of the two fishermen
called, ‘Land ahoy! We’ll beach in half an hour.’

She left Adam
to allow herself a brief glimpse of a distant shore, then returned to try and
rouse him. ‘Adam, wake up, we’ll be there soon; please, please try and stay
conscious.’

He moved and
groaned and uttered something unintelligible, then first one eye and then the
other opened, and they were clear and bright.

‘Praise be!’
she said. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Sore.’

‘Try sitting
up.’

He had a
strength and resilience which amazed her, and, although he moved slowly, a few
minutes later, with her help, he was standing upright with his arm round the
mast, scanning the coastline. ‘Can you take her along the coast and into the
river mouth?’ he asked the men. ‘I know a spot where you can tie up.’

Under his
direction, they sailed slowly and silently up a quiet estuary and into the
mouth of a river. There were a few people on the towpath, going about their
lawful business, and they looked up in curiosity as the English boat crept
forward on the minimum of sail. When the wind failed, the two men jumped ashore
and towed the craft, pulling it along like a couple of barge horses, aided by
half a dozen short-skirted fishwives who were thrown a few
sous
for
their trouble.

They were about
a mile up river when they came upon a tumbledown little inn with a tiny quay.
Here they tied up and the men helped Adam to disembark, supporting him between
them.

Adam was
looking very ill again and Maryanne, following them into the inn, realised that
the effort of remaining in command of his senses and directing operations had
taken their toll. She decided it was time she took charge.

‘A bed for the
gentleman,’ she ordered the innkeeper in her best French. ‘And please send for
a doctor, he has been wounded. And the other two need food and drink.’

‘
Oui, madame
.’

The few people
who were about were already pointing at the boat and chattering among
themselves, and before long they would begin asking direct questions. The
sooner they moved on, the better.

‘Bed for you,’
she said to Adam.

He managed a
wry grin. ‘I’ve never succumbed to petticoat government yet and I don’t intend
to start now.’

‘As you please.
Bleed to death if that is what you want,’ she retorted.

‘The lady is
right, Captain,’ said the elder of the two fishermen. ‘We will help you to your
room.’

‘Very well, if
I must, but I shall go alone.’ He rose awkwardly and made his way over to the
stairs, moving from one piece of furniture to the next. Maryanne went to help
him, but he shrugged her off. ‘Leave me be. Don’t fuss.’

‘Fine wife I’d
look if I allowed you to struggle on your own,’ she retorted, following him up
to the room which had been prepared for him.

He grinned
lop-sidedly and allowed her to help him off with his coat and boots. ‘I can do
the rest myself.’

‘Why so coy?’
She undid his cravat as she spoke and then looked about her for something sharp
to cut away his shirt. ‘You would allow a nurse to help you, wouldn’t you?’

‘That’s
different.’

She found a
small pair of scissors on a table by the window and set to work removing the
blood-stained shirt. The sight of the ugly wound in his shoulder made her feel
faint and the only way she could continue was to take a deep breath and make
herself forget that this was Adam Saint-Pierre, whom she loved, and pretend it
was a stranger who needed her help. ‘Why is it different? You think I am too
squeamish, is that it?’ she asked.

She heard a
discreet cough behind her and whirled round to face a plump little man who had
come unannounced into the room. Flustered, she smoothed her skirts, and stepped
away from the bed. ‘Are you the doctor?’

‘
Oui
.
Now stand aside,
madame
, and let me see the extent of the injuries. A
gunshot wound, I ‘ave been told.’

‘Damned
excisemen,’ Adam said in the sort of terrible French an Englishman might use.
‘Took a potshot at me, didn’t seem to realise the war had ended.’

The doctor
smiled. ‘If you will indulge in these dangerous pastimes, you must expect a
leetle trouble.’

He began poking
about in the wound with an instrument he had taken from his bag, making Adam
grunt with pain. ‘How long ago did it ‘appen?’

‘Ten hours,
around dawn this morning.’

‘Ten hours! It
is a miracle your whole system ‘as not been poisoned. I shall ‘ave to do - what
do you say? - a leetle excavating.’ He turned to Maryanne. ‘Go and order ‘ot
water and a bottle of brandy to be brought ‘ere, then find somet’ing to do for
the next ‘alf-hour.’

She passed on
his request to the innkeeper but she had no intention of leaving Adam and
quickly returned to his side. She poured a generous measure of brandy into a
glass and took it to the bedside.

‘Take ‘im the
bottle,
madame
, the bottle,’ the doctor said impatiently, then added.
"Ave you ever seen your ‘usband dead drunk,
madame
?’

‘No. ‘

‘Then you are
going to now. Give ‘im all of it.’

‘Send her
away,’ Adam said, taking the bottle and tipping it up to his mouth. ‘Send her
away.’ He was gulping at the fiery liquid, as if he could not find oblivion
quickly enough.

She made no
move to leave, but stood and watched as the contents of the bottle diminished
and the doctor prepared his instruments. Adam began to sing, but that soon fell
away into a mumble and then the bottle dropped from his hand.

The surgeon set
to work, probing gently at first, but when it became apparent that Adam had
lost consciousness completely he worked more swiftly, delving deeper into the
shoulder. Maryanne handed him his instruments when he asked for them, gulping
to stop herself from feeling sick or faint, and watched Adam’s face for signs
of returning consciousness.

‘‘Ere it is.’
The doctor’s calm voice made her turn, as he extracted a hard metal object from
the pool of blood in which he was working, and dropped it into the empty brandy
glass. ‘Now, let us bind ‘im up before ‘e comes to ‘is senses.’

She helped him
to do that, while Adam remained unconscious, his face whiter than the rather
grubby sheet that covered him. The doctor, satisfied with his handiwork,
reached for his coat. ‘
Madame,
your ‘usband ‘as lost much blood, but ‘e
will soon make it up. ‘E must have rest and have good food and no more sailing,
nothing energetic...’

‘When can he
travel?’ she asked, looking down at the invalid and praying for his complete
recovery.

‘Not for a week
and then only if you go very
doucement.
Where were you going,
madame
?’

She did not
know. ‘Paris,’ she said.

‘It is too far.
You must wait until that wound ‘as properly ‘ealed.’

She wondered if
Adam would obey that instruction when he regained his senses, but she smiled
and said, ‘I will make sure he rests, Doctor, and thank you.’ He had to be paid
and she had no money, so there was nothing for it but to go to Adam’s coat,
which had been thrown across the back of a chair. ‘Your fee,
monsieur
?’

‘An English
guinea will do very well,
madame
.’

Feeling more
like a thief than a wife, she put her hand inside the pocket and was surprised
to find it was unusually roomy, almost like a poacher’s pocket. From it she
withdrew a sheaf of papers and ruffled through them looking for a purse or
paper money, but what she saw brought her up with a start. In her hand she was
holding what were obviously legal documents and they bore the Danbury crest!

For a moment
she was unable to move because she had realised with a dreadful certainty that
these were the papers which had been stolen from James’s desk on the night of
the murder.