The Danbury Scandals (30 page)

‘Really?’
Eleanor’s face broke into a delighted smile. ‘Oh, Maryanne, my dear, I am so
pleased for you. But why did you stay in Paris so long?’

‘I was hoping
Adam would come.’

‘I know, dear,
but now we must make all haste to get you safely to Beckford.’

‘Beckford?’
Maryanne queried in surprise.

‘Of course.
That is your home.’ Eleanor paused. ‘Oh, I see, you thought I would deny Adam’s
birthright. Oh, my dear, I said some very foolish things, but I did not mean
them. And, besides, now I am going back to England with you, it does not
matter.’

‘It is much
more complicated than that.’ Maryanne paused, wondering whether to go on, but
she had never felt more in need of someone to talk to, someone who might
understand how she felt. ‘His f-’ She stopped and started again. ‘James was
murdered.’

‘Murdered?’
Madame
Saint-Pierre put down her knife and fork. ‘How? Why? Who would do such a
thing?’

‘They say it
was... They accused Adam.’

‘Adam!’ She
stared across the hearth at Maryanne in disbelief. ‘But that is ridiculous. Who
could possibly believe that of him?’

‘There was
circumstantial evidence. He had been talking to James earlier that day and
there were other things...’

‘You know it
can’t be true,’ Eleanor protested.

‘Of course I
do.’ How easy it was to say that now. ‘I have been accused along with him.’

‘Then you had
better tell me all about it, hadn’t you?’

‘It is a long
story.’

‘We have time.
I do not propose to move until you tell it all.’

Maryanne
obeyed, beginning with the incident at the ball and the disastrous curricle
race and ending with Adam’s theory that Mark himself had murdered his father,
making himself the Duke of Wiltshire. ‘What I cannot understand is why Mark
should do such a thing. He was James’s heir...’

‘No, he was
not.’ Eleanor spoke so quietly that Maryanne at first thought she had misheard
her. ‘Adam is.’

‘Adam? But...’

‘You did not
know? Adam never told you?’

‘No. I do not
understand,’ said Maryanne.

Eleanor sighed.
‘It is so like Adam to keep things to himself. Even when he was little...’

‘Please,
Maman
,’
Maryanne begged, falling to her knees beside Eleanor’s chair. ‘Tell me about
it. I am sick of mysteries and everything that comes between us.’

‘You did not
know that James was Adam’s father?’

‘I guessed
that, but I thought...’

‘Oh, I see.’
She paused. ‘Adam is not my son, not my flesh and blood, though I could not
love him more if he were.’ She stopped speaking to sip her wine, but Maryanne
was too shocked to interrupt. ‘James Danbury defied his family as a young man
and married the daughter of one of his tenant farmers and, to escape the
scandal, he brought her to Challac. I was an old friend of Anne’s and, of
course, Louis and I made them welcome.

‘Anne died when
Adam was born. James was broken-hearted, as you would expect, and he could
never look at his son without remembering the wife he had lost. He was hurt and
angry and guilty too, because he had taken Anne from her family. He decided to
return home, leaving Adam with us. I believe he joined the navy. He only went
home to Beckford when he succeeded his father as Viscount Danbury.’

‘Did Adam know
all this?’ Maryanne asked.

‘There was no
need for him to know...’ Eleanor paused. ‘When the Terror ruled France and it
looked as though our lives were in danger, we told him he was the son of an
English aristocrat. We thought it might keep him safe. We told him that if
anything happened to us he was to go to England and see our lawyer there. I
imagine that was when he learned the identity of his father.’

Maryanne sat
staring into the fire for a long time, digesting this information. Why had Adam
not told her? Would it have made any difference? The murder had still happened,
though she thought she could see why now. ‘Mark must have discovered Adam was
James’s true heir,’ she said slowly. ‘By killing his father and laying the
blame at Adam’s door, he would keep the inheritance.’ She sighed. ‘The trouble
is, we can’t prove a thing.’

‘I can be a
witness to Adam’s birth,’ Eleanor pointed out.

‘Yes, you can,
but no one witnessed the murder, and if we go back to England, I am afraid
there will be more trouble. It is one of the reasons I delayed so long.’

‘If there are
no witnesses, how can they prove anything?’
Madame
Saint-Pierre was far
more logical than Maryanne was over it. ‘And if someone tries to manufacture
evidence, then we must uncover the culprit. If it was Mark, he will be a very
frightened man and will give himself away when he learns that we have all
returned to England.’

‘But
Maman
,
we don’t know where Adam is. He could be anywhere. He might be wounded and
lying in some hospital with no means of telling us. He might even...’ She
gulped hard. ‘He might even be dead.’

Maman
patted her hand. ‘I thought he was
dead once but he was alive all the time. Like a cat, he has nine lives.’

Maryanne
managed a wry smile. ‘Yes, but we do not know how many he has used up.’ She
stood up and went to the window and watched the rain lashing against the glass.
‘I hope he isn’t out in this.’

‘Come and sit
down, my dear. He is not out there.’

‘No, but
someone is. There are horsemen coming. Do you think it is the French army?
Perhaps Bonaparte himself.’ Maryanne leaned forward to watch the riders. They
were led by a man in white buckskin breeches and a big blue cape. On his head
he had a cocked hat worn ‘fore and aft’. He was riding perfectly calmly a
little ahead of his companions. Maryanne had seen him once before, at
Westminster, almost exactly a year ago.

‘It’s the Duke
of Wellington,’ she said. ‘And he’s stopping here.’ She craned forward as the
Duke dismounted. ‘He’s coming in. Do you think if we went downstairs we would
learn anything of the battle? He doesn’t look like a man who has been beaten.’

‘I doubt he
will tell you his plans, Maryanne.’

‘No, but one of
his aides might. I’m going to dress and go down. I’ll pretend I need some more
hot water.’ While she spoke, she was scrambling back into her dress. ‘This will
have to do; I don’t suppose anyone expects a ball gown, in the circumstances.’

She remembered
that comment when she went downstairs and the first person she saw, coming out
of the inn parlour, was Lord Brandon in evening dress, with dancing slippers on
his feet, but so covered in mud that it was obvious he had been out in the rain
in them for some time. She stopped on the bottom stair, wondering if he would
recognise her, and, if he did, whether he would acknowledge it. He was part of
facing up to the world, but she had not expected to have to do that so soon.
She found herself trembling as he turned towards her.

‘I beg your
pardon,
mam’selle
,’ he said.

She decided to
test her courage and made no move to stand aside. ‘It is
Madame
Saint-Pierre now, my lord.’

His mouth
dropped open. ‘Miss Paynter...
madame
. What, in the name of all that’s
holy, are you doing here?’

She smiled.
‘Taking shelter from the rain.’

‘But how did
you arrive here? Don’t you know you are in the middle of a battleground?’

‘Yes, we had a
notion we might be when we heard the guns. My mother-in-law and I were going to
Brussels and then on to Antwerp to find a boat to England.’

‘England,’ he
repeated as if his thoughts were miles away.

‘Yes,’ she said
defiantly. ‘Is there any reason we should not?’

‘No, I wish I
were going too.’ He smiled slowly. ‘But may I offer you some advice...?’

She laughed.
‘Avoid the Duke of Wiltshire.’

‘Oh, that too.’
A grin spread across his face and she found herself warming to him. ‘No, this
is a personal matter. When you reach Brussels, find Caroline and tell her you
have seen me. Say I am well and in good spirits and, God willing, I will be
with her again soon.’

‘Caroline is in
Brussels?’

‘Yes. She is my
wife. We were married in Vienna in February.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.
Will you do as I ask?’

‘I will try,
but will she still be there? I imagine many English people will be anxious to
leave...’

He laughed.
‘Not Caroline.’ He took her arm, as if to emphasise what he was saying. ‘If
events make it necessary, if we are defeated or I am killed, will you take her
back to England with you?’

‘With me? Is
Mark not with her?’

He gave a
little grunt. ‘He went home long ago, soon after we saw you in Paris. He
prefers to have his little wars at home.’

She did not ask
him what he meant; it did not seem to matter. ‘Have we been beaten? The men we
saw on the road seemed to think so.’

He smiled
wryly. ‘It was hardly a resounding victory, but we stopped the French from
taking Quatre Bras. It will give us the respite we need to re-group before the
Prussians come to our aid.’

‘We thought
Napoleon was on our heels; you don’t know how relieved we were to see the Duke
of Wellington looking so unconcerned.’

He smiled. ‘He
has that effect on the men too. He can turn a lost battle into a victory just
by being there. Have no fear.’ He turned as a voice bellowed, ‘Brandon!’ from
the parlour. ‘I must go. Please make all haste to leave. I am sorry I cannot
escort you, nor provide you with a carriage. We need all the horses we have.’

‘I understand.
Thank you.’ She turned to go back upstairs. ‘Where will I find Caroline?’

‘We have an
apartment in the Rue du Damier, number five.’ Lord Brandon paused. ‘Tell her I
love her.’

Maryanne went
back to Eleanor to repack their belongings and resume a journey which was
becoming more and more exhausting as day followed day. And to top it all she
was committed to finding Caroline and conveying loving messages. If only
someone would bring her a message, any message at all, so long as it told her
Adam was alive.

In an effort to
keep their feet dry, they walked on the paved road, but even that had its
problems because they frequently had to stand aside to allow troops, horses and
guns to pass, and these threw up so much mud that they were soon as wet as they
had been before. They hardly noticed the cart draw up beside them until someone
spoke. ‘Would you ladies care for a ride?’

Maryanne turned
to see a plump little man sitting on the driving board of a covered wagon. What
surprised her was not that he seemed to be a civilian in the middle of all
things military, but that his coat and hat were covered in buttons sewn on
haphazardly: cloth buttons of every colour and size, black and brown leather
buttons, gold and silver and lace buttons.

‘I can take you
to the next village,’ he added.

Gratefully they
climbed up beside him. He was, he told them, a button salesman.

‘In the middle
of a battlefield!’ Maryanne exclaimed.

He chuckled.
‘The army always needs buttons. It would hardly do if a fellow’s coat was
flapping open or his breeches fell down just when he was ordered to charge,
would it? Can you imagine the effect that would have?’

Maryanne
laughed. ‘For the want of a button the battle was lost... But aren’t you
afraid?’

‘Terrified,
ma’am, but I have a living to make.’ He paused. ‘What are you doing so far forward?
The baggage train is on the other side of Soignes woods.’

‘We are not
camp followers,’ Maryanne said, mustering her dignity. ‘We are simply
travellers who have had our horses confiscated and want to reach Brussels.’

‘Then it is as
well you met with me, for unless I miss my guess there will be an unholy row
starting before long.’

They left him
at the crossroads at Mont-St-Jean, pondering whether to go left or right, and
set off again on foot. They passed through the little village of Waterloo as
dusk began to fall, but by unspoken agreement did not stop. Further along the
woods on either side of the road were dotted with the camp fires of the waiting
army, eating, preparing their weapons, trying to sleep. They gratefully
accepted an invitation from one of the women to sit by the fire, where both
dropped asleep.

When they awoke
at dawn, cold, cramped and hungry, the men had gone and only a handful of camp
followers remained. They bade them goodbye and began walking again, thankful
the rain had stopped at last. They were approaching the gates of Brussels when
they heard the bombardment begin behind them. It was half-past eleven.

It seemed as
though half the population of the city was on the ramparts as they passed
through the Namur gate. ‘What news?’ they called down to the travellers. ‘Where
is Wellington?’

‘Back down the
road,’ shouted a bandaged infantryman who had been walking beside Maryanne.