I shudder whenever I think back on the sufferings of the next few days. I was forced to endure the most mortifying of congratulations on my upcoming wedding. Of course, Lady Peterby and Mrs. Goodbody knew everything. The marquis had told them himself and their apprehensive misery increased my own. I knew they both felt that they had failed me in some way. Even my sisters became somewhat subdued, though I tried my best to be cheerful around them.
I was semi-invalided for two days and the forced sojourn in bed increased my sense of isolation and panic. I endured one visit from a withdrawn and stiffly polite Lord Dearborne. The visit gave me such a chilly idea of my married life and later brought on such uncontrolled sobbing that Lady Peterby forbade the marquis to visit me until my recovery was complete.
When Christopher visited, his presence could not be said to be cheering because he was morosely involved in planning a mythical, though horrible revenge on Lady Catherine that could in no way be connected with any of us. Lord Peterby came too. After a short, brutal lecture on the insipidity of virgins in general and weeping ones in particular, he pinched me on the chin and cryptically advised me not to be more of a fool than I could help.
The story told outside the immediate family circle was that I had made myself ill by taking too much laudanum for a toothache. Everyone either believed the story or else had the tact to pretend they did. In the Mudbury area, the news of the upcoming wedding spread rapidly. The reaction was one of amazement, fascination, and pleasure. Our Miss Lizzie was going to marry a marquis. Everyone in the village who had ever spoken to me felt touched by stardust.
At least I was spared the mortification of having it widely known that I “had” to marry. I reflected bitterly that here I was, marrying to defend my good name against compromise and I hadn’t even actually been compromised. And if I was miserably unhappy, how must Lord Dearborne feel—being honor-bound to give his name to a “penniless little nobody.” He must resent and despise me as the foolish child that he had called me on more than one occasion. It was small consolation that he no longer could think I had gone to the Cuckold’s Comfort to meet a spy or lover. Now he knew I had gone simply because I was stupid.
My friend Janey Colman came to visit me while I was still abed. She had never been to Petersperch before and it had taken a deal of determination on her part to tap on the grand entrance door, confront the distinguished Wadbury, and ask to be shown to my bedroom. Adding to her natural disinclination to call at so lofty an estate was that some years ago Lord Peterby had found Jane berry-picking alone and had so forgotten himself as to require Jane to make assiduous use of her parasol to protect her virtue. Lord Peterby had laughed and desisted but the memory was kept alive by Jane’s mama, who spat on the ground every time Lord Peterby rode by. For all that, Jane arrived at my bedroom with Wadbury as escort and presented me with a cunning bouquet of wildflowers—lily-of-the-valley, star grass, and day flowers arranged with simple ingenuity. But even to Jane, I could not unburden myself. I had exchanged so many confidences with her in the past but here she was powerless to help me. Not Christopher, not Mrs. Goodbody, not Janey, not even Lady Peterby, nor any of my well-wishers could give me the one thing that I wanted more than anything I had ever wanted before in my life—and marriage to Lord Dearborne without it would be torture. It was agony trying to hide my anguished tenderness. I once read some maddeningly eloquent statement on the miseries of unrequited love—no doubt in Shakespeare, who has said a lot of maddeningly eloquent things.
Add to the score, too, the strained relationship between Christopher and the marquis. I knew that Christopher, however many wild oats he might sow, was conservative and romantic at heart and Lord Dearborne’s treatment of me had shocked him to the very soul. To be honest, I had been upset by it myself, and perhaps even angered, but now in the light of day, I was not shocked. I would no more expect Lord Dearborne to display conventional manners than I would have expected Dionysus to give up wine or Diana to forego the hunt. I was poor Clytië, the sunflower, rooted in her garden to gaze adoringly at Apollo the Sun in his blazing, compassionless splendor. But Christopher saw only that I was hurt and unhappy, and attributed it to Outraged Maidenhood and Virtue Offended. How could I tell him that it was plain old-fashioned lovesickness? So many times in the past I had complained to Christopher about one petty thing or another that Lord Dearborne had done; Christopher had been his staunch champion. Now, the roles had reversed themselves and to my chagrin I found that I was the one defending Lord Dearborne, trying to soften Christopher’s unforgiving outlook on his erstwhile hero.
I stared at the damask wall panels and gold-leaf canopy of my bed for hour after hour, trying to find some way out. All the old questions revolved in my head. All the old fears of being without means or protection in the world. If I left Lord Dearborne and rejected his plans for me, where would I go? It was unthinkable to ask any of my friends to support me—with the topsy-turvy economy of the country, even one extra mouth to feed would be a burden. And I would have to take my sisters if I left. An existence without their merry nonsense would be altogether too bleak. Where could I find a job that would allow me to bring two boisterous adolescents? And to seek refuge with any of my grander friends, Lady Peterby or Lady Anne, was impossible. My pride would not allow me to ask them to harbor me, disgraced as my name would be in the eyes of the beau monde if I refused to marry Lord Dearborne. Even now Lady Catherine was probably parading around London whispering that she had seen Lord Dearborne’s lowly bride-to-be in the bed of Lesley Peterby, though Lord knows how she would disguise her part in how I got there! I could imagine her sly smile and fluttering lashes as she told the story, probably punctuating it with her mirthless titter. Of course, if Lord Dearborne and I announced our engagement and were married in all pomp, then her words would be taken as mere spite—everyone knows about a woman scorned. But if I failed to marry Lord Dearborne…
By the time I was well enough to leave my bed, banns had already been posted for our marriage and Lord Dearborne, on Lady Peterby’s advice, had written to inform his myriad of relations of the upcoming change in his estate. It was better that they hear it from him than Lady Catherine’s poisoned tongue.
I was glad that I didn’t have to face Lord Dearborne in the breakfast parlor on my first morning up. Earlier, I had seen him from my window, cantering in the direction of Barfrestly on his high-life stallion, Jupiter. Thus I was able to enter the breakfast parlor with a semblance of poise. The whole company was assembled there, helping themselves to the dishes of eggs, ham, buttered rolls, and fresh fruit that were arranged on the sideboard. Lord Peterby and Christopher rose to their feet when I came in, a customary courtesy that always managed to make me feel ill at ease, like an impostor. Lady Peterby gave me a warm maternal smile as she looked up from the letter she had been perusing.
“How good it is to see you on your feet again, cherie. All goes delightfully for your wedding. Legions of Nicholas’s friends and relations are writing to tell how very pleased they are with his marriage. There is even a letter from His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, who expresses himself at gratifying length and begs that as soon as Nicky has completed his business in Kent he return to present you at Court. As well, the dowager Duchess of Windham (she is Nicholas’s grandmother and the matriarch of his family, you know) has written to wish you both well and give her unqualified approval to the match.”
“You’re dealing without a full deck, Mama. I’ll wager that the duchess said nothing of the kind. A more uncivil old woman I’ve never met!” Lord Peterby twitched the sheet out of his mother’s hand. “Let me look. Ha! Here she says, ‘I’m glad that Nicholas has finally decided to stop making an ass of himself and put his energies to breeding an heir instead of pleasuring the serving wenches. He had better hurry the business if I’m to bounce my great-grandchild on my knee before I die.’ Well, I guess you could call that unqualified approval.”
“Imbecile!” Lady Peterby snatched the letter back from her son. “If you intend to chortle like a plowboy than go out to a field and do it! Elizabeth, the duchess always talks like that, it means nothing. Merely, she comes from a franker generation. Now look what you’ve done, Lesley, you horrid boy.”
“Yes, I see. The child is suffused in maidenly blushes. No, no, don’t toss that apple at me, Maman. I promise to be good.”
“Well, then, cease that dreadful laughing. Poor Elizabeth will be sorry that she got out of bed this morning.”
I know that she meant it in the kindest possible way. But I swear to Mars that the next time someone calls me “poor Elizabeth” I will scream my head from my shoulders.
“I’m all right, Lady Peterby. I can take teasing. And I think that frankness is a very good thing. I have the utmost respect for anyone who can be frank.” If I had been more open with Lord Dearborne I might never have gotten into this fix. I sat down and began to pick at the omelette that Christopher had put on my plate. Trying to keep my voice light, I asked Lady Peterby if Lord Dearborne had decided on a wedding date.
“Yes, we’ve agreed that it will be best to wait until fall. Under the circumstances we want to avoid any appearance of undue haste. The duchess has offered to lend her townhouse for the wedding. Nothing could be better, for the approval of the Duchess of Windham will open the highest doors for you, and as effortlessly as a swallow’s song. You can remain here with me until the ceremony, though I daresay invitations will soon be pouring in from Nicky’s family—all eager to play host to you. You are still looking a trifle peaked, dear. Perhaps you should wait one more day before resuming your lessons with the vicar?”
“Oh no, Lady Peterby, I’m not peaked, really. This is my natural color—I’ve always been pale.” One more day of staring at my bedroom wallpaper would drive me mad. “I feel delightfully fit, honestly, and I’m so looking forward to seeing the vicar today. I have a box of Admiral Barfreston’s old maps and such that I want to take to show him. You remember, Christopher, they are the ones you rescued from the fire.”
Lady Peterby regarded me doubtfully. “Well, if you have been looking forward to it, I wouldn’t want to disappoint you. But I don’t want you to tax your strength. You must take the carriage. I won’t have you walking so far yet.”
“Very well, ma’am,” I replied meekly, though it was my spirit alone that was weak. Physically I felt as fit as a freebooter. As I bumped along to Mudbury in Lady Peterby’s outdated laudet I told myself squarely that I would have to face facts. The news of my betrothal to Lord Dearborne was already so widespread that it would be impossible for me to cry off now without a truly fearful row. If the Prince Regent had bestowed his blessing on the match, then I knew the marquis would have me to the altar if he had to drug me with Lady Catherine’s opium. It was impossible to turn back now without making the marquis look ridiculous, and it’s sabers to safety pins that Lord Dearborne wouldn’t let that happen. But how could I go through with it, how could I?
I sat back against the worn leather seat and rested my hand on the box of maps that I had brought with me. Closing my eyes, I tried to breathe slowly and deeply, letting the pure country air work its healing magic. Right now there was too much peace and quiet. The twins had walked down to their lessons much earlier, and suddenly I wished they were here to distract me. My dear, dear little sisters. At least I would have them with me through the trials ahead. Christa had told me yesterday afternoon that she had asked the marquis (just to make sure) if he intended to let them come to live with him too. She said that he had told her yes; how else would he keep his peacocks exercised?
It was midday quiet when the coachman set me down in front of the small, modern parsonage with its whitewashed sides and black shutters that the vicar always left closed so no light could enter and fade the bindings of his books. The coachman offered to carry the box of maps inside the house for me, but that would have meant that I would have had to hold the team of horses since there was no one else around to do it. I’d rather lift a box of maps any day then tangle with one horse, much less two.
So I unloaded myself, told the coachman he could return to pick me up in three hours, and watched the laudet lumber off on the path back to Petersperch. I turned to lug my burden into the house when I heard a low whinny. There was the marquis’s stallion, Jupiter, under the varnished leaves of the vicar’s holly tree. The reins were looped casually about a nearby bush, which Jupiter had returned to munching after his equestrian greeting for me. Whew! The marquis must be in visiting with the vicar. I set down my box in the dust and dashed over to the inn, where it was a safe bet that I could while away half an hour in conversation with Mrs. Blakeslee, the innkeeper’s wife. Perhaps when I returned, Jupiter would be gone and I would be able to put off facing Lord Dearborne for a while longer.
After Mrs. Blakslee had given me the up-to-the-minute details on Janey Colman’s wedding and I had reciprocated with all the latest information on mine, I went outside again to have a peek under the holly tree. Yes, Jupiter was still there. But my box, the happily preserved contents of Admiral Barfreston’s sea chest, was gone! I tried not to panic—mayhap someone had seen them sitting in front of the vicar’s house, thought they must be his, and stuck them inside the vicarage doorway. I was just about to rush willy-silly into the vicar’s front door when the squeaking of worn cartwheels caught my attention. There, driving an empty produce wagon, was my old friend from the Dyle church basement, Monsieur Sacre Bleu. And there, on the seat beside him, was the box of Admiral Barfreston’s sea gear!
Oh, Ares! Oh, Pluto! Oh… hell. I wasn’t going to let him get away with it, not if it killed me. You probably recall that each time I say that, it nearly does. You will also probably recall the occasions upon which I’ve come to grief by setting out on my own in some self-righteous quest or other. So, you would think that I would have learned my lesson by now. Wrong-o! Rome wasn’t built in a day and you can’t change the stupidly impulsive habits of a lifetime by a few bad experiences. I ran over to Jupiter, mounted with the cooperation of the wicket fence, and took off down the rutted lane after Monsieur Sacre Bleu. Of course I could have gone into the vicarage to get the marquis, and of course I could have told him what had happened, and of course I was to regret that I had not done so a thousand times on that long, long afternoon.
Just because I had successfully attained the back of a horse did not mean that I had magically become a good rider. To be truthful, I wasn’t even a competent rider. I think the only reason Jupiter had agreed to leave the vicarage yard in the first place was because the horse was so flabbergasted that I had dared to get on his back at all. He was soon to regain his wits.
We had hardly gone a half-mile down the narrow lane when Jupiter stopped in his tracks and began turning impatient circles, taking great care to brush my legs against the thorny roadside underbrush.
“Whoa, Jupiter, whoa. Nice horsie. Good horsie. No, no, I want to go that way. Listen, you want some sugar? Tomorrow I’ll give you some sugar, I promise. Or a nice fat carrot. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Sure you would, you big, beautiful boy.” You big dumb brute. I bet you can smell fear a mile away. You’re just like your master, ready to take advantage of me at the first opportunity.
It didn’t take me long to be convinced that Dyle was the destination of Monsieur Sacre Bleu and the produce cart. That was where I had first seen him and that was where this road led. The only problem now was getting there.
If you had seen Jupiter that afternoon it would have rid you forever of any notion that horses are four-legged creatures. I’ll swear I went half the way to Dyle with the cursed animal on his two hind legs. If only I had paid more heed to Christopher’s lecture on What To Do If Your Horse Rears. I remember when he had tried to teach me that, I had told him that if he ever so much as put me near a horse that reared it would be the worse for him.
To my great relief, Jupiter stopped his fidgets as quickly as he had started them. He broke into a crisp, steady trot that jarred me to pieces as I couldn’t post fast enough, but at least we were moving forward. In fact, suddenly we were moving forward too fast. We cantered around one sharp curve and there was the produce cart disappearing around the bend. I could imagine myself turning to wave airily at Monsieur Sacre Bleu as the stupid horse carried me thundering past. I closed my eyes, dug in my knees and pulled back on the reins with all my might. Jupiter stopped so suddenly that I flew into his neck, and got a mouthful of mane and a stunning blow on the nose. Well, at least we were stopped. And we were stopped. The horse refused to budge another inch.
“Come on, Jupiter. He must have gone on a mile by now. What are you standing here for? Do you think a sculptor is going to come and carve your image in marble?” He turned to regard me balefully. Then, as I despaired of ever moving from the spot, Jupiter lifted his shapely hooves and set forward at a fast raking trot. And thus we traveled to Dyle. Stop and start. Turn and twist. Bolt and duck. Christopher says that eventually they are going to replace horses with steam-engine traveling machines. It won’t come one day too soon for me.
Mile after exhausting mile we plowed on. Twice I was thrown by some sudden start of Jupiter’s, but both times the stallion returned to me, standing restlessly as I made a slow, painful climb into the saddle. He did have an occasional gentlemanly impulse. It seemed like forever until I began to feel the salty breath of the sea. I was staying in the saddle only by clutching tightly to Jupiter’s mane and leaning my head wearily against his muscular neck. The ox wasn’t even sweating. I knew we had almost reached Dyle when we splashed through a shallow tidal creek and the salt water stung some feeling into my numbed legs. A breeze rustled the salt-marsh cordgrass which stood in tall narrow strips pointing toward the pouting heavens. I eyed the sky uneasily; it looked like it was considering raining. To distract myself I listened for the sound of the timid marsh rail and was rewarded with a fleeting “kek-kek-kek” as the rail went about its feeding. “Bon appétit!” I called softly.
When I came to the outlying cottages of Dyle, I decided that it would be better to take the hilly bridle path that skirted the city; if I went through Dyle I would risk being recognized by some of Mrs. Goodbody’s Dyle relations. Having come this far, I had no intention of letting anyone steal my adventure. I had seen no evidence of the produce cart for a while now but I knew, without any doubt, that he was heading for the basement crypt. There could be no more perfect place for spies or smugglers. The narrow track was dusty, and set with sharp pebbles that Jupiter’s hooves sent sailing into the narrow margins of salt hay. For a while the path climbed and then threaded its way down a steep, chalky cliff. There, on its rocky ledge below, was the church, in all its dour medieval pomp.
I slid off Jupiter’s back and patted the velvet muzzle. “Well, at least you didn’t murder me, you rascal.” I fumbled with the well-cared-for cinches and the saddle came off easily, though I left on the small saddle blanket. Using the ripped and dirty flounce that I had torn off my gown, I rubbed down the stallion, the while plotting my next move. You can plot and plot, but quite frankly, it’s not worth it sometimes. For all my thinking, it came down to this—there was nothing to plot until I learned more about what was going forward and so I would just have to creep around the churchyard and research.
Creeping around wasn’t as easy as I had thought it would be; mainly because I could hardly walk. Whatever skin there had been on the inside of my thighs was gone and I wouldn’t sit down for a month. The lacy go-visiting gloves that I had worn were no protection for a day of leather assault. My palms looked like overcooked mutton. In truth there was not one part of my entire body that did not throb or torment me.
I considered the merits of waiting for the cover of dusk to begin my prowl but finally rejected the idea, deeming it a time-wasting precaution; the area was spotted with bushes that would be an effective enough shield. I circled cautiously around the austere stonework supports of the church. The only eyes that followed my movements were the glum orbs of the squatting gargoyles that someone had once added to the structure under the misapprehension that they were decorative. Now what? To enter the church, walk down the long aisle, then penetrate the mysteries of the macabre basement crypt?
So it seemed. There was no sign of the produce cart with my box of maps. I wondered if it was hidden off in the nearby trees or if, despite all, I had beaten Monsieur Sacre Bleu here by taking the high path instead of coming through Dyle. I dragged open the heavy oak door which groaned like a grandpa with gout. The atmosphere of ancient gloom was exaggerated by the shadowed twilight of the interior. More clouds had shrouded the sun so only the thinnest reeds of light filtered through the high windows. Off, far out to sea, I could hear the crotchets of a thunderhead.
I tiptoed across the time-worn flagstones to the passage leading below. There were oil lamps on the table as before, but I boldly opted for darkness. Many times I’ve heard Joe Hawkins say that if you are ever trying to hide at night, never take a lamp; it will make you an easy target. Sometimes it is better to curse the darkness than to light a single candle. So, cursing the darkness, I began to descend into the perpetual night of the crypt.
I felt my way slowly down the uneven steps, my heart taking up an uncomfortably large portion of my chest. One step at a time, one heartbeat at a time, I found that my exploring toes could discover no more ledges ahead. I must be in the crypt.
It was not even the tick of a timepiece later that I heard the door swing open at the stair head and the sound of rapid footfalls. It took me a few seconds to react, then I ran; no, I flew along the rough perpendicular of the wall, scratching my arms as I brushed its jagged surface. One thing only was important—to get as far away from those invading footsteps as was possible in the moment before they reached the cavern. As soon as I saw the light from the passage, I stopped dead. I could only press myself desperately against the wall and wait with my heart playing a rapid tattoo against my rib cage.
Two men had entered the clammy vault and their voices reached me as clearly as a crystal chime.
“No, don’t speak to me in French, Pierre. You will never learn English if you do not persist in practicing it!” His voice was filled with the exasperated patience with which one explains things to a slow-witted child. “I am so busy keeping you and Thomas out of trouble that I have had no time to complete my own work. Oh, why can they not send me men who have been properly trained?”
“Ah, you are the smart one always, eh? At least give the boy credit. It stands to reason that if the mansion was burning to the ground then the so-conscientious Milord would move his precious documents to a place of safety.”
“Imbecile! Is a place of safety the care of a child? Surely the fact alone that she possessed it should indicate that the contents of the box were valueless.” The speaker had his back to me but I knew who it was without a single doubt.
“Not necessarily so, my fine buck. Milord is a very subtle man. How do you know that he wouldn’t do just that thing to throw us off the scent?”
“Because Milord has real operatives to use. He does not have to work with fools like I do,” the familiar voice snapped. “I don’t know who is more stupid, Thomas with his midnight flittings and mansion burnings or you with your wild duck chases. You have deserted your post watching the marquis, wasted the afternoon, and risked exposure for a box of useless old maps. How many times must I tell you two to do nothing, no-thing, without my prior consent. This has been the most inefficient assignment I have ever undertaken in England, and all due to the blunderings of two oafs. Napoleon will know why this mission has been a failure. I promise you.”
“If you want your missions not to fail then you must tell the general to give you the permission to assassinate Monsieur le Marquis. It is he that destroys all the plans. When I would bribe, then I find he is there first. When I would steal, then I find it has already been removed. He is the devil and smarter than you, though you will not admit it and blame all on your comrades.”
“Oaf! Foolish oaf! We are looking for a list of English operatives in France, not a packet of obsolete sea charts. I know there is such a list. Henri saw it with his own eyes once, when he cooked in the Warrington household. We would have had it that night we broke into Warrington Place had not you been such a fool and shot the old man before we could force it out of him. A messy business! And you and Thomas with your ridiculous playing with fireworks, like children on Bastille Day. If you would stay away from young Warrington, he would not recognize you—there is no need to kill him. Now Henri, he had to die. He was a good cook and a patriotic Frenchman, and he wasn’t too proud to take my money for his services, but he wanted too much, he threatened to expose the whole operation to the marquis and I had to kill him with my own hands. A most disgusting business, but necessary.”
“Ha!” said Sacre Bleu. “What a hypocrite you are! Killing is necessary only to save your own worthless neck, but everyone else can just hang.”
A circle of light from the area of the steps revealed that a third person was joining them.
“I agree with Pierre one hundred percent!” said the new arrival.
“You oafs stick together, right, Thomas?” the other man replied to the newcomer—Thomas the groom!
“We’ll see who’s an oaf,” said Thomas. “You two bloody winners are in here jawing like old women and left it up to me to find Dearborne’s Jupiter tied up in the wood outside. And I found this next to it.” He held up the flounce I had torn from my dress.
“Do you think she saw you?” said Thomas. “Did the girl see you?”
“Merde,” said Sacre Bleu. “I hope not.”
I realized in that instant that the combined light of the two lanterns would make me visible to any of the men happening to look in my direction. I frantically wished myself invisible, and stood stock-still against the wall.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” said the other man, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “She’s standing right behind you.” Involuntarily, I let out a gasp of fright.
“Sacre bleu, so she is!”
“How could she ride the stallion—my God, he is a killer,” gasped Thomas. They were all looking at me with speculative eyes. “She can’t stay on the tamest nag in the stable.”
“She’s tougher than she looks.” The lantern was brought closer. “Aren’t you, Elizabeth dear? If you had stayed in bed a few days longer, you would not now be in a great deal of trouble,” said Dr. Brent.