Anne Herries - Marianne and the Marquis

The memory of all that they and their comrades had shared out there, of the pain, fear and grief at seeing the men they knew and cared for die in agony, was sharp in his mind.

‘It makes me sick to my stomach,’ Jack replied. ‘If I could think otherwise, I should be a happier man—but everything leads me to believe that we were betrayed that day by an Englishman—and that even now he is working for Bonaparte.’

‘My God!’ Drew’s eyes glinted with anger. He could never forget that day in Spain when he and a small detachment of his men had been sent on what was supposed to be a surprise sortie against the French. The enemy had somehow known of their coming and, though Jack, two others and Drew had escaped with their lives, seven of their comrades had been cut down as well as a number of the men that followed them. ‘If I find him, he should say his last prayers!’

‘No, that is not the way,’ Jack warned him. ‘He must hang for his sins, Drew. If you take summary justice you are no better than he and his accomplices.’

‘You think there was more than one involved?’

‘One Englishman—the others are undoubtedly French.’

‘And you think that they are now running this smuggling gang?’

‘The smuggling is a cover for their other activities,’ Jack said. ‘I am sure that the spy comes and goes with the French ship, which brings in brandy, silks and laces under cover of darkness. But the Englishman is able to mix with people like us and use what he learns against our army. In short, he is a gentleman, or what passes for one. We are far from done with this war, Drew. It will come to a showdown in the end, and Wellington wants this spy caught and hung before he can betray more of our secrets.’

‘The devil he does!’ Drew frowned, his eyes glinting with blue fire, which burned cold, black ice at its centre. ‘Well, I shall do my best to bring the traitor to heel.’ He clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘It was good to have this time with you, Jack. I miss the old days…’

Drew had been called home when his uncle died—the Marlbeck estate was an important one, and, as his uncle’s heir, he had been expected to sell his commission. It was his duty to care for the land, but with no other family, except a cousin some twenty years his senior, he sometimes found it a lonely task, missing the comradeship he had known in the army.

‘You are sure you wish to become involved in this?’ Jack asked. ‘When Old Hooky suggested you, I thought you would turn it down. I confess I am surprised that you feel able to take something like this on. You must have enough to do with Marlbeck?’

‘Duty becomes boring at times,’ Drew said wryly. ‘Wait until you are forced to settle down, my friend. You may long for adventure.’

‘Adventure?’ Jack frowned and wondered. He loved Drew as a friend and a brother, but there had been times when his wildness and temper had led him astray. ‘This is serious business, Drew. You would be well advised not to forget it.’

‘Do not look so doubtful,’ Drew told him. ‘I assure you that I am over all that…the nightmares hardly trouble me now. And even if they did, I should not let them interfere with my duty. You have asked me to discover the identity of the man who betrayed us—a spy working for the French and using a smuggling gang to cover his activities. I give you my word that I shall do everything I can to bring him to justice.’

‘Then Wellington was right,’ Jack said. ‘You are the man for the work—and here’s my hand on it.’

Drew clasped his hand firmly. No need to tell his friend that if he ever caught the spy, and knew him to be the traitor who had betrayed so many good men, he would kill him.

‘Your aunt is coming to tea this afternoon, Marianne,’ Mrs Horne announced as the family sat in their handsome parlour. The Vicarage was a large, substantial house filled with the personal treasures accumulated over the last twenty-five years since Mrs Horne had first come there as a bride. It had a slightly shabby air—money had not been plentiful—but until the last few months that had not bothered the family one whit. However, today there was a slightly apprehensive look in her soft blue eyes, for Cynthia Horne had always been in awe of her sister, and the feeling had grown more overpowering since the tragic death of the Reverend Horne some months earlier. ‘Her note says that she has something she wishes to discuss with us.’

‘Do you think she is going to ask us to live with her?’ Jo asked, pulling a face. She had been cutting out a fashion plate from a magazine given her by some friends, which she intended to make into a doll for one of the poor children in the village. It was an attractive illustration; pasted on to a piece of board, it would make a toy for one of her worthy causes. Jo was always willing to help and had spent the morning visiting a poor family in the village. ‘I think I would rather not be her guest, Mama.’

‘You know we cannot stay here for much longer,’ Marianne reminded her sister. At nineteen she was the eldest of the three Horne sisters and generally accounted a beauty, with her honey-blond hair and eyes that were a greenish-blue and often reflected her moods. She had a soft, very appealing mouth and was known for her equable disposition. ‘It is only because the living is in Lord Wainwright’s gift that we have been allowed this special favour—and we cannot expect it to continue for ever. We ought by rights to have left within a month of Papa’s loss.’

The Reverend Horne’s death had been such a shock to his family, for he had always seemed hale and filled with energy, forever working for his parishioners or in his long back garden, where he thought it no shame to grow food for his table and that of others.

‘We need not despair,’ Mrs Horne said, trying to rally herself as much as her daughters, because any mention of the Reverend’s death was enough to have them all in tears. He was much missed by his family and parishioners alike. ‘There is always the cottage that belonged to your grandfather. It is mine, though it has been let for years and provides me with a small income of my own. However, we could live in it if we had to. I know it means moving to Cambridgeshire, but I think I might prefer that to living on Agatha’s charity, which would not be comfortable for any of us.’

‘Please, do not say we must live with Lady Wainwright,’ Lucy cried. Her blue eyes filled with tears. ‘If only darling Papa had not died. He was such a good person, always helping others. Why did he have to get pneumonia and die? I think God was cruel to take him from us.’ The youngest of the three sisters, she was her family’s darling. She burst into tears and was comforted by her eldest sister, who put an arm around her and hushed her.

‘Don’t cry, dearest,’ Marianne said, stroking Lucy’s soft hair, which was like pale silk, shimmering in a ray of sunshine that pierced the long windows overlooking the back garden. Just now the garden was a mass of roses and sweet-smelling flowers, a peaceful haven for the birds and droning bees. ‘We all wish that Papa was still with us, but tears will not change things. We have to decide what to do for the best. Uncle Wainwright has been good enough to let us stay here until we have had time to come to terms with our loss, but he needs to provide a proper house for the new vicar—and this is his property.’

Lord Wainwright was a generous man, and Marianne knew that her family had reason to be grateful to him, but his wife, her mama’s sister, lost no opportunity to make them aware of the fact that they were living on her husband’s charity. Lady Wainwright was very conscious of her position in society and had always let her sister know that she was very much below her in the social scale as the wife of a poor parson.