The Accidental Marriage Page 7

  *

  Lord Castlereagh had finished giving the Duke what information he had, and in mid-February was preparing to set out for England. Sir Carey, who had hoped to travel with him and be reunited at last with Angelica, was disappointed to be asked to stay on for a while, since his knowledge of what had been happening, though unofficial, could prove valuable. He supposed it was true, in that people might talk more freely to him as he was not part of the official delegation.

  It was some time since he had seen any of Lady Cunningham’s party, and he wondered whether they were also suffering from colds. As he was passing their apartment on his way home one morning he decided to call.

  Klara opened the door and smiled at him, but did not invite him to step inside, as she usually did, for she knew he was always a welcome visitor.

  ‘Is Lady Cunningham in?’ he asked, and Klara shook her head.

  ‘They left,’ she said. ‘My mistress is back home.’

  ‘Left? You mean they have moved to another apartment?’

  ‘Oh, no, they have gone to England. With Herr Pryce and his family.’

  ‘All of them?’ he asked blankly, and then chastised himself as a fool. Of course they would all have gone. What did he expect?

  ‘Yes, all of them,’ Klara said cheerfully, and began to shut the door.

  ‘Did they leave a message?’ he asked, and she smiled and shook her head as the door finally closed.

  He stared at it, then turned away. Of course they would not leave him a message. He was just one of many acquaintances. Perhaps they had left in haste, and would not have had time. He would have liked to say farewell. It was unlikely they would meet in England, but he felt a nagging curiosity to learn what happened, whether Sir Frederick tired of his Russian mistress, and whether Lady Cunningham forgave him and took him back.

  What would Julia do? She was good with children, and he could imagine her as a governess far better than he could as a companion to some crotchety old lady.

  He went on to his own rooms, to find a letter from Angelica waiting for him. He slit it open eagerly. It had been several weeks since he had heard from her, and he was anxious to hear how she was.

  *

  It was almost dusk, and they were passing through a pretty village, planning to stop soon for the night at a large inn a few miles ahead.

  ‘We stayed there on the way here,’ Spicer informed Julia.

  Maggie was exclaiming at the brightly painted cottages, and the snow which still covered the ground, when the coach tilted alarmingly. Julia looked out of the window and saw they were about to descend a steep slope towards a ford at the bottom of a little river valley.

  She hung out of the window, watching anxiously. It was bitterly cold, and she was thankful for her warm cloak with the hood. The slush they had been driving through was hardening into icy ruts. One of the horses slipped, but managed to regain his feet. The coach slowed to a crawl, and they reached the bottom of the slope without mishap. On the opposite side of the river the road rose more gently, and Julia breathed a sigh of relief. If it had been equally as steep the horses might not have been able to pull the coach up it.

  She glanced down at the water, very shallow here in the path of the ford, but immediately downstream it seemed to dive into a deep pool, where it swirled and eddied round huge boulders.

  They had almost reached the far side, and the horses were out of the water, when Julia heard an ominous cracking sound, and before she could think what it was the coach listed sideways, only prevented from toppling over by one huge boulder.

  Maggie fell against Julia, and the door swung open. Because Julia was holding on to it she managed to break her fall, and cling on to the side of the coach, but Maggie, screaming, fell past her, and vanished into the swirling waters of the downstream pool. Julia could not have described exactly what happened next. She was only aware of the luggage, torn from the roof of the coach, falling past her, and being hit by the odd corner as the trunks slithered into the river.

  In the midst of the confusion she thought she heard Williams shouting, and then the coach was being dragged along by the terrified horses. She clung on to the wildly swinging door, but it was being torn away from the hinges. Julia glanced desperately over her shoulder, and saw that within moments she would be smashed to pieces against the boulder.

  There was only one thing to do, and Julia, taking a deep breath, let go and dropped into the icy water.

  Chapter Six

  THEY WERE ALMOST at Frankfurt when Fanny accepted the truth. For some days she had tried to persuade herself that the constant nausea she was suffering was no more than the result of the indifferent food they often had at the inns, combined with the jolting of the coach. But she had been pregnant too often to mistake the signs now. Her brief reconciliation with Frederick had been fruitful.

  She didn’t know whether to be pleased or otherwise. Several times in the past she had conceived, only to lose the child a month or so later. Would it happen again, and if so, would she be relieved or sorry? She loved her children and would have liked a large family. But if she carried this one to term, bringing up another child when the future was so uncertain, and she didn’t know whether Frederick would ever return to her, was a daunting prospect. On the other hand, it might prove to be the longed-for son and heir. If that happened, would Frederick come back? If he did, how would she treat him?

  Could she ever forgive him for the humiliation he had piled upon her, the unhappiness he had caused? Could she ever trust him not to do it again?

  Elizabeth Pryce noticed her abstraction.

  ‘You look pale, my dear,’ she said as they prepared to enter the coach one morning. ‘Are you suffering from the crowding, or the jolting?’

  ‘Neither,’ Fanny reassured her, and decided she had best confide in the woman who had been so kind to her. ‘It’s just that I am probably breeding.’

  Elizabeth looked startled for a moment, then smiled uncertainly. ‘Your husband was with you at Christmas?’

  ‘Oh yes, long enough to give me another child. I have lost half a dozen in the past, I don’t seem able to carry them to term. So the chances of this one surviving are not good.’

  ‘We must do our best. We’ve made good time, despite the weather and the state of the roads. We must make sure there is not too much jolting, and we’ll stop early so that you don’t get too tired. What a shame your sister is not with you. They can’t be many days behind, so she’ll soon be with you once we reach London.’

  *

  Julia awoke to find a smooth-cheeked, bright-eyed face surrounded by a huge white poke bonnet leaning over her. She blinked. No, it wasn’t a bonnet. It was the sort of headdress nuns wore. She’d seen some – where had she seen some recently?

  ‘Good, you have returned to us, by the grace of God,’ the woman said in guttural French. ‘Do you speak French, child?’

  Julia frowned. She understood what was being said, so she must. She nodded.

  ‘Thank goodness. Neither of your companions appears to understand either French or German, and none of us speak English. I believe you are English?’

  Julia nodded again. ‘What happened?’ she tried.

  ‘You do not recall? The coach in which you were travelling had an accident. You were all thrown into the river.’

  Suddenly the memory of it came back to Julia in a tumultuous rush. She could remember the dreadful freezing cold of the water, and being swept along as though she were no bigger than a leaf. She shivered, although she did not feel cold now. She could have died, and Fanny would never have known what became of her.

  She looked at her surroundings. She was lying in a bed inside what must be a convent cell, for the only other furniture was a small prie-dieu and a crucifix hung on the wall above it. Light seeped through a small window high up on the wall, and Julia vaguely recalled her mother telling her that convent windows were placed high up so that the view did not distract the inmates.

  How sad, she’d thought
then, not to be able to see the flowers and the trees and all the other wonderful sights of the world, the views limited to the sky and the clouds. And, presumably, the moon and the stars at night, for there were no curtains or shutters she could see.

  ‘How did we get here? Where is Maggie? Is she all right? And the men?’

  ‘They are your family, perhaps?’

  Julia shook her head. ‘Maggie is my sister’s maid. The men are the coachman and valet who work for some friends. We were travelling home – to England – with the luggage because there wasn’t room for all of us in the main coach. We had to travel more slowly, so we are a few days behind them. They won’t know what’s happened to us.’

  ‘You can send a letter to London, it will reach your sister a few days after she arrives at home.’

  ‘Thank you, yes, I’ll do that.’

  ‘I see. You will be able to see Maggie tomorrow. But now I have a drink for you. I expect you are thirsty.’

  She helped Julia to sit up and drink. It was pleasant, some sort of fruit tisane, Julia thought, but soon she was too drowsy to ask more questions, and sank back to sleep.

  It was dark when she woke again, but there was a lamp, turned low, on the floor in a corner of the room, and a nun sat quietly on a stool beside the bed, telling her beads. When Julia stirred she rose and put a cool palm on Julia’s forehead.

  ‘Good, you do not have the fever now.’

  ‘I’m quite well. What time is it? May I get up? Where are my clothes, please? And where is Maggie?’

  ‘So many questions! It’s almost dawn. Maggie is being well looked after. I will fetch you some food, and afterwards you may dress and go to see her.’

  She would say no more until Julia had eaten some soft, delicious rolls spread with sweet butter and cherry conserve, and drunk a cup of strong, aromatic coffee. She left the room taking the tray with her, and returned with the clothes Julia had been wearing. A second nun followed with a jug of water and some towels, and Julia saw there was a small washstand in the far corner of the cell.

  ‘I will come back for you in a few minutes,’ she said. ‘I have brought a brush for your hair.’

  To her annoyance, Julia felt astonishingly weak. She discovered she was wearing a voluminous nightgown, not her own, and she must have been bathed while she was asleep or unconscious, for her body smelled of delicate flowers, not rank river water, and she could smell the same on the soap which rested on the towels. She managed to strip off the nightgown and wash, then she struggled into her own clothes, which were freshly laundered, the underclothes smelling of lavender. Her woollen gown had, she saw, been expertly washed, but it had shrunk a little from its immersion in the river, and clung to her body. Some of the dye had been lost, but it was warm and she was thankful to have it. In addition there was a thick shawl, which she pulled round her shoulders.

  She brushed her hair, which had also been washed. How long had she been unconscious, and how deeply, for her to be treated like that and not be aware of it?

  Instead of her own boots there was a pair of soft leather slippers, lined with fur, and thankfully she slipped them on. The room was cold. Then she sank down on to the bed, feeling unaccountably weak after the effort.

  A minute or so later the nun returned.

  ‘Are you able to walk?’ she asked.

  ‘I feel weak,’ Julia confessed, ‘but I must see Maggie.’

  ‘First the Mother Superior wishes to talk to you. She is anxious to know who you are and where you were going, so that she can send messages to your friends who may be expecting you, and worrying. You can include a note for them.’

  *

  Julia felt amazingly unsteady as she was led along a series of wide passageways and into a bare room containing no more than a plain table and a few chairs. A tall, distinguished-looking nun, who was standing beside the window, turned and came towards her, smiling.

  ‘I am pleased to see you looking better,’ she said. ‘Please, sit down, and tell me about yourselves.’

  Julia explained quickly. ‘The last thing I remember is Maggie falling into the pool beside the ford, and then I jumped into the water because the horses were dragging the coach and I was afraid it would fall over and I would be crushed. Is Maggie here? How is she? And how long have we been here?’

  ‘It’s three days since the accident. I am told a wheel came off the carriage. You were unconscious for a while, and had a fever, but fortunately you don’t appear to have harmed your head or your body. The villagers pulled you out and brought you here.’

  ‘Three days!’

  The Mother Superior smiled. ‘Indeed. Unfortunately the villagers did not bring any of your belongings, so we had nothing to tell us who you were. They swore everything had been washed away,’ she added dryly. ‘Washed into their cottages, I suspect.’

  Julia knew there were things here she needed to worry about, but she was more concerned with Maggie, and once more asked after her.

  ‘Sister Maria tells me she is your sister’s maid. She will get better, I assure you, but she seemed to have been in the water much longer than you were, and she has been very ill. We are praying it will not turn to consumption, but she will be unfit to travel for several weeks. You may go and see her in a few minutes.’

  ‘And the men? The coachman and Mr Pryce’s valet?’

  ‘Is that who they are? The older man, he is the coachman?’

  ‘Yes, Spicer is quite young.’

  ‘Poor man! The coachman apparently got his legs entangled in the reins as he fell, and he suffered a broken leg. It is, the doctor tells me, mending well, but he will not be fit to travel for some weeks either. He is being looked after by the monks at their abbey a few miles away.’

  ‘And Spicer?’

  The nun crossed herself. ‘He struck his head on one of the boulders when he fell, and I’m sorry to tell you he broke his neck. We have said masses for his soul, and he will be buried in the village churchyard as soon as the ground is soft enough for a grave to be dug.’

  *

  Maggie was lucid, for almost the first time since she had been brought to the convent, Sister Maria told Julia. She was also tearful, and fretting about what Lady Cunningham would do without her.

  ‘How soon can we go home, miss?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Maggie,’ Julia said, ‘but my sister will not blame you, and you will not lose your job. Besides, you are not well enough to travel yet.’

  And how, Julia wondered, when she was back in her own room and lying down on the bed to recover from her exertions, were they to get back to England? She thought of the young valet, being killed in such a fashion. He had been cheerful company, and she shed a few tears for him.

  ‘Were all our possessions lost?’ she asked Sister Maria when the latter brought her a bowl of soup and more of the rolls.

  ‘I fear so. It is wrong, of course, for the villagers to take and hide them, but they have suffered during the wars, as has most of Europe. Many of them lost sons and fathers, and the women find it difficult to manage.’

  The money Fanny had given her had been in her small valise, carried inside the coach, in which she kept only the few things she would need on their overnight stops. It would have fallen out into the river, and probably floated, easy pickings for some lucky scavenger, and irretrievably lost to her. She was left with nothing apart from the clothes she wore, so how on earth was she to get herself and Maggie back to England?

  She explained their dilemma to Sister Maria. ‘And how can I repay you for all you have done for us?’ she added.

  ‘We do not ask for payment. It is our mission to care for the poor and sick and needy.’

  ‘I could write to ask for more money to be sent here,’ Julia said slowly, ‘but that would take a month or more. We cannot trespass on your hospitality for so long.’

  ‘I wish we could give you the money for your journey, but we do not have so much to spare. Your friends will not be well enough to travel for some weeks.
We can look after them meanwhile. You will have to apply to your friends for help.’

  ‘There must be something more I can do!’

  Sister Maria looked thoughtful. ‘Are you willing to work, to earn money?’

  ‘Here, in the convent? Of course! Anything.’

  ‘Not here. But my brother runs an inn a few miles away. In the next town, along the same road you were travelling, a road much used by travellers from England. He would give you work, and you might find some compatriots who would either be of help to you, perhaps taking you with them back to England, so that you can then send money here for Maggie and Mr Williams, or taking a message to your sister, which would be more reliable than the posts.’

  Julia jumped up from the bed and hugged Sister Maria. ‘That’s wonderful! I’ll do anything. English people will be going home, for the Congress must be over soon.’

  ‘I will ask for a message to be sent to my brother this afternoon. Now you must rest, for you will not be well enough for even the lightest work if you do not.’

  *

  Three days later Julia was installed at the inn, working mainly in the bedrooms, and occasionally serving in the private parlours. She still felt weak, but forced herself to do the work without showing it. The innkeeper, Herr Ritter, insisted on paying her.

  ‘I am glad of your help, for two of my maids are sick,’ he told her.

  Julia began to feel more cheerful. She had sent a letter to Fanny, asking her to send money to the convent for Maggie and Williams. If she could find some English people to help her, at least to take messages, she would. Letters could get lost in the post. In the few days she had been at the inn, no English travellers had passed through.