Page 65 of In the Commodore's Hands

That it was Wentworth he was certain and Wentworth undoubtedly knew who she was, but what he was unsure of was the man’s motive. was he hand in glove with the Revolutionary government, inflaming passions against Britain, or was it personal? From what Lisette had told him, it was probably the latter and he felt he could deal with that, if only she would confide in him. But in honesty he had to admit he had not confided in her. Had he been afraid to?

He flung himself on his bed and fell asleep, only to have the recurring dream that had plagued him ever since Marianne died. Someone had come to tell him there had been an accident and he was riding hell for leather to Wentworth Castle. It wasn’t an old building, not medieval at any rate, but it was huge and ostentatious. It was also shabby and the garden overgrown. Why he noticed that in the heat of the moment he did not know, but the image was etched on his mind as if put there with a branding iron. He flung himself off his lathered horse and rapped on the door with his riding crop.

A footman in livery admitted him and asked him to wait in the great hall, with its threadbare tapestries, blackened furniture and cantilever staircase, while he went to find his master. The servant was gone a long time and he was about to go in search of someone when the Countess came down the stairs.

‘Commodore, you are too late,’ she said. ‘She is dead.’

‘Dead?’ The sound of that word echoed in his sleeping brain. ‘When? How?’

‘She was thrown from her horse while jumping a ditch. The horse fell on top of her. She was alive when she was brought here, but in spite of our best endeavours, died an hour ago.’

‘I want to see her.’

‘Naturally you do. I suggest you make arrangements to take her body home. We do not want it here.’

Gerald and his brother, the Earl, came downstairs to join them. Gerald was white-faced, his brother cold and unbending. ‘Take her away,’ the latter said. ‘It was bad enough having a live whore here, a dead one is too much.’

Whatever Marianne had done, he had to defend her from that. ‘She was never a whore.’

‘Oh, no,’ Gerald said with a sneer. ‘Then you did not know your wife very well, Drymore.’

‘I hold you responsible for her death, Wentworth. I should have ended your miserable existence when I had the chance.’

‘This discussion is pointless,’ the Earl said. ‘I must ask you to leave, Commodore, and make arrangements for your wife to be removed. I am sure you will find a suitable conveyance for hire in the village.’

He turned and left. The scene changed abruptly, as dreams often do, and he was back with a covered cart drawn by two horses. A footman conducted him to the room where Marianne lay. ‘Do you want help carrying her?’ he asked in a whisper.

‘No, I can manage.’ He bent over the corpse, expecting to see the face of the wife he had married seven years before, and recoiled in horror. The dead face was that of Lisette Giradet.

The shock of it was enough to wake him. He lay bathed in sweat, trying to make sense of it. He had relived that time in his disturbed sleep many times, but the woman he picked up and carried down the stairs to the waiting cart had always been Marianne, beautiful and still in death. The image of a dead Lisette set him trembling. Did that mean she was so like Marianne she would suffer the same fate? Would she, too, betray him?

When morning came, he decided to say nothing, but give her the opportunity to tell him of her visitor without being asked.

He dressed in clothes befitting a gentleman and stooped to remove the bandages on his feet, smiling a little at the memory of them being put on. Then he put on fresh stockings and his own shoes and went downstairs. Lisette was already in the breakfast room and Madame Gilbert was dispensing coffee. He waved her away and sat down next to Lisette. ‘Good morning, my dear.’ It was said cheerfully.

‘Good morning.’ She looked heavy-eyed, as if she had not slept, but managed a smile. ‘How are your feet?’

‘Oh, they are as good as new, thanks to you.’

‘Do you have any more walking to do today?’

‘No, a gentle stroll perhaps.’

‘Has anything been decided?’

‘What about?’

‘Don’t tease, Jay. About freeing Michel from prison, of course.’

‘I’ll tell you after I have seen Robespierre again.’

‘Are you going to appeal to him to let Michel go?’

‘I doubt that would serve, Lisette. The less he knows about our real errand, the better, don’t you think? Our government would not condone any interference with the way France dispenses justice.’

‘You call it justice!’

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