The Civil Prisoners

by Meriol Trevor

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Following the breakdown of the Peace of Amiens in 1802, Napoleon retaliated against England's renewal of hostilities by holding as prisoners all British civilians in France at the time. So it is in a foreign city and amidst the uneasy atmosphere of a country at war that a group of English families are unexpectedly brought together again and forced to make the best of their precarious situation. At the centre of the unfolding drama is the growing love between Cary Vyner and Emily, Lady Royden - a love with its innocence and temptations as well as its doubts and reassurances. As their relationship develops, so too do the schemes and aspirations of Cary's Warstowe relatives who are intent on securing the Vyner inheritance for their own son. Set against the backdrop of war-torn Europe, this is an elegant Regency romance in the tradition of Georgette Heyer.

Release date: September 5, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 192

Sample

“ISN’T IT STRANGE, Miles, that we should be starting the new year in France?” said Charlotte, as they went out to walk in Verdun, attended by Jeremiah Beer, a little wizened Devonian who had served Miles’s father and firmly attached himself to the son.

It was actually the eve of the new year of 1804; they had been only a few days in Verdun and had scarcely settled down yet.

Detained at the end of May, the Warstowes had spent six months fretting and chafing while the English and French governments argued about the fate of the civilians under arrest. Mr Warstowe was allowed to receive money from England but despite furious protests was kept in custody.

It was not till November that they heard that Bonaparte was using as prisons the old forts that were once along the frontier of France but were now a hundred miles behind it, and that the fortified town of Verdun, between the old frontier and Paris, was to receive most of the civil prisoners. And it was not till the end of December that they were able to move there because Miles, as usual, had fallen ill. He was still coughing a bit, and Jeremiah Beer had wound a long woollen muffler round him; his cloudy blue eyes peered out from under a fringe of untidy fairish hair, shy but observant.

The Warstowes had secured lodgings in the upper town, where the richer and more fashionable detainees had settled, already organising clubs and entertainments for themselves. They did not intend to let Bonaparte think they cared for his lawless behaviour and tried to live as much as possible as if they were at home. It was a piece of luck for the inhabitants when the horde of English milords descended, forced to spend their money in a place they would never have troubled to visit had they not been sent there under duress. Prices went up rapidly and business flourished.

The Englishmen had to attend an Appel in the citadel twice a day, but Mr Warstowe soon found out that generous tips to the gendarmes would exempt him from such frequent appearances. The information on this and many other points was given him by a Mr Spencer Neville, a handsome but impecunious gentleman who had made their acquaintance in Paris and paid a great deal of attention to Lydia. Although Mrs Warstowe did not favour his suit, she did not discourage him, for he was travelling with the very party she was so anxious to meet, which included young Harry Chervill, Lord Stanbourne, only son and heir to the Duke of Wiltshire. Why should not her lovely Lydia become Lady Stanbourne, and one day a Duchess? The great difficulty was to get an introduction, and Mr Neville was encouraged with this in mind.

“I think Lord Stanbourne’s uncle, Lord Walter Chervill, is of your party, Mr Neville,” she had said. “He married a connexion of mine, Lady Hester Gaveston. My mother was a Gaveston, you know—a sister of the old Earl’s.”

It was one of the major frustrations of Mrs Warstowe’s life that, as the Earldom of Meldenhall had descended to a cousin, and as her mother had died when she was a child, she had never been able to claim social intercourse with any of the Gaveston family. Verdun looked like giving her a chance, for now they would be thrown together.

Mr Neville said Lord and Lady Walter were his very good friends, but that he feared their amusements were not much in Mrs Warstowe’s line. “Chervill is lost without the races,” he said, laughing.

Spencer Neville was a sleek, good looking man in his thirties, but he had little but his looks and his name to recommend him, and he was as determined not to introduce his friends to the Warstowes as Judith Warstowe was to meet them. He had already guessed the little plan about making Lydia a Duchess, but thought he could easily keep Stanbourne away, since he was rather shy with girls, in spite of (or perhaps because of) having a string of plain sisters at home.

“I believe Lord and Lady Royden are with you too?” said Mrs Warstowe. “I’m sure I saw Lady Royden in Paris—and everyone was talking about her.”

Neville laughed. “Oh, people always talk about Emily Royden!” he said. “She is very good fun. But didn’t you know Lord Royden is a sick man? Ruined his constitution, I fear—has to live in the country. That’s why Lady Royden is travelling with her sister and brother-in-law.”

Mrs Warstowe was annoyed at not having heard before of Lord Royden’s state of health. He was the heir to the present Earl and so she said, “How sad for Lord Meldenhall! And I believe they have only a daughter—I think someone said Lady Royden had no son.”

“Royden has never hit it off with old Meldenhall,” said Mr Neville. “They never met but they quarrelled. All the family prefer the brother, he’s much cleverer than poor Royden ever was.”

“So Lady Royden probably never will be Countess of Meldenhall,” said Mrs Warstowe, with some satisfaction. “Quite proper she should not, since after all, she was only a Bristol merchant’s daughter.”

“Only!” said Mr Neville, with a laugh. “Bristol merchants, I imagine, are excellent fathers—or fathers-in-law. Those Gavestons get through money at a great rate.”

Mrs Warstowe did not quite like to criticise a noble family with which she was connected, though racing and gambling were to her eyes immoral pursuits.

“If her husband is in England, I wonder Lady Royden does not go home,” she said acidly, “since we ladies are not prisoners.”

“Oh, she has a young cousin of hers over here—tiresome young fellow, clergyman’s son trying to kick over the traces, and will try to play even with Chervill and myself. Lady Royden does not like to leave him here, since he has no private means, as well as no sense, and is only eighteen or so.”

Mrs Warstowe sniffed, but the hope of the future Duke was too strong to allow moral scruples to triumph, and she begged Mr Neville to bring any or all his party to her New Year reception.

“You must remind Lady Royden of my connexion with the Gaveston family,” she said. “We should really become acquainted. And in fact, many years ago, my father, Sir Brandon Vyner, knew her father, old Joshua Prescott, the Bristol merchant. There was indeed talk of a match between Emily Prescott and my cousin Cary Vyner, but it came to nothing, fortunately for her, as it turned out.”

Mr Neville, quite interested to hear something new about Lady Royden’s past, promised he would try to bring her to Mrs Warstowe’s reception.

And so there were such great preparations in hand for this social occasion that Miles and Charlotte were sent for a walk to get them out of the way, this last chilly afternoon of the old year.

The Citadel of Verdun had once held a garrison and the barracks were now used to house prisoners who could not afford lodgings, or had been sentenced to the lock-up for a breach of the rules. There was also a big deserted convent used for the same purpose; the bishop’s palace had likewise been commandeered by the government and put to other than ecclesiastical uses. All these buildings were at the top of the town and just below them was a large square surrounded by rows of trees, which was the Place de la Roche and the general promenade for the détenus.

Among all the English faces and voices Miles was surprised to notice one that seemed to him quite foreign. A tall slender young woman with black hair and brilliant deep blue eyes was playing ball with a skinny little boy, of the same colouring.

“Attention, Lucien!” She carefully tossed the red and white ball and he caught it, hugging it to him with both arms, grinning.

When he threw it back it went wide of her and a little dog chased it. Cries from both child and woman, hers in French but his in some other language. The dog was evidently not theirs.

Charlotte and Miles chased the dog, who must have had an English master, for he responded to their demands of “Give it up!”

Miles brought the ball and offered it to the tall lady, looking up shyly at her and thinking she looked like a queen of ancient times, someone out of Homer or Virgil.

“You English boy?” she asked him, after thanking him in French.

“Yes, I’m Miles Dynham, madame.” He gave her an awkward little bow.

“Tiens! Dynham! But so, can it be? How it spell?”

Miles spelt his name. She seemed very struck.

“Dynham, and My-euls! Is it that you are Sir Myeuls, the son of Capitaine Mary Dynham, who die in the war?”

Miles was astonished. “Yes—how did you know?”

“My brother, he is the cousin of Mark Dynham: Cary Vyner.”

“You are Cousin Isabelle!” said Miles, gazing at her. “But we came to France to find you—my Uncle Warstowe, I mean.”

She laughed. “I thought Monsieur Warstowe and his lady have got away to England,” she said. “My brother, not so lucky.”

“Do you mean Cousin Cary is here too?” cried Charlotte, fascinated at the prospect of seeing this black sheep.

“Mais oui—Cary, he come to Selancy from Italie just at the wrong time. He is made prisoner and I am coming with him, because I like not Madame de La Marck, the new châtelaine at Selancy so I was going to England with Cary when he was taken.” She waved a long white hand at the little boy. “Voilà Lucien, the son of Cary. Luciano mio, these are cousins—cugini—he knows a little the English but when Cary he was in the prison in Naples, this one was cared for by Italians.”

“Cousin Cary was in prison in Naples?” Miles asked.

“Yes, but come—come see where we live, see Cary. He speaks often of your family, your uncle Roland and Joscelin.” She pronounced both names the French way. “When they were all boys, they were like brothers, he was often living with them at Brentland, when his poor father was mad at his home, Hartleigh Court.”

It seemed strange to hear this very foreign person talking of Brentland and Hartleigh.

One of the clocks in the town struck, a single note, and Isabelle said she must go and wake Cary for the Appel.

“Why should he be asleep in the middle of the day?” asked Charlotte, and was fascinated to hear he had spent the night in the lock-up, “for insulting the government”. “He was much too enragé to sleep,” said Isabelle, laughing.

Charlotte and Miles were both eager to see Cary Vyner after hearing so much about him, and so they went with Isabelle and the little boy down through the town. The Vyners were lodging in the less fashionable part, in the attics of an old house. On the middle floors, Isabelle told them, was a retired English General who had been visiting Aix-les-Bains with his wife, his widowed daughter and grandchildren, when Napoleon Bonaparte’s decree converted them all into prisoners of war.

“I should think the General is more than sixty, so it is wicked to include him,” said Isabelle. “They are good people but I fear they think we are not so.” And she laughed, seeming not to care what was thought of her.

They climbed flights of carpetless stairs, past shut doors, through which could be heard querulous English voices, to the top of the narrow house, where it was rather dark.

“Cary, he sleeps in the living room, so I knock,” said Isabelle. She knocked loudly, several times.

A drowsy grunt answered her and then a man’s voice: “Entrate!”

“He always wakes up in Italian,” said Isabelle cheerfully, opening the door, which was not locked.

The attic room was quite warm; the landlords had put in an old stove. Cary Vyner was lying on a long couch, in an old crimson dressing robe, with a carriage rug over his legs. He sat up, yawning and stretching, as they came in.

The little boy rushed across the floor and jumped on top of him. “Papa! Papa!” he shouted, and began talking again in Italian.

“Hey! Luciano! Basta! Get off, you pest.”

Cary lifted the child up bodily and held him, kicking, in the air, and laughed at his furious helplessness. Then he dropped him on the couch against the wall, holding him there with one hand. He had now seen that Isabelle was not alone.

“Visitors?” he said. “Whom have you picked up now, Isabelle?”

“La cousine Charlotte,” she replied. “And your other cousin, Sir Miles Dynham.”

“Miles? Good Lord!” said Cary. He kicked off the rug and swung his feet to the floor. He was wearing an old bleached pair of trousers, flapping above the ankles. “Is this Miles? Mark’s son …”

Miles found himself fixed by a pair of piercingly blue eyes. Cary Vyner had a long bony face and black eyebrows, arching and thick. His dark hair tumbled untidily over his forehead and ears.

Miles knew he was always a disappointment to anyone connected with the Dynham family, for they were all tall and strong and he was such a weakling. So he was not surprised when Cary Vyner said, “You are not a bit like old Mark.” But then he added, “Why should you be? One doesn’t have to resemble one’s father.”

“You resemble our father, Cary, I think,” said Isabelle. “And Lucian, he resembles you.”

“What, my skinny little monkey?” said Cary.

The child was now standing up on the couch, leaning over his father’s shoulder. There was indeed quite a resemblance, in a comic way, between them. The same blue eyes, the same dark untidy hair.

A clock downstairs in the house chimed.

“What’s that? Half past what?” Cary asked.

“Half past one,” said Charlotte.

Cary jumped to his feet and neither of the cousins had realised till then how tall he was. Miles felt it was too plain that he was half a Dynham, and sighed, feeling his own insignificance.

“Damn it, I refuse to pay those froggies a fine,” said Cary, and strode across the attic, his head very near the ceiling. “Benedetto!” he shouted. “Vieni quì, Benedetto, presto! Prestissimo!”

He went into one of the other rooms, as Isabelle called after him, “Benedetto has gone to the marché.”

Their housekeeping was evidently conducted in three languages.

Isabelle picked up the carriage rug from the floor and folded it. Sounds of hasty dressing came from the next room, interspersed with frequent oaths, in English and Italian. Charlotte giggled.

Miles went over to a table in the window on which were scattered sketches, pieces of charcoal, crayons, water colours. Some of the pictures were of landscapes, some of people, mostly unfinished.

“Cary’s,” said Isabelle.

It did not take Cary very long to dress but when he came back into the sitting room he had effected a surprising transformation. The loose trousers were discarded in favour of more fashionable close-fitting pantaloons and Hessian boots. He wore a blue coat which, though not new, was well-made, and had seized up a hat and gloves. With his hair combed into place and a cravat neatly tied about his neck, Cary Vyner now looked, if not quite respectable, at least a gentleman—rather a dashing one, Miles thought, staring at him.

“Why, Cary, so smart for the Appel?” said Isabelle. “I did not know you so honoured the French!”

“A fig for the Frenchmen!” said her brother. “It’s the English I have to keep up with, my dear.” He laughed and kissed Isabelle’s cheek. “When I come back, we’ll go out to dine.”

“Cary, have you understood that your aunt, Mrs Warstowe, is in Verdun with all her family?” she asked him, as he walked to the door.

“No, is she? Aunt Judith? Well, Miles, tell her the horrid news that her mad nephew is still alive and kicking … Isabelle, we’ll call on her tomorrow and wish her a happy new year.”

He went out of the door so fast that he nearly fell over Jeremiah Beer, who was sitting on the top step of the stairs.

“Hey! If it isn’t one of the Beers from Upcott Dynham!” Cary said. “I know you—let’s see, Noah’s the one who went with Rowland—you must be Jeremiah.”

A wide grin split Jeremiah’s brown face, revealing large white teeth. Charlotte could not remember ever having seen him smile like that.

“Ah, Mr Cary, zurr, ’tes good to set eyes on ’ee,” he said. “You’m just the same—not changed one bit.”

“Oh, come, that’s going too far, Beer!” said Cary, laughing. “Thirty-three’s a long way from twenty-two! Listen, I’ve got to go now and answer my name at school muster, but I’ll see you again. I want to hear all the news from Brentland and Hartleigh.”

He ran off down the stairs and they heard a startled feminine shriek and his hasty apologies.

“He’s always running into the General’s ladies,” said Isabelle, smiling. “They move in a stately fashion and never seem to hear him coming, though he makes enough noise, I think, to shake the house!”

“Ah, Mr Cary, ee’m always in a hurry,” said Jeremiah Beer. “Ee’m born hasty, that one.” But he spoke more in admiration than in criticism. “And talk! Ee’d talk the hind leg off a donkey, Mr Cary would.”

Isabelle was enchanted with the comparison. “Is that the most difficult feat for an Englishman, to lose the donkey his leg?” she enquired.

Charlotte collapsed into giggles and was still exploding occasionally as they walked home, after leaving Isabelle. She thought her Vyner cousins the oddest creatures she had ever met and was looking forward to their visit next day. She had told Isabelle the number of the house and the name of the street.

She was quite surprised to find her parents thought differently. In the first place it came as a shock to them that Cary Vyner was alive; it was so long since they had heard news of him that they had long ago decided he was dead.

“But it will make no difference to Edmund’s future,” said Mrs Warstowe, “since even Cary knows his grandfather disinherited him, after that shocking quarrel. And Edmund will be fifteen in September.”

It was well-known to Miles that Edmund Warstowe was to inherit Hartleigh Court, the Vyner family home in north Devon, but he could not see what difference his fifteenth birthday would make. He knew that he himself would not have Brentland till he was twenty-one, nor his mother’s money till he was twenty-five—Uncle Warstowe had seen to the latter and often reminded him of it.

Aunt Judith, however, had gone straight on to the next cause of annoyance. “How could Isabelle’s relations allow her to go off with Cary?” she said. “He may be her brother but he is certainly not fit to have charge of an unmarried girl. She must come to us.”

“She is coming, tomorrow,” said Charlotte, “to the party.”

And that was a third cause of annoyance. “I wish indeed Cary were not coming here just when I have invited Lady Royden and her guests,” said Mrs Warstowe. “It is very vexatious.”

“It is vexatious Cary’s being here at all,” said Mr Warstowe. “But now let us have our dinner, and put him out of our mind. . .