The Fugitives

by Meriol Trevor

Genres: Historical Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

All London called him a traitor! Exiled and in poverty, Thierry was taunted like an animal on display, but bore it with the nobility of a true aristocrat. Petronella, orphaned and alone, had been too long deprived of a home of her own. Best by the perils of a nation at war, she longed for peace and protection. Hostages of fate, thrown together by the vilent tides of the French Revolution,Thierry and Petronella found in each other the sanctuary that only love could provide.

Release date: August 15, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 236

Sample

“Oh, Toby, they want me to marry Mr. Aldridge!” said Petronella Kingston to her brother. They were alone in the drawing room at Gillingden, their aunt having been called out of the room. Toby was on leave and it was the first time he had seen his sister since she had come to live with these relations in Kent some months ago. It was March, windy and sunny outside.

“What, old Bob Aldridge of Heathfield Hall?” he said. “He’s not a bad fellow.”

Toby always liked everyone.

Petronella was standing in the window, and as she turned the sun made a fiery halo of her coppery curls. Her eyes, amber brown, looked large in her small pointed face; she had a look of restless gaiety that carried an undertone of uncertainty.

“Toby! He cares for nothing but horses and dogs and he has a face like a cheese.”

Toby laughed. “But he must care for you, or he would be deterred by your very small portion,” he said. “We beggars can’t be choosers, Nell.”

His sister gazed at him in astonishment. “How can you think I should marry anyone but Charles Whitworth?”

Captain Whitworth was a friend of Toby’s, though not in the same regiment. He had been posted to Ireland, and Toby had already forgotten that last summer, which Petronella had spent with Colonel Lindsay’s family, the two of them had done everything together: riding, walking, dancing at balls. Petronella had confided to her brother their secret engagement; marriage was impossible at present.

“Whitworth is a very good fellow,” said Toby, “but he has nothing but his pay, and you know Uncle George absolutely forbade any engagement.”

Since both their parents were dead, Petronella was under the care of her mother’s brother, George Stanford, the owner of this comfortable manor house just outside Canterbury. She was just twenty. Toby was nearly two years older, but hardly seemed so. Red-haired and snub-nosed, he was a happy-go-lucky lieutenant in a regiment of the line.

“We consider ourselves engaged, whatever Uncle George says,” Petronella announced, moving away from the window. She was slender and light-footed, a neat figure in her white dress with its long tight sleeves. “Charles will get promotion in due course.”

“It’s a pity his father was a younger son, or he would inherit that place in Berkshire,” said Toby. “Uncle George could have no objection then.”

“In any case, I am not going to marry Mr. Aldridge,” said Petronella.

“All right, so you are not,” said Toby equably.

His cheerful good humor exasperated his sister.

“I wish you would realize how they are pressing this match on me,” she said restlessly. “Aunt Jane has virtually accepted for me—she says I must not be a burden to them when I have the chance to settle well. Oh, Toby, do listen!”

“I am listening,” he said, putting down the newspaper he had picked up. “Do you see the Austrian Emperor Leopold has died? I suppose that puts off the war with France. … Surely Bob Aldridge can take no for an answer, Nell?”

Petronella gazed at him in despair. She was very fond of Toby, but it was very hard to get him to take anything seriously. Even in his profession he seemed to have no ambition; he was perfectly happy to do what everyone was doing.

“If only I could go away!” she said, moving restlessly about the room like a bird caught in a cage. “I feel trapped here, Toby. The Stanfords may be good, but they are not kind.”

“Can’t you go back to the Lindsays?” suggested Toby.

Colonel Lindsay was his commanding officer and had been a friend of their father’s. When their mother died, he had taken Petronella into his household.

“How can I, when they have their married daughter and all her family living with them now?” said Petronella impatiently. “I wish we had some congenial relations, Toby.”

As her Aunt Jane came back at that moment, the subject had to be dropped.

Toby soon saw how the Stanfords were encouraging his sister’s unwanted suitor, so that Aldridge took her reluctance for mere shyness. Toby could have told him Petronella was not shy, that she had learned to conceal her feelings during years of dependence. Even Toby had to admit that Bob Aldridge was a dull fellow, a bit stupid. He had just come into his property, wanted to get married, and was attracted by Petronella’s pretty liveliness, perhaps even by a certain romantic quality in her warm expression of feeling, her love of poetry and music, so unlike the country girls he knew. But though he could admire, he could not share these interests.

Toby also overheard his aunt’s lectures to her niece on the duty of accepting the offer of such a good establishment.

“For heaven knows your portion is small enough, child,” she said. “And your uncle has his own family to provide for.”

That family was large. The eldest child, Eliza, was a youthful sixteen, caring only for horses, while the next, Ned, was a boisterous schoolboy. Petronella had been set to teach the younger children, a task she did not like, for she was impatient of stupidity and her cousins seemed quite without imagination. But her own artistic interests were called “airs and graces” by Aunt Jane, who set her down as flighty and self-willed, and thought George’s sister must have spoiled her.

Mrs. Stanford sometimes added a few words on the transience of sentimental attachments, the impossibility of Captain Whitworth’s marrying on his pay, and the likelihood that in Ireland he would soon forget all about little Miss Kingston.

All this made Toby feel sorry for his sister. Even without Mr. Aldridge’s attentions, it was no sort of life for her at Gillingden.

One day brother and sister drove into Canterbury to call on old Canon Towneley, their mother’s uncle, who was now over seventy but could still read the service in a voice that kept slumber at bay among the congregation. A portly gentleman who wore a wig in the old fashion, he lived with his sister Priscilla, since though he had once been married, poor Maria had died long ago and his daughter had married a clergyman who resided in a distant part of the country.

The canon was delighted to see them, especially Petronella, as he had a liking for pretty young nieces.

“You look a trifle pale, my dear,” he said. “You had better take a glass of Madeira; it will do you good.”

His sister immediately began to worry over Petronella’s future. She expressed the hope that she would not go into a decline like poor dear Anne, her mother.

Petronella, used to such unnecessary solicitude from her, only answered with a smile, “Toby and I take after the redheaded Kingstons—never known to be ill!”

Until they suddenly die, she thought, as her adored father had done when she was only twelve.

“The Stanfords are healthy enough as a rule,” observed Canon Towneley. “Your Aunt Sophie appears in excellent health and spirits, though it is not long since she buried her husband. Where is her letter, Cilia? She talks of going to Vienna to see the new emperor—and that is a journey indeed, from Luxembourg.”

“Surely the new count, her stepson, will never allow that?” said Aunt Cilia. “He seems a parsimonious fellow, grudging poor Sophie the money to bring her back to England.”

Sophie Stanford had done something unusual in her family; she had married a foreigner. Not one of a famous nation, France or Prussia, but one from the duchy of Luxembourg, within the Holy Roman Empire. The Stanfords blamed this aberration on her Towneley blood and indeed Canon Towneley was more or less responsible, for it was he who had taken his niece on a European tour in 1778, fourteen years ago. A militant churchman, he visited Luxembourg city to view the famous fortifications in the company of a congenial Catholic cleric, whose nephew, a respectable widower, was brought to escort Sophie. They promenaded the walls while the count discoursed on the history of his country and the beauties of its landscape to the fair-haired English girl. Sophie had been so taken with the scene that she had elected to stay in it, accepting the count’s proposal of marriage and leaving her uncle to return home alone.

The Stanfords all considered that Sophie had made an unsuitable marriage. It was true that her husband was a count. “But everyone is a count abroad,” the Stanfords told each other. “It does not signify anything.”

Now that her husband had died they expected her to return thankfully to England, though she had two little boys. “But the stepson inherits everything, of course,” said Mrs. Stanford.

Aunt Cilla, who had been fussing at the bureau, at last found Sophie’s letter and read some extracts, with many complaints at her bad handwriting and general incoherence. “She appears to have forgotten all points of punctuation but the dash.” There were comments in the letter on the new Emperor Franz—“only twenty-four, imagine it”—and on the rumors of war between revolutionary France and the Empire. But Sophie was sure they would be quite safe, with an Austrian garrison in Luxembourg city. “Those sans-culottes could never stand up to a real army,” she wrote.

It was as they left Canterbury that Petronella suddenly said, “I know what I’ll do, Toby. I shall go and stay with Aunt Sophie in Luxembourg.”

Toby laughed. “Aunt Jane will not let you.”

“I shall not tell her,” said Petronella. “I shall run away. But it will be perfectly proper. You will escort me. We shall go to Dover, cross the Channel, and you will deposit me for a long visit with dear mother’s sister, in the duchy of Luxembourg.”

“But everyone will think you have been abducted,” said Toby in alarm.

“Not by Charles Whitworth—unfortunately!” said Petronella with a mischievous look. “But I will send a note to Aunt Cilia at the last moment; she will be in too much of a fuss to get us stopped. As for Uncle George—why, it will be one less burden, won’t it?”

One advantage of Toby’s easygoing nature was that he could usually be persuaded to do what his sister wanted. Once he had been won over to Petronella’s plan, he enjoyed organizing their escapade. He was already finding it dull at Gillingden and did not want to spend the rest of his leave there. Running off abroad with Petronella would be much more amusing.

Petronella wrote her brief note to Aunt Cilla and packed some clothes into two small bags which Toby loaded after dark in a hired gig. It was a fine night in March, chill and clear. Petronella had gone upstairs as early as she dared after dinner and dressed in warm clothes for traveling. With a last look around at the unloved small room, she went to the window, opened it, and climbed out. It was quite easy, as there was a shed roof just below where Toby was waiting to help her down. Stifling their giggles, they crept away through the garden to the lane and drove away in the gig. There was a moon, so driving was not difficult.

They were lucky in getting a passage on a packet starting with the morning tide. Nobody had come after them by the time their boat left Dover.

The two young Kingstons were inexperienced travelers. Petronella was so sick on the crossing to Ostend that they had to spend two nights there while she recovered. Trying to understand and to speak French proved tiring, though both of them had learned the language as children because their father had insisted it would be useful to them. But it was not till they arrived in Brussels that the worst of their situation revealed itself.

“Had you not better write a line to Aunt Sophie, Nell, to advise her that we are coming?” said Toby.

“An excellent notion,” said his sister, and got out her writing things. It was not till she had written her note and wished to address it that she looked up and asked, “What is the name of the château?”

Toby thought hard and then had to admit that he could not remembef it. “But aunt’s name will be sufficient, I am sure,” he said. “I believe it is a small country.”

Petronella gazed at him with growing dismay. “But Toby—I cannot recall her married name!”

“Stuff! The name is … hang it, mama must have mentioned the count’s name,” said Toby, but the fact was that he could not remember it either.

They had both been small children when Aunt Sophie had made the match her family thought so unfortunate; her husband was always referred to as “the count.”

“Monsieur le Comte de. …” said Petronella, hoping that memory would spring to action at the hint. But it did not.

To have come as far as Brussels and not to know the name of one’s destination or even of one’s aunt was annoying, not to say distressing.

“We shall have to go home,” said Toby cheerfully.

“Toby! I will not go back to Gillingden,” said Petronella, horrified. “To be scolded and locked up in my room and not let out, I daresay, till I have promised to marry Mr. Aldridge. Never!”

“Well then, let us go and see the sights of Brussels,” said Toby equably.

For a couple of days they enjoyed their sightseeing but then Toby decided that something must be done. “Let us go on to Luxembourg,” he said. “I daresay there are not many English widows there. If we cannot find her, we shall just have to go back to England, for I cannot outstay my leave.”

He walked to the public coaching station, discovered that the journey to Luxembourg by diligence took four days, and booked their seats for the morning, returning to his sister somewhat anxious about their funds. The young Kingstons had led a happy-go-lucky existence so far, never letting lack of money prevent them from enjoying themselves, but this was certainly the most adventurous trip they had taken. Toby felt it would be all too easy to be cheated in a foreign land.

Next morning they got a porter to carry their luggage and walked to the yard, which was not far from their hotel. A great bustle was going on there, horses being harnessed, luggage stowed, passengers checked in at the ticket office. As Toby produced their tickets, Petronella noticed a man standing nearby and watching every arrival. She wondered if he were a police spy, but she did not think he looked like one. He was a middle-sized young man buttoned up in a long thick traveling coat with capes on the shoulders, and wearing a round hat with rather more brim than Toby’s tailor allowed him.

As they moved away, talking to each other in English, he came hurrying towards them, walking with a marked limp.

“Please, I beg you,” he began in accented English, “Are you by chance Mrs. Vitvors?” He was looking at Petronella.

“No, I am not,” she replied in surprise.

“I have been asked to meet a Mrs. Vitvors from England,” he said. “But I have seen no other English who are wishing to go to Luxembourg. And now I must myself return there. C’est très ennuyant.”

They could not help him, though Petronella remarked that they had seen in Brussels a fat woman who had been on the boat.

“Oh no, I think this lady could not be fat, so,” said the young man. “She is not of many years.”

Petronella laughed. She could think of girls who were as fat, but the woman in question was certainly middle-aged.

They got into the diligence. The fourth person traveling inside proved to be an elderly and very deaf priest, who went to sleep almost as soon as they started, so that they were left with their new acquaintance. Since he understood English they could not talk about him to each other.

Toby said, in his friendly way, “Well! It is a piece of luck for us to travel with someone who knows English. Now, if you will be so good, sir, you can tell us something of the places we pass through.”

This their companion proved so well able to do, entertaining them with anecdotes of the history and personages of towns of the Low Countries, that when they stopped for the night Toby suggested they should dine together.

“He seems quite a pleasant fellow for a foreigner,” he said as he took his sister to her room at the inn. “What should you think he is? A gentleman’s man of business, I would say. Or perhaps a schoolmaster, for he seems to know a great deal of history.”

“I can’t believe Mrs. Vitvors is English, with a name like that,” said Petronella. “Though I suppose she might be married to a Fleming.”

When they went downstairs the stranger was already in the saloon. He rose and bowed. “De Ravanger,” he said, and it was a moment before they realized he was introducing himself.

Then Toby gave their names and they sat down together.

Without his big overcoat the foreigner revealed himself as slender in build. He was quietly dressed in clothes that looked slightly old-fashioned to the Kingstons, but perhaps that was only because they were obviously not new. That coat must have been cut a few years ago, before the Revolution in Paris which was already affecting the style of the younger generation. Toby was not particularly fashionable, but his coat was new because he had only recently emerged from the years of adolescent growth. Monsieur de Ravanger looked a few years older, twenty-five perhaps. His only sign of being up to date was that he did not powder his hair, which was brown and worn in the short loose locks now favored by the romantic classicists.

Petronella asked him if Vitvors was a Luxembourg name.

“But no! English,” he said in surprise. “Mrs. Vitvors is the niece of my stepmother and I am sorry to say she is running away from her husband, and with her lover, so I understand.”

“Good heavens,” said Toby, “but what were you proposing to do with the lover? Fight him?”

“Well, I hoped that would not be necessary,” said M. de Ravanger. “But in effect, I am glad I did not find them. My stepmother had not, it is clear, considered my position with regard to this lover of her niece. That is not to me surprising, for consideration is not the strongest point of her character.” Then he made a gesture with his hands—well-made hands with long strong fingers. “But after all, why should I put myself in danger on behalf of this Mr. Vitvors, whom I have never met nor indeed heard of till yesterday? It is possible that madame had very good reason in running from him.”

Toby glanced at Petronella, obviously wondering if his sister ought to listen to such unorthodox views on the subject of runaway wives, but she was smiling. She seemed to find M. de Ravanger something of a joke, for later, as they went upstairs, she said, “Imagine his admitting he was afraid of fighting!” She was thinking of Charles. “But then, perhaps he is not quite a gentleman.”

“He has the ‘de’ to his name,” said Toby. “Isn’t that the sign of a gentleman in France?”

“Well, but he is not French,” said Petronella. “He is from Luxembourg.”

“I suppose there must be some gentlemen even in Luxembourg!” said Toby.

The next morning he felt very much inclined to call M. de Ravanger a gentleman, for he saved them from being overcharged on their bill. Seeing Toby’s look of dismay when it was presented, he warned him against being cheated.

“Every Englishman is thought to be a milord,” he said.

Toby immediately showed him the account. He exclaimed against it and quickly left the room to seek the landlord. He certainly walked unevenly, but it did not seem to impede him much.

In consequence of his intervention the amount was much reduced, and Toby thanked him gratefully.

The sleeping priest got out at Namur, and the fourth passenger inside after that was a wide-awake elderly widow who looked as if she were listening to their conversation, though she seemed unlikely to know English. But Petronella felt she would prefer not to speak of their affairs in her presence, though it had occurred to her that M. de Ravanger might help them to track down Aunt Sophie.

She broached the subject during the midday stop, not divulging that she could not remember her aunt’s surname, but lamenting that she had forgotten the name of the place where she lived.

“It is called something bourg,” she said.

M. de Ravanger smiled. “Most of our castles are called that—in fact that is what it means in German.”

He had a wide mouth, and when he smiled it made noticeable creases in his cheeks. His face was rather thin, his nose long, and he had heavy eyelids which concealed his expression. He could not be called good-looking; there was nothing striking about him. But he was certainly easy in manner, and friendly.

Presently he said, “Your aunt married a man of our country? Has she children?”

“Yes, two little boys,” said Petronella. “But unfortunately they won’t inherit anything, as there was a son by the first marriage. Tiresome, isn’t it? Why wasn’t he a girl? But perhaps he will die young, before he gets married. Our family all disapproved of the match, though nobody has met the count.”

“Kingston?” He said, in a puzzled tone.

“Oh, no, Stanford,” she said. “My Aunt Sophie and her sister, my mother, were both Stanfords.”

“Sophie Stanford!” he exclaimed.

“You know her?” Petronella asked eagerly.

“Yes, indeed. She lives at the castle of Isenbourg.” He seemed about to say more, but then did not.

Toby came to the table, apologizing for his delay. Petronella was delighted to tell him the name of the castle.

“And,” said M.. . .