by Mira Stables
He turned to her eagerly. “That’s it, my girl. You’ll not find it difficult, I promise you. And though the pay is not very much, it will buy you a few fripperies. Besides — you’ll enjoy it. Don’t tell me you’re not heart and soul in your dancing, for I’d not believe you.”
All the years of careful training at Melly’s hands said no. Maman herself had spoken of the difficulties that beset the path of a dancer. She knew, in her very bones, that Marcus would not approve. But this was a chance of such an adventure as would never come again, and it was true that she loved to dance. If she were to believe one half of the tales that she had heard about her husband, he had had adventure a-plenty. Why should she not have just one, small, perfectly respectable adventure of her own? For with Grandpère to look after her she would be quite safe.
“I think I would like that very much,” said Mrs Marcus Blayden.
Chapter Twelve
MARCUS BLAYDEN landed at Dover at the end of October on the tenth anniversary of Nelson’s great sea victory at Trafalgar. It had been a vile crossing. He wondered why anyone should ever choose to go to sea at all, far less endure the hazards of sea fighting with that incalculable element of the weather to allow for. God knew, the army was bad enough, but at least the earth did not normally rise up and fight against you.
There were, however, certain incalculables, even in the army, as he had recently discovered to his cost. Such as artillery mules, for instance. It was a kick from one of these misbegotten quadrupeds that had stretched him senseless on the eve of Ligny. To have got clear away with his vital information about the concentration of the Army of the North between Maubeuge and Chimay, and then to have been prevented from delivering it to the proper quarters by one cross-grained animal’s fit of ill temper was enough to try the patience of a saint. And Marcus was no saint, though he had, he knew, come pretty close to discovering St Peter’s verdict on this important question during the past weeks. The battle must have been fought over and around his unconscious body. It seemed likely, from his injuries, that cavalry had charged over him at some time, but of this he had no recollection. His last clear memory was the theft of the mule which had so amply revenged itself. He had been picked up delirious on the battlefield after lying semi-conscious for hours in drenching rain, and since he was wearing civilian clothes and babbling in French it was no one’s especial responsibility to see that he was cared for. The hospitals were already crowded to capacity with far more desperate cases. He had been dumped in a barn with a dozen others, of whom those who were able tended their fellows as best they could. The filthy and overcrowded conditions had led to an outbreak of camp fever — the dreaded typhus. Several had died, but somehow Marcus had struggled back to life and awareness of his surroundings. Convalescence, lacking all civilised amenities, had been a slow and painful business. Nor could he desert the companions in misfortune who had been good to him in his own dire need. It was weeks before he was able to make his way to friends in the neighbourhood who at first failed to recognise the gaunt, bearded scarecrow figure of their erstwhile guest.
A week’s rest, with warmth and good food, did much to restore him to something of his former vigour, though when impatience drove him to start preparations for his journey home he found himself, to his fury and disgust, a poor feeble creature. With the ending of the campaign his usefulness in Belgium was at an end. And a glorious part he had played, he thought savagely. The very real risks that he had run, the skill with which he had pieced together his information, counted for nothing. Only success counted. And success, thanks to that accursed mule, had been denied him.
So it was in no very pleasant humour that he stepped ashore from the packet, having been obliged to take a week over a journey that he would normally have accomplished in three or four days, and already conscious that he would have to spend the night in Dover before proceeding further if he was avoid a recurrence of the prostrating headache that still punished over-exertion. The physician called in by his friends had assured him that this malaise would pass with returning health. It was a pity, added this genial gentleman, that the scar left by the mule’s animosity had not received professional treatment earlier. But a skilful use of cosmetics and a well-chosen wig would do much to disguise it. To Marcus, who could scarcely remember a moment’s ill health, the idea that he must now quack and coddle himself — this was his rendering of the physician’s advice, was quite bad enough. The suggestion of cosmetics and a wig was the crowning indignity.
But despite everything it was good to be back in England. Almost insensibly his spirits rose. He began to think of home and of his wife. The harvest would be in by now and the quiet season of the year would permit him to post off to Cumberland without delay. A week or so of idling at Blayden and they would drive south again before winter set in. He reckoned up the days. Tonight in Dover, tomorrow at Dakers; a day in Town — perhaps two, since there were one or two minor matters connected with his recent activities that would have to be cleared up — and then he would be his own master. In view of these damned headaches it might be necessary to take an extra day on the journey north, but he might reasonably count on reaching Blayden within ten days.
He ought to have written to her, of course. But at first he had thought that he would be with her as soon as the letter, and now he decided that it would be delightful to take her by surprise. During the long weeks of sickness and convalescence she had been much in his thoughts. He had only to close his eyes to picture her as she had danced the pavane that last night at Blayden, to conjure up the innocent witchery in her pose as she lifted her head for his approval. He began to wonder if it was really necessary to stay overnight at Dakers. But after so long an absence there were bound to be a dozen things awaiting his decision. Better to deal with them first. Then he could devote his undivided attention to the little bride who had waited so long for his coming.
Two days later he strolled into his rooms at the Albany. It was already dusk — he had been delayed at Dakers even longer than he had reckoned, and Dearden was gone out. This was not surprising, since he had sent no word of his coming. He would stroll round to his club and catch up on the news of the Town, snatch a bite to eat and turn in early. In pursuance of which plan he tossed his valise on to the bed where Dearden could not fail to see it as soon as he came back, decided that his neckcloth would pass muster and was on his way out when his eye fell upon a letter lying on a side table. Recognising Deborah’s writing at a glance, he did not particularly study the superscription but ripped it open eagerly, hungry for news of home. Even as he did so the thought crossed his mind that it was odd that there were no letters from his wife, hitherto so regular a correspondent.
The letter began, ‘My dear Sister’. Closer inspection showed that it was addressed, not to him, but to his wife. So Fleur must be in Town. Where was she staying, and what business had brought her there, he wondered. From surprise he passed to delight that the long journey north would be unnecessary. Why, he might even be able to find her this very evening! He contemplated making a round of the more likely hotels, then realised that, almost certainly, she would be staying with friends. It would he better to wait until Dearden came back. He would be sure to know all about it.
Unfortunately, Dearden, unaware of the impatience with which his return was awaited, did not come back until eleven o’clock. And when his pleasure in his master’s return had been duly expressed, the news that he had to give was not very satisfactory. Yes, certainly Mrs Blayden had been in London. Presumably she still was, since letters from Blayden came for her almost every week. But Dearden himself had not seen her since the end of July. He did not know where she was staying, and his instructions were to forward letters and messages to her lawyers.
Nothing could be done that night. Marcus was left to ponder the puzzle and make what he could of it. An interview with Mr Sickling’s head clerk next morning proved equally disappointing. Mr Sickling was ill. He had the influenza and was not expected to be back at his desk fo
r a week at least. In his absence the clerk could not undertake to furnish the caller with Mrs Blayden’s address. He would, of course, send at once to Mr Sickling, but it would be two days before a reply could be looked for since Mr Sickling had unfortunately taken ill at his sister’s house in Buckinghamshire.
Frustrated and slightly uneasy, Marcus embarked on a fruitless tour of some of the better known hotels. There was no reason for anxiety — it was just that the whole business seemed so secretive — quite out of character with the frank and artless child that he had married. Why was she hiding herself away behind a lawyer’s office? And what was old Pennington about to let her go roaming about the country in this reckless fashion?
He dined at his club after a singularly irritating wasted day, but was a little cheered when he was joined by his friend, Harry Redfern. “Col told me you was back,” said Harry, grinning all over his pleasant friendly face. “Never so pleased to hear anything in my life since the time my old Aunt Martha left me a handsome legacy that I didn’t expect. Thought you’d cocked up your toes when there was no word of you after Fleurus. What happened?”
Marcus’s account of his experiences was necessarily brief. It was impossible to be confidential in the club. There was too much coming and going. Quite a number of people stopped for a word with young Blayden, remarking that they had not seen him for an age. But Harry knew the circumstances well enough to fill in the bare outlines for himself, and nodded soberly. It had been, he guessed, a damned near-run thing.
Presently he said cheerfully, “I suppose you’ll be off to Blayden right away? Damned inconvenient time for old Pennington to pop off the hooks. Your wife’s going to miss the gayest season that London’s known this century. But I suppose you’re too newly wed to care for all the fashionable squeezes.”
Another interruption occurred before Marcus could answer. This time he was glad of it. The news of Mr Pennington’s death was something of a shock since he had last seen that gentleman in robust health. And more than ever he wondered what his wife was doing in Town. During the early months of her mourning she would not be able to attend even the quietest of functions without incurring disapproval. Perhaps she had come on business connected with her grandfather’s estate. But he really could not imagine so young and feminine a creature knowing anything about business. So, why?
He told Harry, carefully casual, that his plans were not quite certain. He had to see some physician fellow tomorrow. Col had insisted on that — a lot of needless fuss, but that was Col’s way — and he seemed to set great store by this particular medico. Then he rather supposed he ought to call on his father before he went out of Town or there would be the devil to pay the next time they met, on the score of filial observances.
“Well that’s easy enough,” said Harry. “See the old man any time you like. Just take a look-in at Rockstone’s. That’s his latest haunt. And by the way, he’s having the most fantastic run of luck. Never anything like it. If he goes on like this you’ll inherit a fortune yet, my lad. Seems he just can’t lose, these days. The rankest outsiders — the bones — it’s getting to the stage where he vows it’s becoming a dead bore.”
The idea of a casual encounter with his parent in a gaming club appealed to Marcus. Until the situation with regard to his wife’s presence in Town was a little clearer, he preferred to avoid intimate conversation. In such brief exchanges as were possible in so public a place he need give nothing away, yet might, if he were sufficiently alert, pick up some hint of her present whereabouts.
Their arrival at the club was well timed. A number of the guests were just beginning to drift towards the supper rooms. The tense silence that reigned when play was in progress had given way to a rising hum of conversation. Marcus saw his father almost at once, seated at a table at the far end of the room where play had not yet finished. He crossed over to stand beside him, quietly watching the fall of the cards until the rubber came to an end and the table broke up.
“Whist, sir?” he enquired, raising an amused eyebrow. “Not your usual game, surely?”
His lordship lifted slender fingers to his mouth to conceal a yawn. “You are very right,” he said languidly. “A pedestrian affair. But one must do something to counter boredom.” He eyed his son thoughtfully. “And you?” he queried gently. “I heard you were back from the Continent. The climate does not seem to have suited your constitution. Far be it from me to interfere, but by the looks of you a period of rural peace might be more beneficial than the racket of Town.”
Marcus flushed and stiffened. This solicitude was a new come-out. Prosperity must have exercised a softening influence on his progenitor. “Thank you, sir. I shall do very well. A slight touch of fever, now happily past.”
Lord Blayden shrugged. “As you will. You will scarcely be socialising in any event, in view of the — er — bereavement in your wife’s family. Does she join you in Town, or do you journey to Blayden to fetch her? If that is your plan, you will be well advised to take the journey by easy stages.”
So his father knew nothing of Fleur’s movements, but supposed her to be still at Blayden. It was strange, to say the least of it, that she could have been in Town for as much as four months without any word of her presence reaching him. He returned an indifferent answer, saying that he rather thought he was fixed in Town for a few days. Lord Blayden went off to join a party of friends who were just leaving, saying over his shoulder, “This place isn’t what it was. Too crowded and too noisy by half since they brought in these damned entertainers,” and Marcus was left to rejoin Harry.
“May as well have a bite of supper, as we’re here,” suggested that young man. “Myself, I don’t care for gaming above half, but I must say I’d like to run my eye over this dancer there’s so much talk about.”
It seemed to Marcus as reasonable a way of passing the time as any. He followed his friend to the supper room. It was both crowded and noisy, as his father had said. There could be no doubt that the club was extremely popular with the younger men, whatever the hardened gamesters might think. Harry was heaping a plate from a selection of cold meats temptingly set out on a side table. Marcus, who had dined late, was not hungry but accepted a glass of champagne from a hurrying waiter. He sipped cautiously — the food and wine served at these club suppers were always suspect — but this was quite tolerable and he drank thirstily. Sometimes he thought that he would never forget the torments of thirst that he had endured in his fever. Never again would he take the pleasure of a cool sparkling drink for granted. He lent only half an ear to Harry, who, between bites, was explaining the spectacle that they were about to witness. His mind had gone back to an evening in the library at Blayden. Then, too, he had drunk champagne. He watched the silvery cords of bubbles rising in his glass and, framed between them, pictured a slender figure, regal in mulberry brocade.
A sudden falling away in the babble of voices roused him. Music came pleasantly to his ears and the curtains that had screened the far end of the room were drawn back to reveal a painted pastoral scene. On a softly rounded hillock a young shepherd was playing his pipes beneath the trees. From their shadow there emerged a Being, a creature of verdure and light, drifting effortlessly on slender bare feet. A young girl, clad in floating classical draperies of softest leafy green that hinted at the perfection of ivory limbs beneath. Dark silky hair bounded by a silver fillet streamed about her shoulders and a tiny strip of green silk mask hid the upper part of her face. The Goddess Flora was about to summon her court.
The habitués, the connoisseurs and the curious settled down to their varying enjoyment of the performance. At the other end of the room Marcus Blayden held himself rigid in a blaze of fury that seemed too fierce for a human frame to contain. Despite the trappings of the theatre, despite make-up and mask, the moment that she had begun to dance he had recognised his wife.
Chapter Thirteen
LATER, when he was able to look back at events in more temperate mood, Marcus was to give thanks for the long and strin
gent training that he had received in the difficult art of maintaining an imperturbable front in the face of imminent discovery. It certainly helped him now. The impulse to rush forward, snatch up his wife from the eyes of that goggling throng, and bear her away to a decent privacy where he could administer the punishment that she so richly deserved, was almost too strong for him. Nor was it consideration for his wife’s feelings that held him back, but rather the knowledge of the appalling scandal that such action would precipitate. How dare she, a Blayden, his wife, so expose herself for the entertainment of the gapers? He had no eye at all for the artistry that held a captious audience enchanted, and the tumultuous applause that acknowledged Flora’s farewell curtsy was bitter in his ears.
Somehow he managed to subdue the craving for instant action, to listen to Harry’s enthusiastic praise. But he was not sorry when his unwonted taciturnity caused his friend to glance at him enquiringly and then give vent to an exclamation of dismay.
“Good God, old fellow! Are you all right? Damned idiot that I am, dragging you out here when anyone with an atom of common sense could have seen once that you’re only fit for your bed. Here!” He summoned a hovering waiter. “Bring me some brandy. And look sharp about it.”
Anything in the nature of a scene that would focus public attention on him was the last thing that Marcus wanted, and fury, rather than physical weakness, was responsible for the pallor and the grim-set mouth that had so alarmed his friend, but he was swift to seize upon the excuse so obligingly offered him. Though he assured Harry — with perfect truth — that he was well enough, he permitted himself to be overborne and accepted without complaint an opinion that he looked burnt to the socket. At Harry’s insistence he drank the brandy and even obeyed an injunction to button up the collar of his cloak, but the suggestion that a chair should be summoned was going too far.
