“I am thankful for your English half, too,” Robert said. “I cannot imagine having grown up without your friendship.”
The two men raised glasses in a silent toast to that bond.
“Perhaps we should both take oaths of temperance,” Robert said. “A bit of wine and you become uncomfortably candid, and I am overwhelmed by sentiment.”
Charles smiled. He knew what was in his friend’s mind, though neither would speak of it. Men went off to war and did not always return. Charles’ own father had been lost at sea when his son was only a boy.
As if his thoughts had run in the same path, Robert asked, “How fares your mother, pray?”
“Very well, when last she wrote; life in Boston seems agreeable, her husband adores her. One might think America had been created just for her, so happily does it appear to suit her temperament.”
“I am glad to hear it. She deserves happiness. God knows she has had sorrows enough.”
Charles did not answer. Truth seemed to be in the air that night. Not the most common thing in London that summer.
“And a French mother,” Henrietta observed. “That explains much.”
Mrs Hertle could not help but note that her cousin had rather adroitly worked the conversation around to her husband’s childhood friend, Charles Hayden.
“There is something in his face …” a crease appeared between Henrietta’s lovely eyebrows—her thoughtful pose.
“Charles always says he inherited his grandfather’s Gallic nose,” Mrs Hertle responded. “His ‘unfortunate nose,’ he calls it.”
“Though he seems entirely English in his manner,” Henrietta offered.
“Indeed he does, but I have come to believe that he is more French beneath the surface than one would guess. One must be wary of these Navy men, Henri, they are not always what they seem. Both Robert and Charles have been at sea much of their lives—since they were but thirteen—beginning together as midshipmen. Since that early date they have been trained to be very decisive—indeed, irresolution at an inopportune moment might cost many lives aboard a ship. Some Navy men bring this decisiveness ashore with them, where often their understanding is not so great as at sea. I have watched the ill effects of this many times. It is fortunate that Robert does not suffer this defect of character, or from its opposite disability—a chronic indecisiveness upon the land where they are so out of their element. These Navy men take some little study, I have found.”
Henrietta nodded, her attention apparently focussed on smoothing a crease in the skirt of her gown. They perched on chairs in the drawing room, speaking quietly.
Mrs Hertle had noted before that women were almost never neutral in their response to Charles Hayden: they either found his overly serious mind an impediment, or they could not stop speaking of him. She could hardly remember how she herself had felt when first introduced, some four years past. Certainly, she had thought him well made, though thick of thigh, “just shy of a fathom in height” as he said himself. A strong, appealing face, surely—though rather full-featured—inky hair drawn back in a queue. Nose, aquiline—not unhandsome but neither was it modest in proportions; mouth full and pleasant, very used to smiling. His brow, however, could only be termed “heavy,” imparting a certain intensity to eyes that would have been perfectly fine if one had not been blue and the other shading to green.
“The Lords of the Admiralty must be sensible of his parentage?” Henrietta ventured.
Mrs Hertle nodded.
“It is a wonder he has a commission at all.”
“I fear you are right, Henrietta. Robert refuses to see it. In his mind Charles can do no wrong. Though I am sure he is a fine seaman and officer; Robert is not so blind as that.”
“I wonder what will become of him?” Henrietta asked, now examining a fingernail with great attention.
“I believe his future is in America. His stepfather is a very prosperous Boston merchant and has offered Charles command of one of his ships. A few more disappointments and I think poor Charles will finally perceive this proposal differently.”
“But it would be so demeaning—from officer in the King’s Navy to master of a merchantman—an American merchantman.”
“Indeed, but in America he would find acceptance, I think. His stepfather is a man of some influence.”
“I should not want to live in Boston. Should you?”
“Whoever asked you to live in Boston, dear Henrietta?” Mrs Hertle said quickly.
“Well, of course, no one did,” Henrietta protested. “And I did not mean that, as you well know!”
Mrs Hertle laughed gently at her cousin’s response. “Let us call the gentlemen for tea. The hour grows late.”
She was all long limbs and slim torso, Hayden thought, yet she perched upon her chair with such easy elegance, a look of amused contentment upon her face, that Hayden could not help but think her as lovely as a naiad. Her carriage was erect and proper but not without a hint of sensuality. In truth, Hayden was beginning to think Henrietta’s distinctive appearance perfectly matched her somewhat unconventional disposition.
The Carthews, he knew, were of good family, distantly related to the Russells. Her father was a gentleman of some means, had married well, and spent life riding his own particular hobby horse, which was the matter of education, and the education of women in particular. As he was a father of six daughters, Mr Carthew’s preoccupation with this subject was clearly defensible, and his daughters had been the subject of much experimentation in regards to their own learning, though it had gained them a perhaps undeserved reputation as bluestockings.
Mrs Hertle was gently chafing her cousin, teasing about this very subject, as Hayden raised his teacup.
“How many languages do you speak, dear Henri? Come now, don’t be modest.”
“Fluently?” Henrietta asked. Apparently they had played this game before.
“Let us begin with those you speak fluently and pass on to the others presently. Is it five or six?”
“You are evidently more familiar with this subject than I,” Henrietta protested.
“English we shall not count,” Mrs Hertle rejoined. “French, of course.” Mrs Hertle pushed up a slim finger, a glance finding Charles, then returning. “Italian, Spanish, High German—or is it Low?”
“Both,” Henrietta admitted.
“Greek and the Latin …”
“Not to be counted, as I read them only.”
“Dutch,” Mrs Hertle continued. “Does it come in High and Low?”
“Mmm …” her victim shrugged, pretending not to know.
Mrs Hertle counted off another finger. “Six, or is that seven? And then either Danish or Swedish, I can never remember.”
“Danish, but I am by no means fluent.” Henrietta’s unblemished skin had begun to colour—the object of Mrs Hertle’s cross-examination, Hayden guessed.
“We shall count Danish …” Mrs Hertle said, “for you are rather prone to modesty. I will make that eight, or seven if you insist, but we must not forget Russian.”
“By no means, Russian. I am unable to carry a conversation beyond mere pleasantries.”
Mrs Hertle laughed. “Seven, plus one half for Russian, and I’m certain I have missed a tongue or two. It is quite a little catalogue, don’t you think, Lieutenant Hayden?”
“Very impressive. Apparently Mr Carthew’s pedagogical methods were as successful as he claimed.”
“I think, the truth is that dear Henrietta has a genius for language.”
“Rather like me,” Robert declared, to a roll of the eyes from his wife and laughter from the others. Robert’s attempts at French and Spanish were the subject of much teasing within their circle.
“He did manage some striking results with his gifted daughters,” Mrs Hertle said, gazing unselfconsciously at her cousin.
“Charles speaks a number of languages,” Robert noted. “French he had at his mother’s knee and speaks it like a native. Of course, he spent almost half his chi
ldhood there. He is also fluent in the argot of Cheap-side. The other day he said to me, ‘You’ve dropped your foggle, Robert,’ and I had not a clue what he meant.”
“Pray, what does it mean?” demanded Henrietta. “Or should a lady not inquire?”
“‘Handkerchief,’” Robert told her. “But then many men of fashion speak the cant these days.”
“I did not realize you were such a follower of fashion, Lieutenant,” Miss Henrietta observed, her manner a little mocking, Hayden thought.
“In truth, I’m not. I had, for a time, a servant aboard one of my ships who had been an ‘angler’—a thief who used a hooked stick to steal things through gratings and from shop windows. He and a few others aboard spoke what amounted to another language. I’m not sure why, but I found it more than a little fascinating. I even began to compile a lexicon. For instance, ‘balderdash’ is watered-down wine.”
“Tell them what ‘bachelor’s fare’ is …” Robert urged.
“Bread, cheese, and kisses.”
The ladies pretended to be shocked, but then Henrietta became quite serious.
“Do you miss it, Lieutenant?” Henrietta asked, almost solicitously. “France, I mean.”
Hayden was not quite sure how to answer. “At times I do, for I am a man terribly divided. An Englishman raised on French food, wine, and their particular variety of conversation. At the same time, I am a Frenchman who prefers English order, government, and rationality. The French are passionate, proud, and prone to letting emotions make their decisions—which makes me cherish my English side even more.”
“But if all the ills of France were cured tomorrow and order restored, in which country would you choose to live?” Henrietta regarded him closely, as though the answer to this question were of particular importance.
Hayden was no more given to introspection than many a young man of active temperament, nor were his brief forays into self-awareness productive of great insight, so to be questioned so closely, while wishing so to impress, had the effect of banishing all thoughts. He threw up his hands. “The truth is, when I am in France I feel like an Englishman masquerading as French. When I am here I feel like a Frenchman pretending to be English.”
“Then you are at home in neither country,” Henrietta observed softly.
Hayden was about to answer when Robert interrupted.
“He is at home upon a ship—preferably in mid-Channel between his two nations.”
But Henrietta did not smile at this. She merely regarded him gravely a moment, then looked quickly away.
“Henrietta is writing a novel, did you know?” Mrs Hertle said, as though whispering a secret.
“Now, Elizabeth, there really is such a thing as a confidence,” Henrietta chastised her friend, but Hayden thought she was not really sorry this had been brought to light.
“It is about two women,” Mrs Hertle went on mischievously, “one a woman of education—rather like Henrietta—the other of no education to speak of but much social advantage. How does it progress, Henri?”
“Despite my greatest efforts, anything one might term ‘progress’ has ceased.”
“You must keep at it. Art is not made without adversity.” Mrs Hertle turned to Hayden. “I have read a good number of pages, now, and can avouch for the author’s skill, which is very high indeed.” She smiled, including both men. “But there is a matter that cannot be decided by the authoress and I seem to have very little influence, much to my chagrin. Now, give us your most considered opinion: should not the woman of education have the happier ending? That is what we have been arguing for several months.”
“These gentlemen are not interested in novels!” Henrietta argued.
“I happen to know that Lieutenant Hayden has read Rousseau’s Emile,” Mrs Hertle stage-whispered behind her hand, “and Captain Hertle once indulged in a volume of Mrs Richardson’s.”
“Who do you think should have the happier ending, Miss Henrietta?” Hayden asked.
She shook her head, looking genuinely distressed. “First I believe it should be the one, then the other.”
“Certainly it must be the educated woman who achieves the happier life,” Mrs Hertle insisted, “while to the other befalls the unhappy; though, perhaps, not of her making. Not a downfall so much as a stifled kind of complacency. Just what one would expect for a person who had not thought deeply about the time allotted her.”
“But you place so much emphasis upon happiness,” Henrietta replied. “I do realize that the Americans have recently enshrined it in their Declaration, but I am not certain it is mankind’s highest calling. What think you, Captain Hertle?”
“Oh, do not ask them,” Mrs Hertle interrupted. “Navy men must all answer that the highest calling is ‘duty,’ like a flock of bleating, blue-coated sheep.”
Robert Hertle did not look perturbed by his wife’s pronouncement. “I do not pretend to have an answer where greater minds than mine have strived and failed.”
“Certainly lesser minds than yours have had much to say on the subject,” Henrietta responded. “Come, you are not usually chary with your opinions …”
Robert laughed, as though embarrassed. “Happiness is certainly of great import to me, but I am putting my happiness at risk by leaving Mrs Hertle’s side and going off to war, so I must be one of those Navy men who bleat ‘duty’ by day and night.”
Henrietta Carthew considered this a moment, then turned to Hayden. “And do you agree, Lieutenant?”
“I fear a great deal has been accomplished in the world by people who make no claim to happiness or contentment of any form. I am much of two minds as regards this; like Mrs Hertle, I desire nothing more than to be contented and comfortable, and yet I wonder if I should accomplish little under such circumstances. I fear your woman of education may not have the happiest life but might make more of it.”
For the briefest second Henrietta met his eye, her gaze quickly withdrawn. “And I fear you are right. Once one has eaten of the tree of knowledge it is out of the garden and into the harsh world for all Adams and Eves.”
“You see,” observed Mrs Hertle, “there is our thoughtful Lieutenant Hayden, who hides his true nature away. Do you know, Henri, Mr Hayden is a prodigious reader—” But at that moment Mrs Hertle was called away to deal with some domestic matter, and Robert excused himself also, though only for a moment, and Hayden found himself alone with Henrietta. They were, to begin, silent—perhaps awkwardly so—but before Hayden could speak Henrietta broke the silence.
“Who is your favoured author, Lieutenant? Are you a Rousseau man? Elizabeth mentioned you had read Emile.”
“I suppose if I could take only one book to sea with me it would be Sterne,” Hayden answered.
To this, Henrietta appeared surprised but rather approving, he thought.
“Which?” she asked. “Shandy or the Sentimental Journey?”
“It must be Tristram Shandy. Do you know it?”
“I do. It is one of my father’s favourites, as well. He knew Sterne a little, but then every one did. He was an inveterate dinner guest for many years.”
“I should have liked to have met him myself. And you, Miss Henrietta, if you will permit me to ask: what is your favoured book?”
“Well, sir, now you are delving into my intimate secrets. I don’t know if I shall permit you …” For a moment she did not continue, but the smile on her face assured him that she but teased. “Don Quixote is the great novel, I believe. Sadly, not written by an Englishman. Have you read it?”
“My Spanish is not up to it.”
“Motteux has done a credible translation.”
“So I am told, but in my limited knowledge, all translations are failures of one sort or another.”
“That is true, but even second-rate Cervantes is better than no Cervantes at all, I think.”
“Rather like ships,” Hayden said, “a fifth rate is better than no ship at all.”
“He has you talking ships!” Mrs Hertle said as
she swept back into the room.
“Not at all. We were discussing the merits and demerits of Cervantes,” answered Henrietta.
“Ah, the Carthew family patron.” Mrs Hertle took a seat. “Did you know that Henrietta’s family gave each other the names of the characters from Don Quixote? It was something of a parlour game, wasn’t it, Henri? One had to find the name most befitting the persona of each sister and their father. What name would you choose for Lieutenant Hayden?”
“Don Quixote del Mar,” Henrietta answered without hesitation.
A delighted laugh escaped Mrs Hertle. “Well, there you are, Mr Hayden; you have the principal role. A high honour.”
He caught Henrietta smiling at him, amused, perhaps, at his expense.
Robert put his carriage at Hayden’s disposal after supper, the rattle of wheels over paving stones interrupted, now and again, by a prolonged hiss as they passed through irregular pools, the carriage slowing with a gentle lurch like a boat running up on sand. Darkened streets, greasy with rain, inhabited by linkmen and beau traps.
As the driver checked his team at a corner, swaying torches, smudged by the door-pane, burned through the smoky fog. Candled faces down a narrow alley, hands aloft, a shadowy gathering below. Hayden pressed back into his seat as though to hide, and then the company erupted onto the street—guildsmen upon some progress, gin-ruddy and grinning vapidly.
“Merde,” Hayden whispered, the sight too familiar and bearing with it feelings from another place—Paris, a few years earlier.
Visions of that wretched man, Doué, who, for all Hayden knew, had been innocent of all his alleged crimes. Had anyone possessed a crumb of proof that he speculated in the grain market, or that he had really joked the hungry should be fed hay? The mob did not much care for such particulars once they got hold of him.
Under Enemy Colours Page 3
