The Fortune Hunter

by Daisy Goodwin

  He pulled himself around to face her. She was standing beside her aunt and another lady, whom Bay recognised as Augusta Crewe, Fred’s fiancée. Charlotte looked very small standing beside the other women. Middleton bowed to the group and moved next to her.

  ‘I hope you can hear the music now, Miss Baird.’

  She nodded. He thought she looked less sure of herself here in the glittering expanse of the ballroom than she had in the enclosed space of the box at Covent Garden.

  ‘Yes, but this music is not intended to be listened to.’ She smiled her crooked smile and Bay could see that her fingers were tapping her fan.

  He bowed and asked her to dance. But before Charlotte could answer, Augusta said, ‘Oh, but you are too late, Captain Middleton, Miss Baird’s dance card is quite full. Isn’t that right, Charlotte?’ Augusta blinked her sandy eyelashes at Bay.

  Charlotte laughed. ‘Oh, but Augusta, I must make room for Captain Middleton. Haven’t you noticed how magnificent Fred is looking tonight? It is all the work of Captain Middleton here who sent him to his tailor. I think I should express our gratitude, don’t you?’

  Augusta sniffed. ‘I can’t say that I have noticed anything in particular. Fred is always well turned out.’

  ‘Oh, you are just being loyal. You may have the next dance, Captain Middleton, and Augusta, perhaps you would make my excuses to Captain Hartopp.’

  The band struck up a waltz. Bay held out his hand to Charlotte. He was surprised at how small and how light she was. She barely came up to his shoulder, unlike Blanche, who had always been on a level with him. She was concentrating too hard on the steps to look at him at first. He could see her biting her lip with effort. He tightened his grip on her waist and finally she raised her eyes to his and said, ‘You are a very good dancer.’

  ‘I have had lots of practice. In Ireland there was nothing to do except hunt and go to parties.’

  ‘But Captain Hartopp was in Ireland with you, was he not? He doesn’t dance as well as you.’

  Bay smiled. ‘It’s true, no one could call Chicken a dancer. He can ride, though.’

  ‘Why do you call him Chicken, Captain Middleton? I’ve asked Fred but he won’t tell me.’

  ‘If your brother won’t tell you, then you can hardly expect me to, Miss Baird.’ He saw her frown and continued, ‘Don’t be cross. It is rather a sad little story and I am too fond of Chicken to repeat it.’

  ‘But you don’t mind taking his dancing partner away?’

  Bay looked down at her, surprised. He hadn’t expected Fred’s sister to be so lively.

  ‘Oh, but that was your decision, not mine. Once you had accepted my invitation I could hardly turn you down.’

  ‘How chivalrous you are, Captain Middleton.’ She looked up at him through her lashes and Bay decided that her eyes were grey, almost the colour of the blue roan he had ridden in Ireland last summer. She was not beautiful but he found he liked looking at her face.

  ‘Well, I guessed that you didn’t want to dance with Chicken all night.’

  ‘Are you a mind reader then, Captain Middleton, as well as being the best dressed officer in the Guards?’

  Bay laughed. ‘And on what basis do you call me that? Are you an expert in Guards uniforms, Miss Baird?’

  ‘Not at all, but my brother is. Fred doesn’t praise people very often, so I am inclined to believe him. I am only sorry you are not wearing your uniform tonight so I can see what perfection looks like.’

  ‘Oh, I think there are quite enough uniforms here tonight.’ Bay’s voice was dismissive. He felt there was something ostentatious about wearing uniform to every social occasion.

  ‘Well, I am sure your tails are the epitome of understated good taste, Captain Middleton.’

  Bay could not help but glance at his impeccable tail coat with its four jet buttons on the cuff. Charlotte smiled and he checked himself. ‘You are mocking me, but I am not ashamed of taking the trouble to ensure my clothes fit properly.’

  ‘I envy your attention to detail. Fred is always berating me for my lack of interest in clothes. He would like me to be a fashion plate like Augusta. But I find the rigmarole of dressmaking so tedious. Standing perfectly still while people stick pins into you is not my idea of an occupation.’

  ‘So what would you rather be doing, Miss Baird?’

  She didn’t answer immediately and they did a turn around the dance floor before she said rather hesitantly, ‘I like to take photographs.’

  Bay did not conceal his surprise. How could this curious girl be related to stuffy old Fred? ‘Really? What sort of things do you photograph?’

  ‘Oh, a variety of things, landscapes, portraits, animals, whatever I think will make a good composition.’

  ‘Have you ever taken a picture of a horse?’

  ‘Not yet. Did you have one in mind?’

  ‘I would like very much to have a likeness of Tipsy, my hunter. She is a thing of beauty.’

  ‘Horse and rider would be interesting. Have you have ever had your photograph taken, Captain Middleton?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Has no one ever asked you for a picture? I am surprised.’

  Bay was about to answer when he saw Blanche’s golden head and white face inches away from him. He lost his balance for a second and stepped out wildly, then heard a gasp and a faint tearing noise.

  ‘Miss Baird, I am so sorry, what have I done?’ Bay looked down and saw that he had put his foot through the flounce of her skirt, leaving a grubby rent in the white silk.

  He thought for a moment that Charlotte was going to cry but she shook her head and said, ‘It doesn’t matter, but I think I should get it sewn up.’

  They retreated to some seats in the corner and Middleton told a footman to fetch a maid with needle and thread.

  ‘Unless of course you would rather go somewhere more private like the cloakroom.’

  She gave him a sideways look. ‘Oh no, I would much rather stay here and try to figure out why such an excellent dancer should lose his balance.’

  He made a little flourish with his hands. ‘You could make anyone unsteady, Miss Baird.’

  She did not reply for a moment, considering his remark, and then said, ‘I don’t think that was the reason, Captain Middleton.’

  Bay was about to protest when the maid arrived and started to sew up the gash in her dress. Bay stood in front of Charlotte, shielding her from the room. When the girl had finished and the dress was whole again he said, ‘I daresay you won’t dance with me again, but can I take you into supper?’

  Charlotte shook her head. ‘I am promised to Captain Hartopp. I can’t abandon him again.’

  ‘How very irritating. Let me, at least, take you back to Lady Lisle.’

  He put out his arm, but she hesitated and then took a flower from the corsage at her wrist. It was a small white rosebud whose tightly furled petals were tinged with pink.

  ‘You’ve lost your buttonhole, Captain Middleton. Won’t you take this instead?’

  He picked up the flower from her outstretched palm and put it into his lapel. It was smaller than the gardenia and there was no scent that he could detect.

  ‘You are very kind, Miss Baird.’

  ‘Hardly that. It’s just that I notice things.’

  ‘Even without a camera?’

  She smiled. ‘Once you learn to look at things properly, you never stop.’

  ‘Now I feel thoroughly nervous of having my likeness taken.’

  ‘But I only see what is there, Captain Middleton.’

  He was about to ask what she saw, but noticed Chicken Hartopp making towards them across the dance floor.

  ‘There you are, Miss Baird. I have come to rescue you from Middleton. I hope you haven’t forgotten that you promised to let me take you into supper.’

  ‘Of course not, Captain Hartopp. I was just on my way.’

  ‘My fault entirely, Chicken. Miss Baird here was furnishing me with a new buttonhole.’

 
Hartopp looked at the white rosebud on Bay’s lapel and flushed. Bay realised that somehow he had offended him. Charlotte looked embarrassed and put her hand on Hartopp’s arm.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind. Captain Middleton needed a new buttonhole and there are so many flowers in the beautiful corsage you gave me that I could spare one…’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ said Hartopp, who clearly did. ‘We should get to the supper room before the ices are all gone.’

  Bay knew that it was ignoble of him to enjoy Hartopp’s annoyance, but he could not help himself. Hartopp and Fred Baird had never concealed their amazement that despite Middleton’s inferior social position and fortune, he was not only a better rider than either of them but was also much more popular with women.

  But satisfying though Chicken’s chagrin had been, Bay took even more pleasure in the fact that little Charlotte Baird had had no qualms about giving him the flower. She liked him, and though Bay was used to being liked by women, he was pleased that this particular girl had decided to favour him. She was not a girl, he guessed, who was easily pleased.

  The band started playing a tune that Bay recognised as one that he had danced to with Blanche. They had not danced together very often, as Blanche was careful of her public reputation, so Bay was able to remember each dance quite distinctly. This particular polka had been playing the night of the Londonderry Ball. They had just become lovers and there had been something intoxicating about being able to hold her in his arms in public. She had hardly looked at him, but he had seen the pulse beating in her neck. He found himself looking across the ballroom for her, wondering if she too remembered that other night, but there was no blond head among the swirling dancers. She must be at supper or perhaps she had gone home. Bay was surprised that she could have left without his noticing. He looked at his pocket watch; it was almost midnight. It was much later than he thought. He had been distracted.

  There was a cough behind him. He turned to see a man wearing a dress uniform he didn’t recognise.

  ‘Captain Middleton?’ The man spoke with an accent, French or Italian.

  Bay nodded.

  ‘My name is Count Cagliari. I am equerry to her Majesty, the Queen of Naples.’ Cagliari looked over to where the Queen was sitting.

  Bay bowed. Cagliari was tall and blond, his chest extensively be-medalled.

  ‘At your service.’

  ‘I believe you may know that Her Majesty will be hunting with the Pytchley this winter.’

  Bay nodded. ‘I hear that she is an excellent horsewoman.’

  ‘Yes, that is the case. Her Majesty is quite without fear. But she is a queen and there is a feeling that she should have some assistance. She is after all riding with the public.’

  Bay smiled. ‘I don’t think the members of the Pytchley would call themselves the public.’

  Cagliari made an apologetic wave of his arm.

  ‘Forgive me, sir, I am aware that the Pytchley is a very superior gathering. But that is perhaps, as you say here, the point moot. The Queen, as you know, is cruelly parted from the land whose name she bears. She has not the opportunity to lead, to shine, that should be hers by birth and upbringing. So it has become very important to her that she should be distinguished, to make her mark.’ Cagliari paused, looking for the right words, then he continued.

  ‘The Queen wishes to make her mark on the Pytchley, Captain Middleton. And to that end she needs a guide, someone to help her to take her rightful place.’

  ‘The hunting field is not a court, Count.’

  ‘No indeed, how clumsy of me to have given that impression. It is a place of excellence, of course, but as we know, Her Majesty already is a Diana. All she needs is some direction, from someone like yourself, so that she can be the Queen of the hunting field.’

  ‘Direction? Are you asking me to be her pilot? To open gates and that sort of thing, tell her which way the wind is blowing, help her on her horse if she falls off?’

  Cagliari beamed, not picking up on the irony in Bay’s voice.

  ‘Yes, precisely, Captain Middleton. A pilot. That is the mot juste.’

  Bay paused. The Count did not understand the absurdity of his request.

  ‘Please tell Her Majesty that, while I am aware of the honour she does me, I am sorry to say that I cannot oblige her.’

  ‘Oh, but Captain Middleton, you do not appreciate the situation. The Queen would be extremely grateful…’ He rolled his eyes as if to convey the extent of her gratitude.

  ‘Really, your mistress would be better off with someone who enjoys making royalty grateful. Why don’t you ask Captain Hartopp? You see him over there by the orchestra, tall chap with the whiskers? He is an excellent rider, quite as accomplished as I am and he would like nothing better than to ride out with the Queen of Naples.’

  Cagliari looked over to where Hartopp was standing with Charlotte and shook his head. ‘I am sure he is an excellent fellow, but Her Majesty has asked for you in particular, Captain Middleton. She has heard so many things about your particular talents.’

  ‘I am flattered, of course, but I must still refuse. Even if my own Queen were to command my services as a pilot, I would decline. I love to hunt and I have no intention of spoiling one of the great pleasures in life by acting as a glorified royal nursemaid.’

  Count Cagliari looked shocked, and Bay felt that perhaps he had gone too far.

  ‘I have offended you, Count, with my frankness. Forgive me, but you see, I am not one of life’s courtiers.’

  The Count bowed. ‘Her Majesty will be disappointed. Poor lady, she has so many crosses to bear.’

  Bay patted the Count on the shoulder. ‘Tell her I am rude and uncouth and quite unfit for royal company. I am sure that a man like you can make it seem like a lucky escape.’

  The Count smiled wanly. ‘Well, I shall do my best, Captain Middleton.’

  Bay watched him thread his way back through the dancers towards the ex-Queen. It was time to leave. As he began to walk down the great staircase he looked up and saw Charlotte Baird, closely followed by Hartopp, coming down from the supper room on the mezzanine. He wondered if she would look down and see him. He stood there for a moment until he saw her spot him. She gave him a tiny smile, and Bay touched the rose in his buttonhole. And then Hartopp took her arm and hurried her back into the ballroom.

  The Group Photograph

  Melton Hall, Leicestershire January, 1876

  The group on the steps at Melton shifted about, trying to keep warm, their breath cloudy against the cold winter air. Lady Lisle looked particularly unhappy; her nose went red in the cold and she had so been looking forward to a delightful morning in front of the library fire, writing letters. But no house party these days was complete without a group photograph, and when Lady Crewe had written to invite Adelaide and her niece and nephew to stay at Melton, the Crewe seat in Leicestershire, over Christmas and the New Year, she had specifically requested that Charlotte should bring her ‘equipment’. ‘It would be so lovely to have a record of our entertainments,’ Lady Crewe had written. ‘When Archie went to Balmoral last summer, he said that the drawing room was full of photographs.’

  Adelaide Lisle had passed on this message with reluctance. She did not approve of Charlotte’s photographic exploits. Her niece had turned her dressing room in Charles Street into some kind of lair, which no one was allowed to enter without ringing a bell. She had remonstrated with Charlotte about the amount of time she spent in her ‘dark room’ but her niece had simply changed the subject. There was not much else Lady Lisle could do. As both parties were fully aware, it was Charlotte’s money that paid for the house in Mayfair, the carriage and the handsome pair of liveried footmen who stood at the back of Lady Lisle’s carriage when she paid her afternoon calls, and for the champagne that she liked to serve her guests at her Thursday afternoons. Charlotte would never be so vulgar as to point this out, but then she didn’t need to. Adelaide Lisle’s husband had died leaving her a title but not th
e means to support it, so she had lived a meagre existence in a small house in the Close at Salisbury, until she had been summoned by Fred to supervise his sister’s debut. It had not been difficult to leave the privations of her Salisbury life for the comforts of Charles Street and the attentions of the liveried footmen; so while Adelaide Lisle did not enjoy standing about on a cold December morning while her niece fiddled about behind the green baize cloth that covered her camera, she was in no position to complain.

  The photographic session had been fixed for that morning. When the hunting season got underway the house would be half empty during the daylight hours. All the guests had now arrived. Bay Middleton and Chicken Hartopp had been the last to come, turning up the night before with their strings of hunters. Lady Lisle had been quite surprised that Middleton had been invited to Melton; at the Spencer ball a month before Augusta had been so very definite that he was not a ‘suitable’ young man. But his unsuitability was not, it seemed, an issue in the hunting season when all the great houses in ‘the golden triangle’ of the Quorn, Pytchley and Melton meets, competed to attract the best riders. Fred had told Lady Lisle that Bay had turned down five invitations, including one from the Spencers to stay at Althorp, in order to come to Melton.

  In her tent of green baize Charlotte peered through the lens and counted the heads again: four, five, six, where was the seventh? She unmuffled herself from the drape and looked from behind the camera at the group. Her hostess Lady Crewe and her aunt dominated the middle of the frame; Augusta sat to the left of her mother, her body turned towards Fred, who stood behind her. Charlotte thought that if she were to tinker with this photograph, Augusta with her pale eyelashes and pinched mouth would be more rabbit than Pekinese, Fred with his high colour and receding chins would as always be an excellent turkey.