Kit

by Marina Fiorato

  But nothing would put Ormonde out of countenance. He nodded coolly, and spoke first. The exchange was so cursory it could have passed over a drover’s cart.

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘James.’

  The two men locked eyes as if they squared up for a bar fight. Then Marlborough’s eyes broke from Ormonde’s and raked her appreciatively. Just as she had with Savoy, she remembered the last time she had seen him. Bloodied and muddied, just returned from Cremona, she’d received his purse and his commendation. She held her breath. Would he know her? Kit heard Ormonde say, ‘May I present the Comtesse Saint-Hilaire de Blossac?’

  ‘You certainly may,’ said Marlborough. ‘She speak English?’

  ‘Better than your French,’ said Ormonde.

  Marlborough took her hand and kissed it with a smack. ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ But his eyes soon returned to Ormonde. It would take more than a decorative countess to divert them from their rivalry. Now she saw them together she was reminded of a cat and a dog – Marlborough was a big, golden, forthright gun-dog, eager, tramping through battlefields as a dog would roll in the dirt, crossing oceans as a dog would plunge into a millpond. Ormonde was smaller, sleeker, feline; his ways were circumspect, winding his policies like a ball of yarn, weaving his way through the court as a cat would through the legs of a chair.

  Marlborough barked first. ‘Christ’s wounds, you’re like a ghost in this company. We have not seen you this many a month. Screwing and Jewing in your palace, I suppose. Where have you been hiding?’

  ‘Oh, I’m always around, Jack,’ said Ormonde, pleasantly. ‘In plain sight, for those with the wit to see me.’

  ‘Haven’t had much time for blind man’s buff, James. Been fighting the Frogs. Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.’ Marlborough nodded to Kit, who favoured him with a smile. The two dukes continued to bait each other, and Kit, neither expected nor required to participate, felt free to look around the room.

  And then, for the first time in three months, she saw Captain Ross.

  For just a moment, she could not breathe. She had remembered him, in her mind’s eye, in every detail – the way his dark hair grew, the length of his limbs, the curve of his cheekbones, the breadth of his back. In this company of dukes and princes he stood above them all – the best-made man in the assembly. But he looked deeply unhappy – his dark brows were drawn together, his expression was guarded, his gaze low under the fringe of his lashes. She saw with a leap of joy that he still had his old trick of pressing his full lips together and releasing them again when perturbed, but he had acquired a new habit too. He tapped his hand continually on the hilt of his sword – not to the beat of the music, but to some odd internal rhythm of his own. Kit did not heed the rhythm – she was looking at the sword. She would know it anywhere; for it was her father’s. Kit began to breathe again, heavily, the blood mounting to her cheek, rendering the rouge superfluous. So Bianca had given Ross Sean Kavanagh’s sword, and he had worn it for remembrance. He loved her still. She let go of Ormonde’s arm.

  Her steps were borne inexorably towards Ross; her new, dainty steps, her slippers kicking out the skirts of the mantua as she had been taught. As if her movement caught his eye he raised his gaze to her and their eyes met. She had forgotten this one thing – how truly blue his eyes were, bluer than the lake that had been her home these past three months. Now, she thought, now he will know me. But though his gaze held a dozen emotions – surprise, question, gratification – there was not a modicum of recognition in it. Her way was blocked – Ormonde claimed her once more, this time to talk to the Landgrave of the Hessians. Charles I, Landgrave of Hesse-Kassal, said the fan. Has a vast army of fearsome mercenaries he lends out to foreign powers. Married to his first cousin Maria Amalia of Courland. Suppressing her impatience, Kit spoke to the landgrave prettily, asking a woman’s questions about his forces, concealing Kit Kavanagh’s knowledge of warfare, shivering prettily at the might of his armies. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ormonde greet Brigadier Panton, and carry him off to the saloon for a hand of cards. She was free to excuse herself and seek Ross again.

  The hour struck midnight, and she could see the captain at one of the open embrasures. He was alone, but she could not converse with him for they had not been introduced. He turned back into the room, observing the company, then he found her among the throng and caught her eye. Determined now not to miss her chance, she walked towards him, and past him, and deliberately dropped her fan. Ross pounced like a heron, folding his tall frame to pick it up. She watched him tensely; it was a gamble, for what if he spread the thing and read what was written there? But he handed it back, folded as it had fallen. ‘Your fan, madam.’

  She nodded to him in thanks and there was a charged silence in which the music seemed to fade. Then she remembered: their ranks were now reversed; she must speak first. A dragoon must wait for his captain to address him, but a mere captain may not speak to a countess. It was not for him to introduce himself to one such as she.

  She stood straight. ‘I am La Comtesse Christiane Saint-Hilaire de Blossac.’ He bowed deeply. ‘Captain Ross, of the Royal Scots Grey Dragoons.’ His voice was just the same. He took her hand, and she was transported back to her cell in the Castello at Rovereto, at the moment of their parting, when he had stripped off his shirt and shown her his scars. She had touched his flesh then as she touched it now. He must know her. But he released the hand and straightened. She felt herself avoiding his gaze, fearing that under the wig, and the accent and the make-up, her green eyes would give her away.

  ‘And now we are introduced, Comtesse, we may dance. Will you be mine for the minuet?’

  She nodded, concealing her nerves – the minuet, with its complicated walks and tricky rhythms, had been her nemesis, driving Mezzanotte to despair.

  She took the floor with the captain, in the very centre of that great cathedral of a marble room, and there was a silence. The minuet was an exhibition dance, with just one couple dancing at a time, and the eyes of the whole room were upon them. Then, as the dance floor was a leveller of rank, the countess and the captain honoured each other, with a bow and a curtsy. She tried to slow her breathing and her heart, and to remember her lessons; she must remember to lay her hand lightly on the captain’s, to dip and rise in time to the music. She must move her feet on the first beat, wait the second, then step on the third, fourth, fifth, wait the sixth, then begin again. Ross brought the same careless elegance to the dance as he did to his riding. They achieved the first round without error, and Kit began to relax. This was just as well, for Ross seemed inclined to converse.

  ‘Would you prefer to speak in French or English?’

  ‘You speak French?’ She was surprised, for she remembered well translating for him at Cremona.

  ‘Execrably.’

  She smiled. ‘Ah, these English schools,’ she teased, very French, ‘where they take away a little boy and send back a man. The lycées of Paris are kinder; they let our sons grow under the civilising influence of their mothers.’

  ‘And yet I adored my own foundation at Rugby. The education I received there was only lacking in one regard.’

  She dared to meet his eyes, questioning him.

  ‘In the tuition of French.’

  They were parted by the dance, and Kit executed the z-shaped promenade as she had been taught, eyes now locked with her partner at all times as the dance required. Then they came together once more, linked elegantly at the wrist, to take a turn about the floor.

  ‘Better to try English, then.’ Kit was relieved – her voice was very different now and no trace was left of her Dublin brogue. But he had heard her speak her perfect Poitevan French before, in Cremona, in extremis. A man does not forget such a moment.

  ‘I see you wear a sword, even at an entertainment such as this,’ she said. ‘Do you fear for your life?’

  ‘It has become a habit.’

  ‘Even among such a company?’

  ‘Always; besides, my swo
rd is the insignia of my profession and the most precious thing I own. It was left to me for safe keeping.’

  She hugged this to herself; he had forgiven Kit Kavanagh. She wanted to ask more, but it would not do to press the point so soon. There must be, as Ormonde had instructed her, small talk before greater matters could be discussed. ‘You said you were a captain?’

  ‘Yes, of a company of horse.’

  ‘You must have been in some dangerous situations, I imagine?’

  ‘Some so dangerous that certain of my men were put to the trouble of saving me.’

  That she knew very well. ‘And do you save them in turn?’

  He sobered, not joking now. ‘We save each other.’

  Their dance ended with the longed-for, daring finale when the partners hold both hands – the most contact allowed in any dance. He clasped her hands firmly, but his face was set. The lovely, easy manner that had made her heart rise like a swift had gone. They honoured each other, then he almost ran from the floor as the next couple took their place. He took a glass of champagne from a liveried servant and tossed it back.

  She followed him, took a glass for herself, and asked, ‘Why are you angry?’ The question stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Am I angry?’ He looked in his empty glass.

  ‘I think so, yes,’ she said gently.

  He turned to face her and looked at her, directly. ‘Because my men deserve better. We are marching up and down, and we are diminishing little by little, waning like the moon. With every campaign we lose another one or two. And we are lucky. Our task is largely reconnaissance,’ she remembered the dragoon law so well, ‘so we escape, betimes, the heaviest losses. But at Mantova, one of our regiments was all but wiped out.’

  The ghost of Richard and his black earth and his white dog was so present, suddenly, that she could not speak.

  ‘I may speak of it to you, of course, but not to my superiors. Loyalty is all, and I have always been loyal; but something needs to break the … the …’

  ‘Stalemate,’ she offered.

  ‘Yes!’ His eyes glittered. She could see he was very drunk, more so than she had ever seen him.

  ‘I lost a man at Mantova,’ he said, sobering again. ‘A man called O’Connell.’ She spilled her champagne a little. O’Connell, the big black-eyed Irishman. O’Connell, who had turned a blind eye when she had struck Sergeant Taylor, O’Connell who had played the fiddle so that it wrung her heart from her. ‘I spent my own shilling to send his medals back to his wife, for there was no money to be had. How many shillings do you think this night cost?’ Ross gestured about him, his sweeping arm taking in the gilt, the chandeliers. ‘It is all for show – it is a mask. Look how rich we are. Look how secure the Grand Alliance is. And yet we are not.’ He took another brimming glass from a passing servant. ‘We took a beating at Mantova, so all is not as it seems.’ He drank thirstily. ‘I have the feeling you are not as you seem, Comtesse.’

  Her heart thumped. It was right that he, who knew her the best of all, should be the one to find her out. ‘Who is?’ she said lightly.

  ‘I see you wear a wedding ring.’

  ‘The insignia of my profession and the most precious thing I own,’ she teased, echoing his earlier words.

  ‘And yet there is no Vicomte Saint-Hilaire de Blossac?’

  She knew the patter. She knew what she should say: My husband lives, he fights for England’s cause behind French lines. But she missed her cue, ignoring Ormonde speaking in her head like a prompter. She lowered her eyes. ‘Not any more.’

  He looked at her sharply, his eyes wide. ‘I am sorry. Was your loss recent?’

  ‘In some ways it seems as if it were a year ago,’ she said truthfully, ‘and in other ways, just a week.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Ross, genuinely contrite. ‘I am a fool. I have had overmuch to drink, and I am angry, and I insulted you. I took your grief for complacence. And God knows it is not a mistake I should make, for I too have lost.’

  ‘A bereavement in the family?’

  ‘My wife. And my … son.’

  It was the first time he had told her of his wife. How salutary that he would share with a woman, in the first hour of acquaintance, something he would not share with his brother in arms. Kit was learning much about the difference in the sexes.

  ‘But that was not the loss of which I spoke.’ He looked down to the sword, and Kit followed his eyes. She could not miss this opportunity. She steeled herself, and then asked, ‘Are you speaking of the former owner of your sword?’

  He looked at her with surprise. ‘I am.’

  She licked her lips. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No, not dead. Gone.’

  ‘It sounds as if you loved him,’ she ventured.

  ‘Love,’ he said with a bitter laugh. ‘A woman’s word.’

  ‘Is it?’ she asked. ‘Then can you instruct me? Can you describe the regard you felt for this man?

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I did not mean to deprecate your excellent sex. It is just that this is such a difficult bond to describe to someone who has not been a soldier. You ride with someone by day, and sleep by them at night. You spend more time together than man and wife. You cheat death every day but at the same time feel more alive than you have ever felt. You feel bone-shaking terror at one moment, and the next you are laughing fit to burst with merriment. And through all of this you fear most for your brother, for you would do anything for him, and you would give yourself to the Reaper before you give up a hair of his head.’ He tapped the hilt of Sean Kavanagh’s sword. ‘Thus I felt for my brother that is gone.’

  For a moment she could not speak. ‘That sounds like love to me, Captain.’

  He smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps it is. But it is a love of the mind and heart – there is nothing of the body in it. It is not the love which, saving your presence, a man would feel for a woman. Only in such a partnership can a man achieve his heart’s desire.’

  There was Ormonde’s phrase, Maura’s phrase; trite but true. She understood then, singing inside with joy, that a union with Ross could offer the best of both worlds – he would love the person he had fought with, his brother in arms, and he would love her as a woman, with a physical bond. ‘And is that your heart’s desire, to have such a partnership?’ His answer suddenly mattered, so much.

  ‘Sadly, that is one of the privileges of peacetime. For now I would like the French to be beaten, with minimum losses to the Alliance. Then I will ride for the horizon; and beyond that, perhaps, such happiness awaits me.’

  From across the room she saw Ormonde signalling discreetly. There was so much left to say, but she could not frame a goodbye. Instead she said, ridiculously, fervently, ‘I hope you stay alive.’

  He smiled. ‘And I wish the same to you. And if we both manage it, I would see you again,’ he said.

  ‘You will,’ she replied, hardly breathing, praying it was true.

  Ross raised her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly, on the flesh of her scarred little finger, the one that had been all but severed. She felt the kiss through the lace, through the skin, right to the very bone of her. Then he checked and stared at the hand, his fingers moving to the scar, searching, feeling the deformed joint. He turned the hand over, looking at the finger through the lace mitten. Then he looked her in the eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but she snatched her hand away and ran.

  In the carriage Ormonde was cock-a-hoop. ‘Got ’em!’ he said. ‘Even Jack Churchill! “May I …” “You certainly may.” The great booby! And on whom did you test your persona while I was closeted with Panton? I saw you dancing with a handsome captain.’

  ‘Some cavalryman,’ she said airily.

  ‘And I take it he did not know you as Irish.’

  Until the last moment, she would have sworn he did not. ‘No.’

  Ormonde clapped his hands together. ‘Capital!’ He threw his head back against the velvet seat and laughed until the tears spouted. ‘The English Army,’ he said.
‘The finest cunts in Christendom!’ He wiped his eyes. ‘Now all is ready. You are ready. Panton is ready.’

  Kit wanted to enquire what Panton had to do with their scheme, but could not stem Ormonde’s triumph. ‘Now for Mantova,’ he said. ‘Now, we are in the game.’

  For a moment Kit was horribly afraid, a visceral bowel-opening fear such as she had never felt in battle. The fear that made her want to wrench open the door, jump out, and run back to Ross. The moon was on the wane; soon it would be a sliver, and then? After tonight, and that conversation with Ross, she knew what she had to do. Not for Ormonde, or for Richard, or even for the English Army; but for Ross. She would break the stalemate. She would do what Ormonde wanted, and in the peace that followed she would have a fortune and freedom, and she would spend both of them finding the captain again.

  Chapter 34

  And you’d have no scruples to send us to France …

  ‘Arthur McBride’ (trad.)

  The day after Savoy’s name day Kit slept the day through. Ormonde let her be. But the day after that, his preparations acquired a new direction. He trusted that she knew her history and her cultural references by rote, and now he concentrated on the unexpected, training her to improvise her way out of a conversational impasse. Then these improvisations themselves would be rehearsed, until he felt her identity would hold water.

  ‘Ah, but Madame la Comtesse, if you are from Poitiers you must know Antoine de Rouvroy; he was the Haute-Maréchal of Poitou-Charentes.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kit replied without hesitation, ‘we dined with him and his wife Viviane. She was just then churched with their first daughter, Marie-France.’

  ‘And you must know Jean Marc-Charpentier, of the Angoulême Charpentiers.’

  She foundered. ‘Yes, of course, but … it was a long time ago …’

  ‘No,’ said the duke, wagging an admonitory finger. ‘Never claim an acquaintance with a name that cannot be verified. It is the easiest way to trap a charlatan. The names I have given to you are well-known scions of Poitevan society; if anyone asks you of another person, say you do not know them. They may be trying to trip you. Now: what do you say if someone sails in an unexpected direction?’