by M C Beaton
“It was the wine that started the problem. They were crazy for wine. In Benevente, the men found an extensive range of wine vaults under the square. The men fired their muskets at the casks hoping to puncture holes in them after they had dragged them up to the square. But the balls shattered the casks and wine gushed out in all directions until the street was ankle deep in it. The men tore off their caps, and, using them as ladles, drank from them. By morning the square was full of men and women so drunk they could not move, some still unconscious, with trickles of wine running from their noses and mouths.
“I was exhausted, too exhausted to care. I had been up all night protecting the home of an old Spanish lady. The men were mad to loot it, and how I kept them at bay I do not know, for they could easily have overrun me. The old lady thanked me with tears in her eyes. She was so very ill and frail. She gave me that old brass-bound chest that is with my luggage. ‘I can only live a few days,’ she said. ‘This contains my life, my memoirs. I wish you to translate what you find and make it into a book.’ I did not have the heart to refuse—and how I brought that ridiculous chest back over the mountains to the coast when most of the time I longed to tip it down a ravine is beyond me. But she had a certain quality of goodness, and she blessed me before I left, and I am sure her prayers brought me home.”
“It seems dreadful that women and children should be made to go on such a march,” exclaimed Fanny.
He sighed. “You cannot stop them. After we arrived in Portugal, we tried to send most of them back. We said we would have a special ship to take them. But they would not go. I think that is what you call love, Fanny, and it makes our moonshine games seem a trifle ridiculous.”
Fanny folded her lips in a firm line. She would have followed Lord Bohun to the grave!
“But we heard tales that the Spaniards, the aristocrats, entertained the British officers,” she said, to try to lighten the atmosphere, for Sir Charles’s face wore a haunted look.
He smiled suddenly. “Evenings in Spanish houses were quite dreadful, Fanny. Large, sparsely furnished rooms, hardly any of them with a fireplace, and the men and women facing one another across the room in long, formal rows. Card games, if there were any, were played in silence, and if there was music, you could hardly hear it because of the raucuous hawking of the guests, both Spanish men and women spitting indiscriminately on the floor.
“Young women were hardly ever seen. Sometimes an officer such as myself, who was known to respect the strict rules of Spanish society, was allowed to dance with one of the young women at a private dance, but she was closely watched every minute. Refreshment was usually sugared biscuits and lemonade or cups of rich chocolate, or one of them would offer me the damp and chewed end of a communal cigar. A very proud and a very brave people, the Spanish, Fanny, but difficult for the average Englishman to understand.
“We ourselves were so proud and brave at the beginning as we marched along the banks of the Tagus with our drums tapping. It was autumn and the fields were flooded with hazy, golden sunshine, and, oh, the beautiful scent of wildflowers and shrubs: thyme, myrtle, sage and lavender, woodbine, strawberry and rockrose. Then we marched toward the Spanish frontier, through pine woods, and vineyards, and past convents and Moorish castles, like castles in a romance. But what a nightmare it all turned out to be.”
“You must dread going back,” said Fanny.
“No, my dear, it is my duty. This is the first long leave I have ever been allowed. Besides, now we have Sir Arthur Wellesley as commander and he is a brilliant tactician.”
They fell into a comfortable silence until Sir Charles stretched and yawned. “We must return or Miss Grimes will have people out looking for us—and I must change and go to the opera, present my apologies to Miss Woodward.”
Fanny looked at him doubtfully. “You have been through so much, Charles. I would not see you hurt by this creature.”
“How dare you!” he cried, and their recent closeness splintered.
Fanny had the grace to blush. “That slipped out, Charles! There is so much talk of our wealth. And—and … she is so very beautiful. But ladies will talk, and it is said she is a sad flirt.”
“Beauty such as Miss Woodward’s always creates jealousy.”
“True,” said Fanny, downcast. “We must not quarrel, Charles. Until our situation is resolved, we must be very, very kind to each other.”
“Then do not be unkind about Miss Woodward!”
“Nor you about Lord Bohun!”
“I’ll try, Fanny.”
He rode back to London more slowly. Fanny, her arms wrapped tightly about him, was more worried about him than she had been before. It was not that she was in love with Charles, she told herself, but she did love him like a—like a brother. He was her Charles, and she didn’t trust that Amanda Woodward one little bit!
Sir Charles turned over several suitable lies in his mind as he made his way to the opera that evening. He could hardly tell Miss Woodward the truth—that he was so sure Lord Bohun had meant to seduce Fanny he had run off to Richmond in pursuit of her. He wished the Woodwards had decided to stay on at the Bidfords’ breakfast, where dancing would now have begun and where it would have been easier to hold a conversation, rather than at the back of an opera box.
As he made his way along the narrow corridor at the back of the boxes, he could hear the rising and falling of many voices, which showed that society found the production boring. No great diva or castrato was singing, and as society mostly came to the opera to see and be seen anyway, they were obviously enlivening the tedium of the evening in gossip.
He paused outside the door of the box and straightened his cravat and brushed at the sleeve of his coat with his hand. He needed new evening clothes. He had planned to order new clothes from Weston, the famous tailor, and then simply not pay him, but he found he could not do that. But his cravat was ornamented with a fine sapphire pin. Rundell & Bridge had been amazed when the “wealthy” Sir Charles had sent back Fanny’s jewels that morning saying they “would not suit” and had sent him a present of the pin. Other tradesmen had lavished presents on him and on Fanny in the hope of getting the rich pair’s custom. How to live on nothing a year, he thought wryly, and reached out to open the door of the box. And then Mrs. Woodward’s loud and carrying voice stopped him.
“You must show more warmth toward Deveney, Amanda. Goodness knows, you have flirted with enough men to know how to do it.”
Then came Amanda’s voice, not sweet and charming as it was when she spoke to him, but high and shrill. “I wonder if he is worth the effort, Mama.”
And then Mrs. Woodward again: “As you do not and have not shown any interest in any gentleman, you may as well settle for wealth.”
“I suppose so,” rejoined Miss Woodward petulantly. “But it is all such a bore. Besides, I vow he is not really interested in me.”
“Then make him interested,” came Mrs. Woodward’s acid rejoinder.
Sir Charles stood stunned and bewildered, his hand to his heart. What a stupid dream he had been living in. All he had done was to make himself ridiculous and expose Fanny to the charms of Bohun.
He half turned to leave. And then he thought: No, I will play out this charade and get my revenge on the Woodwards. He opened the door of the box.
“Why, Sir Charles!” exclaimed Miss Woodward, her eyes flirting over her fan. “You are come at last. And we are monstrous pleased to see you!”
Several hours later, Sir Charles made his way slowly home on foot. He had dismissed the coachman earlier. The streets were quiet and washed with moonlight. The watchman shambled past, calling the hour in a hoarse, wheezy voice. He had played his part well at the opera ball. He could see the nodding heads of the dowagers as they gossiped. He knew by his performance that he had been marked down as the beauty’s future husband. And yet all he felt still was the sour taste of betrayal—and the knowledge that he was as much a fraud and a cheat as his parents, and deserved all of it.
He thought of Fanny’s predicament with impatience. She would have to have her eyes opened to Bohun soon. If she wanted to find a real husband, she was wasting valuable time. Although he had been promised a long leave, he knew that the powers that be could easily and soon forget that promise and summon him back. And then what would become of pretty Fanny? She would either need to live in army quarters until his return or eventually rejoin her perfidious parents.
He crossed Hanover Square and let himself into the tall house. He climbed the stairs and walked toward his own room. He saw a light shining under the door of Fanny’s room and pushed open the door. A branch of candles was burning brightly beside the bed and Fanny, propped up against the pillows, was reading a romance.
She looked up and cried, “Oh, this is such a splendid story, Charles. I could not sleep until I had read some more. Goodness, look at the time! How did you fare? Are you forgiven?”
“Oh, yes.” He sat down heavily beside her on the bed.
She scanned his face. “You look tired, dear, and … sad. Did anything go wrong?”
He shook his head. Why cause her worry about his miseries? “I am concerned for you, Fanny. The whole reason for this mad escapade is to let you have some balls and parties and find the man of your choice. No! Do not bristle up. I shall not criticize Bohun. But I must point out that I have a feeling you will not bring him up to the mark. What will become of you if I am recalled?”
“I discussed that tonight with Miss Grimes,” said Fanny cheerfully. “She says that I can stay on in London as her companion.”
He had a sudden pang of sharp irritation as he looked at her carefree, glowing face. So no worries about the future for Fanny. He should have been glad, but he fought down a desire to shake her.
Instead he said, “And what did you do? Did you and Miss Grimes go out?”
“No, we were very quiet and domesticated and played cards. Captain Tommy made us laugh so much. I think Miss Grimes is very fond of him.”
“Like a son?”
“Hardly, Charles. They are about the same age, are they not?”
“Don’t start matchmaking, puss. Tommy is a confirmed old bachelor if ever there was one. Does London life suit you?”
“Oh, so very much. I am very happy, Charles.” She reached up, wound her arms around his neck, and gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek. He could feel the swell of her breasts pressed against his arm and the faint scent of flower perfume from her hair.
“Good.” He gently disengaged himself. “Get some sleep, Fanny, or you will never be fit for all the racketing around that Miss Grimes no doubt has in store for us.”
He rose and left the room. Silly Fanny, he thought as he finally stretched out in bed and prepared to sleep. But he lay with one hand gently across his cheek, as if protecting the mark of the kiss she had given him.
The following morning, Miss Grimes was thrown into a flurry by the arrival of a letter by hand from Lord Bohun. In it he said he wished to call on her that afternoon.
She flew to Charles’s room and shook him awake. He read the letter with an impassive face and then said, “It probably only means he wishes to ask your permission to take Fanny driving again. Make sure the expedition is no further than Hyde Park this time.”
“Oh, I shall! But this letter! Do you not think he wishes to pay his address to Fanny? And do you not think he is the kind of man to be quite furious when he finds out she is already married? I mean, he has only both your word for it that Fanny is still a virgin.” Miss Grimes blushed. “She is still a virgin, is she not?”
“Of course,” said Sir Charles haughtily. “It’s just that … well, despite all my strictures, you do seem to run in and out of each others’ bedrooms at all times of the night. Servants will talk, you know.”
“We are like brother and sister, I assure you. No need to worry about Bohun. He does not have marriage in mind.”
Feeling more at ease, Miss Grimes then went along to Fanny’s room to inform her sleepy charge that Bohun was to call that afternoon, no doubt to ask permission to take Fanny driving.
Captain Tommy, when he rose, also studied the letter but could not share his friend, Sir Charles’s, optimism. “The trouble is,” he said, shaking his head, “that Charles hasn’t seemed to have noticed that Fanny is a deuced pretty girl. But talk about not noticing what’s right under your nose …”
“Exactly,” agreed Miss Grimes in a hollow voice. She felt like jumping up and down and shouting, I am under your nose!
She tried to calm her mind as the hour of Lord Bohun’s arrival approached. Admittedly the man had an unsavory reputation, but then so had most unmarried men on the London scene. He was rich and he was titled—and he was probably genuinely in love with Fanny. She should not be so much against him, whatever Charles said.
“You’d best see him alone,” said Tommy. “I can’t bear the fellow, and I can’t help letting it show.”
So capped and gowned like the most respectable of dowagers, Miss Grimes sat by the crackling fire, which had just been lit, for the day was cold, and waited for Lord Bohun.
When he actually arrived, she could feel her fears melting away. He was undoubtedly a very handsome man and dressed in Weston’s finest tailoring, from his blue swallowtail coat to his glossy Hessian boots.
“Pray be seated, Lord Bohun,” said Miss Grimes, “and tell me the reason for your call.”
“I wish to ask leave to pay my addresses to Miss Page.”
Although she realized she had been half expecting this while waiting for him to arrive, it still came as a shock to Miss Grimes. She studied him narrowly, but there was nothing in his eyes but a sort of anxious respect.
She found her voice. “I do not need to ask you if you are in funds, Lord Bohun,” she said, “so there is no question of your being unable to support Miss Page. On the other hand, you are an … er … experienced man and Fanny is very young and naive.”
“I am aware of that, madam. Miss Page will experience nothing more at my hands during our courtship than kindness and courtesy.”
“I should expect no less.” Rain clouds were gathering outside and the room grew suddenly dark. A log fell in the fire and a tall flame shot up, the red light shining on Lord Bohun’s face, making his eyes glitter with a red light. Miss Grimes rang the bell and asked the servant to light the lamps and candles. The pair sat in silence until the room was illumined in a soft glow and the servant had retired.
“I think it would be better,” said Miss Grimes cautiously, “if I gave you permission to court Fanny … but beg of you to leave any formal engagement notice aside until you are both sure of your feelings and sure that you would suit. That is the best I can offer you at the moment.”
He bowed his dark head. “You are most kind.”
“Very well.” She rang the bell again and asked the servant to send Miss Page in.
Fanny arrived so promptly that Miss Grimes was sure she must have been waiting on the landing outside the drawing room. She was dressed in a carriage gown of blue velvet with a naughty little hat like a man’s high crowned one tipped rakishly sideways on her curls. Miss Grimes knew that Fanny’s wardrobe had come from the hands of a village dressmaker, but that the girl had cleverly altered everything to a more modish line—so successfully, thought Miss Grimes, that it was a pity she did not decide to go into trade and set up in business. And that showed how low the spinster’s thoughts had sunk, that she could even contemplate the idea of Fanny going into trade.
“My dear,” said Miss Grimes in a rather stifled voice, “Lord Bohun has asked my permission to pay his addresses to you. I have given that permission—with the stipulation that no formal announcement of your engagement should be made until you get to know each other a little better.” At this point, as Miss Grimes gloomily looked at Fanny’s radiant face, she felt she should raise her hands and give the couple her blessing but found she could not.
“I shall leave you alone for a few moments.” She went out but left
the door open.
Fanny smiled shyly at Lord Bohun. He took her hand and sank to one knee in front of her. There was an ominous creak from his corsets, but Fanny did not appear to have heard it. “My heart,” he said, “will you do me the honor of giving me this little hand in marriage?”
And just as Sir Charles walked into the room, Fanny smiled tenderly down at Lord Bohun’s bent head and whispered, “Yes … oh, yes.”
Chapter Seven
LORD BOHUN ROSE to his feet but kept hold of Fanny’s hand. “Congratulate me, Deveney,” he said.
Sir Charles’s eyes flew to meet Fanny’s. “Is this true?”
“Yes, it is true. And I am so very happy, Charles.”
Misery on misery, he thought bleakly. What could he say? Miss Grimes had obviously given her permission. He could hardly protest, How dare you court my wife?
Lord Bohun’s eyes held a mocking light. “Well, Deveney, aren’t you going to give us your blessing?”
“Not at the moment,” he said, and Fanny threw him a hurt and reproachful look. “I will see how things go,” he added in a milder tone. “We have never been friends, Bohun, so that is the best I can find to say at the moment.”
To Lord Bohun’s intense irritation, Sir Charles crossed to the fireplace. He was obviously not going to be allowed any time alone with Fanny.
Then Miss Grimes came in, followed by Tommy. There was a long silence, during which Tommy, Miss Grimes, and Sir Charles surveyed Fanny and Lord Bohun.
“Perhaps Miss Page will come driving with me,” said Lord Bohun.
“But it is a dreadful day,” protested Miss Grimes.
“Not now. It’s turned out splendid.”
And sure enough, the fickle English weather had changed again and pale sunlight flooded the room, bleaching the flames in the fireplace.
“There you are,” said Fanny tartly. “The sun shines on our engagement, if you do not.” She tripped out of the room, followed by Lord Bohun.
Sir Charles sat down suddenly.
