An Infamous Army a-3

by Джорджетт Хейер

  "Oh no! I don't go because Charles does not wish it. How tame! Don't talk of it! It makes me cross! I want _o go. I am bored to death!"

  "Well, why should you not?" Judith said, as an idea presented itself to her. "A party of pleasure - there could be no objection! If you will accept of my company, I will go with you."

  "Go with me?" said Barbara. "In Lavisse's place?"

  "No such thing! You may ride with the Count; I shall drive with my sister, Lady Taverner. I am persuaded she would delight in the expedition. I daresay my brother will join us as well."

  The green eyes looked blankly for a moment, then grew vivid with laughter. "Thus turning a tete-a-tete into the most sedate of family parties! Oh, I must do it, if only for the fun of seeing Etienne's dismay!"

  "Would you not care for it?" said Judith, a little dashed.

  "Of all things!" Barbara sprang up. "It's for tomorrow. We start early, and lunch at this Chateau Etienne talks of. It will be charming! Thank you a thousand times!"

  Chapter Nine

  The weather remaining fine, and the Taverners ,declaring themselves to be very ready to join the picnic, the whole party assembled in the Rue Ducale the next morning. As Lady Taverner's situation made riding Ineligible for her, Judith, who would have preferred to have gone on horseback, was obliged to drive with her in an open barouche. Sir Peregrine bestrode a showy chestnut, and Barbara, as usual, rode the Count's Coup dz Grace.

  Upon her first setting out Judith had felt perfectly atisfied with her own appearance. She was wearing a round robe, under a velvet pelisse of Sardinian blue. A high-crowned bonnet, lined with silk and ornamented with a frilled border of lace, gloves of French kid, a sealskin muff, and half boots of Jean, completed a very becoming toilet. Beside her sister-in-law, who had chosen to wear drab merino cloth over olive-brown muslin, she looked elegant indeed, but from the moment of Barbara's descending the steps of the house in the Rue Ducale she felt herself to have been cast quite in the shade.

  Barbara was wearing a habit of pale green, resembling the dress of a hussar. Her coat was ornamented with row upon row of frogs and braiding: silver epaulettes set off her shoulders; and silver braiding stretched half way up her arms. Under the habit, she wore a cambric shirt with a high-standing collar trimmed with lace; a cravat of worked muslin way tied round her throat; and there were narrow ruffles at her wrists. Set jauntily on her flaming head was a tall hat, like a shako, with a plume of feathers adding the final touch of audacity to a preposterous but undeniably striking costume.

  Lady Taverner was shocked; Judith, who considered the dress too daring for propriety, yet could not suppress a slight feeling of envy. She could fancy herself in such a habit.

  "How can she? Such a quiz of a hat!" whispered Lady Taverner.

  However much she might agree with these sentiments, Judith had no notion of spoiling the day's pleasure by letting her disapproval appear. She leaned out of the carriage to shake hands with Barbara, saying with the utmost amiability: "How delightfully you look! You put me quite out of conceit with myself."

  "Yes, I'm setting a fashion," replied Barbara. "You will see: it will be the established mode in a month's time."

  Lady Vidal, who had come out of the house with her husband, merely bowed to Judith from the top of the stone steps, but Vidal put himself to the trouble of coming up to the barouche to thank Judith for her kindness in joining the expedition. He said in a low voice: "Bab is a sad romp! One of these days her crotchets will be the ruin of her. But your presence makes everything as it should be! I shan't conceal from you that I don't above half like that fellow Lavisse."

  Not wishing to join in any animadversions on one who was for this day in some sort her host, Judith passed it off with a smile and a trivial remark. Her dislike of Lavisse was as great as Vidal's, but she was forced to acknowledge the very gentleman-like way in which he had received the news of the augmentation of his party. Not by as much as the flicker of an eyelid did he betray the mortification he must feel. His civility iowards the ladies in the barouche was most flattering; he was all smiles and complaisance, prophesying fine weather, and displaying a proper solicitude for their comfort.

  "Don't you wish you were coming, Gussie?" Barbara called.

  "My dear Bab, you must know that of all insipidities I most detest a family party," returned Augusta.

  Barbara bit her lip, glancing towards the barouche as though she saw it with new eyes. Suddenly impatient, she said: "Well, why do we wait? Let us, for God's sake, start."

  The Count, who was giving some directions to worth's coachman, looked over his shoulder with a smile of perfect comprehension. "En avant, then!" he said,reining his horse back to allow the barouche to pass.

  When it had moved forward with Peregrine riding behind it, he fell in beside Barbara, and said with some amusement: "You repent already, and are asking yourself what you do in this galere."

  "Oh, by God, I must have been mad!" she said. "Little fool! I admire the guard set about you by you staff officer. It is most formidable!"

  "It was not his doing. The notion was Lady Worth and I fell in with it."

  "Impayable! Why, for example?"

  She laughed. "Oh, to make you angry, of course!"

  "But I am not at all angry; I am entirely amused," he said.

  They were making their way down the Rue de la Pepiniere in the direction of the Namur Gate. Once outside the walls of the town, the road led through some neat suburbs to the Forest of Soignes, a hugh beechwood stretching for some miles to the south of Brussels, and intersected by the main Charleroi Chaussee. The Forest was almost entirely composed of beech trees, their massive trunks rising up out of the ground with scarcely any underwood to hide their smooth, silvery outlines.

  Judith had often ridden in this direction, but this was her first visit to the Forest in springtime. She was enchanted with it, and even Lady Taverner, whose spirits were always low during the first months of pregnancy, was moved to exclaim at the grandeur of the scene. Sir Peregrine, in spite of already having got his uppers splashed by the mud of the unpaved portion of the road, seemed pleased also, though he would not allow the vista to be comparable to an English scene.

  For the first mile or two the party remained together, Barbara and Lavisse riding at a little distance behind the barouche, but from time to time pressing forward to exchange remarks with its occupants. Shortly after the Forest had been entered, however, Barbara announced herself to be tired of riding tamely along the road. She waved her whip in a rather naughty gesture of farewell, and set her horse scrambling up the bank of the wood. The Count lingered only to assure Judith of the Impossibility of her coachman's missing the way, saluted, and followed Barbara.

  "I do think her the most unaccountable creature!" exclaimed Lady Taverner. "It is very uncivil of her to make off like that, besides being so indiscreet!"

  Judith, herself disappointed in this fresh evidence of flightiness in Barbara, endeavoured to give her sister-in-law's thoughts another direction.

  It was inconceivable to Lady Taverner that any female who was betrothed to one gentleman could desire a tete-a-tete with another, and for some time she continued to marvel at Barbara's conduct. Judith did not attend very closely to her remarks; she was lost in her own reflections. She could appreciate the cause of Barbara's perversity, but although she might sympathise with that wildness of disposition which made convention abhorrent to Barbara, she could not but be sorry for it. She was more than ever convinced that this spoiled, fashionable beauty would make Colonel Audley a wretched wife. Her imagination dwelled pitifully upon his future, which must of necessity be astormy affair, made up of whims and tantrums and debts; and she could not forbear to contrast this melancholy prospect with the less exciting but infinitely more comfortable life he would enjoy if he would but change Barbara for Lucy.

  She was roused from these musings by hearing Peregrine announce a village to have come into view. She looked up; the trees flanking the road dwindled ahead in
perspective to the village of Waterloo. A round building, standing on the edge of the Forest, half bathed in sunlight, presented a picture charming enough to make her long for her sketchbook and water colours.

  They had by this time covered some nine and a half miles, and were glad to be leaving the shade of the Forest. In a few minutes the village was reached, and Lady Taverner was exclaiming at the size and style of the church, a strange edifice with a domed roof, standing on one side of the chaussee. Opposite, among a huddle of brick and stone-built cottages, was a small inn, with a painted signboard bearing the legend, Jean de Nivelles. There was little to detain sightseers, and after pausing for a short while to look at the church, they drove on, up a gentle acclivity leading to the village of Mont St Jean, three miles farther on.

  Here the chaussee diverged, one fork continuing over the brow of a hill, and crossing, a little over half a mile beyond Mont St Jean, an unpaved hollow road running from Wavre to Braine l'Alleud, towards Charleroi; and the other running in a south-westerly direction towards Nivelles. The Nivelles road, which the coachman had been instructed to follow, was straight and uninteresting, bordered by straggling hedges, and proceeding over undulating ground until it descended presently between high banks into a ravine extending from the village of Merbe Braine to Hougoumont.

  The Chateau was situated to the south of the hollow road from Wavre, which here, having taken a turn to the south-west, crossed the Nivelles chaussee; and to the east of the chaussee, from which it was approached by an avenue of fine elm trees. The Count's directions had been exact; the coachman turned into the avenue without hesitation; and the carriage bowled along under the spreading branches, and soon passed through the northern gateway of the Chateau. The travellers found themselves in a paved courtyard, surrounded by a motley collection of buildings.

  The Chateau was one of the many such residences to be found in the Netherlands, a semi-fortified house, half manor, half farm. The Chateau itself, built of stone and brick, was a pretty house, with shuttered windows; there was a small chapel at the southern end of the courtyard; and opposite the Chateau, on the western side, were some picturesque barns. A gardener's cottage and a cowshed made up the rest of the buildings, which were all clustered together in a friendly fashion, and oathed, at this moment, in pale spring sunlight.

  As the barouche drew up outside the door of the Chateau, Barbara strolled out, with the tail of her habit caught up over one arm, and a glass of wine in her hand. She had taken off her hat, and her short red curls were clustering over her head in not unpleasing disorder. She looked rather mannish, and neither her eyes nor her glancing smile held a hint of the softness which Judith had seen in both the day before.

  "Have you had a pleasant drive?" she called out. "We beat you, you observe."

  "Yes, a delightful drive," replied Judith, stepping out of the carriage. "And I have now fallen quite in love with this pretty little Chateau! How cosy it is! There is nothing stiff, nothing at all formal about these Flemish country houses."

  Lavisse came out of the house at this moment, and while he welcomed the ladies, and directed the coachman where to stable his horses, Barbara stood leaning negligently against the door-post, sipping her wine and blinking, catlike, at the sunshine.

  The owner of the house was away, but Lavisse, who appeared to be quite at home, had advised the housekeeper of his advent, and a light luncheon had been prepared for the party. A fille de chambre conducted the ladies upstairs to a bedroom where they could leave their pelisses and bonnets, and when they were ready led them down again to a parlour overlooking a walled garden with an orchard beyond.

  A table had been laid in the middle of the room, and a fire burned in the hearth. Barbara was lounging in the window, leaning her shoulders against the lintel. As Judith and Harriet came in, a burst of laughter from the two men indicated that she was in funning humour.

  The Count at once came forward. He drew Harriet to a chair by the fire, declaring that she must be chilled from the long drive, and insisted on her taking a glass of wine. She accepted, and he stayed by her, engaging her in conversation, while Judith went to the window to admire the garden.

  It was laid out in neat walks, much of it under cultivation for vegetables, but there were some flowerbeds as well, and the tops of the fruit trees beyond the mellow brick wall were heavy with blossom. From the window could be seen rose bushes, some fine fig trees, and several orange trees. Judith thought the garden must be enchanting in summer.

  "I daresay it is," agreed Barbara. "We might arrange another expedition here, perhaps in June."

  "June! Who knows what may have happened by then?"

  "Oh, you are thinking of the war, are you? I am tired of it: we have heard too much of it, and nothing ever happens."

  "It certainly seems out of place in this peaceful little Chateau," Judith remarked. "You must have had a delightful ride through the Forest. Such noble trees! I do not think there can be any tree to compare with the beech."

  "Beech trees, are they? To tell you the truth, I did not notice them particularly," said Barbara. "Etienne, fill glasses, if you please!"

  "Ah, allow me!" Peregrine said, hurrying to the table for the decanter that stood on it.

  She held out her glass, smiling at him. He filled it, and his own, saying audaciously: "To your green eyes, Lady Bab!"

  She laughed. "To your blue ones, Sir Peregrine!" Luncheon was brought in at this moment, and soon the whole party was seated round the table, partaking of minced chicken and scalloped oysters.

  Lady Barbara was in spirits, the Count scarcely less so, and everything might have gone off merrily enough had not Lady Taverner taken one of her rare dislikes to Barbara. Like many shy women, she had some strong prejudices. She had never liked Barbara. Until today she had known her merely by sight and by repute, and being a just little creature, had refused to condemn her .But from the moment of seeing Barbara come down the steps of her home in her hussar dress she had seen that gossip had not lied. Barbara was fast, and, since she chose deliberately to ride off alone with a dreadfull rake, unprincipled into the bargain. She offended every canon of good taste: lounged like a man, tossed off her wine like a man, and (thought Harriet, in her innocence) swore like a trooper. Listening to her conversation at the luncheon table, Harriet decided that some of her sallies were a trifle warm. Shocked. and with a very prim expression on her face, she tried to give the conversation a more decorous turn. It was too pointed an attempt; Barbara looked at her, blankly at first, and then in frank amusement. She addressed an idle remark to Harriet, received the chilliest of monosyllables in reply, and openly laughed.

  Judith intervened, and the awkward moment passed. But as Harriet, mortified by the laugh, remained for the rest of the meal apparently oblivious of Barbara's presence, she began to wish that she had never hit upon the idea of arranging this pleasure party. The task of talking to Harriet without ignoring Barbara taxed her powers to the utmost, and by the time they rose from the table she would have been hard put to it to say which of the two ladies she most blamed.

  Luncheon at an end, a walk in the orchard and wood was proposed. Harriet declined it, but when she had been comfortably settled with a book by the fire, the rest of the party strolled out into the garden, and after wandering about its paths for a little while, made their way into the orchard. Daffodils were growing under the fruit trees in great profusion. Judith could not resist the temptation of picking some. The Count gave instant permission: his cousin would be only too happy! had, in fact, written to beg that the visitors would consider the Chateau their own. She soon had an armful; he very considerately ran back to the house with them, to save her the trouble of carrying them; and returned to find her waiting for him under a gnarled old apple tree, Barbara having gone off to explore the wood with Peregrine.

  Judith believed Peregrine to be too devoted to his Harriet to be in danger of succumbing to Barbara's charms, but the light raillery that had been going on between them made her feel a li
ttle uneasy. Courtesy had obliged her to wait for Lavisse's return, but when he joined her it was she, and not he, who suggested marching up with the others.

  They made their way into the wood, but after they had been walking about for a time without seeing nothing of the truants, the Count suggested that they should follow the track which led from the Chateau, through the wood, and over a slight hill to the Charleroi road.

  "I mentioned to Bab that there is a view to be obtained from the top of the hill. Without doubt they have gone there," he said. "You will not be too tired? It is perhaps a kilometre's distance."

  "I should enjoy it of all things. This spring weather is invigorating, don't you agree?"

  "Certainly. But I fear my poor country must disappoint one accustomed to the varied scene in England."

  "By no means. Perhaps there is a variety in England not elsewhere to be found: I myself am a native of Yorkshire, where, we flatter ourselves, we have unsurpassed grandeur. But there is something very taking about this country of yours. If you have none of the rugged beauty I could show you in Yorkshire, you have instead a homely, thriving scene which must inevitably please. So many rivers, so many neat farmsteads, shady copses, and rich fields!"

  "This is unexpected praise, madame. Bab declares my country to be too tame. Nothing can happen here, she says."

  "She speaks lightly," Judith replied. "My knowledge of history, though not at all profound, reminds me that, in spite of every appearance to the contrary, stirring events have happened here."

  "You are thinking of your Duke of Marlborough. It is true: this poor land of mine has been often the battlefield of Europe, and may be so yet again - perhaps many times: who knows?"

  "Oh, do not think of such a thing! There must be no more wars: we seem to have been fighting ever since I can remember! We shall defeat Bonaparte, and win a lasting peace. Can you doubt it?"

  "Be sure I do not desire to doubt it, madame," he replied.