by Robert Neill
The Marquis of Highbridge meant to call. Then, having a care for his dignity, he changed his mind and sent his footman instead. The man carried a note that briefly invited her to supper with his lordship at a fee of fifty guineas, and he came back with an even briefer note. Miss Anstey was not interested in fifty guineas, and did not sup with gentlemen who were not known to her. This, also, was carried by the footman, and as she had not sealed the sheet he was fairly sure to have read it.
Sir Michael Murphy called. He had nothing a year and a name for living beyond it, but she did not seem to notice that. He had a fine rich voice and engaging manners, and he was received accordingly. She gave him cake and sherry, and talk that lasted an hour, and the next day she rode with him in Rotten Row. He was in such a state after it that he staked his last three guineas at a macao table, declaring he was bound to win on a day of such entrancing luck. And win he did. He won twelve hundred guineas at a sitting, and he was at her door next morning with a diamond brooch that had cost perhaps a third of them. Thereafter they were friends, and she would always stop in the Park to speak to him, or let him introduce some eager gentleman. It was rumoured, by the ladies, that he found the privilege profitable, and she no less.
Captain Curry called, and Miss Anstey was captivating. She admired his regimentals, and confessed to a liking for military men (especially the Blues). She allowed herself to be persuaded to a dinner he insisted on giving for his brother officers, where she sat in the centre of the table, the only woman present, and acted as their president for the night. She was reported to have given much surprise, not only by her self-possession but by her knowledge of etiquette. It almost appeared that she knew something of cavalry officers and their ways.
Captain Grant did not call, though he might well have done. He was not sure that he wanted to. Or, rather, he did want to, but he thought he would be silly if he did. He was not sure about anything in these days. He had been too long and too continuously at sea to find his bearings in this strange new world. It was scarcely a week since he had made his landfall off the Lizard and then worked his ship into Portsmouth with her paying-off pennant flying, and his two lives seemed to overlap. There were moments in the night when his bed seemed to sway, and Amphion was lifting her bows again to the long Atlantic swell off Santander. Then he would wake, in an hotel bedroom, and his first glance would be upward, in search of the deck-head compass that would tell him where the ship’s head was. He had been only fourteen when he was entered as a midshipman in the old Hyperion--Captain Wharton--and it had been his whole life since. Now, apparently, it was at an end, and he must find a new one somehow. He did not know how. But Miss Anstey stayed in his thoughts, blending oddly with ships and wind, gun-flashes in the night and his memories of war.
He did not ride in the Park again. He had hired the horse that day only to please the Admiral, who had been his first captain and his friend and mentor since. But he walked in the Park, still hoping to see her, still unable to forget her, and he met the Admiral instead, who was also walking. They went off to dine together, enjoying it after their fare at sea; and somehow, before they were half-way through their dinner, he found himself mentioning Miss Anstey. It was as if he could not keep off her, and for a moment the Admiral’s eyes grew sharp, in a remembered style.
‘That way, is it?’ he remarked, and toyed thoughtfully with his wine. ‘Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. It’s time you cruised that way.’
‘I don’t quite know what she is.’
‘I’d have thought it plain enough. She’s a demi-rep.’
‘She said a Cyprian.’
‘It’s another word for the same thing, and if you don’t know what that means, Grant, it’s a high-grade harlot--the sort that picks and chooses. You’ll probably find her expensive, but I suppose you can afford it? You’ve done pretty well in prize money.’
‘I’ve been lucky.’
‘Very--since there isn’t any more to come.’
‘Not for me, anyway.’
‘Not for anybody, in peacetime. What did they tell you at Admiralty, by the way?’
‘Nothing for me.’ Grant spoke briefly as he sifted sugar over the plum pie. ‘No commands available. Ships being laid in reserve, of course. Too many captains now.’
‘It’s to be expected, after the war.’
‘I know it is. I was ready to wait my turn, but it doesn’t look as if there’s going to be a turn. No further use for my services. Half-pay instead. That’s about it.’
‘Ye-es.’ Again he spoke slowly. ‘I’m afraid, Grant, you’re not the first officer to have that treatment from their lordships--and you won’t be the last, either.’
‘It’s no use crying about it. I’ll have to find something to do.’
‘You could even get married.’
‘I’m not sure I want to. I don’t know anyone.’
‘You soon will.’ The older man’s eyebrows lifted for a moment in amusement. ‘You’re young enough. Twenty-nine, aren’t you? In case you don’t know it, you’re a good-looking fellow, and you’ve--what is it?--thirty thousand pounds in prize money? You’ll meet someone. Depend upon it, you will.’
‘Well---’
‘And don’t close with the first that offers, by the way. No boarding through the smoke this time. Keep to windward till you sight the whole convoy. Then pick your target. So stop fretting and sleep at nights.’
‘I’m not doing. I keep waking.’
‘Don’t we all?’ The slow nod was sympathetic now. ‘You’ve had a lot of inshore work, haven’t you? Altair?’
That had been his first command, which he had had when he was twenty-three. He had done three years in Hyperion before she at last came home for refit, and then he had been in Lysander, a ship-of-the-line, bound once more for the Mediterranean and the endless watching of Toulon. There were two long years of it, leading to Trafalgar, and then, with his time as midshipman completed, he had passed for lieutenant at the beginning of 1806. At once he was in a frigate again, the Alcyone thirty-six, and he had thought himself lucky, for it was the only chance of service. Line-of-battle ships could lie in harbour now, but the frigates’ work was never done. All along the coast, from Calais to Brest, from Brest to Cadiz and Malaga, to Barcelona and Toulon, there were convoys to be harassed, privateers to be taken, ships to be cut from harbours; and with Cochrane in L’Imperieuse to show the way, the frigate captains had set about it with a will. Soon, as the blockade was tightened, the frigates were joined by the lighter sloops that could work in shallow water, and they were young men’s commands. Grant had shown his quality in Alcyone; and in 1809, in the rank of commander, he had sailed in the sixteen-gun Altair.
He could not have had a better moment. Spain was in revolt at last against the exactions of Buonaparte. Portugal was holding out, and the British government was in earnest now. Here was the chance to fight the French on land, to fight them where their strained supply-lines had reached the limit, and this time it was to be permanent. There were to be no more battles thrown away, like Vimeiro, no more raids to end in tragedy at Corunna. This time the troops were to stay, and already, as Altair beat out of Plymouth that windy April morning, the Tagus was full of transports and Surveillante was off the Lizard, plunging down Channel in an easterly gale, taking Sir Arthur Wellesley to an army assembling at Lisbon. The Navy was in full support, and the orders to the sloops and frigates were clear enough to captains who had known L’Imperieuse. The Spanish coast, wherever it was held by the French, was to be kept in turmoil, harbours raided, roads bombarded, marauding parties put ashore by night, arms and powder supplied to guerrillas; anything that would force the French to disperse over thirteen hundred miles of coast the armies that would be overwhelming if they were allowed to concentrate. It was work well suited to the wild young officers who were put into the sloops, but it was harder on the captains. They had to learn not to be wild. To them it meant calculated risks, exact navigation, hair-raising seamanship in wind and dark o
n a lee shore held by the enemy, and Grant had four long years of it until, in 1813, he was posted captain and given his frigate. But even then it continued, for the frigates’ work was much the same, and it was no matter for surprise that neither he nor Wharton had yet settled to the land, or could sleep unwaking through the night. It would be different, no doubt, for Miss Anstey, and for well-dressed gentlemen who had made their world in Rotten Row; for the Earl of Hildersham, and some others like him.
But Hildersham was not quite that. Grant was in the Park again the next day, still half-hoping to see her, and still not sure what he would do. He walked down to the edge of the Row, and there he met Captain Curry, who for once was walking also. They recognized each other and stopped for a word.
‘Ha!’ said Curry. ‘Same as me, perhaps? Walking it off?’
’Walking what off?’
‘Dear fellah!’ It sounded like a protest. ‘Dinner last night. Mess. Three in the morning. Guests under table. Wonderful’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Why else should a man walk, damme? Well, well! Seen the Anstey?’
‘Er--no. Not since---’
‘Oh, you don’t say---’
‘How is she?’
‘Marvellous. Blooming. Teach Venus. Dined with us the other night. All hearts at feet.’ ‘Lucky man.’
‘That’s Hildersham, by God. Envy of Town, and don’t think I blame her. He can give her everything. Damned lucky fellah, too. Lucky to be alive.’
‘Why?’
‘Boney.’ For a moment Curry paused, and then for once spoke simply. ‘Waterloo. Aide-de-camp. Ride here, ride there, orders, messages. Shot at all day. Three-quarters of ‘em killed. Hildersham wasn’t. Two horses killed, though. Bullet through his flask, another through his hat. Not a scratch on him.’
‘The devil!’ Grant spoke slowly as he tried to take this in. ‘I’ve been lucky at times myself.’
‘Bullet spilt his brandy, though. Damned thirsty. Ha!’
He was suddenly waving his hat to a lady he had seen, and a moment later he was ambling across to join her. Grant watched him go, and then resumed his solitary walk, trying to adjust his picture of Hildersham. He had thought the man a trifler in expensive clothes. And Curry, too, with the affected voice. He was in the Blues, so he must have been in the thick of it himself. It was something the Navy had been spared. The Mediterranean had been a peaceful lake that Sunday morning, and Amphion had backed her topsails while Grant read divine service on the quarterdeck. He could remember his own voice, the soft lap of water against the side, the gleam of polished brass, the shadow of the ensign dancing on the sunlit deck. Then he had given sherry to his officers before they went to dinner. It had been a pleasant Sunday morning, with a blue sky, a calm sea, and the tompions in the guns. It had been raining at Waterloo.
The thought worried him. He must change his estimate of Hildersham; of Curry, too, and of some others in this fashionable throng. He had been inclined to set all of them down as triflers, fit to lounge at the opera and show their horses in the Row, and it was no doubt true of most of them.
There had been plenty of these in England, with the Prince Regent to set the example; but there were others too, the Hildershams and Currys, and there seemed no way of picking them out. It was all very difficult.
There were the women, too. They seemed all of a pattern, expensive and confident, arrogantly sure of themselves. They were everywhere in the Row, driving their gigs and phaetons, or being driven by a husband--or somebody else’s. One here and there was sitting a horse, and giving a display of skill that matched the men’s. They matched them in elegance too, and almost outdid them in confidence, and Grant had a worried little frown as he watched. No one expected women to be concerned in a war, but these looked as if they had never given a thought to it, or even known that it existed. It was their own affair, no doubt, but it was a frame of mind that would not attract them to a sea officer who felt lost and strange, and could not even speak their language. It was even more difficult.
He turned away, out of humour now with the whole of this parade, and he began to walk slowly back to the gate of the Park, thinking that he could better take his exercise somewhere else. He would do better still, perhaps, out of London altogether. Somewhere in the country there would be people who were not like this, who had simpler ways and were content with a simpler life. There must be, but he did not know where to find them. He had no roots in the country now, no home he could go to since his parents died, and he could hardly roam the country at large in search of he knew not what. It was still difficult.
Then he saw her. He had already noticed, through his thoughts, the barouche-and-four that had turned into the Park and was coming down the road towards him. He had even noticed that it had a man and a woman on the box, and, since a woman would hardly sit with a coachman, he had supposed that here was some wealthy buck with the current taste for driving four-in-hand. But now it was closer, the high-stepping blacks coming at a spanking trot, and it was plainly Miss Anstey on the box. She was in ivory-white now, with a little gypsy hat of primrose straw, tied under her chin with lavender ribbon, but even her way of sitting seemed to say who she was. Nor could there be much doubt about her escort. It was Hildersham, broad-shouldered and erect, looking as confident as ever, and Grant stepped to the side of the road, far from pleased at the sight, to let the barouche go past.
But it did not. He, too, had been recognized, and a hand lifted suddenly in a wave of greeting. She seemed friendly, and she was near enough now for him to see the quick smile that had come to her, and the lift of the eyebrows that gave a look of mock surprise. He saw her speak quickly to Hildersham, who at once pulled back the reins. The barouche stopped, and Grant was standing stiffly as he raised his hat.
‘Well met!’ Miss Anstey was the first to speak, and no one could have called her shy. ‘I’ve been wondering if you’d forgotten me.’
‘By no means, ma’am.’
‘A bit stiff, aren’t you?’ The eyebrows lifted for a moment. ‘Nobody calls me that. It isn’t friendly.’
‘I’m sorry if----’
‘I’m just Anice Anstey. Or, rather, I’m just Anice to most of them.’ The blue eyes seemed to twinkle with delight. ‘And I don’t know your name at all. You never told us.’
‘Did I not?’ Almost against his will he could feel the stiffness oozing out of him. ‘I’m Richard Grant.’
‘Richard it is. And don’t call me anything but Anice again. I won’t have it.’ There was a quick pout of her lips to drive that home, and then another thought seemed to strike her. ‘By the way--you do know Hildersham?’
She was utterly informal about it, and Hildersham showed no displeasure. He was the first to respond, and he was looking both pleased and possessive.
‘Glad to meet you again, sir.’
‘Er--thank you.’
Something of the stiffness had returned, and he knew that a touch of jealousy was in it. He looked again at the shining barouche, resplendent in dark iron-grey with milk-white wheels, at the empty seats in dark-grey leather, the impassive grooms behind, the team of matching blacks, already pawing with impatience, and he wondered how many hundred guineas it had cost. It was the finest product of a London coachbuilder, in every detail a nobleman’s equipage. Then the man himself, erect on the box with the reins looped through his fingers, strong and handsome and sure of himself; he had been at Waterloo, and now he was ‘protecting’ Anice. The two thoughts came together, one to be liked and one not, and they jostled for mastery. Grant found himself looking hard at the man, looking for something to dislike, and he could hardly find it; except, perhaps, that he wore trousers. He was in the latest mode; a black tall hat, tapering to the crown, a blue single-breasted frock, and then the thin tight trousers of white cotton jean, and it was to these that Grant took exception. He did not like trousers for gentlemen. They belonged to seamen, he thought, and a gentleman should wear breeches, or his own tight-fitting pantaloons. But that w
as a detail, and he knew he must stop cavilling at trifles. Hildersham had been friendly and courteous, with no hint of condescension, and he must at least be given courtesy in return.
‘Thank you.’ He said it again, and then tried to do better. ‘I’m glad, also, to meet again. I was a shade confused the other day.’
‘After the dance she led us? I don’t wonder.’ Hildersham laughed suddenly. ‘You’re a navy man, aren’t you? Now I’m the one who should have thought of cutting across country. So should Murphy and Curry, and you beat the lot of us. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Not at all. I mean it.’ Again the laugh came, pleasant and genuine. ‘Well, I hope to meet you again, sir. Where do you stay in Town?’
‘Thomas’s--Berkeley Square.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, my town house is quite close--in Hertford Street--so if you’d care to call on me---’
‘I’d be honoured, my lord.’
Again it was a little stiff, as if he had no intention of doing it, and at once Anice pushed herself into the talk again. She sounded as if she were not used to being left out of it.
‘It’s all big and grand,’ she said, ‘and it frightens me. At least, it would if I went there, but I don’t.’
‘Quite right.’ He was remembering quickly that there was a Countess of Hildersham.
‘Of course it’s right. I don’t make trouble for anybody. But you know where I live and it isn’t grand at all, so you can come and see me there. I want to hear about ships. I like the Navy. What sort of a ship had you?’
