‘But I don’t get to do much cleaning,’ she replied, and smiled at the handsome Russian officer, who lay in just his breeches and shirt on the bed. ‘Especially with you.’ Denilov had discovered her costumes and insisted that she wear each in turn, but showed a great fondness for the maid. He paid, and paid well, but there was something extra, for in the last two weeks she had taken no other clients. For the first time in months she had felt secure. He was a hard man, and she was glad of it.
Most of the other clients with money were French, and she refused to accept them at any price, but many were very persistent. She had been with an ambitious young lawyer, who had decided that it was better to win the trust of the occupying army than die fighting it. He had even been willing to sacrifice his new mistress to the whim of a fat French colonel who showed an interest when Maria had accompanied her lover to a formal reception. The lawyer had vanished, but then Denilov had appeared through the crowd and frightened the Frenchman away. Maria had willingly taken him back to her room that night. Since then he had scared away any more of the conquerors who had pestered her. Mainly she stayed in her rented room, and when he came to visit each day they rarely chose to go out.
‘Look at that.’ Maria was naked except for her stockings and a red ribbon in her hair, but could feel him watching as she picked up a plate of stale bread that lay on the floor and carried it over to the window. It was open, for it was a warm afternoon, and she broke the bread with her fingers and tossed the pieces out. ‘There, the mice shall starve and the birds grow fat.
‘This place is so squalid,’ she said wearily. They were in the attic of one of the tall houses beneath Lisbon castle, overlooking the harbour. Some of her clothes were piled on chairs, for there were few cupboards. A jug with water lay beside a basin on the table, but the pump was down in the yard and she had to go herself to fetch more. ‘A year ago I could have entertained you in splendour.’
‘A year ago you would not have needed me. You had the duke.’
The black-haired girl stuck her tongue out at him. ‘What I need and what I want are not the same. Nor is what I get.’ She walked back towards the bed. ‘You would have wanted me and the duke was not jealous as long as I was discreet. I can be very discreet.’ Her hands were on her hips.
‘So I see,’ he said. Maria grabbed a pillow and hit him.
‘He is a good man,’ she declared after a moment. The duke had been her protector for eighteen months. Her family had once been his tenants, running a farm near the coast. Maria was not quite fifteen when her mother had taken sick and died. Her father did not cope, and drank himself into debt. They lost their home, and travelled wherever he could get work, and often he was too drunk to know when the men came for her. Then one morning he simply did not wake up.
Maria had survived. She learned to please and manipulate men and somehow keep a small part of herself locked away. She was very pretty and she was very charming. Soon she could refuse the brutes and drunks, and take her pick from clients who were rich and fairly kind. It surprised her how desperate many of them were to please her. In the better years a series of protectors paid for her apartment, her maid and a lifestyle that was close to opulent. Then the duke saw her on the arm of another man at a dinner in Coimbra. He recognised her, and there was genuine pity along with the lust. The duke took Maria as his principal mistress and she lived in comfort and the greatest security she had known since her childhood.
Then the French came, and the duke escaped to Portugal’s American colonies along with the royal court. He took all of the treasure he could readily gather, and he also took his wife. She did not permit him to take his mistress. He had tried to send Maria gifts sufficient to keep her safe in the turmoil of war, but his wife had prevented his steward from passing them on.
‘If I could have seen Varandas I am sure that I could have convinced him,’ said Maria firmly, playfully stepping back when Denilov reached out for her. ‘The old man was always drooling after me.’
The Russian leaned back. ‘And Varandas is the steward.’ His expression had changed subtly, and Maria realised for the first time that she might have made a mistake. She did not answer for a while.
‘Of course he is, who else would he be.’
Denilov lit a cigar and took a deep, almost sensual breath. The duke had not had time to collect all of his valuables, and nor did he altogether trust the safety of banks when invaders were overrunning the country. Denilov had heard the rumours along with so many others as he mixed with the occupying army and the leading Portuguese who collaborated with them. He might have thought no more of it, and followed another trail, until someone pointed out Maria to him as the duke’s former mistress.
Denilov trusted his luck and immediately knew that this was the path to follow. He had brushed aside the Frenchman bothering her, then spent the next two weeks cultivating her. Now he knew almost everything. Varandas’ name was virtually the last important piece of the puzzle, for he had been the man the duke trusted to conceal and protect the rest of his fortune when the French were looting Portugal down to its bare bones. The presents to Maria were just a small part of the gold and gems hidden somewhere on the man’s estate. Some was to be entrusted to the religious orders to fund charitable works, and more simply to be kept safe. He had found out this much from the girl, confirming what he already suspected.
‘Of course I would have told you about Varandas. You will need to know to help me find what is mine.’ Maria tried to sound confident, but there was now a coldness about the Russian officer which she had not seen before. She had so wanted to find a man who would rescue her, someone she could trust, perhaps even love for longer than just a few weeks. The handsome foreign officer had seemed so strong, and so kind when she had known little kindness for some time. Maria had wanted to trust. Now he frightened her. She crossed her hands over her chest. She had not felt nervous at being naked in front of a man for many years – not unless it was part of an act to please a lover.
Denilov noticed the gesture and smiled.
‘You won’t find him without me.’ Maria had not been sure whether she wanted the treasure apart from the presents marked for her by the duke. Sometimes she imagined herself rich for the rest of her life. Sometimes she was a patriot, spending the duke’s money to pay and athe soldiers who would drive the French from her homeland. She would be a heroine, and perhaps that would make people forget her past, and she could be respectable. There were vague pictures in her mind of a house with some land, of a husband who was a good man, and of infants – a world as secure and truly happy as the memories of her own childhood.
The Russian said nothing, but drew deeply on his cigar.
‘If you ask too many questions people will guess what you are looking for.’
‘You know where he is,’ he said, breaking his silence, but the words were in French.
‘I can show you,’ the girl said, sticking to English.
‘You will tell me. Now.’ He stood up and flexed his arms, but his eyes never left her for a moment.
‘I could scream,’ she said with a confidence she did not feel.
‘They have heard it before. Who do you think would come?’ The Russian threw down his cigar, and smiled again.
Denilov left half an hour later, walking out into the warm sunshine and then standing for a moment to let the heat soak into him. The girl had not told him where Varandas would be, and after a while he had no longer even bothered to ask the question. It did not matter, and it should not be too difficult to track the man down. Denilov paused by the door, feeling in his pockets for another cigar. His last was gone, so he walked out to buy some more, with the coins he had picked up from the girl’s table. He had enjoyed taking her by force, seeing real emotion and fear instead of the studied performance of a whore. She ought to be terrified enough to cause him no problems, but in truth there was little that she could do.
Back in her room, Maria crouched beside the bed, clutching a sheet around her, her knuckles wh
ite with intensity as she sobbed. There was pain and shattered hope, but for the first time in years all the worst memories had come flooding back. Her whole body shook as she wept. An hour later she stopped, and began to swear. She called Denilov every insult she knew in Portuguese, then switched to English and finally even flung at his memory the filthiest names she could recall in French. Someone knocked on her door, complaining at last of the noise. Oddly it calmed her. Maria called out an apology, ignored the sullen response, and then stood up, wincing because of her bruises. She wanted what was hers, and she wanted to hurt Denilov, but despair came back when she could not think of a way to achieve either of these. Yet she did not cry any more. Using the water that was left in the jug, Maria began to clean herself.
15
For the next three mornings the adjutant drilled the battalion from eight o’clock until half past ten. Then there were company drills and musketry until one. After a break of two hours to rest and refresh, there were route marches or runs and other physical exercises. Moss pushed his battalion in the final days before they were to march to Portsmouth and embark. There was little time for further social pleasures, although life in the mess was still sometimes boisterous. The colonel had let it be known, however, that no serious misbehaviour would be permitted. Officers were reminded that above their own sense of personal honour they owed a duty to the regiment. Their conduct over the next week was to be impeccable. Moss drove the 106th hard.
Hanley was weary as he sat at the end of the third day and sketched Jenny Dobson. A week earlier he had been ed to draw for the first time since he had left Madrid. He had sat in the tent lines and sketched the grenadiers as they took their meal, sitting or standing in all states of uniform, with their wives and children around them. Jenny had seen him, had come to look over his shoulder. Normally he hated anyone watching him work, but there was a childlike enthusiasm about the girl which was winning and more than a little at odds with her normal manner. When he had finished, he gave her the picture, and she had asked him whether he would take her likeness. There had not been an opportunity until now, although on several occasions he had been moved to pick up his pencil and pad since then, and had done several hasty outlines of men on the march or drilling. Rather to his surprise, he was starting to enjoy this new life and was happy enough to want to draw. He had even wondered about obtaining some better paper, and digging his watercolours out from his trunk.
Once again he sat on a bale of straw among the company’s tents. The girl sat on a folding stool borrowed from Billy Pringle with the white of a tent behind her. At first they had gathered quite a crowd, with a few of the men making faces at the girl and trying to make her laugh. She had joked and cursed back at them, until eventually most lost interest and went about their ordinary tasks.
Hanley had always liked the clarity and contrast of a pencil sketch, enjoying the way that shape and texture needed to be hinted at. He was shading the girl’s face as delicately as he could. Jenny was young, her features not yet set, and Hanley tried to capture that softness. Her curly hair reminded him a little of Mapi, at least when he drew it and it became black like the Spanish girl’s. No one yet seemed to know where in Spain they were going. Some said Gibraltar and others the north coast. Both were a long way from Madrid, but he wondered whether they would end up there and if he would see Mapi again, assuming she was alive. If so, then what would he say?
Jenny was trying to stay very still, even though he had told her it was not necessary. Her nose began to twitch, and after a bitter struggle she finally gave in and reached up to scratch it. The girl looked guilty.
Hanley smiled. ‘Nearly done, Miss Dobson.’ He kept his tone formal, wishing to show the girl’s formidable father that he was employing proper respect. The family had announced only yesterday that the girl was to marry the large and quiet Private Hanks. Rumours were rife, both about her allegedly wanton behaviour and the suggestion that she might be with child. Dobson had taken the young couple before Captain Wickham and received his permission for them to marry. There would be a brief service after the church parade on the next day. Jenny was wearing the new dress bought for her by her parents, which she would also don for the ceremony. It had lace around the collar and she was very proud of it. Hanley took care to draw the detail as well as he could. The sketch would be his main present, although the company officers were making a collection to give to the young couple.
Money was a worry for Hanley. As an ensign he was supposed to receive five shillings and threepence a day. More than a shilling went before the pay came anywhere near him, lost in tax, agency and poundage. Two and a half more were deducted and paid straight to the mess, and even though Lieutenant Colonel Moss matched this fee with his own funds it was still a substantial amount. Then there was sixpence to his soldier servant, as much again to provide the necessaries for breakfast as well as a little tea for the day, and finally another fivepence to the company’s wives for washing and mending his clothes. As far as he could see, service to King and country had him barely avoiding making a loss each day. It was not a lipermitting of any luxuries.
He had less than a pound remaining from the money given to him by his father’s family. There had been more, but thirty-five guineas was on loan to Captain Wickham. It had seemed a reasonable request at the time – a mark of friendship and trust, suggesting that he was now accepted in the battalion. Yet weeks had gone by and the loan ‘till the end of the week’ showed no prospect of being returned. It was also a difficult subject to broach.
Hanley looked down at the drawing. It was done. He knew that he could spend hours adjusting and modifying the sketch, but that for every improvement he made he would lose more of its essence. Smiling, he stood and walked over to the girl, handing her the pad. Jenny Dobson looked at it intently.
‘That’s me,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s me.’ Turning her head she called to her family. ‘Come and see my picture.’
‘Seen you before,’ muttered her brother as he strolled towards them.
‘Thank you, Mr Hanley, sir, it’s lovely.’ She rose, standing on tiptoe, and as he leaned over to tear the page from the pad she kissed him on the cheek. Her eyes flicked back to her approaching parents, and then she kissed him again, sliding her mouth until for just a moment her tongue flicked into his ear. The girl’s thick hair stopped them from seeing anything.
Hanley straightened up, and then bowed to her, keeping his face as expressionless as he could. There was certainly not too much of the child left in this one.
‘A pleasure, Miss Dobson. I have rarely drawn so agreeable a subject. May I say that Private Hanks is a lucky man.’
‘Yes, he is,’ said the girl.
Hanley managed to withdraw fairly quickly after only brief expressions of admiration by the rapidly gathering crowd. Dobson simply nodded his approval, thought for a moment, and then offered the ensign his hand. Even though he had expected it, Hanley was still surprised by the firmness of his grip. The man seemed to be made of iron.
After a quick visit to the tent he shared with Pringle, Redman and Williams to deposit pad and pencils and tidy himself up, Hanley reported to the adjutant for another hour’s drill. This was a daily routine for all the recently joined officers and soldiers in the battalion. It was no longer something he resented. Indeed, he had discovered a strange poetry in the drill movements, an odd sense of losing himself in the group unlike anything he had ever known before. It had a dance-like, almost spiritual quality.
‘Mr Hanley, sir! Keep your bloody arm straight, who do you think you’re waving to!’ bawled Sergeant Major Fletcher.
‘Platoon, halt. Right face! Present arms!’ For just a second the RSM drew breath. ‘As you were, as you were.’ He paced along the line, back ramrod straight, his stick tucked ferociously under his arm. ‘Now I’m glad Mr Thomas can’t see you. You see, he’s a sick man. It’d kill him to see you! Now, we will do it again.’
If anything, there was even less of a spiritual quality to the
celebrations in the mess that evening. Tomorrow was Sunday, and the battalion would rest and ‘make and mend’, repairing and cleaning uniforms and equipment. On the Monday morning they would begin the march to Portsmouth. The Saturday night was devoted to dinner in honour of Moss’s engagement. All officers were expected to attend, but the occasion was not open to wives, which gave a good indication of the type of celebration envisaged by the colonel. Champagne specially brought down from approval, own stocks flowed freely for a good three hours, before other bottles appeared.
Toasts were drunk to the colonel and his lady, to the regiment, to the army, to the King, to England, and to anything else they could imagine. Songs were sung, loudly and lustily, if with scant regard for tune or rhythm. As usual ‘Spanish Ladies’ was one of the most popular. A pitched battle was fought between the subalterns of the left and right wings, lobbing bread rolls from the heights of the long trestle tables which ran down either side of the room. Moss and the senior officers watched from the gallery above, and periodically lobbed apples at anyone they felt deserved to become a target. After that, things became a little more lively.
The main event was the joust, with the officers paired off in teams as charger and knight. The grenadiers inevitably found themselves acting as horses. Williams carried young Derryck, who proved himself a deft hand with the pillow used as a weapon. Especially satisfying was a rapid victory over Redman as charger and Hatch as knight, aided greatly by the latter’s advanced state of drunkenness. Hanley and Anstey offered more of a struggle, as surprisingly did a diminutive combination from the Light Company. In the end they faced the final challenge of Pringle and young Trent.
True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) Page 16
