The Sergeant Major's Daughter

by Sheila Walsh

  “I am v-very delicate, you know,” he stammered, clutching at fast vanishing straws.

  “Yes, I know,” Felicity sympathized. “It is a great pity, for I had such splendid adventures lined up for us.”

  “W-what sort of things?”

  “Oh—well, it is of no consequence now. Perhaps when you are stronger ... if I am still here by then, of course. We will try page ten in your reader, if you are ready.”

  It was the end of Jamie’s small rebellion. The two soon became fast friends. It quickly became apparent that Jamie desperately craved affection—and more than that—male approbation. Felicity discovered that he had been seeking it where he could, from the Earl’s estate manager down to the gardener’s boy ... everywhere, in fact, except the stables.

  “I don’t like horses,” he had told Felicity defensively.

  More of Amaryllis’s influence! The thought made her angry, but she only said casually that of course she had grown up with horses ... and went on to regale him with splendidly hair-raising tales of battles and of a life spent following the drum.

  Felicity’s life had been lived among soldiers—some of them little more than boys—and she suspected that boys were much the same the world over. Hadn’t her father’s maxim been that they learned the sooner by example? And they all loved a good story! So she talked and Jamie listened in awe—and, she hoped, benefited.

  Deep in thought, she crossed the little ornate bridge which spanned the narrow end of the lake, out of the relentless heat into the quiet coppice of beech and oak fringing the Home Wood.

  Ah, that was better. Here was coolness—quivering shadows of deep, velvety browns and greens, shot through with occasional brilliant sunlight. The fronds of bracken were pungently sweet as she brushed past them, drawn onward by the whispers of a hidden stream. It proved little more than a trickle, but she flopped down beside it, grateful for the opportunity to ease the sticking muslin from her shoulders—wishing she could as easily shrug off the unaccountable depression which dogged her.

  “Felicity Vale—you have much to be thankful for,” she rebuked herself sternly—and sighed. It must be the oppressiveness of the weather ... as stifling and uncomfortable as it had been in Brussels in June.

  Thunder rumbled with distant menace.

  There had been thunder then, too ... it had mingled with the sound of the guns ... and Mamma had stirred fretfully and cried out...

  Felicity sprang to her feet, determined to shake off the morbid trend of her thoughts. The dampness of her dress had turned chill in the shade. She drew her shawl closer and hurried on.

  Heavy clouds were building up behind the solid flank of the trees. There would be a storm before long; perhaps it would be prudent not to linger. Still preoccupied, she crossed the field to the wicket gate set in the thick hawthorn hedge.

  She stepped into the main carriageway at the precise moment that a high-flying phaeton swept into view, driven at a bruising pace by a formidable figure in a voluminous driving coat.

  Felicity was afforded a brief, terrifying glimpse of four snorting grays hurtling down upon her in the instant before she sprang for the safety of the hedge.

  In happier circumstances she might have applauded the speed and competence with which the phaeton’s owner dragged his team to the off and brought them to a plunging standstill. As matters were, she was fully occupied in extricating the more painful thorns from her flesh while simultaneously attempting to check her slide toward the slime of the ditch.

  By the time she had ordered her scattered wits, the gentleman had thrown down his reins, ordered his tiger to the wheelers’ heads, and was towering above her.

  “What, in the devil’s name, do you suppose you are about?” a harsh voice, clipped with rage, was demanding of her. “Have you no more sense than to step into the road without first looking where you are going?”

  Felicity glared up, a long way it seemed, into black eyes narrowed to angry points of light beneath a curling hat brim; a lean, unprepossessing face, long-nosed, with the skin pulled tight, showed a faint puckered scar across the right cheekbone.

  Unused to being dwarfed, she scrambled inelegantly until she had secured a firm foothold and stood—scratched by brambles, her bonnet askew, her dignity bruised, and her own temper in shreds.

  “If we are to speak of sense, sir—then it is a great pity you have not the sense to drive with a little more care and consideration for other road-users instead of flaunting your mastery of the ribbons like some swell drags-man showing off his paces to the hoi-polloi!”

  The young tiger’s mouth dropped open on hearing his master’s skill so abused—and him known the length and breadth of the land to be an unparalleled whip!

  The black eyes narrowed still further as the gentleman swiftly revised his opinion. This was no common serving wench. Subjecting her to a closer scrutiny, he was treated in return to a scorching glare from gray-green eyes, thickly fringed and flecked with angry yellow specks of light. No servant had ever looked at him so! No lady, either!

  “My good woman,” he snapped, “it is entirely due to my mastery of the ribbons that you are not this instant lying mangled beneath my horses’ hooves—which is precisely where you deserve to be!”

  Insolent creature—to stand so while she struggled to free the fringe of her shawl, which had become inextricably tangled in the brambles. But no more than one would expect of Amaryllis’s friends!

  “Sir!” she returned in quivering tones. “I am not your good woman!”

  “No, by God! If you were, you would have been better schooled to mind your manners. Permit me.” With infuriating, frigid politeness he leaned forward and released her errant shawl. Felicity drew it around her shoulders and stepped across the ditch away from him.

  “One moment, madam.”

  She half turned, meeting his lowering glance with icy civility.

  “You will oblige me by telling me who you are—and by what right you are using these grounds.”

  “I do not see how it can possibly concern you, sir—but since you ask, I am residing at Cheynings.”

  With this lofty speech she turned on her heel and marched away up the drive.

  The gentleman watched her straight-backed retreat. “The devil you are!” he breathed.

  Felicity heard him command the tiger to let the horses go. A moment later the phaeton flashed past her, the driver sparing her not so much as a glance.

  Temper sustained her until, climbing to the haven of her own bedchamber, she flung off bonnet and shawl and sat down heavily upon the dressing stool, resting her chin in her hands to contemplate her reflection in the tiny, inadequate mirror. An unfashionable glow in her cheeks lent added brilliance to her snapping eyes ... the sight brought laughter bubbling up.

  Oh, why had she admitted to staying here? That wretched creature would assuredly complain to Amaryllis and the culprit would be easily identified, since none of her cousin’s guests, to her knowledge, was of more than average height, or affected dark gray muslin and wore her hair severely drawn back under a plain dark bonnet.

  Felicity touched her hair regretfully; her nose was uncompromisingly short and straight, her chin had often been termed stubborn, but her hair had been her one claim to distinction—like ripe horse chestnuts, Papa was used to describe it with affectionate pride—and she had worn it so prettily dressed. But such vanities were not for would-be governesses and so she had devised a neat, if unbecoming knot with just a softening fringe across her brow.

  These ruminations came to an abrupt end as the door was flung open. Not for the first time Felicity stifled annoyance that Amaryllis did not even accord her the courtesy of knocking before entering her room.

  Her cousin wore a pettish look which made Felicity fear the worst. She flounced across to the bed and spread the skirts of a new sprig muslin dress. Her opening words, however, were unexpected.

  “The most provoking thing! Maxim is arrived—quite without warning! He was to have been away a fur
ther week.”

  “Maxim?”

  “The Earl—my brother-in-law! I declare it is monstrous inconsiderate of him to come unannounced in this way.”

  Felicity was amused. “Presumably, since this is his home, he must fancy himself entitled to use it as he pleases.”

  “Oh, Maxim always does exactly as he pleases,” Amaryllis declared waspishly. “The feelings of others never concern him overmuch, as you will discover. You are to present yourself at once in the library.”

  Felicity knew a sudden, quite inexplicable unease. “Something has put him in a vastly disagreeable mood,” Amaryllis continued. “So pray do not keep him waiting or we shall all be the sufferers. My weekend party is already likely to be ruined!”

  The unease was fast turning to awful premonition. “Amaryllis? Your brother-in-law? From what Jamie has said, I had supposed him to be an elderly man.”

  Amaryllis jumped up impatiently. “Good heavens, no! Well, of course, he was some years older than my poor Antony—and his hair is gone quite gray—but he is not old, precisely.”

  “And does he drive a team of high-colored grays?”

  “I believe I have seen him do so,” came the careless reply. “He is a noted whip I am told, as well as being a bruising rider. Indeed, I am dreading the day when he will insist upon Jamie’s learning to ride. The poor lamb is quite terrified.”

  Such an admission would normally have roused Felicity to indignation; now, she scarcely heard. Oh, good God! she thought. I am undone!

  “You had best bring Jamie downstairs with you,” Amaryllis concluded, insensitive as ever to the effect her words had produced. “Maxim will surely wish to see him ... and he may come to me while you talk. And do hurry!”

  Felicity had time to do little more than wash and change her lace collar for a clean one—and to stem Jamie’s chatter for long enough to ensure that he was presentable.

  At the door of the library she rubbed the palms of her hands against her skirts.

  Are you nervous, Cousin F’licity?” Jamie asked with ghoulish interest.

  “Of course not!” she asserted and took his hand.

  The room was full of dark wainscoting and heavy furniture and was lined from floor to ceiling with books.

  The figure standing at the window with his back to them was very tall. The sunlight turned his hair to silver—and in the instant before he turned, one half of Felicity’s mind was able calmly to approve the set of the olive-green coat across broad shoulders, while the other half quaked in the certain knowledge that when he did turn, there would be a scar running across his right cheekbone.

  It was almost a relief to have her expectation confirmed. The eyes, she discovered, were not black, but a chilling slate gray.

  She managed a tolerable composure as Amaryllis performed brief introductions. The Earl’s coldness of manner and general air of hauteur were not encouraging, but she was determined not to be cast down.

  Jamie, to her surprise, overcame his awe to fling himself upon his uncle, tugging imperatively at his pale, buff breeches. The Earl, who had frowned on seeing the child, removed him at once to a safe distance and desired him to contain his enthusiasm—and his sticky fingers.

  Jamie muttered reproachfully. “My fingers are not sticky! Cousin F’licity made me wash them—twice!”

  The double injustice obviously rankled. There might have been the suspicion of a glint in the Earl’s eye as he commanded Jamie nevertheless to do as he was bid—and to go with his mamma onto the terrace. There was no sign of it, however, when he turned his attention back to Felicity.

  In total silence she endured a cold, inquisitorial inspection from top to toe.

  “So, Miss Vale,” he said at last in that harsh voice, “you wish to become a governess?”

  “Not precisely, my lord,” she amended, half humorously. “It would be truer to say that necessity has forced the decision upon me.”

  “A nice distinction, ma’am. I shall bear it in mind.” His mouth thinned. “Permit me to inform you, however, that from our admittedly brief acquaintance, I can conceive of no one less suited to hold such a position.”

  Her chin rose consideringly. “Really, my lord? And is it your custom always to formulate such damning opinions on the basis of one unfortunate encounter? I cannot believe it possible.”

  Can you not, Miss Vale?” His eyes were turning black again. “Then you force me to speak more plainly. I trust you will acquit me of mere prejudice when I state, as I must, that every word you utter confirms me in my opinion. There is a lack of deference, a want of docility in your general demeanor which must alienate any would-be employer at the outset.”

  Felicity flushed and bit her lip.

  “However,” he added with gentle malice, “you are fortunate, are you not, in finding a kinswoman gullible enough to take you in and permit you to practice your ... skills... upon her offspring.”

  “I am indebted to Amaryllis, of course.” The effort of holding down her temper made Felicity’s voice slightly. “But it has never been my intention to accept her hospitality...” Here she broke off in some confusion. He inclined his head as she concluded defiantly,

  “... I daresay, I should say your hospitality, Lord Stayne, for one moment longer than I must!”

  “Pride, too, Miss Vale?” His voice was now decidedly mocking her. “It really won’t do, you know.”

  Clutching at the tattered rags of her good intentions, she swallowed the retort which rose to her lips and even managed an abrupt laugh.

  “You are a harsh critic, sir. I see it will be of little use ever to apply to you for a character reference. If my faults are indeed as numerous and as damning as you infer—then I must strive to mend them with all speed—for I am determined to support myself as soon as Amaryllis can replace me.”

  “Then I shall raise no objection to your remaining for the present.” The Earl’s ironic gaze moved to the terrace where Amaryllis could be heard plaintively entreating her precious not to make his mamma’s head ache.

  “It has for some time been my intention to engage a tutor for Jamie. I have a young man in mind—a clergyman, at present bear-leading the son of a friend of mine around Rome. In the meantime, I doubt you can make a worse job of controlling my nephew than his mother and that hapless band of nonentities have so far achieved!”

  With which damning encomium he gave her a brief nod of dismissal and moved toward the terrace, signaling Jamie to go with Miss Vale.

  Stiff-rumped, long-nosed bastard! fumed Felicity, with all the unladylike candor of her army upbringing. From his chatter, however, she deduced that Jamie did not share her opinion. Despite the fact that to her eyes his manner appeared harsh, demanding as it did instant obedience, Jamie held his magnificent relative in awed esteem. She could only suppose it stemmed from his total deprivation of any kind of masculine idol.

  That evening, as usual, she took supper on a tray in her room. The question had never been broached, but Felicity could not suppose that her presence would be welcome downstairs. For her part she was not sorry; she found her cousin’s friends, almost without exception, empty-headed and boring.

  But for once even Mrs. Hudson’s cooking did not tempt her. Finally she pushed the tray aside and collected her shawl. Outside it was growing dark much earlier than usual. Thunder rumbled constantly in the distance and there was a stifling, unnatural stillness—like those June days in Brussels...

  She had been fighting it off all day, this sense of oppression; now, in the gathering dusk she gave it full rein. Light streamed from the windows of Cheynings ... like the Duchess of Richmond’s house on the night of the ball...

  Felicity, sitting at her mother’s bedside, had heard the Colonel and Mrs. Patterson come home early and shortly afterward the slam of the front door. A few whispered words with Mrs. Patterson had confirmed that the Colonel had gone to join his regiment. The army was moving out. Napoleon had crossed the Sambre and had thrown the whole weight of his army against the Pruss
ians.

  “The Duke came to the ball, my dear ” Mrs. Patterson had told her. “I think it quite splendid of him, when he must have had so much on his mind, for if he had not done so, most of those stupid people would have panicked—you know how matters have been here in Brussels these past days—so many rumors! Alastair says the French have taken Charleroi ... the situation is grave.”

  Felicity’s thoughts had flown instantly to her father. She had wondered where he was, as through the long night she sat with the casements thrown wide against the heat, listening to the familiar sound of the drums beating to arms. If she shut her eyes she could hear them yet—or was it only the thunder?

  When her mother finally slept, she had crept out into the Place Royale to watch as she had watched so many times ... even now she could recall with heightened sensation every sight, every smell, every sound which had disturbed that airless dawn ... the ever-beating drums, enforced by the occasional summoning note of a bugle ... gun-carriages rumbling into position ... and the smell of sweating horses, their harnesses creaking and jingling as they stamped the echoing cobbles.

  And everywhere the friendly voices followed her as she had picked her way past the loaded commissariat trains, between corn bags and horse-feed bags and all the paraphernalia of an army moving into action.

  Men were tumbling into the square from all directions, shakos askew, pulling on jackets as they came—some carrying children, with wives running at their sides—some alone. Young boys looking lost and apprehensive ... and old-timers for whom it was just another battle.

  “Come to bid us farewell, have you, lassie?” grinned a burly rifleman, whistling through his teeth as he lovingly polished an already gleaming rifle. She had stayed among them until the lines began to form up in the paling light from the east.

  And then the regiments were moving toward the Namur Gate, laughing and joking, their steady rhythmic tramp shaking the ground—and dear, funny old General Picton riding ahead of them with his top hat and his frockcoat, and his spyglass hung about his neck, calling cheerily to friends who lined the way and waving to the stolid, incurious Flemish folk coming into the city with their wagons of vegetables.