Fortune's Soldier

by Deryn Lake

  John Joseph gave her a black look.

  ‘Ghosts are for girls,’ he said.

  They had reached the door of the smaller nursery and stared silently to where Matilda and Caroline sat at the table, pinafores covering their dresses, painting. They were as unalike as it was possible for sisters to be; Matilda round and brown — eyes, hair, skin — even her apron and her little shoes. Caroline like cream — tresses of thick wheat, light pupils, a complexion good enough to eat with fruit salad. They seemed a pair of angels as they sat there, totally unconscious of the presence of their brother and sister — little pink tongues darting about in unison with the effort of concentration.

  Mary took a step into the room and said in her most mealy-mouthed manner, ‘May John Joseph and I take the babies for a walk, if you please, Miss Huss?’

  Their governess — poor long-suffering creature — only twenty-five years old but already with the small desperate manner of one who had never seen a gentleman’s eye bolden with interest, smiled nervously.

  ‘But it is raining, Mary.’

  John Joseph’s sister bobbed a deprecating curtsey.

  ‘We thought a stroll about the house, Ma’am.’

  Miss Huss frowned in hesitation. She did not like Mary. In fact she did not like children, detesting heartily the fact that the Reverend Huss of Norfolk had secretly drunk away her small miserable inheritance and left her — his only daughter — in a position where she must teach the monsters or be turned out upon the streets. She sometimes dreamed that she had chosen the streets, saw herself, in fevered fantasy, painted heavily and smelling of musk, loitering in disused doorways and pulling up her skirts for militia men.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stroll in the Chapel, Ma’am. It was the Long Gallery once, you know. In the days of yore.’

  Forward brat, using that ridiculous language.

  ‘You must speak properly, Mary. You are not expounding from a history book.’

  ‘But we are an historic family, Miss Huss.’ The smug little face was turned up to her. ‘Are you of ancient lineage, Ma’am?’

  ‘No, Mary. No I am not. Just from a line of country parsons.’ She stood up, brushing the folds of her skirt. ‘Nothing as exciting as the great Westons of Sutton Place, I’m afraid.’

  John Joseph’s voice was quiet as he spoke.

  ‘We are not part of the Weston family direct, Miss Huss. We inherited the house — and the name — by marriage only.’

  She looked at him gratefully and saw a glint behind the deceptively mild eyes; eyes that were the blue of a seascape in winter. Enough would be enough with John Joseph, she thought. Women might chivvy him, push him, do what they liked with him, but there would come a moment when he would simply turn and say ‘No’. A man to be reckoned with, would be John Joseph Webbe Weston. She smiled at him.

  ‘Would you like to take the girls for a walk, John Joseph?’

  ‘Not particularly, Ma’am. But I suppose the exercise might serve tolerably well on a rainy day. Besides which they could come to little harm and you could read for an hour.’

  ‘I think you will be a diplomatist when you are grown.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘It is of no consequence. Matilda, Caroline — let me remove your pinafores. John Joseph is to take you for a turn about the house.’

  ‘And I too,’ said Mary.

  Miss Huss determinedly ignored her.

  2

  The winter of 1829 was unusually warm, and snowdrops and crocuses had pushed their tentative heads through the rich garden soil of that monstrously delicious palace known as the Pavilion, the dearly beloved Brighton home of the poor dodderer who had been once the elegant and witty Prince Regent. Now, like slippered Pantaloon, George IV shuffled about the exquisitely kept paths, where every blade of grass faced in the same direction, sucking his gums and muttering to himself.

  He had given England the unforgettable beauty of the Regency; his charm and culture had earned him the title ‘First Gentleman of Europe’; without his patronage the world would have never seen the paintings of Lawrence nor the architecture of Nash. But now nobody cared for his life or for his death. His elegant clothes had given way to a food-stained dressing gown, his fashionable Romanesque haircut to a parody of sticky white spikes. He who had been England’s darling Prince was stricken to the soul with the torment of the unloved.

  ‘I think I’ll spend Christmas here,’ he said to himself. ‘No, perhaps in London. Ah me — such decisions.’

  But nobody heard or cared and he toddled off to pick himself a snowdrop to put in his nightcap.

  A little further down the undulation of that most heavenly coastline, the sea was going out at Hastings. Nearest the shore the water lay like a merchant’s bale of shimmering grey taffeta but further out small white breakers rolled in on the slant. Above them all the great White Rock dominated and the sun shining on it, in an oddly dappled way, gave the impression that a mergirl sat there, twining herself a seaweed coronet and glancing now and then towards the houses that were built in the shape of an inverted U on a small hill beneath the Castle.

  Seated at breakfast in one of those houses, in a room with bow windows that swept from ceiling to floor that the sun and the view might be better enjoyed, was the Wardlaw family. Their oval mahogany table gleamed as if the wood still had life and white napery and silver dishes reflected every facet of the clear and delicate December morning.

  It was a beautifully shaped room, its furnishings enhancing it like a stage setting. For that Helen, raising her elegant dark brows over a letter which had just been handed to her on a small bright tray, could be thanked. Crystal chandeliers played rainbow prisms and tinkled free as wind bells in the morning breeze, venetian teal draperies swayed against deep rose carpets, golden mirrors, holding candles in their carvings, twinkled a thousand reflections.

  General Wardlaw was positioned at the head of the table, his back to the sea view, forgoing that ever-changing aspect in favour of sitting where the greatest light would be cast upon the face of his wife. The charming countenance, the sheen of swept-up hair, the slanting eyes, the merry mouth and seed-pearl teeth, set his blood racing even after all the years. He was not only happily married, he was physically in love. He would have sent the children and servants packing and kept her hungrily for himself if convention had not decreed otherwise.

  The war between these rules and his passion for Helen was the most difficult thing with which John Wardlaw nowadays had to contend. Rigidly brought up by a mother whose religious mania pointed to the Will of the Lord in everything, he could either have gone under in a sea of drink and self-pity or become rigidly tough and wrest circumstance round his way, caring not a damn for anybody.

  He had been saved from doing either by his meeting with the Gage twins and the subsequent death of one and his marriage to the other. From that time on he had been a different man. The pale, slightly truculent, blue eye; the heavy moustache and side-whiskers; the quick, determined walk, were all still there. But emotion had entered his soul and the man who stared down the table at his family, hearing the sea sounds blow in from the open window behind him, was that most contradictory of all things — a man of war in love.

  ‘What is that letter you are reading with such interest, my dear?’ he said.

  Helen’s answering smile made his heart thump and he had to cough into his napkin to hide the fact that he was reduced to the status of a moonstruck boy at even a glance from her.

  ‘It is an invitation for Christmas.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘My kinsmen the Webbe Westons.’

  ‘The ones who live in the great ruin near Guildford?’

  ‘The very same. But despite the draughts — or perhaps because of them —’ only he caught her naughty innuendo and twitched his lips ‘— they have children of comparable ages to ours and thought that it might be amusing for us all to be together. What do you think, my darling?’

  ‘Umm ...’


  He hesitated, knowing full well as he did so that he would abide by Helen’s wishes. If she had asked him to leap from Hastings’ heights with her he would gladly have obliged.

  ‘My love?’

  He often wondered whether she was fully aware of the intensity of his feelings for her.

  ‘Well, I imagine it would be somewhat cold. Did you not tell me the house was Elizabethan?’

  ‘Even older. Built during the reign of Henry VIII. Of course if you would rather not ...’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you wish, my dear?’

  She turned to their three children. ‘Rob, Violet, Jackdaw — let us hear from you?’

  ‘Is the boy taller than I am?’

  This from Robert — the eldest child — who, at nearly thirteen, was already a foot bigger than Jackdaw and broad in the shoulders. He had that slightly vacant air often possessed by those who concentrate enormously on games and running about, but for all that was very equable and good hearted.

  ‘I should think probably so. He must be all of sixteen years. He has been away at school to escape from his horde of little sisters.’

  Rob, imagining himself cutting a dash with the young ladies, said, ‘I should like to go.’ And Violet, thinking of taking her dolls on a journey and then letting them meet the dolls of her cousins, and all having jolly tea parties in the nursery, said, ‘So should I.’

  ‘And what of you, Jackdaw? You’re very quiet.’

  As always when she spoke to the younger of her two sons Helen’s face softened slightly and John felt the usual tug of jealousy in his chest. How ridiculous to feel that about his own boy. His jewel-eyed, black-haired son who was so like his mother. And yet the truth was there. He could not bear her to look kindly on any other male, even the offspring of his wild and seething passion for her.

  ‘Yes, come on. Speak up,’ he said to cover his unforgivable feelings.

  ‘What is the name of the house, Sir?’

  ‘What a ridiculous question. I don’t know. I’ve forgotten. Helen?’

  ‘Sutton Place.’

  ‘Then we must go.’

  Helen merely smiled but the General decided to pursue the matter.

  ‘Why do you say that? What is that supposed to mean? Where’s the “must”, John?’

  He did not like calling him Jackdaw, thought it rather effeminate and girlish.

  ‘I feel it would be a good thing to do.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jackdaw’s gaze dropped to his plate and he swallowed uncomfortably. For all his clairvoyant gift, he was still only twelve years old. There was no explanation he could give to the bold military man who sat at the table’s top. Yet he knew it was part of the vast play of events that he should go to Sutton Place and there meet someone with whom his life would be inextricably woven.

  Jackdaw thought to himself that it must be she; of the fox’s hair and seagreen eyes. That she must be one of the horde of sisters mentioned. That he would step through the doors of the ancient house and see her standing with all those others who had paraded before him through the mediumship of his funny schoolboy marble.

  As usual when he thought about that extraordinary event his hand crept into the pocket of his jacket. He always kept it there — his primitive scrying glass — though he had seen nothing more in it from that day to this.

  ‘Don’t fiddle, boy, when I am speaking to you. I asked you a question. Why would it be a good thing to go to Sutton Place?’

  The General became aware of Helen’s dark stare turning in his direction and his voice became fractionally more gentle. ‘Come along, young man.’

  He was perturbed by what he saw. Jackdaw’s eyes flashed at him like two birds startled by a distant lightning fork.

  ‘Because it would be! I am sorry, Father. That is all I have to say. I would like to go.’

  The General opened his mouth to speak but Helen’s light voice cut in.

  ‘Then, my dear, if that is the consensus, I too would enjoy it. The matter rests with you.’

  How she could twist and turn him! He nodded his head as if considering but his eyes were already blurring with the fierce feelings that her direct glance could arouse. He laughed shortly.

  ‘Then go we shall.’

  Jackdaw’s bright and grateful smile was the reward that he did not even notice, so busy was he with gazing at Helen.

  *

  In the snow of the cold weather that had followed the unseasonably warm snap, the gates of Sutton Place looked, from the distant road, like black lace spread against the fragility of the whiteness beyond. But as the largest and most durable of General Wardlaw’s coaches came trundling steadily upon its four solid wheels towards them, the gates took on another aspect. They soared high and black and forbidding, suggesting that beyond lay a building which was not to be entered lightly nor tampered with in any way.

  ‘Good God,’ said John Wardlaw, staring at the entrance — mouth very slightly a-gape. ‘What sort of place is this, Helen? I thought the Webbe Westons were poor as mice.’

  ‘They are, my dear, they are! I came here once when I was a girl — when the first John Webbe Weston was alive. What a grand ruin! They have restored it as best they can but the house has simply burned their money up.’

  ‘Oh dear! Will we get anything to eat?’ said Violet.

  The General laughed and scooped the little damsel, clad in lavender velvet and sporting a beribboned bonnet and black button boots, on to his knee.

  ‘Of course we will, my bird. There, there. Do you hear her, sweetheart?’

  Helen smiled and patted her daughter’s plump little white-gloved hand.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, darling. There shall be plenty for us all. See, your brothers are jolly.’

  And it was true, for Rob’s big amiable face had taken on the sort of grin given to a marvellous toy as the gates swung open before them and the lodge keeper came to a ragged salute; and as for Jackdaw, he was alive with some inner thoughts, cheeks glowing at the strange cold prospect that lay before them.

  As far as the eye could see the Home Park spread out hushed and still beneath the majesty of new-fallen snow. Colossal trees, beneath which Saxon Kings had slain the gasping wild boar, raised their stark fingers to capture the virgin flakes and, as the Wardlaw carriage clattered over a wooden bridge, they saw flowing ice-cold — embanked as it was by escarpments of frost — a fast-currented river. Of the house there was no sign as they twisted and turned about, but another wide bend revealed — towering up as grim and gaunt as any enchanted castle — the building in which they were to spend the next few days. Sutton Place, with all its great history, its panoply of Kings, its relentless heritage, lay before them.

  It was obvious that it had at one time been four-sided, built round a quadrangle. But now only three wings remained. Where a mighty Gatehouse had once jutted aloft there was now emptiness. The wing from which so many pairs of eyes had swept the landscape for the first glimpse of a rider bearing news had been finally razed. Sir Richard Weston’s soaring gateway was no more.

  Each one of the Wardlaws was utterly silent. Each, in his own way, dumbstruck at the magnitude of the building that met their separate gazes. Helen full of thoughts of the family Gage that had allied itself with the builders by the marriage of Elizabeth Gage to John Weston and who had, by this act, fallen beneath the spell of the house. They had broken away only through Joseph Gage’s vow never to set foot within its walls again. He had gone for a soldier to the Queen of Spain and there raised Garnet, Helen’s grandfather.

  John Wardlaw brooded on the upkeep of such a heap. General of the British Army he might be, but his pay could never encompass a similar dwelling. Helen had told him once that old John Webbe Weston — father of the present incumbent — had wanted to pull the mansion house down and start afresh. He had inherited it, in the most ruinous condition, from his kinswoman Melior Mary who, so the General understood, had gone mad and lived as a recluse despite the fact that she had been the beauty of her day
and pursued by many suitors.

  ‘Strange affair,’ he thought and shook his head slightly.

  And the three children were pensive too. Rob thinking of all the good sport that could be had in this park; the running and leaping and the trees to climb.

  And Violet prinking up the bonnet of her favourite doll and telling her she was better than any toy that could possibly be found in the enormous and forbidding house that was drawing so horribly near with each rattle of the wheels.

  But Jackdaw dreamed of the autumn-haired girl. He knew that the chain of events which would lead him to her had been set in train, and that Sutton Place would reach out for him and, in some indefinable way, alter his life. But he was not aware, as yet, of how this would take place. Only the fact that a vital meeting awaited him had been revealed.

  So it was with a sense of disappointment that he looked beyond the massive door which was swinging open — revealing a Great Hall vast as a cathedral — and saw a family of four children and two parents, none of whom resembled her at all. He felt cheated, misled, and it was only when a voice said, ‘I’m John Joseph Webbe Weston. Are you the one they call Jackdaw?’ that he knew that he was not.

  This was why he had come. Here stood a boy who was to be more of a brother to him than poor dull Rob could ever hope to be. Here was his fraternal partner in the flesh.

  ‘Yes, I’m Jackdaw,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Do you like playing army games?’

  ‘With tin soldiers, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rob might be better than I am. He’s more of a sportsman.’

  John Joseph grinned. ‘One doesn’t need sportsmanship for war manoeuvres. They come from thinking. I’ll challenge you.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Jackdaw gave a funny jerky little bow. John Joseph’s personality was tangible, full of life and sparkle. He was the sort of young man to whom people would listen with interest.

  He stood quite tall for his age, already sporting the dashing good looks which all his life were to single him out from his fellows. His hair grew thickly and brown upon his head and his arresting eyes — the light blue of a winter sea, yet encircled by a rim of indigo — were set finely above a straight strong nose and a smiling, rather passionate, mouth. The heir to Sutton Place was almost as handsome as the first heir — Francis Weston, who had died beneath the axe blade.