by Deryn Lake
With no further thought Jackdaw pinned her wrists like two butterflies and threw himself across her. There seemed to be a pause in time as the world went spinning and he thrust his shaft, hard and demanding, into the innermost secret of her body. Then after a moment’s gasp from her, they began to move together in a glorious rhythm.
‘Oh Marie, Marie,’ he said in ecstasy as the warm fluid of his love flowed into his beloved, ‘promise that you will never leave me. Not ever. Promise me.’
But in the darkness she could only murmur, ‘God alone can give the answer to that.’
11
‘To think,’ said Lady Annette Waldegrave, twirling before a full-length mirror and poking her tongue out at her reflection, ‘that I am twenty years old — today — and I haven’t even one miserable suitor to my name. I declare I’m fated to be a decrepit old spinster.’
‘You don’t look decrepit,’ answered Horatia.
‘Well, I feel it.’
But what her sister said was true. Annette had inherited her mother’s blonde hair and had increased the beauty of her moonstone eyes with clever painting. Had she but had a reasonably wealthy — or even respectable — brother she would have been married within a year of her eighteenth birthday.
‘It’s all George’s fault,’ Annette went on, putting the family complaint into words. ‘If he weren’t such a wretched rake we would have money and reputation and callers and gaiety.’
‘He is giving a supper party for you.’
‘Yes — and who will be the guests?’ She ticked them off on her fingers. ‘Mother, J.J., you, Ida Anna, and a handful of George’s more boring friends — the others wouldn’t be allowed within a mile of Strawberry Hill.’
‘Well be thankful for small mercies.’ Horatia stood up as she spoke. ‘I’ve had no party given for me since I was eight.’
Annette did not relent.
‘Well, you haven’t come out yet. I have — well and truly.’
Horry crossed to the mirror and stood peering at her reflection.
‘There isn’t much hope for me then. Any dowry that’s going will be settled on you. I think I’ll elope with the first person who asks.’
She suddenly laughed and whirled Annette round by the waist. ‘Cheer up — it won’t be too bad. We’re sure to find some poor being we can persuade into putting up with us. Do try to be jolly — you are supposed to on your birthday.’
Annette gave her a begrudging smile and — as she always did when she looked at Horatia these days — felt just the faintest tinge of envy. For the truth was that Annette was pretty but Horatia was superb. Lady Laura Waldegrave walked on earth again in her granddaughter.
The slanting mermaid eyes, swept by jet lashes, gazed at the world with a jade-clear gaze; while the lips — neither conventionally shaped nor full — curled into a little smile. The body had grown neither short nor tall, neither fat nor thin, but curved in and out like a pretty landscape. Her breasts were marvellous; round and full-nippled, rising firm and supple in her frame like those of an arrow-shooting goddess.
Yet with all these assets it was her hair, still, that was the most exquisite thing about her. She wore it loose to her shoulders, tumbling like a waterfall, and swirling and blazing in a glory of reds — for at the thickest part of it, nearest her neck, it was as dark as ripened damsons but on the other edge, where the tresses thinned, it burst into a nimbus of flame. No one who saw her had any doubt — at fifteen Horatia Elizabeth Waldegrave was the jewel of her generation.
Now Annette looked at her again.
‘You are beautiful,’ she said. ‘I quite hate you for it.’ But she shook her head and smiled as she spoke to show she did not mean it. ‘Remember what I told you when we were young — the eldest girl has to marry first; that’s the rule.’
Horry laughed.
‘Shall we go to the Gallery? Maybe George will have done his duty and invited some proper eligibles.’
Annette rolled her eyes.
‘Heaven forbid. The most I’ve a hope of is the stammering curate. The little thing who incessantly drops his napkin upon the floor and flushes like a beet as he stoops to pick it up.’
‘Poor creature! He only does it to hide the fact he blushes whenever you speak.’
‘That will make a fine basis for courtship, to be sure!’
‘Annette, you are so cruel. You must stop it. I am quite determined that you will enjoy your birthday, come what may.’
They linked arms companionably at this, smiled at each other, and went from the bedroom — which they still shared with Ida Anna — into a corridor which led on to the Gallery. This late March evening it stood — as ornate and fabulous and extraordinary as ever — dappled by the light from a great fire which roared away in the marble fireplace, heavily carved with wood, and crowned overall with a portrait of Horace Walpole himself. Nobody else was about but the sound of feet coming up the stairs told the Waldegrave sisters that a guest had arrived and a second or so later J.J. appeared in the doorway, a glass already in his hand.
‘My doves,’ he said, ‘how entrancing you look.’ It was obvious he was extremely cheerful and very slightly drunk. ‘I’ve brought you a present, Annette. Happy birthday.’
He fished in his trouser pocket and produced a sparkling diamond clasp — obviously worth a great deal more than he could afford and probably won over the gaming table.
‘How very, very kind of you,’ she said, fastening it to the shoulder of her evening gown, and standing on tiptoe as she kissed him on the cheek.
He was still desperately handsome, despite the drawn appearance that his illness and drinking combined to give, and next month he would be twenty-five. He should, by rights — as the bastard son of the late Earl Waldegrave — have been on the list of every matchmaking Mama in society. But rumours of his financial difficulties — in fact the financial difficulties of the whole family — abounded. Indeed, Horatia felt rather sorry for him. She thought that he could not have started a courtship with a respectable girl even if he had so desired. But whether he did so or not was highly debatable; the wild living of him and George was spoken of with bated breath in polite circles.
As if he knew that his brother was there George came in a moment later and stood, his arm round J.J.’s shoulders, silently toasting him. Their twin-like looks were uncanny. Only the bluish glow of George’s hair and the fact that he was an inch or so shorter differentiated them.
‘Well,’ said George without preamble, nudging J.J. violently in the ribs, ‘how are we going to get Annette married off? Twenty today and no suitor. Tut, tut, tut.’
He shook his head and clucked like a hen and Horry saw her sister go pink with fury.
‘What about the curate?’ answered J.J. ‘Once he grows out of his spots and blushing he should turn out quite well.’
‘Y-e-s,’ George was reflective. ‘But could he rescue the family fortune?’
‘Doubt it.’ J.J.’s voice seemed choked with laughter. ‘For that you need a great deal of money.’
He collapsed, slapping his thigh and wiping his eyes with his cuff.
‘How dare you?’ Annette looked as if she was going to explode. ‘How can you speak of me so? I am your sister, not some — some ... chattel; a nothing to be sold in the market place! How can you mention me and money in the same breath?’
‘Why not?’ said George hysterically. ‘I should have thought you go very well together.’
Annette began to cry and J.J. calmed a little and said, ‘Don’t, my darling. We have been teasing you, that is all. We have a surprise and this is just a silly joke. Now dry your eyes and close them tightly.’
Annette shot Horatia a piteous look and her younger sister said, ‘How can you be so cruel? You are behaving monstrously on her birthday.’
George stopped laughing.
‘We’re not really. Tidy her up, Horry. We really have got a surprise.’
‘But is it a nice one?’
‘Very, very nice.’ There
was a sound of more footsteps on the stairs. ‘Hurry up. She really must not look wretched.’
The door opened and a dashing figure stood there, bowing in the direction of the two girls. The voice of the butler intoned pompously, ‘Captain Archibald Money, my Lord.’
‘Money,’ said George, stressing the word so loudly that there was simply no way Annette and Horatia could have failed to see the joke, ‘welcome once more to Strawberry Hill.’
Annette went first pale and then pink again and only stepped forward to drop her curtsey with Horatia’s hand in the small of her back. Archie — who had not called since the Earl’s funeral three years before — raised her fingers to his lips.
‘Lady Annette,’ he said. ‘I have been unable to visit you till now as I was posted to the Bengal Lancers just after the most unfortunate loss of your father. However, I have written to the Earl and also to your mother the Countess to request their permission to pay my addresses.’
Annette went scarlet and it was left to Horatia to say, ‘Why on earth didn’t you say so before? She had almost given up thinking about you.’
*
The March winds, which blew round Strawberry Hill the night of Annette’s twentieth birthday, died away and the rainbow month of April, sweet with daffodil breezes, took their place.
From Paris the brilliant Viennese Johann Strauss I set sail for England to conduct at the birthday ball of Queen Victoria in her Coronation year; and from Vienna John Joseph also set out for London as military escort to Emperor Ferdinand’s envoy at the great celebrations. And from his barracks in London Jackdaw went off to Buckingham Palace in the magic of a blossom-heavy May evening to act as official interpreter for the guests from all parts of the world who had come to bow the knee to the nineteen-year-old girl who now ruled England.
But neither John Joseph nor Jackdaw knew that the other old friend — bound to him by distant relationship and affinity which transcended ties of blood — was to be present at the glittering occasion when Maestro Strauss bowed before the tiny Queen and then raised his violin to his chin.
There was silence in that great ballroom as the first seductive notes of the solo fiddle poured out the joyous notes of the waltz to the little monarch. And when she finally raised her white-gloved hand and put it into that of Lord Melbourne, that he might lead the dancing with her, there was a rapturous round of applause before the ladies lifted their hems by the loops and joined in the dance with all that assembly of gallant gentlemen come to pay allegiance to their sweet and youthful sovereign on the anniversary of her birth.
But as Jackdaw — bright in his regimental scarlet but with a heart dark as pitch beneath his solitary gold medal — whirled in the Viennese waltz, he did not see that John Joseph, dancing with Countess Lamberg, was about to bump into him. And thus they met after three years — back to back, slightly out of breath — and not looking where they were going.
They both wheeled round to apologize and then stared at each other.
‘Jackdaw? You here? I don’t believe it!’
‘John Joseph! This is incredible.’
They remembered common courtesy and bowed to their respective partners explaining — in a rather garbled manner — that they had run into a long-lost childhood friend and had forgotten themselves in the excitement. But as soon as the dance was ended they discreetly left the ballroom and went to one of the balconies overlooking the Palace gardens, that they might talk without interruption.
‘How is this possible?’ said John Joseph, offering a cigar to Jackdaw and then lighting his own.
‘Very simple, for me. I went to Canada to penetrate a ring of revolutionary fanatics who were sowing the seeds of an uprising. An uprising which could have severed Canada from Britain like the American colonies. But my disguise was discovered and I had to pick my way back to England. I was given a medal for my efforts.’
He said this last sentence so bitterly that John Joseph gave him a sharp look. In the light from the flambeaux that lit the gardens, together with the rising moon, he saw that his friend had changed. He looked older, haggard almost, his mouth set in a tough line, the jewel-bright eyes cynical and cold.
‘And ...?’
‘And?’
‘And what is the rest you have not told me? You look as if you have been to Hell. Were you captured and tortured?’
‘No, I escaped — with help.’
‘Oh?’
‘You are determined to know, aren’t you? Very well. I met a woman, I fell in love with her. I broke every rule there is and asked her to leave Canada with me. And because she cared for me she did so. She was Papineau the revolutionary’s daughter — and when we reached Newfoundland to board a trading vessel her father had her killed. I came back from booking our passages and found her dead in bed. She had been strangled with one of my belts.’
He stopped short and a harsh sound escaped from him. John Joseph put a hand on his friend’s arm.
‘What a terrible thing. Was the murderer ever caught?’
‘No, he escaped like a rat in the night. But that it was her father’s agent is sure, because he pinned a note to her chest which said, “This for consorting with the enemy. Death to all traitors.”’
John Joseph shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
Jackdaw looked at him grimly. ‘To make it even worse — if that’s possible — I have the idea that she was my destined woman. That there will never be anybody else.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I used to dream about her even when I was a child. I used to dream about a girl with red hair. It was a recurring vision.’
‘Funnily enough I have had the same experience,’ said John Joseph slowly. ‘It stopped after we left Sutton Place but while we were there I often dreamed that I died in a tent on a battlefield in the arms of a red-headed woman.’
Jackdaw had gone very quiet. In his mind’s eye he was back at the Spanish court where he had acted as interpreter for the Queen Regent. He remembered how he had fallen asleep fully clothed, a brandy bottle clutched in his hand, and how he had dreamed. He saw again the great white rock and the girl standing on the top. And he remembered how a man had appeared and stood beside her and put his arm around her shoulders, and how astonished he had been to see it was John Joseph. Was it possible that this extraordinary thread was running through both their lives?
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
From behind them stole the sound of an enchanting waltz tune, filling the night with notes like drops of crystal.
‘Don’t understand what?’ said John Joseph.
‘I dreamt once that I saw you with such a woman. I must be getting confused. Perhaps Marie was not ...’
‘Don’t think about it any more,’ said John Joseph. ‘Remember what your father used to tell you; too much dwelling on mysteries does you no good. Come along, we mustn’t desert our duties. I am here as a member of the Austrian envoy’s escort — and also a dancing partner for the wives.’
‘No wife of your own yet?’
‘No, nor likely to have. I was badly hurt once. I wouldn’t like to go through it again in a hurry.’
Jackdaw laughed shortly. ‘We’re two of a kind.’
In the distance Countess Lamberg’s voice could be heard calling, ‘Captain Webbe Weston, where are you? You are booked on my card and Her Majesty has requested Maestro Strauss’s latest polka. I should not like to miss it.’
John Joseph was about to step in through the French windows when Jackdaw detained him a moment longer.
‘How is Sutton Place?’ he called. ‘Are you going to see it on this visit?’
‘No. I only have a few hours free, and those in London. But Caroline and her fiancé, Francis Hicks, are coming up to join me and we plan to visit a theatre. Will you come with us?’
‘Hicks,’ answered Jackdaw abstractedly. ‘I seem to know that name. When is this?’
‘In two days from now.’
‘I shall try.’
&
nbsp; ‘Your friend — when did she die?’
‘Ten months ago.’
‘Then give yourself time. They say it heals all things.’
The opening bars of the polka were beginning to gain momentum and partners were being taken. The Queen was smiling up at Lord Melbourne again and laughing with pure pleasure.
‘I think she has a passion for him,’ whispered John Joseph, behind his hand.
‘Yes, I believe so,’ answered Jackdaw.
‘It’s time she was married.’
‘They are probably saying that about you and me.’
‘Then let them. I intend to avoid it as long as possible.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Jackdaw, and they stepped back into the ballroom.
*
A few days after the little Queen went to Westminster Abbey — on June 28, 1838 — to receive the monarch’s crown, Caroline Webbe Weston went to Holy Trinity to receive the wedding ring of Francis Hicks, Esquire and medical student.
Despite all Mrs Webbe Weston’s fears the occasion was a great success and afterwards thirty people sat down to breakfast at Pomona House. Mary came from Paris with her husband and four little children, two of her own and two belonging to Robert Anthony; and Matilda stood as bridesmaid, happy in the knowledge that afterwards she would return to Paris to live with her sister for a year.
John Joseph was not there but sent greetings from Vienna, busy as he was with his Army commitments. But though he was missed the occasion was made jovial by the reappearance of Cloverella outside the church, throwing rice beneath the bride’s shoe and pressing a sprig of heather into her hand. She wore a scarlet dress, rather tattered, and was slightly muckier than anyone remembered her being three years ago. By her side stood a delightful little boy with a mass of dark hair, bright twinkling eyes, and a pair of dirty feet. She laughed when they asked his name, and said it was Jay, which some took to mean that he had been named after John Joseph and others after Jackdaw.
The breakfast over, a pianoforte, violin and cello played Strauss waltzes, polkas and galops in the drawing room and the guests — particularly Francis’s hearty elder brother Algernon, who had stood up as best man — danced the night away, long after the newly-weds had left for their honeymoon in Scotland.
