Fortune's Soldier

by Deryn Lake

  They left the house saying, ‘Poor Jackdaw,’ but nevertheless rather looking forward to their little excursion to The Swan, which had become awfully merry for Assemblies, Balls and Dinners since the Queen’s visit, as Princess Victoria, six years before.

  But even their most extravagant hopes of a good time were to be exceeded. For as they stood in the hotel entrance where the pince-nezed figure bobbed and said, ‘Of course, Sir. This way, General Wardlaw,’ a voice behind them exclaimed, ‘Good Heavens, it can’t be! Cousin Helen, how wonderful to see you!’

  And they turned round to see a vision with wheaten hair and jet brows dressed in the very latest Paris fashion and sporting not only a wedding ring but a gentleman on each arm.

  ‘Caroline!’ answered Helen. ‘I don’t believe it! Why, the last time I saw you you were ...?’

  ‘Fourteen or fifteen. It was at Sutton Place.’

  ‘The day of Mrs Trevelyan’s garden party.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Caroline dropped a little curtsey and added rather demurely, ‘But I am married now. Cousin Helen, General Wardlaw, Rob, Violet — may I present my husband, Francis Hicks? And my brother-in-law, Algernon.’

  How-do-you-do’s were exchanged, bobs and bows executed, and formal handshakes disposed of.

  ‘Are you dining here?’ said the General.

  ‘We’re staying, Sir,’ answered Francis. ‘In fact we intend to call on you tomorrow.’

  The General huffed cheerfully into his whiskers.

  ‘Then what do you say to making up a table? Fine chance to catch up with the news, eh?’

  All the ladies were in agreement and Algernon shook his head enthusiastically and bounded about. So, after some negotiation with the bobbing figure, the General led the way into a plush red dining room decorated with marble pillars and little gold lamps, and took his place at the head of a hastily laid table for seven, with Helen on his right hand and Caroline on his left. Beside Caroline sat Rob and Violet and then the brothers Hicks.

  But theirs was very far from being the largest party present. In the centre of the room a great damask-draped table, as yet unoccupied, lay gleaming with silver and crystal and waiting for a group of twelve.

  They all stared at it and Francis — whom the Wardlaws considered a most personable young man — said, ‘That must be for Viscount Chewton. He’s staying here, you know, with a vast family party.’

  ‘Chewton? Chewton?’ reflected the General. ‘That’s the Waldegrave heir, isn’t it? I was stationed in Paris with one of them — the sixth Earl I believe. Good heavens — forgive me ladies — but he was a rogue.’

  ‘Really?’ said Francis.

  ‘Yes.’ There was a suggestion of a wink in the General’s eye. ‘Tell you later, Hicks, over the port.’

  Francis raised his eyebrows and Algernon went, ‘Ho!’ and looked knowledgeable.

  But further thoughts as to the late Earl’s misdeeds were prevented by the arrival of the menu and the agonizing decision between fruits of the sea, as only Hastings could offer them, or the succulent delights of game and meats. However, choices were finally made and the Wardlaws and the Hicks were just settling down to an appetizer of a dozen oysters each when once more their attention was distracted.

  A grey-haired portly gentleman, who could only be the Viscount, was coming into the dining room with a simpering woman clinging to his arm. But it was not really at them that the gaze of the onlookers was directed, for behind him, in couples, walked four of the most striking females.

  The eldest — presumably the mother of the other three — was very small, almost doll-like, and had a sweet little hairstyle swept up beneath a widow’s lace cap. Despite the fact that she was nearing fifty her black evening gown revealed a neat and highly fashionable figure. And the very sight of it, as she walked past him to her chair, caused Algernon to gulp noisily and drop his oyster.

  Beside the widow walked her counterpart but some thirty years younger, the only difference between the mother and her eldest girl being that the daughter had eyes of a vivid moonstone blue.

  But after them, pretty as they were, followed a girl of quite outstanding beauty, although the great cloud of hair swirling about her shoulders told polite society that she was not yet seventeen. For it was at that age that curls must be put up on top of the head if one wished to be respectable.

  ‘By Jove,’ said Rob involuntarily, as her eyes met his for a moment.

  But she was merely glancing at him, and walked past and to her place in a flurry of satin and scent of moonlit Araby.

  The fourth girl was little more than a child. Barely in her teens, she had pert bootbutton-eyed prettiness, but her rose-bud mouth had a sulky simper and Helen and Caroline immediately concluded she was thoroughly spoiled. Violet, however, could not find it in herself to have coherent thoughts about anyone — so dazzled and amazed was she by all the splendid company.

  Behind the quartette of ladies came a medley of children of assorted age, size and sex, presumably the brood of Chewton himself.

  ‘Hastings must be swarming with Waldegraves,’ whispered Francis. But though Caroline smiled and nodded, Algernon merely stared mumchance at the averted back of the pretty widow, even allowing his delicious dinner — which he normally would have consumed with enthusiasm — to grow cold before him.

  In fact the presence of Viscount Chewton’s family at the top table had a somewhat subduing effect. Nonetheless Helen and Caroline made gallant efforts and family gossip and news on both sides was exchanged.

  ‘And what of dear Mary? And Matilda?’

  ‘The former never happier — running a large household of children and servants.’ Caroline’s dark brows slanted upward with amusement. ‘And as for Matilda, Mary writes that she has taken on a new lease of life in Paris. She has even stopped wearing brown and has been escorted to the opera by an eligible young Frenchman.’

  ‘I am so pleased. And what of John Joseph?’

  ‘He is stationed in the Hungarian part of the Empire at the moment. There is trouble there, you know.’

  ‘Oh?’ General Wardlaw was suddenly all attention. ‘In what way?’

  Caroline lowered her voice. ‘The new Emperor of Austria, Ferdinand, is quite mad, so they say. He even finds it difficult to write his name. Prince Metternich virtually rules the country and the young Hungarian nobles are rumbling in their throats. They would break away given half a chance. So a large military presence is maintained to try to frighten them witless.’

  Helen shook her head looking, just for a moment, as young and as girlish as she had when Caroline first met her.

  ‘These boys, these boys — John Joseph, Jackdaw, Rob! I wonder if they are happy stationed so far from their homeland.’

  To this Caroline replied firmly, ‘Well, my brother is, for sure. He could not wait to put an ocean between himself and Sutton Place.’

  ‘Because of the curse?’

  ‘I believe so. He hates the place, yet is fearfully fascinated with it. But how is Jackdaw?’

  ‘In Hastings and in bed at this very moment. He is on his final leave before a three-year stint in India — and, of all things, has sprained his ankle.’ Now it was Helen’s turn to speak softly. ‘I am worried about him, Caro. Ever since his return from Canada he has been different. I think something terrible has happened to him.’

  ‘Does he still possess his mystic gift?’

  ‘I don’t know. He has shut himself off. He is not the childhood friend you once knew.’

  ‘We shall come and visit him tomorrow — Francis and I. My dear Algy —’ she looked at her brother-in-law fondly ‘— is a little too enthusiastic for a sickroom.’

  She and Helen smiled gently and, as if he knew they were talking about him, Algernon turned to look at them and said, ‘By Jove, Mrs Wardlaw — this is a very fine town. My guide book —’ he waved a well-thumbed volume ‘— says one of the prettiest in England. Think I’ll take a Walk to Fairlight Glen tomorrow.’

  Carol
ine answered firmly, ‘A splendid idea, Algy. Francis and I are going to visit my cousin Jackdaw so you’ll be left to make your own mischief.’

  He chortled with delight.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that — but I shall be quite all right, Caro. Always jolly happy exploring, you know.’

  *

  Time was slipping. At the garrison in Buda — which lay staring across the River Danube at the grim fortress of Pesth — John Joseph Webbe Weston was travelling in his sleep. He dreamed that he was in Sutton Place, standing there, alone, looking about the deserted Great Hall.

  The voices of centuries rang out to him. He heard Francis Weston speak words of love to Rose Pickering; heard Anne Boleyn sing to her King; heard Melior Mary Weston exclaim upon the colour of a baby’s eyes; heard Elizabeth the Queen greet Henry Weston and all the while look upon him shrewdly, wondering if he and she might have shared the same father.

  He heard the stars singing, the comets burst forth. He heard the past and the present merge in a shrieking chorus. There was no day, there was no night. There was nothing but the total oneness of the universe. He was near the secret of life ...

  And then it all slipped from him — as it must if he was to stay sane upon the earth — and he was dreaming more calmly. He walked up the Grand Staircase to the Long Gallery and saw that it was still the Chapel. At the end of it, by the altar, the Bride awaited. The white of her veil a mist, the red of her hair mulled wine.

  ‘Hurry,’ she said, without turning her head. ‘I am ready now. Find me.’

  ‘Is it you?’ he answered. ‘You of whom I dream?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am your fate — your past, your present, your future. Know me when you meet me. That is all I ask.’

  ‘I have always known you.’

  ‘But will you when the time comes?’

  The vision faded. He was in Hungary once more, dreaming of everyday things — cannon and horses and the stirring unrest of a once great and powerful people. He heard the voice of a poet say, ‘Continents and oceans lie at our feet, gold and silver, strong and vigorous hands, and a rich and powerful language — we possess all but concord and liberty.’

  He awoke into a grey and chillsome summer morning to sniff upon the air the very essence of revolution’s first breath. And he did not know at that moment which he hated more — this far-off country ready to tear itself to shreds, or the dreadful manor of Sutton with its curse of despair.

  *

  On that same morning, so grey and cold in Buda but so bright and fine over England’s south coast, Algernon Hicks woke punctually at six o’clock and leapt out of bed. Throwing open his window he stuck his head right out, pointed his nose towards the sea and engaged upon a series of breathing exercises. He then rootled in a carpet bag, took from it a travelling chest expander and, standing back slightly, began flexing his muscles whilst emitting a series of high whistling sounds.

  This done, he dressed in a short-skirted jacket, a pair of trousers strapped under the instep, a high-collared shirt and a spotted neckcloth which he affixed with a pin. Tucking his wide-awake — a low-crowned informal hat — beneath his arm he went down to the breakfast room.

  There he ate vastly. Sausages, kidneys, an alarming amount of rashers and several eggs were pursued by hot and wholesome bread and many cups of tea. Then, having glanced rapidly over The Times, he gave the waiter a noisy message for Francis and Caroline and bounded out into the morning.

  Everywhere gulls wheeled and dipped, shouting their astringent cries into the never-ending blue.

  ‘Skawk,’ Algy called back. ‘Skawk, gully.’

  A small urchin, observing him, tapped his forehead meaningfully but Mr Hicks, undeterred, turned his feet in the direction of the Vale of Ecclesbourne, swung his walking stick with the carved dog’s head three times into the air and set off at an alarming rate.

  The mile and a half to the fishponds was covered in no time and, pausing only to mop his brow in the considerable morning heat, Algy struck off across the fields towards the edge of the cliff. There he went through a little gate and on to a smooth terrace of grass at the cliffs very edge.

  ‘Was it here?’ he said aloud. ‘Was it here that Duke William had Harold laid to rest, to be the guardian of land and sea?’ He struck a dramatic pose. ‘By command of the Duke, you rest here a King, O Harold. Aargh,’ he added, clutching his throat.

  Fortunately it was too early for other visitors and he went on, quite regardless, down a flight of steps to the Dripping Well. Having amused himself by dropping a pebble to ascertain its depths, he followed the path round the dell and found himself in a beautiful valley, the centre of which was known as Fairlight Glen.

  Here Algy felt an overwhelming need to relieve himself and — glancing most earnestly to both right and left and then decorously stepping behind a bush, though not a soul was in sight — he merrily imitated one of the several small waterfalls that bounded in the pretty stream.

  Then, with a cheerful whistle, he went on up the brow of the hill to the cliffs summit, his heart pounding with shock as he arrived at the top only to find that someone had preceded him. A woman was sitting on the famous Lovers’ Seat, gazing out to sea. Desperate, Algy’s one thought was that he might have been observed communing with nature and he hung back fearfully, wondering whether he ought perhaps hastily to retreat.

  But she made no stir and eventually Mr Hicks plucked up enough courage to clear his throat noisily, several times over, and then shout, ‘Good morning. Sorry to startle you.’

  She jumped violently and turned round. He saw to his amazement that it was the pretty widow who had so caught his eye at dinner the previous evening; the kinswoman of Viscount Chewton.

  ‘Oh good gracious,’ she said. ‘I did not expect to see anyone else at this hour.’

  ‘No, dashed early. Sorry! It is just that I enjoy a Walk while the day is still fresh.’

  He twirled his wide-awake — which he had plucked from his head at first glimpse of her — by the brim.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you. I’ll go. Wouldn’t like to get in the way.’ He panted apologetically, his anxious face crumpled like a boxer dog’s.

  ‘Oh please don’t do that on my account. It was just that I was lost in my thoughts. Pray take a seat and admire the view.’

  ‘Really?’ He bounced forward enthusiastically.

  ‘Yes.’ He gingerly took a seat at the far edge of the wooden bench. ‘I’d better introduce myself. Hicks is the name.’ He stood up again and made a bow. ‘Algernon Hicks of Duke Street, London.’

  ‘And I am Anne, the Countess Waldegrave.’

  Algy became a little flustered and bowed several times, obviously debating whether or not to kiss her hand. He eventually decided against, sat down, and stared out towards the horizon, completely dumbstruck.

  ‘I am staying here with my daughters,’ Anne went on conversationally, ignoring the silence. ‘My brother and sister-in-law have a suite at The Swan.’

  ‘Yes, I saw you there last night.’

  Anne stared at him in surprise.

  ‘Really? I’m afraid I did not see you.’

  ‘No,’ said Algy, going a shade of tomato, ‘I don’t suppose you would. I am not very noticeable.’

  As he was the clumsiest, largest-footed man the Countess had ever seen, this remark bordered on ridiculous, but she controlled herself and said, ‘You are also a guest there?’

  ‘Yes. With my brother and his bride. That’s why I like to keep out of the way. They were recently married. I do not wish to be — de trop.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  She smiled at him politely and just for a second their eyes met. He thought her stunning, the fact that she was somewhat older than he not detracting from her charms a fraction. She, on the other hand, thought him laughable — but not unkindly so. If she had been asked to find a total contrast to the Earl she would have chosen this large and enthusiastic buffoon who clung so anxiously to his hat and walking stick as
if his very life depended on them.

  ‘Do you know Hastings well, Mr Hicks?’ she asked at last, rather sorry for him.

  ‘Can’t say that I do, my Lady. I came here when I was a child and once again as a young man. The second time was much more fun!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ He had stopped being so anxious in his enthusiasm. ‘My brother had been born then — he is eighteen years younger than I — and I spent the whole holiday making sandcastles for him and playing with a model schooner. It was glorious.’

  ‘You have no children of your own? You are not married?’

  Algernon went crimson.

  ‘No. My mother died when Francis was five and shortly after that, my father. I brought my brother up, you see, and not many young ladies were interested in having him as well. One was, but I could not bring myself to care for her. She smelled so terribly of camphor.’

  Anne pealed with laughter, putting her hand over her mouth.

  ‘How terrible for you. I cannot think of a worse fate.’

  Algy moved on the seat, delighted that the pretty Countess found him amusing.

  ‘She was plain as well. Awesomely small of eye.’

  Anne shrieked. ‘You are so droll, Mr Hicks.’

  ‘Really? My Lady, may I continue to talk to you?’

  ‘But of course. Shall we stroll? I know Hastings very well for I was born here. My father was in the church — he is retired now though still very much alive — and became an Army chaplain. I went with him when he was promoted to Paris and it was there that I met my late husband, the Earl.’

  Algy wondered briefly if this was one and the same as the sixth Earl, of whose daring exploits and wickedness General Wardlaw had spoken in such awed tones.

  ‘But, alas, he died three years ago,’ the Countess continued, ‘and so I come to visit my birthplace accompanied only by my unmarried daughters.’

  She gave a wistful sigh and Algy straightened. He had never been more pleased than at this moment — learning that the little lady was definitely a widow. Not that he wished the late peer any harm, of course, but she was so obviously in need of protection.