Fortune's Soldier

by Deryn Lake

  Caroline could not help smiling again, so infectious was Horatia’s manner as she danced little glances in the direction of John Joseph’s likeness.

  ‘No, he is not. Why?’

  ‘Because,’ said the minx, ‘I have decided to marry him.’

  ‘Lady Horatia!’ said Caroline, half shocked, half amused. ‘You are still very young. He is a full grown man.’

  ‘Young girls,’ answered Horatia matter-of-factly, ‘have a habit of growing up, whereas men of your brother’s age tend to stay the same for quite a few years.’

  There was so much basic truth in this that Caroline could do nothing but shake her head as Francis’s voice called from below, ‘Caro, where are you? I believe Rivers wants a last-minute word with you.’

  It was about the seating arrangements. It had been Caroline’s original plan to put Francis at the head of the table and Algy at the foot but she had now done a rapid rearrangement so that her brother-in-law could sit on Lady Waldegrave’s right. But — having smoothed out this minor problem — the meal itself went splendidly. The cook — Mrs Rivers — the skivvy and the extra girl had done their mistress proud. There had never been such a delicious spread at Number 7, Henrietta Street, and it was with praise ringing in her ears that Caroline eventually rose to lead the ladies to the drawing room while Francis and Algy smoked their cigars.

  Algy, who had drunk far more than was customary for him, was very surprised, therefore, when after five minutes Francis suddenly rose from his seat, muttered something about having to see Rivers urgently and left the room. He was even more surprised when, a minute or two later, Caroline poked her head round the door, like a little serpent, and on seeing him sitting there rapidly withdrew it.

  Chuffing somewhat to himself, Algy poured another glass of port. And it was then that the door opened again and Anne Waldegrave appeared in the entrance. Algy bounded to his feet but Anne said, ‘Do sit down, Mr Hicks. I have only come in to look for the playing cards.’

  ‘Are they in the dining room?’ asked Algy, astonished.

  ‘I don’t know. Caroline has gone to see Rivers and for some reason did not ring for a maid.’

  She looked as puzzled as Algy felt.

  ‘Shall I help you look for them?’

  ‘If you would, please.’

  And that was how they came to be tugging at the door of the lower cupboard of the sideboard, and how Algy came to wrench the wooden knob off the door and fall backwards from a squatting position and thus find himself, at long last, at the Countess’s feet.

  ‘Oh Mr Hicks,’ she said. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Dash it, I am sorry. Must look an idiot down here.’

  ‘Not at all. Here, let me help you up.’

  She proffered her small hand and put her fingers in his and Algy felt his brain spin. He tried to pull himself upwards but the port wine told on him a little, and he slipped down once more. And then, suddenly, it was time for him to be rewarded for all the years of sacrifice; the years of bringing up his young brother on his own and making a good job of it. For, without the slightest bidding and not knowing quite why she did so, Anne, the Countess Waldegrave, bent over and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  Algy stared at her dumbly — and then, very tentatively, raised her fingers to his lips and gave a faltering but responsive salute. His look of adoration was so dog-like that there was no alternative for the Countess. She patted him on the head and then let her hand stay a second longer than it should have done.

  ‘My Lady,’ said Algy in a strangulated voice, somehow struggling into a kneeling position from where he lay. ‘I ... I ...’

  ‘Yes, Mr Hicks?’

  ‘I know that we are of but recent acquaintance ... not worthy at all ... but if devotion ... oh dear.’

  ‘Algernon — I shall call you that and you really must address me as Anne — are you trying to ask me something?’

  He nodded his head.

  ‘What is it? Please do say.’

  There was silence for a moment — and then the words came out.

  ‘If you could see your way ... I mean ... I want to marry you, my Lady. Yes, by jingo, I do.’

  ‘Then you shall.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I care for you, you foolish man.’

  ‘But why?’ He was so genuinely surprised, he found he was able to speak.

  ‘Because you are kind and endearing and I believe I can trust you with the welfare of my daughters — and indeed my own.’

  ‘Oh yes, you may. You can be assured of that, my Lady ... Anne ...’

  He said the words as if he was saying Queen.

  ‘Then,’ answered the Countess matter-of-factly, ‘we are betrothed. You may kiss me.’

  ‘By Jove,’ said Algy — and did so.

  *

  Winter came severely but spring followed and one wet day in early February, when the crocuses were putting up their tremulous heads in the windswept squares of London, a pretty little wedding took place in St Mary’s Church in the parish of Marylebone. The bride wore pale violet and was given away by her son, George, the Earl Waldegrave; in the front pew sat two of her beautiful daughters and her earliest indiscretion — J.J. — sober as a judge and accompanied by a pretty Jewish girl, who carried herself proudly and did not allow her escort to misbehave himself at all.

  On the bridegroom’s side of the church sat Caroline Hicks accompanied by Mr and Mrs Webbe Weston, who had made the excursion from Guildford by railway and felt frightfully daring. Francis Hicks was standing as the best man and the bride — who carried a posy of snowdrops — was attended by her eldest daughter, Lady Annette.

  Mr Charlton the curate presided and the ceremony proceeded well until the moment when he asked Anne to repeat the words that would bind her to Algy for ever. Just for a second, then, she hesitated, thinking back to the two occasions when she had been called upon to make those very same vows: the first a civil ceremony in Paris with George leaping in her womb and barely concealed by her flowing dress; the second Twickenham Church — the day after George’s christening — when she had worn the Waldegrave wedding tiara and stood in the sunshine with the dashing Earl by her side, listening to the villagers cheering.

  And now as she remembered she darted her eyes sideways to look at Algy. She had heard the old saying that both men and women go for the same type of partner when repeating their loves — but how patently untrue in her case. Beside her stood a faithful creature, pink with joy and jolly as a pup, so delighted was he with his first venture into matrimony. The Countess recalled with bitterness the reluctance of the Earl to marry Miss Anne King and how only the threat of two little bastards had shifted him. And thinking of this, as Algy turned to look at her enquiringly in the silence, she gave him a beautiful smile and made her vows in a clear voice.

  Afterwards they all repaired in carriages to Henrietta Street where Rivers and the rest of the staff stood outside and cheered Mr and Mrs Algernon Hicks in. Then they sat down for the breakfast, the bride and groom at the head of the table with George on her right and the beautiful Jewish girl next to him. On the girl’s other side sat J.J.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ said the Countess, at the very first opportunity, ‘I am afraid I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance. Pray introduce yourself.’

  Very stylishly the girl — whose expression transformed into that of a little coquette when she smiled — rose from her place and dropped a deep curtsey.

  ‘Frances Braham, Lady Waldegrave. Forgive me for not speaking before — but you were otherwise engaged.’

  A mischievous smile crossed her face — and everyone present thought how stunning she was.

  ‘Braham ...’ said the Countess, frowning slightly.

  ‘My father is John Braham the singer, my Lady.’

  Anne’s brow cleared and she said, ‘How interesting to have such a distinguished parent.’

  Everyone — even those unmusical — knew of Braham. The orphaned child
of German Jews, he had sold pencils in the street in order to survive, but his singing in the synagogue had brought his great gift to the attention of Leoni and he had appeared at Covent Garden even before his voice had broken. Anne believed that the tenor had amassed a fortune but that this had now been lost over two unwise investments — the building of the St James’s Theatre and the Colosseum in Regent’s Park. She had heard it said that Braham had been forced back to the stage and concert-room by his debts and wondered what his daughter was doing with J.J. Or did Miss Braham not care for money — was social climbing alone sufficient attraction?

  As Frances took her seat again she looked at Anne as if she could read her uncharitable thoughts, her huge dark eyes secretive and very slightly mocking. The Countess noticed that both J.J. and George turned to talk to her at once, and then laughed a good deal. It occurred to her rather sharply that the opera singer’s daughter had done what she could not; both of the brothers were on their very best behaviour and J.J. was showing signs of being absolutely besotted.

  ‘Well George,’ said Anne. ‘I hope you will invite me and your stepfather to Strawberry Hill soon.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I trust there is no one in residence other than yourself.’

  ‘Nobody, Mother. Those days are over.’

  He stole a look at Frances Braham’s averted head, to where the lively black hair bounced over the creamy neck.

  ‘I am very glad to hear it. I would like to think that we could be a united family once more.’

  The Earl put his hand over his mother’s.

  ‘I would like that too. I will try to be a good son in future.’

  ‘Long may it last!’ thought Anne — and very slightly bowed her head to the beautiful Jewess. For all Miss Braham’s tender age — Anne doubted whether she was yet eighteen — she was obviously a young woman of considerable influence.

  But George had taken this as his cue to rise and propose the health of the bride and groom, to which Algernon made a noisy reply and Francis responded on behalf of all concerned. Then it was time for Anne to change into her travelling dress for the journey to Hastings, where she and Algy were to spend their honeymoon.

  Annette and Caroline led the way upstairs, followed by Horatia and Ida Anna. But on the first-floor landing Horatia lingered a moment and turned back to stand on her own before the portrait of John Joseph and Sutton Place. The blue eyes of the sitter looked beyond her — unlike most paintings — and she climbed a stair or two to see if she could catch their glance. But it did not work — Francis Hicks had cleverly achieved the effect of someone gazing into the far distance, thinking his thoughts and caring not at all for the onlooker.

  ‘Horatia,’ said Caroline behind her, making her jump, ‘what are you doing?’

  ‘Renewing my acquaintanceship with your brother. How is he nowadays?’

  ‘I have not heard recently. He is still stationed in Hungary, I believe.’

  ‘When is he next home on leave?’

  Caroline laughed. ‘I don’t know, you naughty thing. You are determined to meet him, aren’t you?’

  Somewhat to her surprise Horatia shook her head, the wonderful hair moving like silk.

  ‘Not really. I would rather dream about him like this — brooding away in his portrait — than have him see me and be indifferent to my very existence.’

  ‘I am sure he could never do that,’ Caroline answered, looking at the superb profile turned towards her.

  ‘Who can tell? Why does he look so sad, Caroline?’

  ‘He was crossed in love some years ago — and then I think he worries about Sutton Place.’

  ‘About the house? Why?’

  ‘It carries an ancient curse — or so they say.’

  ‘Really? How fascinating!’

  ‘I suppose it is in a way. But not to the Lord of the Manor and his heir.’

  ‘Who are your father and John Joseph!’

  ‘Yes.’

  Horatia turned to look back at the picture.

  ‘Yes, I can see it now,’ she said. ‘The house looks so small there — but it isn’t in reality, is it? Really it looms rather large.’

  ‘It looms larger, my dear Horatia,’ answered Caroline, ‘than anything I have ever known.’

  And with that she turned away and went back upstairs.

  14

  The months tumbled over themselves. The blustery little February when Anne Waldegrave had taken Algernon Hicks for husband turned into a boisterous blowy March. And then, all of a sudden, it was April and there were rainbows in the fields, arcing over showers and shadowing spring-legged lambs. And then summer came once more — and brought changes.

  Queen Victoria, in accordance with the wishes of many, met her cousin again and wrote in her diary, ‘Albert’s beauty is most striking, and he is so amiable and unaffected — in short, very fascinating.’

  And, round about this time, on May 25, 1839, John James Waldegrave, Esquire, married the beautiful Frances Braham and took her to stay at Strawberry Hill. Every bell in Twickenham rang to greet the bride and she ran from room to room crying out with delight.

  ‘Strawberry is so beautiful,’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh please, George, may J.J. and I remain for a while? We will be no trouble.’

  He kissed her hand, his lips lingering just a fraction too long.

  ‘You shall have the best rooms,’ he answered, ‘and they shall be made so comfortable that you will never want to leave.’

  Of the two soldiers there was news as well — though not as happy as that of the rest. John Joseph had returned to Vienna, where he threw himself constantly into the pursuit of pleasure — drinking, gambling and patronizing houses of ill repute. Despite the fact that he was still only twenty-seven years old, he seemed fired with a determination to burn himself out.

  As for Jackdaw, he had become almost ascetic by comparison. His glimpse of Horatia Waldegrave in Hastings, in the summer of the previous year, had restored in him the old joy he had known before Marie’s murder. He believed in destiny again, he believed in forces outside himself, he believed in the old wild magic of the house of FitzHoward. And now he sought to encourage it, hoping that one day it would lead him to where Horatia waited.

  He had arrived in the Indian states in the autumn of 1838, and found that the prevailing unrest gave him great opportunity for freedom. Disguised as a horse-dealer he had picked his way through the mountain passes, talking to tribesmen, gathering information, learning the movements of troops. And also learning about himself.

  Everywhere he came across old truths, ancient wisdoms, and his step to the study of Raja Yoga seemed pre-destined. He who was doubly heir to the family magic because of the true identity of his great-great-grandfather — something of which he had no inkling — began to train his mind on the path towards total development.

  But while he led one life and John Joseph another, Mr Algernon Hicks and his wife and stepdaughters were preoccupied with the little practicalities of happy everyday existence.

  They had closed up the house in Montagu Street after the wedding and moved into Algy’s home in Duke Street which, large and extremely comfortable though it was, was nonetheless furnished in typical bachelor style. With money to spend at last Anne busied herself with total redecoration and furnishing, aided in everything by Annette and — to a lesser degree — Horatia; Ida Anna being too busy cheeking her governess to take a great deal of notice, other than ensuring that her room was of the maximum prettiness and luxury.

  The advent of a new eighteen-year-old sister-in-law had excited them all and J.J. and Frances Braham had been invited to dinner several times so that the Hicks family might look over the half-Jewish girl who now stood on the edge of the aristocracy. They had not quite decided what they thought of her — but on one thing they were all agreed. Beneath all the beauty, the smiles, the winsome ways, lay a determination as strong as a man’s.

  ‘She will get everything she wants, that one. You mark my words,’ said Anne to Algy, as she waved the girl
and J.J. off in their carriage.

  He nodded in agreement. He was occasionally capable of quite shrewd observation.

  ‘She will always please men,’ he said now. ‘She is such a good listener.’

  ‘I had not noticed that.’

  ‘That is because you do not see her with a man’s eyes.’ Anne bridled very slightly and Algernon was suddenly all placation. ‘Though nobody could even so much as look at her when you are there, my love,’ he added over-heartily.

  Anne laughed. ‘You are learning new tricks, Algy — despite the proverb.’

  He chortled merrily as they closed the front door behind them.

  *

  Christmas came again. This time George played host at Strawberry Hill with his sister-in-law Frances as the charming hostess. Caroline and Francis Hicks were included amongst the house guests, loving the miniature splendour of Strawberry Hill which Frances was renovating, though the three young people did not have enough money between them to meet the bills.

  But nobody thought of that as 1840 dawned to ringing bells — the sound doubly brave because of the Queen’s personal happiness. Her betrothal to Prince Albert was announced.

  And in the spring, when Algernon and Anne had been married a year and eight days, the Queen and her cousin went to the high altar, and then — after a glorious reception — on to a brief honeymoon at Windsor.

  Lord Melbourne had been entirely forgotten as she wrote, ‘Albert’s excessive love and affection gave me a feeling of heavenly joy and happiness.’ And the following evening she and the Prince gave a dinner party and the next night a dance, for both of which occasions he helped her put on her stockings! A month later the little Queen was pregnant and this, then, being the fashion, Caroline Hicks followed suit and by April, 1840, was able to stand appraisingly before a full-length mirror and see the tiniest rounding of her stomach.

  Everyone thought of babies and as J.J. lay watching his wife undress in the river-dappled moonlight he called out to her, ‘Will you give me a child, Frances?’

  She turned to look at him, her thick black hair falling to her waist as she removed the last pin that held it in place.