Fortune's Soldier

by Deryn Lake

  ‘I am afraid it isn’t quite like that, Horry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I told you that the Emperor was simple, childish, I was not exaggerating. Mentally he is about eight years old and has great difficulty signing his name. Prince Metternich rules the Empire, make no mistake about it.’

  ‘Then are we not going to the palace after all?’

  ‘We are going — but not for cards. The invitation really means to play soldiers.’

  Horatia looked stunned. ‘Play soldiers! With a King!’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ John Joseph seemed slightly put out. ‘His favourite is a tin soldier with my name, and in his battle room — he has a whole turret devoted to model battlefields — I lead the Austrian Army against everyone from Attila the Hun to Napoleon Bonaparte. I have just savagely routed Genghis Khan!’

  Horatia shook her head in disbelief. ‘I don’t know what to say! It would be funny if it were not so pathetic.’

  ‘What is pathetic about it? He is perfectly happy in his private world. I love the Emperor. He is kinder than the brilliant plotters who surround him, I can assure you. I often feel I would like to join him permanently.’

  He turned and poured some hot water into a basin, busily splashing himself and lathering his chin.

  ‘Do you not wish me to come? I would hate to spoil your play.’ Horatia felt quite unreasonably jealous.

  ‘It would be hardly wise to disobey a royal command.’ John Joseph pulled a slight face as he negotiated the razor round his chin. ‘But I could make some excuse if you feel that you would hate it.’

  He sounded so off-hand that Horatia wondered then — thinking that her husband had more fondness for the Emperor than herself — whether she could ever make John Joseph fall in love with her. She felt a moment of total desolation — standing there in her golden gown and watching the man she had married, but hardly knew, busy at his ablutions with his back turned.

  She sighed. ‘You know I will come if I am welcome. But if you feel me to be an intruder, then leave me behind I beg you.’

  John Joseph was amazed. He had never thought to hear Horatia get so hurt over anything. He dabbed his face with a towel.

  ‘Horry, I didn’t mean ...’

  ‘Please don’t say it. You must think me made of poor stuff that I would not feel sympathy for a harmless old fool. That I could love him as you do is a different matter. I give love deeply, John Joseph, or I do not give it at all. Perhaps I have learned something from you in the last respect.’

  For no particular reason, at this final and stinging part of her remark, John Joseph felt a strange constriction in his chest. It was a sensation that normally he would have associated with anger, which was hardly the case at present. In fact he felt abnormally guilty that he could have upset his wife so greatly.

  ‘Sweetheart, forgive me. I did not mean to offend. Please come with me to meet the Emperor — he will be so unhappy if you do not. Before I left for England he would pretend that the English soldier might come back with a bride. I beg you not to disappoint him — and me.’

  Once again the strange constriction — and obviously a softening of his features, for Horatia, after observing him narrowly for a moment or two, gave a half-hearted smile.

  ‘Very well — to please him.’

  His desire to hug her overcame him and he held her closely to his damp chest.

  ‘But change your beautiful dress, darling. The Emperor plays like a little boy — kneeling on the floor. Wear something that will not be spoiled.’

  And though she shook her head over it she agreed to put on a simple muslin gown and chip bonnet to meet His Imperial Majesty Ferdinand, monarch of Austria, Hungary and the rest of the vast Slav empire.

  Nonetheless, as the carriage turned into the huge space of the courtyard and she saw a palace equalled only by Versailles, she quailed once more.

  ‘John Joseph, are you sure this silly gown will do? I feel like a milkmaid.’

  ‘And look like a rustic Princess. Be patient, dearest.’

  ‘Why the Hell,’ he thought, ‘do those words catch at my throat? And why oh why does the turn of her head, the set of her chin, the glance of her eye, affect me so damnably much?’

  But he could not spare the time to follow the path down which his ideas were leading. Bewigged flunkeys in powder-blue livery were flinging open the carriage doors and letting down the steps. And Horatia — her eyes iced jade with the excitement of it all — was setting her pumped toe on to the first step of the palace. Behind her hastened John Joseph, smart as a peacock in his frogging and furbelows — an Austrian Captain to the manner born.

  The march down the magnificent corridors — a distance only just beneath a mile — was a revelation to Horatia. But nothing ever again would make such an impact as the moment when a pair of golden doors — worked all over with cupids and open-winged swans — was thrown open and a major domo, banging a cane three times upon the ground, called, ‘Captain John Joseph and the Lady Horatia Webbe Weston, your Imperial Majesty’ — and nothing happened.

  They both stood there — English officer and aristocratic wife — peering into the magnificence of a state drawing room in deadly silence and breathing hardly at all until, finally, John Joseph whispered, ‘Sir?’ And then from somewhere — apparently the back of a velvet sofa with fanciful griffin feet — a voice whispered back, ‘Psst!’

  The major domo and John Joseph exchanged a glance. Then the servant said, very loudly, ‘Will that be all, Imperial Majesty?’

  ‘Psst,’ came the reply again. ‘Are you there, English soldier?’

  John Joseph took a step forward. ‘Yes Sir. And my wife.’

  A nose bearing a large pair of pince-nez appeared briefly round the corner of the seat and then withdrew again.

  ‘If she is pretty then you may bring her forward.’

  The major domo said in an entirely different tone of voice, ‘Shall I leave you, Sir?’

  He spoke to John Joseph, who answered, ‘Yes, it will be quite all right. My wife and I will go in two hours. If the carriage could be waiting.’

  ‘Very good, Sir. Any trouble at all, just pull the bell.’

  At these words Horatia looked decidedly nervous but John Joseph, propelling her firmly by the elbow, took the initial steps on her behalf and went into the drawing room.

  Horry gazed about at splendour. In a large and magnificent fireplace, supported on either side by marble mermen carved in quite superlative detail, a fire of logs the size of tree trunks leapt and crackled against any chill that might intrude the ancient palace that night. While on the mantel shelf above she stared at a million reflections. Ice glass pendants dipped from a central stalk, winking and blinking in the candlelit room to blaze the eyes and remove the unsuspecting soul to Arctic-land.

  Above the fireplace, resplendent in silks, in brocades, in starch-stiff collars and high-cheeked ruffs, hung the long-dead ancestors of the house of Hapsburg. A dozen Kings and several insipid Queens looked down upon the carpet brought from Turkey in its prime and spun by four master weavers. It glowed red from its heart: the red of a dragon’s fearful eye, a lover’s pulsing blood; the red of a gypsy’s swirling dress.

  The colour was consuming, catching Horatia’s breath as she stood there, nervous and unsure, but for all that not afraid of the funny little Emperor who knelt behind the sofa, thinking himself hidden and yet revealed a hundred times in the fifty glancing mirrors that lined the walls, reflecting countless rooms with countless mirrors and countless little monarchs crouching on all fours.

  There was another protracted silence and then Horatia could keep quiet no longer.

  ‘Peep-oh!’ she called out. ‘I can see you!’

  The pince-nez rose from behind the sofa and dodged back again as she looked. In response she dropped to her knees behind a great winged chair. John Joseph stood shaking his head and smiling. ‘Sir, you may only play this for a few minutes,’ he said. ‘We have come to see the sol
diers.’

  But the Emperor had different plans and Horatia watched his many reflections circle the furniture and creep up behind her. She spun round and found herself looking into the kindliest eyes, the sort of light blue that is most common amongst those of limited reasoning.

  ‘Peep-oh!’ she said again. ‘You’re out! I’ve caught you.’

  The Emperor gave a sweet smile.

  ‘You’ve brought me a doll,’ he said. ‘English soldier, you have brought me a doll for the house. Isn’t it pretty! Can I give it sugar plums?’

  And with that he delved into his pocket and, taking out a rather dusty delicacy, popped it into Horatia’s mouth before anybody could say a word.

  ‘Imperial Majesty,’ said John Joseph, crossing over to them and helping first the Emperor and then Horatia to their feet. ‘May I present my wife?’

  He bowed. Following his example, Horatia dropped a court curtsey as she had been taught by her mother years before — skirts wide, knees steady, arms to the side and slightly behind, face looking to the floor.

  ‘It moves,’ said the Emperor, clapping his hands. ‘Does it sing and dance too?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And what is it called, this little wife doll?’

  ‘Horatia, Sir. Lady Horatia Webbe Weston.’

  The Emperor skipped a few steps, nimble with ecstasy. ‘It is beautiful,’ he said. ‘Come on, Lady, I am going to show you my battle tower.’

  As he spoke no English and Horatia hardly any German, John Joseph found himself translating, so it was easy for him to say, ‘You are not afraid, are you?’ without Ferdinand’s being aware of a thing.

  ‘Not at all. I like him.’

  ‘He loves you. Look, he wants you to dance.’

  The Emperor had switched the starting mechanism of a wall-hung polyphon which now began to tinkle out a Strauss waltz. With a curtsey — small and bobbing this time — Horry began to circle round him, but the Emperor called out, ‘No, no, no. English soldier, you are to dance with her. Wife dolls should not dance on their own.’

  His eyes assumed a sudden cunning clarity.

  ‘If you let them do that,’ he added, ‘other tin soldiers will come and take them away. So be careful.’

  ‘I will, Sir,’ answered John Joseph — and gave his wife a formal bow.

  *

  It was just as the Dowager Countess had feared; the Hicks family and their staff from the London home in Duke Street seemed to vanish into Sutton Place completely. Not one of them, not even Anne in her heyday, had ever lived in a mansion so huge, so awe-inspiring, or quite so shadowy, and the effect was frightening: subdued voices and scurrying feet down long dark passages became a way of life.

  To add to Lady Waldegrave’s problems, trouble had broken out on their very first night there. Aided by a depressed-looking Jackdaw, the Hicks’ family servants had finally succeeded in getting all the furniture off the carts and through the Middle Enter. Then, after a scratch luncheon, following which the Major had returned to London, it had been Anne’s task to oversee the disposition of the bedrooms. She had put the staff in various small rooms in the West Wing, with views out over the courtyard, and had chosen for herself and Algernon a room at the far end of the wing; a room that looked out over glorious parkland and was equivalent in position to the windows at the furthest point of the Long Gallery, now the Chapel. She had been told by Cloverella that this had been the apartment in which Marguerite Trevelyan had slept during her tenancy. And it was, certainly, that in the best state of repair and decoration.

  For Ida Anna, Anne had chosen a room that had once been Lady Weston’s apple loft but which, when Melior Mary had been a girl, had been converted into two bedrooms — one for the heiress, the other for her adopted sister, Sheila.

  ‘These shall be your bedroom and dressing room,’ the Dowager Countess had said, and her daughter had squealed and run about excitedly.

  But that night when the entire household — quite exhausted after moving day — had retired early to bed, there had been a piercing scream and Ida Anna, in bare feet, had come pounding the length of the West Wing corridor, thrown open her mother’s door and jumped headlong on to the bed, violently frightening Algy who was lying asleep on his back, his hands in the air.

  ‘Good God, child,’ Anne had cried, sitting bolt upright and fumbling to light the oil lamp, ‘whatever is the matter? Are you ill?’

  ‘No, no,’ the girl had whimpered, ‘But there is something in my room. A ghost, a white lady. I saw her standing in the moonlight and watching me.’

  And no amount of persuading, or cajoling, and no cups of soothing milk, could tempt Ida Anna back in there. She insisted on spending the rest of the night in her mother’s bed, Algy trundling off sleepily to a guest room.

  Next day the Dowager Countess had moved her tearful daughter into a smaller and less attractive place known, by tradition, as Sir John Rogers’s chamber. And that, for the while, had been the end of the affair.

  Caroline and Francis had come down for a few days and had stayed in the converted apple loft, apparently seeing nothing. And after that it had remained empty, waiting for guests.

  And these there had been in plenty. In a feverish attempt to make Sutton Place seem inhabited, Anne had invited everybody — almost anybody — to view her new home and stay a night or two. A type of continuing house party began with which Algy, after a while, grew rather bored, and started to escape by taking himself off on Walks. He bought a pair of spaniels called Polly and Anthus — he thought this terribly droll and laughed about it excessively — and could be seen striding out in knickerbockers and stout shoes, in the general direction of Sutton Forest.

  Meanwhile Anne busied herself with the inconsequentialities of occupying a time in which there was nothing really to do, and soon became involved with a scheme to marry off Ida Anna, who was now twenty-one and a thorough little pest.

  It was decided, therefore, that on July 11 — the minx’s birthday — a grand dinner party and dance would be given, with every eligible man of whom the Dowager Countess could think being invited from far and near. A guest list was drawn up, one of the names at the head of which was Major John Wardlaw. It occurred to Anne, the more she thought about it, that he could be no more than thirty, and that it was high time he was settled. In fact the more she mused the better she liked the idea. She wrote to him forthwith and invited him to stay for as long as his Army duties would permit. His reply came back promptly that he would be delighted.

  This answer gave Anne food for thought and she wondered, sitting at her writing desk in her study — a room that had once been Elizabeth Weston’s saloon — whether the Major did, in fact, have a sneaking fancy for Ida Anna. She had never noticed anything that could lead to this conclusion, but he always seemed most happy to come to Sutton Place. If anyone had told her then that Jackdaw was in love with her middle daughter and even being with her family brought him vicarious pleasure she would have gazed at them in utter astonishment.

  The appointed day came and from the afternoon on a stream of carriages bearing the house guests came through the great gates and up the drive. The first to arrive were Uncle William and Mrs Milward — as everyone still thought of her — and his eldest son William, Viscount Chewton. This cousin of Ida Anna’s was in the Scots Fusilier Guards, unmarried, and a definite candidate for a husband. Uncle William’s second son, the Honourable George, was also there and, at twenty-two, another possibility. In the carriage behind followed a great many of the Waldegrave girls — Uncle William’s daughters — also on the look-out for husbands. It was going to be a vigorous occasion, Anne thought.

  The arrival of Caroline and Francis Hicks, Annette and Archie Money and Frances with George Granville Harcourt — now betrothed and cooing like two love birds — completed the family. But the line-up of eligibles was impressive. Mr Harcourt had brought with him the Earl of Selborne — young and handsome and a joy to any Mama’s heart; and there were six landowners’ sons from rou
nd about and two unmarried clerics. Not to mention a surgeon friend of Francis’s and Major John Wardlaw himself.

  It had been Anne’s intention to use the Great Hall as the centre of activity and accordingly the West Musicians’ Gallery had been opened up, decorated with potted palms, and now had a six-piece string ensemble going at Strauss waltzes as if their fee depended upon the volume of sound. The use of plants and ferns had also been extended to the Great Hall and the panelled dining room, where fifty places had been laid at the vast table, sparkled with crystal and silver. To add to the hot-house effect banks of flowers were everywhere and little gilt chairs had been placed at random for those who wished to sit out. All this grandeur was crowned by a massive chandelier, hanging from the Great Hall’s vaulted ceiling, and winking reflections of two hundred candles in its fluted glass pendants.

  ‘Well, my dear?’ said Anne to Algy, as she started down the West Staircase arrayed in burgundy velvet and looking nothing like her fifty-eight years.

  ‘Wonderful, my darling. You have excelled yourself. It is an occasion fit for a Princess.’

  ‘Let us hope it is an occasion fit for a betrothal, that is all.’

  Algy barked incomprehensibly and patted her hand.

  Jackdaw, hearing the dinner gong sound, made his way to the top of the staircase to find himself amongst a press of people, all forming into pairs to go down to dine. He offered his hand to Lady Laura Waldegrave who inclined her head and accepted it. At the head of the line — just behind her uncle and her sister-in-law, Frances — Ida Anna walked triumphantly, partnered by young Lord Selborne and pleased as punch with herself. Jackdaw shook his head and grinned. Disguised as a birthday ball this might be but he had not seen such a marriage-go-round in an age.

  He glanced at Lady Laura sideways, saw a remote resemblance to Horatia in her — they were first cousins — and felt his heart quicken. As if she read his thoughts the young woman said, ‘You are a friend of my cousin’s husband, aren’t you?’

  ‘You mean Captain Webbe Weston?’