Fortune's Soldier (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 3)

by Deryn Lake

  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.

  As dawn broke the last of the revellers took to their carriages and wended their way through Sutton Park and it was then that Algernon, having helped the family to see that all was secure for the night, made his farewells and went off on foot to walk to Guildford and the Angel Inn. He was neither drunk nor sober but in that merry state that lies in between and so it was, whistling a tune and dancing a little as he went, that he first clapped eyes on Sutton Place.

  The sky behind it was streaked with scarlets and blues all the bold brave military colours he loved so well — but it was the great black shape of the deserted mansion that arrested him, made him stop in his tracks and stand staring, his mouth slightly open in admiration.

  Algernon Hicks was not over-stuffed with imagination — in fact he was not a quarter as bright as his sparkling younger brother — but something in his jolly soul stirred at this very first glimpse.

  ‘By Jove,’ he said, and whistled extra loudly; then jumped violently as somebody said in the darkness, ‘Would you like to see inside?’

  He peered nervously in that uncertain light, wondering if something that he would have termed suspect was taking place, but eventually his eyes picked out the gypsy girl Cloverella, sitting beneath an elm tree in her ragged scarlet frock, her child asleep at her side.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘Oughtn’t you to be at home? I mean, after all, a woman on her own at this hour of the night — or should I say morning?’

  ‘I haven’t got a home yet,’ she answered, standing up. ‘I only arrived back yesterday — came for the wedding.’

  ‘Oh! Well, that’s not too good. With the little one to care for.’

  He reached vaguely in the direction of his hip pocket and then realized that he had emptied most of his money out before the wedding ceremony and given it to the hotel for safe keeping.

  ‘Dash!’ he said.

  He was like an enthusiastic dog; friendly and silly and terribly kind but altogether something of a bore. When he laughed it was like loud barking and when he was sad his head seemed to go down and his face take on a whimpering look. If he got interested in something he bounded about as if he had been invited to go for a Walk; when he was deeply distressed he emitted a low growling sound.

  Physically, too, he had a smack of the canine. Large ears that flattened in the wind; big, rather bolting eyes, that rolled piteously when he was in disgrace; and a general impression of oversized feet that splayed down upon the floor like scampering paws. It was needless to say that he had neither been mated nor sired pups.

  ‘Well?’ said Cloverella.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Do you want to see inside?’

  ‘But dash it all, it’s locked up, isn’t it?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I know the way in. You must, Mr Hicks. You’re meant to see Sutton Place in the dawning.’

  His spine pricked at her words but his nose went up like a pointer’s.

  ‘Really? You’re not talking fairy-talk, are you?’ He boomed like a bassett.

  ‘In a way. Sutton Place is lonely — all shut up like that. Come on, Mr Hicks. Put your hand in mine.’

  He did so, not consciously aware of what was happening, so caught up was he with the wedding wine and the glory of the dawn.

  ‘What about the baby?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll wake him. He should see it too. Come on Jay, my lovely son. Open your darling eyes and show Mr Hicks his house.’

  ‘My house?’

  ‘It will be one day. Now, ask no more questions. Just look — and listen.’

  ‘Listen to what?’

  ‘If you try hard enough the house will speak to you.’

  Mr Hicks sniffed, setter-like, and together they crossed the park and went over what had once been the cobbles of the quadrangle.

  From every side history did speak: its mystic voice breathed within his ear. He saw alabaster bricks, the initials R.W., the grinning cherubs above the door. He felt beneath his feet the path trodden by those who were now dust, yet whose names would never — could never — be erased from the records of England’s vast story. He touched with his own blunt fingers the stones that had been put in place by craftsmen who would be remembered for nothing except this, this epic house, this great and awe-inspiring monument — Sutton Place.

  Very quietly — and very reverently — in that glow of early morning, Mr Hicks drew breath. He knew, as others were to do after him, that he had been consumed with a kind of love.

  *

  ‘I simply can’t bear it, George!’ shouted the Countess Waldegrave, stamping her foot. ‘I can’t, can’t, can’t bear it any more.’

  ‘Be quiet, Mother, for pity’s sake.’

  ‘No I won’t. I’ve been quiet long enough. I’ve put up with enough. I’ve held my peace too long.’

  And with that she poked her parasol viciously at the overflowing buttocks of a rather florid — and extremely naked — opera girl who lay nestled up close to George on the ottoman in the Gallery.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ the Countess went on, bursting into tears. ‘I come back from a meagre little holiday in the Isle of Wight — and what do I find? My home — and it is mine, George, because I came here with your father when you were a mere babe-in-arms — turned into nothing more nor less than a common brothel.’

  ‘Look who’s talking,’ said the opera girl.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’ve heard it said that you were no better than you should be.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said George.

  ‘To whom did you address that remark?’

  ‘Not to you, Mother.’

  ‘Well it certainly couldn’t have been addressed to me,’ said the opera girl, ‘because until you led me from the straight and narrow, my good Sir, I was a girl of virtue. It was your fault — and yours alone — that I find myself in the condition in which I am today.’

  ‘And what condition would that be?’

  ‘I am expecting a child, Lady Waldegrave, if you must know. And it is your son who is the father and responsible for my shame. But he won’t get away with it. I intend to move into Strawberry Hill and stay here until he admits that I am the mother of his heir and marries me. As I think has happened to you once or twice, if rumour is to be believed.’

  Anne went white to the lips. ‘How dare you insult me in my own home!’

  ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be so straight-faced if it weren’t.’

  ‘George, do something. See this common harlot off the premises.’

  For answer George, doing up the button flap of his trousers which was gaping wide to the world, rang a bell for the butler.

  ‘You must go, Hetty,’ he said.

  ‘Go? Never!’ She jumped off the sofa and began to put on her clothes in haste. ‘I’m carrying your bastard in my belly. You won’t get rid of me. I intend to stay here until justice is done.’

  ‘Then in that case I shall go,’ said Anne with dignity. ‘I still have a small sum left to me by my husband — and I also have a great deal of pride. I shall open up the London house in Montagu Street, dilapidated though it might be. I would as soon paint it with my own hands than stay another moment under the same roof as this doxy. I shall tell the girls not to unpack.’

  And with that she swept out and back into the travel-stained carriage, from which her daughters — aghast and staring — had not yet descended, and set off for London without even a turn of her determined head.

  12

  It was ready; players in place; opening gambit. The Master Chessplayer removed his gauntlet and laughed at a pawn. It was time for lives to be woven one with another, for balances to change, for existences to alter for eve
r.

  So, quite simply, a set of events that would lead to an enormous culmination came about. Small people took — apparently — little decisions and the path of chance changed.

  Francis Hicks, shaving cream smothering his chin and his voice altered by the contortion of his mouth, said to his brother Algernon, ‘Shall we go to Hastings? It’s depressing to spend August in London. Come on — don’t be a stick. Say yes.’

  ‘But what about Caroline? I mean, dash it, you’re still on honeymoon — almost. She won’t want me tagging along.’

  Mr Hicks’s eyes looked slightly sad, like a spaniel with whom nobody wanted to play.

  ‘Rubbish. She’ll want to paint you in your wide-awake, staring moodily out to sea.’ Francis honed a cut-throat on a leather strop. ‘And I shall portray you with a telescope, in jaunty pose. Come on, Algy — we’re relying on you as a model.’

  Algernon barked noisily. ‘Then in that case ...’

  But his jollity was stopped by the entry of his sister-in-law. He leapt to his feet, sending a small table and an aspidistra flying.

  ‘Oh, jingo! Dashed sorry, Caro ...’

  Mr Hicks crouched amongst the rubble, squashing some earth into the carpet with his knee.

  ‘Don’t worry, Algy. I’ll see to it.’

  Caroline knelt down beside him, giving Francis a little wink meanwhile. She was prettier than ever, blooming with marriage. Her husband laughed, negotiating the area around his lower lip.

  ‘Caroline, we would like to go to Hastings — if that is agreeable to you. I thought a holiday by the sea might brace us all up.’

  ‘Is Algy coming too?’

  Mr Hicks — on all fours — looked apologetic.

  ‘Not if I’m a nuisance.’

  Caroline, looking at the broken pot plant, smiled as she put her arms round him and said, ‘How could you ever be a nuisance, dearest Algy?’

  Meanwhile that old sea dog William Waldegrave, younger brother of the late Earl and now Viscount Chewton as George had no heir — or none legitimate, that is — descended from his carriage and rapped on the door of Number 18, Montagu Street, London. He stood there, looking a little bluff and puffing his cheeks in and out, waiting for the maid to reply.

  He had entered the Royal Navy as a midshipman and had risen to the rank of Captain, after which he had given up the sea for a short spell and tried his hand in the political arena. He had never been unhappier in his life and had been only too pleased to return to wind and wave as Captain of the Seringapatam.

  Now, on being shown into his sister-in-law’s sitting room, he said, as if issuing a naval command, ‘Dammit, Anne, I’ve come to invite you and the girls for a short holiday at Hastings. At my expense. Too bad, this wretched argument with George. Elizabeth and I feel sorry about the whole thing — so, as we are going down with the children, why don’t we make up a family party?’

  Anne pondered for a second but she could not escape destiny’s plan.

  ‘Why, William,’ she said, ‘how very kind. Are you sure we would be no trouble to you?’

  ‘None at all. We shall book a suite of rooms in The Swan and make merry. The sea’s in m’blood and I always have a damned good time at Hastings.’

  ‘Then in that case we would love to come.’

  ‘Splendid. If we leave on Friday, does that give you enough time to prepare?’

  ‘Yes. I like to make haste, it passes the days of waiting so much better.’

  ‘Then I’ll send Jenkins down ahead to make the arrangements.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘The carriage will call for you at ten o’clock. Goodbye till then.’

  As soon as he was gone, swinging the cane — his naval hat tilted jauntily — Anne hurried from the room, calling out, ‘Girls, girls! We are going to Hastings with Uncle William. It will be such a treat. I came from there, you know.’

  She remembered, with a hint of a naughty smile, Miss Anne King who had finally captured the Earl Waldegrave long after J.J. had been born — and with George on the way. Wild, rapturous days — all gone now that deliciously wicked creature, her husband, had been taken from her. She sighed as she smoothed the little black cap upon her head.

  At the same time, Jackdaw was coming smartly to the salute outside his London barracks. He had not been posted abroad since the Canadian affair and had been allowed to remain in London. But this was his final leave, and he was about to make his way, as fate decreed he must, to Number 5, Pelham Crescent, Hastings, to stay with the General and Helen, Violet and Rob.

  The first to arrive at their destination were Caroline, Francis and Algernon Hicks. They had taken the public stage known as the Paragon — the Hastings direct railway line not yet being open — which they caught at the Belle Sauvage, Ludgate Hill. Their baggage, including Caroline’s bonnet boxes, had been hoisted aloft and they had set off in good spirits, Algernon treading on only two people’s feet as he bounded cheerfully into his place.

  The Paragon entered Hastings by way of Eastbourne Street, turned into All Saints Street and came with a flourish beneath the arch and into the stable yard of the Castle Hotel. Not having booked in advance, Francis made enquiries as to rooms but was told that all were taken — due, perhaps, to the extremely fine weather and the great number of visitors in the town. He was recommended to try the Swan Hotel — where Princess Victoria had stayed upon her visit — and, with a small boy, scarcely visible and labouring along beneath their mound of baggage, the merry trio made their way on foot.

  On arrival at The Swan they found it in a flurry; maidservants in mob caps scrubbing the stone steps and polishing the brass knockers, ostlers whisking round the stable yard with brooms; while traders, delivering piles of meat and vegetables to the kitchens, jostled fishermen who bartered their catch direct with the cook.

  But on enquiring at the desk in a rather dim reception area, smelling deliciously of beeswax and bootblack and staffed by a pince-nezed figure that bobbed deferentially as it spoke, whether the Queen was expected, Francis was told no, only Viscount Chewton and a large part of his family.

  ‘Then do you have any accommodation?’

  ‘Oh yes, Sir.’ Bob, bob. ‘A large room with a view of the sea. And for your father —’

  ‘Brother.’

  ‘Beg pardon.’ Bob. ‘For your brother a smaller room adjoining. Not too good a view from that one, I’m afraid, Sir. Mostly that of the outer staircase.’

  ‘Suit me fine,’ said Algernon. ‘I intend to be out on Walks most of the time anyway.’

  ‘Then if you would follow me, Madam, Gentlemen.’

  The rooms were inspected and agreed to. Bags and baggage were unpacked and, after a light luncheon had been taken, the weary travellers retired for an hour or so: Algy to sleep on his back, his hands in the air like inert paws; Francis and Caroline to make love deliciously in the afternoon, watching the little dapples of sunlight dancing upon their skin.

  Round about the time they rose to promenade before dinner, Jackdaw descended from the Royal Regulator — which he had caught somewhat later that day at the Bolt-in-Tun, Fleet Street — and, as the coach dropped him at the Saxon Office in St Leonard’s, made his way to Pelham Crescent on foot.

  Everyone was waiting for him in the first-floor sitting room, where the bay windows showed the voluptuous view of sparkling aqua stretched on for ever, with no line of demarcation between it and a butterfly sky.

  Jackdaw could not help but feast his eyes on such a dazzle. But when he finally came to look at his family he saw that they were, at last, growing older.

  The General’s whiskers curled like snowdrifts about his cheeks and Helen had two silver wings sweeping from her temples. She seemed to be even more fragile and it was with a sense of shock that Jackdaw realized his mother, whom he had always thought of as a girl, must be over forty.

  Rob, tall and strong as ever, now had lines of experience about his eyes and Violet, pretty little thing, sat gazing at the floor and blushing at her thoughts — the very picture of a m
aiden in love.

  The Wardlaw family greeted their second son with enthusiasm, only Helen noticing the bitterness that now lurked behind his gemstone eyes. In fact the General found Jackdaw improved — not so damned dreamy and more a man of the world. He also thought — guiltily — that nowadays Helen and Jackdaw had grown more distant.

  The General stole a glance at his wife — even in the middle of embracing his son — and felt his heart quicken with the old familiar passions. He would never — could never — get over his uncontrollable love. He would die saying her name. But his mind was far away from inevitability as he said, ‘I’ve booked a table for us to dine at The Swan tonight. Cook’s night off and all that. How will that suit?’

  He slapped his son on the back to show how pleased he was to see him.

  ‘Splendid. Have I time to wash and change?’

  ‘Of course, of course. Thought we might stroll there at about eight o’clock.’

  But this was where the Master Chessman winked his eye. For as Jackdaw hurried up the curving staircase that rose through the very heart of the elegant terraced house, his built-up boot caught on a loosened rod and he crunched face downwards on to the stairs, badly twisting the ankle of his good leg.

  ‘Bugger!’ he said quite clearly, and heard a remonstrating, ‘Jackdaw, you are not in the barracks now,’ from his father in the room below.

  But Rob had guessed that this was more than a stubbed toe and came haring up the stairs to where his younger brother lay groaning.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure — a sprain most likely. Damn it all — just at the start of my leave.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Rob, waiting for no further explanation but picking him up as if he were still a small boy.

  And that was how Jackdaw came to be lying with a cold compress about his foot and a packet of cigars hidden beneath his pillow as his family came to say their farewells, on their way to dine.

  His mother, dressed in dove-grey satin with a sweep of matching feathers in her hair, kissed him on the cheek and said, ‘Anna will look after you. We have laid up a tray and put a bottle of champagne in ice. Will you be all right?’