Fortune's Soldier (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 3)

by Deryn Lake

  Now he said, ‘Yes. Loneliness can be a problem.’

  Just for a moment he stopped his cheerful huffing and looked bleak and Anne — almost as if she was reading his thoughts — said, ‘It must be a wrench for you now that your brother has married. Especially as you were both mother and father to him.’

  Algy looked guilty and said, very fast, ‘But Caroline is a wonderful girl and most kind to me. I really have gained a sister.’

  ‘But it is never quite the same. They will inevitably be wanting to do things on their own.’

  ‘Yes. But I knew it would happen one day. Francis is so different from me, you see. Quite a brilliant boy really — and very good-looking and humorous. I realized from the start that he would have no difficulty in finding a wife.’

  Anne could not help but laugh at his long, sad face.

  ‘Come, come, Mr Hicks,’ she said, taking his arm without realizing it, ‘you speak as if you are in your dotage. I warrant you could give me a year or two, yet — widowed though I might be — I have no intention of retiring from life. You must positively plan to go out and about.’

  They had reached the bottom of the cliff path while they talked and the Countess said suddenly, ‘Let us walk to Old Roar. We will just have time before luncheon — that is if you have no other engagement — for my daughters are busy all morning at Barry’s Library with their aunt.’

  Mr Hicks went very slightly pink, so pleased was he. He let out a word of acknowledgement that sounded to Anne incredibly like a bark and added, ‘I would be honoured, my Lady,’ Then he bowed — dropping his wide-awake in the process. Anne stooped to pick it up in order to hide her amusement. Very flustered, Algy crammed it down over his ears.

  ‘And perhaps ...’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Perhaps ...’ He stared at his shoes while Anne stood in polite silence. ‘Perhaps afterwards, you — and your daughters of course — might join me for luncheon. If I don’t presume.’

  ‘That would be delightful,’ answered the Countess, after only a moment’s pause. ‘Provided it would not inconvenience your brother and his wife.’

  ‘They will not be there,’ Mr Hicks replied firmly. ‘They are out on a visit. You will be my guest alone, Lady Waldegrave. May I hope that you will join me?’

  ‘It will be a pleasure, Mr Hicks,’ said the Countess — with only the merest hint of laughter in her voice.

  *

  Two summer weeks passed in all the glory of high season and on the very last day of the Waldegrave family holiday Jackdaw managed, at last, to get a shoe upon his foot and walk out of doors with the aid of a cane. It was so warm that he wore only the lightest shirt and trousers and a jacket of white drill as he headed towards the sea front, breathing deeply as he went, and loving the salt and sun that lay in the air like the ocean’s dew.

  For no reason he felt ridiculously happy and yet, at the same time, something prickled at the back of his spine. The whole occasion was fraught with familiarity. He was sure that he had walked before along this very path, warmed by an identical sun. And equate it though he might with having lived in Hastings all his life, Fate’s pull towards the inevitable told him otherwise.

  Beside him walked Helen and behind him Rob and Violet, but he listened to none of them, concentrating, as he was, on this curious conviction. And then the dreamlike feeling deepened. Coming towards him was a man with a round, amiable face, swinging a cane with a dog’s head carved upon it.

  Jackdaw’s mind flashed back to the Hotel Reine in Quebec. With his inner eye he saw again the figure on the battlements of Hastings castle, heard himself shout, ‘Marie!’ and saw the incredulous expressions of both his mother and the jolly man. And he went cold. Without doubt this was the same man. The vision was coming true.

  Jackdaw’s thoughts went whirling — Marie was dead, an innocent slain because of her love for him — yet was what he suspected true? Was the girl he had dreamed of, the girl he had once stood beside when he travelled through time and space, somebody altogether different? He stopped in his tracks with the sheer import of the moment, disregarding his family’s protests, and looked frantically about him.

  And then he heard it. The high clip-clop of hooves, the rumble of carriage wheels. He knew the watershed of his life had come and he turned to meet his destiny.

  The girl sat with her mother and sisters in an open landau, a parasol above her glowing head. She was dressed in white muslin and she turned to look at Jackdaw almost as soon as she drew level with him. He knew her at once and felt a moment’s bitter anguish that Marie had been sacrificed because of his mistake. Because here, in this beautiful girl whose clear eyes stared into his, all doubt was laid aside.

  The carriage passed by and began to turn inland, away from Hastings and towards London. The dream came true once more — horrifyingly. He started to run after it — not giving a damn in Hell for the expressions on the faces of the passers-by, nor Helen’s cry of ‘Jackdaw!’, nor the Hicks’ startled stare.

  ‘Stop,’ he shouted. ‘Please!’

  The girl turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. Was that a hint of a smile about her lips? And then he fell. He lay, helpless, upon the ground, gazing to where the carriage turned right and out of his vision completely.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘I can’t lose her now.’

  The jolly man crouched over him and lifted him up. ‘Are you all right, old fellow?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Thank you. Tell me, do you know the people in that carriage?’

  The man went very slightly pink and answered, ‘Yes, I do as a matter of fact. That was the Countess Waldegrave and her daughters.’

  ‘Is one of them called Horry?’

  ‘Are you referring to the Lady Horatia?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jackdaw. ‘I think — I am.’

  13

  Christmas Eve 1838! At Windsor Castle Lord Melbourne and Queen Victoria came out of the Chapel, she — tiny little thing — supporting herself on the arm of the great statesman and smiling up at him. And watching the young monarch as she and the Prime Minister exchanged this merry glance, Lord Greville whispered to his wife, ‘She is in love with him, of course.’

  Lady Greville was outraged.

  ‘How can you say such a dreadful thing? He is almost sixty and she not yet twenty.’

  Greville smiled smoothly.

  ‘Naturally she does not know it. And as for him — why, he has an infinite capacity for loving without having anything in the world to love. He was treated atrociously by his wretched spouse and has never been moved since — until now.’

  Lady Greville thought of Lady Caroline Lamb — Melbourne’s late wife — whose public pursuit of the poet Byron had scandalized society and brought William Lamb, as Melbourne had then been, to the brink of despair.

  ‘It would be as well in the circumstances,’ Greville went on, ‘if Her Majesty were soon to renew acquaintanceship with her Cousin Albert.’

  ‘That match would be much favoured by her family,’ Lady Greville agreed. ‘And I, for one, would dearly love the Queen to settle down. It is no good for a country to have an unmarried monarch. It makes things too — light.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Greville slowly. ‘That state of affairs is potentially dangerous.’

  He bowed as the Queen came closer.

  ‘Look at little Vic now,’ he whispered, ‘she’s blushing.’

  ‘He makes her laugh too much,’ came the reply. ‘It doesn’t do for a Queen to be too merry. It is the place of all women, even royal women, to guide family life.’

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ said Greville with a smile. ‘I am sure she will do so when the time comes. Meanwhile I intend to wish her the compliments of the season. And I shall have a word about Prince Albert to ears that will be interested. I think things will be very different twelve months from now.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ said Lady Greville as she dropped an extra low curtsey.

  *

  In L
ondon, in Henrietta Street, Cavendish Square, at exactly that moment, Caroline Hicks slanted her dark eyebrows upward as she stared in a final appraisal of her Christmas Eve dining table; red candles and white damask, Christmas roses and holly berries, mistletoe and crimson napkins. She thought of blood on snow and shivered, though half with pleasure.

  ‘Is Madam satisfied?’

  The butler sounded slightly anxious. It was important to him that this Christmas dinner — with noble company for guests — should be a notable success.

  ‘Very satisfied, Rivers,’ was Caroline’s reply. ‘And what of the menu?’

  ‘For the first course, Madam, Veloute à la Reine,’ said Rivers, clearing his throat, ‘followed by Lobsters Bouchées. Then — at Madam’s especial request — a light entrée of Sussex ham in champagne. Then for the main poultry, beside the Christmas turkey of course, there are quails in aspic, Pheasant Mandarin and a fresh young goose.’

  Caroline smiled. ‘As well as beef?’

  ‘Yes Madam. And a saddle of mutton for those who wish it. And for dessert we have Charlotte Malakoff and Gooseberry Fool and, of course, a Christmas Pudding which I shall bring in flambé.’

  ‘Together with a sideboard of cheese and fruit?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘And the ’87 claret and the ’84 hock — as the master ordered.’

  Caroline turned and bit her lip nervously as Francis came into the room. ‘I do hope it will be good enough for the Countess,’ she said.

  ‘It will be good enough for the Queen. Thank you, Rivers. That will be all.’

  As the butler left the room Francis followed him into the hall and called up the stairs, ‘Come along, Algy. Our guests are due in five minutes. Let us present a comfortable family scene in the drawing room.’

  A muffled bark was heard, and after a second or two Mr Hicks himself padded round the bend of the staircase, wearing a smart black cutaway and new white shirt, but for all that seeming very ill at ease.

  ‘Courage, mon brave!’ said Francis — and winked at Caroline. Algy bridled and said, ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ but further banter was prevented by the sound of carriage wheels drawing up in the street outside and Rivers appearing discreetly from nowhere.

  Abruptly the trio scuttled into the drawing room. Caroline hastily picked up a book and the two men took up positions on either side of the marble fireplace.

  From the doorway Rivers called out, ‘The Right Honourable the Countess Waldegrave. And the Ladies Annette, Horatia and Ida Anna.’

  Caroline dropped her book prettily and rose to her feet with a smile.

  ‘My dear Countess, how very pleased I am to welcome you. May I wish you the season’s greetings.’

  ‘And to you, my dear. Thank you for inviting us to share your festivities.’

  Behind her the Ladies Annette and Ida were demure in rose and buttercup but the Lady Horatia had gone against all decreed fashion and, despite her glowing hair, wore violet. The result was breathtaking — and even the disciplined Rivers stared slightly.

  Algernon, meanwhile, was flushing from pale to puce, hopping from one foot to the other as if desperately anxious to leave the room. But the Countess would have none of it. She patted the sofa next to her and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Hicks, for sending round Charles Dickens’s latest novel. What a clever young man he is to be sure. Though I can’t say I enjoyed the story as much as The Pickwick Papers. It is so depressing, where the other was so funny.’

  Algy making a great effort, swallowed violently, and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘That tragic boy — Oliver Twist,’ the Countess went on. ‘I shudder to think that there are children really living like that.’

  ‘But there are, Ma’am,’ answered Francis. ‘The workhouses — and the thieves’ kitchens — that Dickens writes of merely highlight the hypocrisy of our society.’

  The Countess gave him a penetrating look, obviously wondering if he was in any way denigrating the aristocracy, and decided that he was not when Francis added, ‘I frequently see the plight of the poor as a medical student and have not yet learned to regard them as so much flesh. Some of them wring me to the heart. We are all members of the same species after all.’

  ‘Francis, I think you are getting too serious,’ said Caroline.

  ‘Yes, I am, my dear. I shall stop it, for here comes the sherry. Crisp or sweet, Lady Waldegrave?’

  The conversation broke into three parts with the arrival of Rivers bearing the crystal-laden tray — the Countess and Algernon Hicks going more deeply into the merits of the youthful new author Dickens; Francis, Annette and Ida Anna discussing the sad fact that Lady Annette’s betrothed, Major Money, still had another two years of duty in India, and Caroline finding herself face to face for the first time with Horatia Waldegrave.

  The elder girl studied the younger intently. What spirit lay behind such a beautiful exterior? Was she vapid and stupid as were so many of her aristocratic contemporaries?

  Very much as if she had read Caroline’s thoughts, Horry said, ‘It was kind of you to ask us to dine, Mrs Hicks. For all you knew we could have been the most boring creatures in the world.’

  ‘Which you are obviously not.’

  Horatia gave a little laugh. ‘No. The Waldegraves have been called many things — but boring is not one of them.’

  Caroline said nothing, merely giving an encouraging nod. Horatia went on, ‘We are supposed to be a wild family, you know. And my brothers actually are! We girls are staid and respectable in comparison.’

  ‘You don’t look staid.’

  ‘Nor too respectable either, I hope. There is nothing more dull than a conventional veneer, would you not agree?’

  ‘I would — heartily. But I suppose I may grow decorous as middle-age catches me up.’

  Horatia laughed again.

  ‘I think decorum is something born in one, Mrs Hicks. I felt sure when we first met in Hastings that the Hicks family had much in common with the Waldegraves.’

  ‘You think so?’

  Without meaning to, Caroline found her eyes straying to where Algy and the Countess sat side by side, heads rather close together. Horatia followed her gaze and also, apparently, her train of thought.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ she said.

  Caroline looked up sharply but Horatia would not be drawn any further and changed the subject. ‘I do so admire your house. It is from the Regency period is it not?’

  ‘Yes. Would you care to see over it? We have not been here very long and I am still at the stage of being in love with it.’

  ‘I should like that very much.’

  Horatia stood up and Caroline led the way, their departure almost unnoticed in the hubbub of conversation and general sipping of sherry.

  The house, Horatia discovered, like so many of its contemporaries built when the Prince Regent ruled England, was terraced and rose round a magnificent and curving staircase. Following Caroline upwards Horatia came to a first floor where there was a good-sized landing and two more reception rooms; one — or so it would seem from peeping in — Caroline’s little sanctum and the other a library where Francis had a desk strewn with papers and several learned medical books.

  But it was at neither of these that Horatia really looked. Instead she felt her attention drawn to a painting which hung — well-lit by an overhead candelabra — on the wall of the landing, dominating the area round it.

  She had never seen anything quite like it. In the background stood a house, diminished almost to the size of a doll’s by the clever use of perspective, but a fairy house for all that, all aflower and aglow in the summer sunshine; two wings linking a Hall which, even in this minute detail, blazed with stained glass.

  And because it stood so well in the background, the house seemed to float in the air, like a castle from legend. In fact the outlines were blurred and misty, giving the place, altogether, an ethereal and quite breathtaking quality.

  In the foreground, made to look larger by the diminution of the mansion,
stood a man, his face turned towards the artist but his dark blue eyes staring beyond. Horatia had a vivid impression of strong handsome features and a bold military uniform, of long brown hands gripping a sword hilt. She took a step closer to the painting and saw the signature, ‘Francis Hicks, 1837.’

  ‘Your husband painted this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is the subject?’

  ‘My brother. He is a Captain in the Imperial Austrian Army. What do you think of it?’

  Caroline was amused when Horatia answered, without shyness or artifice, ‘I think he is the most handsome man I have ever seen. Quite remarkable really.’

  The elder girl laughed gently, ‘I meant the painting.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, I see. It is very well done. The house has a magic look about it. Where is it?’

  ‘Near Guildford. It is called Sutton Place and is our family seat, though none of us live there any more.’

  ‘It looks quite old. Is it?’

  ‘Tudor. Built by Sir Richard Weston, a courtier to Henry VIII.’

  ‘You are descended from him?’

  ‘No. His direct line died out. Our connection with the family is more than remote. In fact my grandfather John Webbe adopted the name Weston in order to inherit.’

  ‘So you were born a Miss Webbe Weston? And your brother is presumably Captain Webbe Weston?’ Horatia’s eyes had returned to the picture and were taking in every detail.

  ‘Yes. John Joseph is his name. I have another portrait of him in my snug, painted by myself. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘If I may, please.’

  They stepped into Caroline’s little salon and there, flanked on one side by a portrait of Francis and on the other by that of a hearty-looking man in sensible gaiters together with a nondescript woman, hung a more conventional officer-and-gentleman type of picture. In this John Joseph again had a hand resting on the hilt of his sword but in the other held a shako — the name given to the squarish, plumed cap worn by the hussars and dragoons.