An Infamous Army

by Georgette Heyer

  The presence of the Guards was not, of course, the only attraction offered by Brussels. Mr Creevey, for instance, had brought his good lady to a snug little apartment in the Rue du Musée for her health’s sake. Others had come to take part in the festivities attendant upon the long-exiled William of Orange’s instatement as King of the Netherlands.

  This gentleman, whom Mr Creevey and his friends called the Frog, had been well known in London; and his elder son, the Hereditary Prince of Orange, was a hopeful young man of engaging manners, and a reputation for dashing gallantry in the field, who had lately enjoyed a brief engagement to the Princess Charlotte of Wales. The breaking off of the engagement by that strong-minded damsel, though it had made his Highness appear a trifle ridiculous in English eyes, and had afforded huge gratification to Mr Creevey and his friends, did not seem to have cast any sort of cloud over the Prince’s spirits. It was felt that gaiety would attend his footsteps; nor were the seekers after pleasure destined to be disappointed. Within its old ramparts, Brussels became the centre of all that was fashionable and light hearted. King William, a somewhat uninspiring figure, was proclaimed with due pomp at Brussels, and if his new subjects, who had been quite content under the Bonapartist régime, regarded with misgiving their fusion with their Dutch neighbours, this was not allowed to appear upon the surface. The Hereditary Prince, who spoke English and French better than his native tongue, and who announced himself quite incapable of supporting the rigours of life at The Hague, achieved a certain amount of popularity which might have been more lasting had he not let it plainly be seen that although he liked his father’s Belgian subjects better than his Dutch ones, he preferred the English to them all. The truth was, he was never seen but in the society of his English friends, a circumstance which had caused so much annoyance to be felt that the one man who was known to have influence over him was petitioned to write exhorting him to more diplomatic behaviour. It was a chill December day when M. Fagel brought his Highness a letter from the English Ambassador in Paris, and there was nothing in the austere contents of the missive to make the day seem warmer. A letter of reproof from his Grace the Duke of Wellington, however politely worded it might be, was never likely to produce in the recipient any other sensation than that of having been plunged into unpleasantly cold water. The Prince, with some bitter animadversions upon tale-bearers in general, and his father in particular, sat down to write a promise to his mentor of exemplary conduct, and proceeded thereafter to fulfil it by entering heart and soul into the social life of Brussels.

  But except for a strong Bonapartist faction the Bruxellois also liked the English. Gold flowed from careless English fingers into Belgian pockets; English visitors were making Brussels the gayest town in Europe, and the Bruxellois welcomed them with open arms. They would welcome the Duke of Wellington too when at last he should arrive. He had been received with enormous enthusiasm a year before, when he had visited Belgium on his way to Paris. He was Europe’s great man, and the Bruxellois had accorded him an almost hysterical reception, even cheering two very youthful and self-conscious aides-de-camp of his who had occupied his box at the opera one evening. There had been a mistake, of course, but it showed the goodwill of the Bruxellois. The Bonapartists naturally could not be expected to share in these transports, but it was decidedly not the moment for a Bonapartist to proclaim himself, and these gentry had to be content with holding aloof from the many fêtes, and pinning their secret faith to the Emperor’s star.

  The news of Napoleon’s landing in the south of France had had a momentarily sobering effect upon the merrymakers, but in spite of rumours and alarms the theatre parties, the concerts, and the balls had still gone on, and only a few prudent souls had left Brussels.

  There was however, a general feeling of uneasiness. Vienna, where the Duke of Wellington was attending the Congress, was a long way from Brussels, and whatever the Prince of Orange’s personal daring might be it was not felt that two years spent in the Peninsula as one of the Duke’s aides-de-camp were enough to qualify a young gentleman not yet twenty-four for the command of an army to be pitted against Napoleon Bonaparte. Indeed, the Prince’s first impetuous actions, and the somewhat indiscreet language he held, alarmed serious people not a little. The Prince entertained no doubt of being able to account for Bonaparte; he talked of invading France at the head of the Allied troops; wrote imperative demands to England for more men and more munitions; invited General Kleist to march his Prussians along the Meuse to effect a junction with him; and showed himself in general to be so magnificently oblivious of the fact that England was not at war with France, that the embarrassed Government in some haste despatched Lieutenant-General Lord Hill to explain the peculiar delicacy of the situation to him.

  The choice of mentor was a happy one. A trifle elated, the Prince of Orange was in a brittle mood, ready to resent the least interference in his authority. General Clinton, whom he disliked, and Sir Hudson Lowe, whom he thought a Prussianised martinet, found themselves unable to influence his judgment, and succeeded only in offending. But no one had ever been known to take offence at Daddy Hill. He arrived in Brussels looking more like a country squire than a distinguished general, and took the jealous young commander gently in hand. The anxious breathed again; the Prince of Orange might be in a little huff at the prospect of being soon relieved of his command, but he was no longer refractory, and was soon able to write to Lord Bathurst, in London, announcing the gratifying intelligence that although it would have been mortifying to him to give up his command to anyone else, to the Duke he could do it with pleasure; and could even engage to serve him with as great a zeal as when he had been his aide-de-camp.

  ‘I shall never forget that period of my life,’ wrote the Prince, forgetting his injuries in a burst of enthusiasm. ‘I owe everything to it; and if I now may hope to be of use to my country it is to the experience I acquired under him that I have to attribute it.’

  Such a frame of mind augured well for the future; but the task of controlling the Prince’s martial activities continued to be a difficult one. The British Ambassador to The Hague transferred his establishment to Brussels with the principal motive of assisting Lord Hill in his duty, and found it so arduous that he more than once wrote to the Duke to tell him how necessary was his presence in Brussels. ‘You will see that I have spared no efforts to keep the Prince quiet,’ wrote Sir Charles Stuart in his plain style. . . ‘Under these circumstances I leave you to judge of the extreme importance we all attach to your early arrival.’

  Meanwhile, though the Congress at Vienna might declare Napoleon to be hors la loi, every day saw French Royalists hurrying a little ignominiously over the frontier. Louis XVIII, yet another of Europe’s uninspiring monarchs, removed his Court from Paris to Ghent, and placidly explained that he had been all the while impelled, in France, to employ untrustworthy persons because none whom he could trust were fit to be employed. Certainly it did not seem as though anyone except his nephew, the Duc d’Angoulême, had made the least push to be of use in the late crisis. That gentleman had raised a mixed force at Nîmes, and was skirmishing in the south of France, egged on by a masterful wife. His brother, the Duc de Berri, who had accompanied his uncle into Belgium, found less dangerous employment in holding slightly farcical reviews of the handful of Royalist troops under his command at Alost.

  These proceedings were not comforting to the anxious, but the proximity of the Prussian Army was more reassuring. But as General Kleist’s notions of feeding this Army consisted very simply of causing it to subsist upon the country in which it was quartered, the King of the Netherlands, who held quite different views on the subject, and was besides on bad terms with his wife’s Prussian relatives, refused to permit of its crossing the Meuse. This not unnaturally led to a good deal of bad feeling.

  ‘Your Lordship’s presence is extremely necessary to combine the measures of the heterogeneous force which is destined to defend this country,’ wrote Sir Charles Stuart to the Duke, with diplomati
c restraint.

  Everyone agreed that the Duke’s presence was necessary; everyone was sure that once he was in command all the disputes and the difficulties would be immediately settled, even Mr Creevey, who had not been used to set much store by any of ‘those damned Wellesley’s.

  It was wonderful what a change was gradually coming over Mr Creevey’s opinions; extraordinary to hear him adverting to the Duke’s past victories in Spain, just as though he had never declared them to have been grossly exaggerated. He was still a little patronising about the Duke, but he was going to feel very much safer, tied as he was to Brussels by an ailing wife, when the Duke was at the head of the Army.

  But he thought it very strange that Worth should have had no news from his brother in Vienna. Probe as he might, nothing could be elicited. Colonel Audley had not mentioned the subject of his Chief’s coming.

  Mr Creevey was forced to go away unsatisfied. Sir Peregrine lingered. ‘I must say, I agree with him, that it’s odd of Charles not to have told you when he expects to be here,’ he complained.

  ‘My dear Perry, I daresay he might not know,’ said Lady Worth.

  ‘Well, when one considers that he has been on the Duke’s personal staff since he went back to the Peninsula after your marriage in August of 1812 it seems quite extraordinary he should be so little in Wellington’s confidence,’ said Sir Peregrine.

  His sister drew her worktable towards her, and began to occupy herself with a piece of embroidery. ‘Perhaps the Duke himself is uncertain. Depend upon it, he will be here soon enough. It is very worrying, but he must know what he is about.’

  He took a turn about the room. ‘I wish I knew what I should do!’ he exclaimed presently. ‘It’s all very well for you to laugh, Judith, but it’s curst awkward! Of course, if I were a single man I should join as a volunteer. However, that won’t do.’

  ‘No, indeed!’ said Judith, rather startled.

  ‘Worth, what do you mean to do? Do you stay?’

  ‘Oh, I think so!’ replied the Earl.

  Sir Peregrine’s brow lightened. ‘Oh! Well, if you judge it to be safe—I don’t suppose you would keep Judith and the child here if you did not?’

  ‘I don’t suppose I should,’ agreed the Earl.

  ‘What does Harriet wish to do?’ enquired Lady Worth.

  ‘Oh, if it can be considered safe for the children, she don’t wish to go!’ Sir Peregrine caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the fireplace, and gave the starched folds of his cravat a dissatisfied twitch. Before his marriage he had aspired to dizzy heights of dandyism, and although he now lived for the greater part of the year on his estates in Yorkshire, he was still inclined to spend much thought and time on his dress. ‘This new man of mine is no good at all!’ he said, with some annoyance. ‘Just look at my cravat!’

  ‘Is that really necessary!’ said the Earl. ‘For the past hour I have been at considerable pains not to look at it.’

  A grin dispersed Sir Peregrine’s worried frown. ‘Oh, be damned to you, Worth! I’ll tell you what it is, you did a great deal for me when I was your ward, but if you had taught me the way you have of tying your cravats I should have been more grateful than ever I was for any of the rest of the curst interfering things you did.’

  ‘Very handsomely put, Perry. But the art is inborn, and can’t be taught.’

  Sir Peregrine made a derisive sound, and, abandoning the attempt to improve the set of his cravat, turned from the mirror. He glanced down at his sister, tranquilly sewing, and said in a burst of confidence: ‘You know, I can’t help being worried. I don’t want to run home, but the thing is that Harriet is in a delicate situation again.’

  ‘Good God, already?’ exclaimed Judith.

  ‘Yes, and you see what an anxious position it puts me in. I would not have her upset for the world. However, it seems certain Boney can’t move against us yet. I shall wait until the Duke comes before I decide. That will be best.’

  The Earl agreed to it with a solemnity only belied by the quivering of a muscle at the corner of his mouth. Sir Peregrine adjured him to let him have any reliable news he might chance to hear and took himself off, his mind apparently relieved of its care.

  His sister was left to enjoy a laugh at his expense. ‘Julian, I think you must have taken leave of your senses when you permitted Perry to marry Harriet! Two children, and another expected! It is quite absurd! He is only a child himself.’

  ‘Very true, but you should consider that if he were not married we should have him enlisting as a volunteer.’

  The thought sobered her. She put down her embroidery. ‘I suppose we should.’ She hesitated, her fine blue eyes raised to Worth’s face. ‘Well, Julian, our morning visitors have all talked a great deal, but you have said nothing.’

  ‘I was under the impression that I said everything that was civil.’

  ‘Just so, and nothing to the point. I wish you will tell me what you think. Do we stay?’

  ‘Not if you wish to go home, my dear.’

  She shook her head. ‘You are to be the judge. I don’t care for myself, but there is little Julian to be recollected, you know.’

  ‘I don’t forget him. Antwerp is, after all, comfortably close. But if you choose I will convey you both to England.’

  She cast him a shrewd look. ‘You are extremely obliging, sir! Thank you, I know you a little too well to accept that offer. You would no sooner have set me down in England than you would return here, odious wretch!’

  He laughed. ‘To tell you the truth, Judith, I think it will be interesting to be in Brussels this spring.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘But what will happen?’

  ‘I know no more than the next man.’

  ‘I suppose war is certain? Will the Duke be a match for Bonaparte, do you think?’

  ‘That is what we are going to see, my dear.’

  ‘Everyone speaks as though his arrival will make all quite safe—indeed, I do myself—but though he was so successful in Spain he has never fought against Bonaparte himself, has he?’

  ‘A circumstance which makes the situation of even more interest,’ said Worth.

  ‘Well!’ She resumed her stitching. ‘You are very cool. We shall stay then. Indeed, I should be very sorry to go just when Charles is to join us.’

  The Earl put up his quizzing-glass. ‘Ah! May I inquire, my love, whether you are making plans for Charles’s future welfare?’

  Down went the embroidery; her ladyship raised an indignant rueful pair of eyes to his face. ‘You are the most odious man that I have ever met!’ she declared. ‘Of course I don’t make plans for Charles! It sounds like some horrid, match-making Mama. How in the world did you guess?’

  ‘Some explanation of your extreme kindness towards Miss Devenish seemed to be called for. That was the likeliest that presented itself to me.’

  ‘Well, but don’t you think her a charming girl, Julian?’

  ‘I daresay. You know my taste runs to Amazons.’

  Her ladyship ignored this with obvious dignity. ‘She is extremely pretty, with such obliging manners, and a general sweetness of disposition which makes me feel her to be so very eligible.’

  ‘I will allow all that to be true.’

  ‘You are thinking of Mr Fisher. I know the evils of her situation, but recollect that Mr Fisher is her uncle only by marriage! He is a little vulgar perhaps—well, very vulgar, if you like!—but I am sure a kind, worthy man who has treated her quite as though she were his own daughter, and will leave the whole of his fortune to her.’

  ‘That certainly is a consideration,’ said Worth.

  ‘Her own birth, though not noble, is perfectly respectable, you know. Her family is an old one—but it does not signify talking, after all! Charles will make his own choice.’

  ‘Just what I was about to remark, my dear.’

  ‘Don’t alarm yourself! I have no notion of throwing poor Lucy at his head, I assure you. But I shall own myself surprised if he does no
t take a liking to her.’

  ‘I perceive,’ said the Earl, faintly amused, ‘that life in Brussels is going to be even more interesting than I had expected.’

  Two

  When Judith, on setting out for Lady Charlotte Greville’s evening party, desired Worth to direct the coachman to call at Mr Fisher’s for the purpose of picking up Miss Devenish, she could not help looking a little conscious. She avoided his ironic gaze, but when he settled himself beside her, and the carriage moved forward over the pavé, said defensively: ‘Really, it is not remarkable that I should take Lucy with me.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ agreed Worth. ‘I made no remark.’

  ‘Mrs Fisher does not like to go into company, you know, and the poor child would be very dull if no one offered to escort her.’

  ‘Very true.’

  Judith cast a smouldering glance at his profile. ‘I do not think,’ she said, ‘that I have ever met so provoking a person as you.’

  He smiled, but said nothing, and upon the carriage’s drawing up presently in front of a respectable-looking house in one of the quiet streets off the Place Royale, got down to hand his wife’s protégée into the carriage.

  She did not keep him waiting for many seconds, but came out of the house, escorted by her uncle, a little stout man of cheerful vulgarity who bowed very low to the Earl, and uttered profuse thanks and protestations. He was answered with the cool civility of a stranger, but Lady Worth, leaning forward, said everything that was kind, enquired after Mrs Fisher, who had lately been confined to the house by a feverish cold, and engaged herself to take good care of Miss Devenish.