Читать книгу Flashman’s Lady - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 12

It was eight months before I so much as gave a thought to cricket again, but I’m bound to say that even if it had been blazing summer from October to March I’d still have been too busy. You can’t conduct a passionate affair with Lola Montez, in which you fall foul of Otto Bismarck – which is what I was doing that autumn – and still have much time for recreation. Besides, this was the season when my fame was at its zenith, what with my visit to the Palace for the Kabul medal; in consequence I was in demand everywhere, and Elspeth, in her eagerness for the limelight, saw to it that I never had a moment’s peace – balls and parties and receptions, and d---l a minute for serious raking. It was splendid, of course, to be the lion of the hour, but confounded exhausting.

But little enough happened to the point of my story, except that the stout Don Solomon Haslam played an increasingly lively part in our doings that winter. That was an odd fish, decidedly. Nobody, not even his old Eton chums, seemed to know much about him except that he was some kind of nabob, with connections in Leadenhall Street, but he was well received in Society, where his money and manners paid for all. And he seemed to be right in the know wherever he went – at the embassies, the smart houses, the sporting set, even at the political dinners; he was friendly with Haddington and Stanley at one end of the scale, and with such rascals as Deaf Jim Burke and Brougham at t’other. One night he would be dining with Aberdeen,⁵ and the next at Rosherville Gardens or the Cider Cellars, and he had a quiet gift of being first with the word from all quarters: if you wanted to know what was behind the toll riots, or the tale of Peel’s velveteens, ask Solomon; he had the latest joke about Alice Lowe, or Nelson’s Column, could tell you beforehand about the new race cup for Ascot, and had songs from the Bohemian Girl played in his drawing-room months before the opera was seen in London.⁶ It wasn’t that he was a gossip or couch-whisperer, either; whatever way the talk turned, he just knew the answers.

He ought to have been detestable, but strangely enough he wasn’t, for he didn’t push or show off. His entertainment was lavish, in his house on Brook Street, where he gave a Chinese Party that was said to have cost twenty thou., and was the talk for weeks, and his appearance was what the ladies called Romantic – I’ve told you about the earring, enough said – but with it all he managed to appear modest and unaffected. He could charm, I’ll say that for him, for he had the true gift of flattery, which is to show the keenest possible interest – and, of course, he had money to burn.

I didn’t mind him much, myself; he went out of his way to be pleasant to me, and once I had satisfied myself that his enthusiasm for Elspeth wasn’t likely to go the length, I tolerated him. She was ready to flirt with anything in breeches – and more than flirt, I suspected, but there were horny captains I was far leerier of than the Don. That b-----d Watney, for one, and the lecherous snob Ranelagh, and I fancy young Conyngham was itching after her, too. But Solomon had no name as a rake; didn’t even keep a mistress, apparently, and did no damage round Windmill Street or any of my haunts, leastways. Another odd thing: he didn’t touch liquor, in any form.

Oddest of all, though, was the way that my father-in-law took to him. From time to time during that winter old Morrison came south from his lair in Paisley to inflict himself on us and carp about expense, and it was during one of these visits that we had Solomon to dine. Morrison took one look at the fashionable cut of his coat and Newgate knockers,^fn1 sniffed, and muttered about ‘anither scented gommeril wi’ mair money than sense’, but before that dinner was through Solomon had him eating out of his palm.

Old Morrison had started off on one of his usual happy harangues about the state of the nation, so that for the first course we had cockaleekie soup, halibut with oyster sauce, and the income tax, removed with minced chicken patties, lamb cutlets, and the Mines Act, followed by a second course of venison in burgundy, fricassee of beef, and the Chartists, with grape ices, bilberry tart, and Ireland for dessert. Then the ladies (Elspeth and my father’s mistress, Judy, whom Elspeth had a great fancy for, G-d knows why) withdrew, and over the port we had the miners’ strike and the General Ruin of the Country.

Fine stuff, all of it, and my guv’nor went to sleep in his chair while Morrison held forth on the iniquity of those scoundrelly colliers who objected to having their infants dragging tubs naked through the seams for a mere fifteen hours a day.

‘It’s the infernal Royal Commission,’ cries he. ‘Makin’ mischief – aye, an’ it’ll spread, mark me. If bairns below the age o’ ten year is no’ tae work underground, how long will it be afore they’re prohibitin’ their employment in factories, will ye tell me? D--n that whippersnapper Ashley! “Eddicate them,” says he, the eejit! I’d eddicate them, would I no’! An’ then there’s the Factory Act – that’ll be the next thing.’

‘The amendment can’t pass for another two years,’ says Solomon quietly, and Morrison glowered at him.

‘How d’ye ken that?’

‘It’s obvious, surely. We have the Mines Act, which is all the country can digest for the moment. But the shorter hours will come – probably within two years, certainly within three. Mr Horne’s report will see to that.’

His easy certainty impressed Morrison, who wasn’t used to being lectured on business; however, the mention of Horne’s name set him off again – I gathered this worthy was to publish a paper on child employment, which would inevitably lead to bankruptcies all round for deserving employers like my father-in-law, with free beer and holidays for the paupers, a workers’ rebellion, and invasion by the French.

‘Not quite so much, perhaps,’ smiles Solomon. ‘But his report will raise a storm, that’s certain. I’ve seen some of it.’

‘Ye’ve seen it?’ cries Morrison. ‘But it’s no’ oot till the New Year!’ He glowered a moment. ‘Ye’re gey far ben,^fn2 sir.’ He took an anxious gulp of port. ‘Does it – was there … that is, did ye chance tae see any mention o’ Paisley, maybe?’

Solomon couldn’t be certain, but said there was some shocking stuff in the report – infants tied up and lashed unmercifully by overseers, flogged naked through the streets when they were late; in one factory they’d even had their ears nailed down for bad work.

‘It’s a lie!’ bawls Morrison, knocking over his glass. ‘A d----d lie! Never a bairn in oor shop had hand laid on it! Ma Goad – prayers at seeven, an’ a cup o’ milk an’ a piece tae their dinner – oot o’ ma ain pocket! Even a yard o’ yarn, whiles, as a gift, an’ me near demented wi’ pilferin’—’

Solomon soothed him by saying he was sure Morrison’s factories were paradise on earth, but added gravely that between the Horne report⁷ and slack trade generally, he couldn’t see many good pickings for manufacturers for some years to come. Overseas investment, that was the thing; why, there were millions a year to be made out of the Orient, by men who knew their business (as he did), and while Morrison sniffed a bit, and called it prospectus talk, you could see he was interested despite himself. He began to ask questions, and argue, and Solomon had every answer pat; I found it a dead bore, and left them prosing away, with my guv’nor snoring and belching at the table head – the most sensible noises I’d heard all night. But later, old Morrison was heard to remark that yon young Solomon had a heid on his shoothers, richt enough, a kenspeckle lad – no’ like some that sauntered and drank awa’ their time, an’ sponged off their betters, etc.

One result of all this was that Don Solomon Haslam was a more frequent visitor than ever, dividing his time between Elspeth and her sire, which was perverse variety, if you like. He was forever talking Far East trade with Morrison, urging him to get into it – he even suggested that the old b-----d should take a trip to see for himself, which I’d have seconded, nem. con. I wondered if perhaps Solomon was some swell magsman trying to diddle the old rascal of a few thou.; some hopes, if he was. Anyway, they got along like a matched pair, and since Morrison was at this time expanding his enterprises, and Haslam was well-connected in the City, I daresay my dear relative found the acquaintance useful.

So winter and spring went by, and then in June I had two letters. One was from my Uncle Bindley at the Horse Guards, to say that negotiations were under way to procure me a lieutenancy in the Household Cavalry; this great honour, he was careful to point out, was due to my Afghan heroics, not to my social desirability, which in his opinion was negligible – he was from the Paget side of our family, you see, and affected to despise us common Flashmans, which showed he had more sense than manners. I was quite flown by this news, and almost equally elated by the other letter, which was from Alfred Mynn, reminding me of his invitation to play in his casual side at Canterbury. I’d been having a few games for the Montpeliers at the old Beehive field, and was in form, so I accepted straight off. It wasn’t just for the cricket, though: I had three good reasons for wanting to be out of Town just then. First, I had just encompassed Lola Montez’s ruin on the London stage,⁸ and had reason to believe that the mad b---h was looking for me with a pistol – she was game for anything, you know, including murder; secondly, a female acrobat whom I’d been tupping was pretending that she was in foal, and demanding compensation with tears and menaces; and thirdly, I recalled that Mrs Lade, the Duke’s little piece, was to be in Canterbury for the Cricket Week.

So you can see a change of scene was just what old Flashy needed; if I’d known the change I was going to get I’d have paid off the acrobat, let Mrs Lade go hang, and allowed Montez one clear shot at me running – and thought myself lucky. But we can’t see into the future, thank God.

I’d intended to go down to Canterbury on my own, but a week or so beforehand I happened to mention my visit to Haslam, in Elspeth’s presence, and right away he said famous, just the thing; he was keen as mustard on cricket himself, and he’d take a house there for the week: we must be his guests, he would get together a party, and we’d make a capital holiday of it. He was like that, expense was no object with him, and in a moment he had Elspeth clapping her hands with promises of picnic and dances and all sorts of junketings.

‘Oh, Don, how delightful!’ cries she. ‘Why, it will be the jolliest thing, and Canterbury is the most select place, I believe – yes, there is a regiment there – but, oh, what shall I have to wear? One needs a very different style out of London, you see, especially if many of our lunches are to be al fresco, and some of the evening parties are sure to be out of doors – oh, but what about poor, dear Papa?’

I should have added that another reason for my leaving London was to get away from old Morrison, who was still infesting our premises. In fact, he’d been taken ill in May – not fatally, unfortunately. He claimed it was overwork, but I knew it was the report of the child employment commission which, as Don Solomon had predicted, had caused a shocking uproar when it came out, for it proved that our factories were rather worse than the Siberian salt mines. Names hadn’t been named, but questions were being asked in the Commons, and Morrison was terrified that at any moment he’d be exposed for the slave-driving swine he was. So the little villain had taken to his bed, more or less, with an attack of the nervous guilts, and spent his time d---ing the commissioners, snarling at the servants, and snuffing candles to save money.

Of course Haslam said he must come with us; the change of air would do him good; myself, I thought a change from air was what the old pest required, but there was nothing I could do about it, and since my first game for Mynn’s crew was on a Monday afternoon, it was arranged that the party should travel down the day before. I managed to steer clear of that ordeal, pleading business – in fact, young Conyngham had bespoken a room at the Magpie for a hanging on the Monday morning, but I didn’t let on to Elspeth about that. Don Solomon convoyed the party to the station for the special he’d engaged, Elspeth with enough trunks and bandboxes to start a new colony, old Morrison wrapped in rugs and bleating about the iniquity of travelling by railroad on the sabbath, and Judy, my father’s bit, watching the performance with her crooked little smile.

She and I never exchanged a word, nowadays. I’d rattled her (once) in the old days, when the guv’nor’s back was turned, but then she’d called a halt, and we’d had a fine, shouting turn-up in which I’d blacked her eye. Since then we’d been on civil-sneer terms, for the guv’nor’s sake, but since he’d recently been carted away again to the blue-devil factory to have the booze bogies chased out of his brain, Judy was devoting her time to being Elspeth’s companion – oh, we were a conventional little menage, sure enough. She was a handsome, knowing piece, and I squeezed her thigh for spite as I handed her into the carriage, got a blood-freezing glare for my pains, and waved them farewell, promising to meet them in Canterbury by noon next day.

I forget who they hanged on the Monday, and it don’t matter anyway, but it was the only Newgate scragging I ever saw, and I had an encounter afterwards which is part of my tale. When I got to the Magpie on Sunday evening, Conyngham and his pals weren’t there, having gone across to the prison chapel to see the condemned man attend his last service; I didn’t miss a great deal apparently, for when they came back they were crying that it had been a dead bore – just the chaplain droning away and praying, and the murderer sitting in the black pen talking to the turnkey.

‘They didn’t even have him sitting on his coffin,’ cries Conyngham. ‘I thought they always had his coffin in the pew with him – d--n you, Beresford, you told me they did!’

‘Still, t’aint every day you see a chap attend his own burial service,’ says another. ‘Don’t you just wish you may look as lively at your own, Conners?’

After that they all settled down to cards and boozing, with a buffet supper that went on all evening, and of course the girls were brought in – Snow Hill sluts that I wouldn’t have touched with a long pole. I was amused to see that Conyngham and the other younger fellows were in a rare sweat of excitement – quite feverish they got in their wining and wenching, and all because they were going to see a chap turned off. It was nothing to me, who’d seen hangings, beheadings, crucifixions and the L--d knows what in my wanderings; my interest was to see an English felon crapped in front of an English crowd, so in the meantime I settled down to écarté with Speedicut, and by getting him well foxed I cleaned him out before midnight.

By then most of the company were three-parts drunk or snoring, but they didn’t sleep long, for in the small hours the gallows-builders arrived, and the racket they made as they hammered up the scaffold in the street outside woke everyone. Conyngham remembered then that he had a sheriff’s order, so we all trooped across to Newgate to get a squint at the chap in the condemned cell, and I remember how that boozy, rowdy party fell silent once we were in Newgate Yard, with the dank black walls crowding in on either side, our steps sounding hollow in the stone passages, breathing short and whispering while the turnkey grinned horribly and rolled his eyes to give Conyngham his money’s worth.

I reckon the young sparks didn’t get it, though, for all they saw in the end was a man lying fast asleep on his stone bench, with his jailer resting on a mattress alongside; one or two of our party, having recovered their spunk by that time, wanted to wake him up, in the hope that he’d rave and pray, I suppose; Conyngham, who was wilder than most, broke a bottle on the bars and roared at the fellow to stir himself, but he just turned over on his side, and a little beadle-like chap in a black coat and tall hat came on the scene in a tearing rage to have us turned out.

‘Vermin!’ cries he, stamping and red in the face. ‘Have you no decency? Dear G-d, and these are meant to be the leaders of the nation! D--n you, d--n you, d--n you all to h--l!’ He was incoherent with fury, and vowed the turnkey would lose his place; he absolutely threw Conyngham out bodily, but our bold boy wasn’t abashed; when he’d done giving back curse for curse he made a drunken dash for the scaffold, which was erected by now, black beams, barriers, and all, and managed to dance on the trap before the scandalised workmen threw him into the road.

His pals picked him up, laughing and cheering, and got him back to the Magpie; the crowd that was already gathering in the warm summer dawn grinned and guffawed as we went through, though there were some black looks and cries of ‘Shame!’ The first eel-piemen were crying their wares in the street, and the vendors of tiny model gibbets and Courvoisier’s confession and pieces of rope from the last hanging (cut off some chandler’s stock that very morning, you may be sure) were having their breakfast in Lamb’s and the Magpie common room, waiting for the real mob to arrive; the lower kind of priggers and whores were congregating, and some family parties were already established at the windows, making a picnic of it; carters were putting their vehicles against the walls and offering places of vantage at sixpence a time; the warehousemen and porters who had their business to do were d--ning the eyes of those who obstructed their work, and the constables were sauntering up and down in pairs, moving on the beggars and drunks, and keeping a cold eye on the more obvious thieves and flashtails. A bluff-looking chap in clerical duds was watching with lively interest as Conyngham was helped into the Magpie and up the stairs; he nodded civilly to me.

‘Quiet enough so far,’ says he, and I noticed that he carried his right arm at an odd angle, and his hand was crooked and waxy. ‘I wonder, sir, if I might accompany your party?’ He gave me his name, but I’m shot if I recall it now.

I didn’t mind, so he came abovestairs, into the wreck of our front room, with the remains of the night’s eating and drinking being cleared away and breakfast set, and the sluts being chivvied out by the waiters, complaining shrilly; most of our party were looking pretty seedy, and didn’t make much of the chops and kidneys at all.

‘First time for most of them,’ says my new acquaintance. ‘Interesting, sir, most interesting.’ At my invitation he helped himself to cold beef, and we talked and ate in one of the windows while the crowd below began to increase, until the whole street was packed tight as far as you could see both sides of the scaffold; a great, seething mob, with the peelers guarding the barriers, and hardly room enough for the dippers and mobsmen to ply their trade – there must have been every class of mortal in London there; all the dross of the underworld rubbing shoulders with tradesmen and City folk; clerks and counter-jumpers; family men with children perched on their shoulders; beggar brats scampering and tugging at sleeves; a lord’s carriage against a wall, and the mob cheering as its stout occupant was heaved on to the roof by his coachmen; every window was jammed with onlookers at two quid a time; there were galleries on the roofs with seats to let, and even the gutters and lamp-brackets had people clinging to them. A ragged little urchin came swinging along the Magpie’s wall like a monkey; he clung to our window-ledge with naked, grimy toes and fingers, his great eyes staring at our plates; my companion held out a chop to him, and it vanished in a twinkling into the ugly, chewing face.

Someone hailed from beneath our window, and I saw a burly, pug-nosed fellow looking up; my crooked-arm chap shouted down to him, but the noise and hooting and laughter of the crowd was too much for conversation, and presently my companion gave up, and says to me:

‘Thought he might be here. Capital writer, just you watch; put us all in the shade presently. Did you follow Miss Tickletoby last summer?’ From which I’ve since deduced that the cove beneath our window that day was Mr William Makepeace Thackeray. That was my closest acquaintance with him, though.

‘It’s a solemn thought,’ went on my companion, ‘that if executions were held in churches, we’d never lack for congregations – probably get much the same people as we do now, don’t you think? Ah – there we are!’

As he spoke the bell boomed, and the mob below began to roar off the strokes in unison: ‘One, two, three …’ until the eighth peal, when there was a tremendous hurrah, which echoed between the buildings, and then died away in a sudden fall, broken only by the shrill wail of an infant. My companion whispered:

‘St Sepulchre’s bell begins to toll,

The Lord have mercy on his soul.’

As the chatter of the crowd grew again, we looked across that craning sea of humanity to the scaffold, and there were the constables hurrying out of the Debtors’ Door from the jail, with the prisoner bound between them, up the steps, and on to the platform. The prisoner seemed to be half-asleep (‘drugged,’ says my companion; ‘they won’t care for that’). They didn’t, either, but began to stamp and yell and jeer, drowning out the clergyman’s prayer, while the executioner made fast the noose, slipped a hood over the condemned man’s head, and stood by to slip the bolt. There wasn’t a sound now, until a drunk chap sings out, ‘Good health, Jimmy!’ and there were cries and laughter, and everyone stared at the white-hooded figure under the beam, waiting.

‘Don’t watch him,’ whispers my friend. ‘Look at your companions.’

I did, glancing along at the next window: every face staring, every mouth open, motionless, some grinning, some pale with fear, some in an almost vacant ecstasy. ‘Keep watching ’em,’ says he, and pat on his words came the rattle and slam of the drop, an almighty yell from the crowd, and every face at the next window was eagerly alight with pleasure – Speedicut grinning and crowing, Beresford sighing and moistening his lips, Spottswood’s heavy face set in grim satisfaction, while his fancy woman clung giggling to his arm, and pretended to hide her face.

‘Interesting, what?’ says the man with the crooked arm.⁹ He put on his hat, tapped it down, and nodded amiably. ‘Well, I’m obliged to you, sir,’ and off he went. Across the street the white-capped body was spinning slowly beneath the trap, a constable on the platform was holding the rope, and directly beneath me the outskirts of the crowd was dissolving into the taverns. Over in a corner of the room Conyngham was being sick.

I went downstairs and stood waiting for the crowd to thin, but most of ’em were still waiting in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the hanging corpse, which they couldn’t see for the throng in front. I was wondering how far I’d have to walk for a hack, when a man loomed up in front of me, and after a moment I recognised the red face, button eyes, and flash weskit of Mr Daedalus Tighe.

‘Vell, vell, sir,’ cries he, ‘here ve are again! I hears as you’re off to Canterbury – vell, you’ll give ’em better sport than that, I’ll be bound!’ And he nodded towards the scaffold. ‘Did you ever see poorer stuff, Mr Flashman? Not vorth the vatchin’, sir, not vorth the vatchin’. Not a word out o’ him – no speech, no repentance, not even a struggle, blow me! That’s not vot ve’d ’ave called a ’angin’, in my young day. You’d think,’ says he, sticking his thumbs in his vest, ‘that a young cribsman like that there, vot ’adn’t no upbringin’ to speak of, nor never amounted to nothin’ – till today – you’d think, sir, that on the great hocassion of ’is life, ’e’d show appreciation, ’stead o’ lettin’ them drug ’im vith daffy. Vere vas his ambition, sir, allowin’ ’imself to be crapped like that there, ven ’e might ’ave reckernised the interest, sir, of all these people ’ere, an’ responded to same?’ He beamed at me, head on one side. ‘No bottom, Mr Flashman; no game. Now, you, sir – you’d do your werry best if you vas misfortinit enough to be in his shoes – vhich Gawd forbid – an’ so should I, eh? Ve’d give the people vot they came for, like good game Henglishmen.

‘Speakin’ of game,’ he went on, ‘I trust you’re in prime condition for Canterbury. I’m countin’ on you, sir, countin’ on you, I am.’

Something in his tone raised a tiny prickle on my neck. I’d been giving him a cool stare, but now I made it a hard one.

‘I don’t know what you mean, my man,’ says I, ‘and I don’t care. You may take yourself—’

‘No, no, no, my dear young sir,’ says he, beaming redder than ever. ‘You’ve mistook me quite. Vot I’m indicatin’, sir, is that I’m interested – werry much interested, in the success of Mr Mynn’s Casual XI, vot I hexpec’ to carry all before ’em, for your satisfaction an’ my profit.’ He closed an eye roguishly. ‘You’ll remember, sir, as ’ow I expressed my appreciation o’ your notable feat at Lord’s last year, by forwardin’ a token, a small gift of admiration, reelly—’

‘I never had a d----d thing from you,’ says I, perhaps just a shade too quickly.

‘You don’t say, sir? Vell, blow me, but you astonish me, sir – you reelly do. An’ me takin’ werry partikler care to send it to yore direction – an’ you never received same! Vell, vell,’ and the little black eyes were hard as pebbles. ‘I vonder now, if that willain o’ mine, Wincent, slipped it in ’is cly,^fn3 ’stead o’ deliverin’ same to you? Hooman vickedness, Mr Flashman, sir, there ain’t no end to it. Still, sir, ve needn’t repine,’ and he laughed heartily, ‘there’s more vere that come from, sir. An’ I can tell you, sir, that if you carries yore bat against the Irreg’lars this arternoon – vell, you can count to three hundred, I’ll be bound, eh?’

I stared at him, speechless, opened my mouth – and shut it. He regarded me benignly, winked again, and glanced about him.

‘Terrible press, sir; shockin’. Vhy the peelers don’t chivvy these d----d magsmen an’ cly-fakers – vhy, a gent like you ain’t safe; they’ll ’ave the teeth out yore ’ead, ’less you looks sharp. Scandalous, sir; vot you need’s a cab; that’s vot you need.’

He gave a nod, a burly brute close by gave a piercing whistle, and before you could wink there was a hack pushing through the crowd, its driver belabouring all who didn’t clear out fast enough. The burly henchman leaped to the horse’s head, another held the door, and Mr Tighe, hat in hand, was ushering me in, beaming wider than ever.

‘An’ the werry best o’ luck this arternoon, sir,’ cries he. ‘You’ll bowl them Irreg’lars aht in no time, I’ll wager, an” – he winked again – ‘I do ’ope as you carries your bat, Mr Flashman. London Bridge, cabby!’ And away went the cab, carrying a very thoughtful gentleman, you may be sure.

I considered the remarkable Mr Tighe all the way to Canterbury, too, and concluded that if he was fool enough to throw money away, that was his business – what kind of odds could he hope to get on my losing my wicket, for after all, I batted well down the list, and might easily carry my bat through the hand?¹⁰ Who’d wager above three hundred on that? Well, that was his concern, not mine – but I’d have to keep a close eye on him, and not become entangled with his sort; at least he wasn’t expecting me to throw the game, but quite the reverse; he was trying to bribe me to do well, in fact. H’m.

The upshot of it was, I bowled pretty well for Mynn’s eleven, and when I went to the wicket to bat, I stuck to my blockhole like glue, to the disappointment of the spectators, who expected me to slog. I was third last man in, so I didn’t have to endure long, and as Mynn himself was at t’other end, knocking off the runs, my behaviour was perfectly proper. We won by two wickets, Flashy not out, nil – and next morning, after breakfast, there was a plain packet addressed to me, with three hundred in bills inside.

I near as a toucher sealed it up again and told the footman to give it back to whoever had brought it – but I didn’t. Warm work – but three hundred is three hundred – and it was a gift, wasn’t it? I could always deny I’d ever seen it – G-d, I was an innocent then, for all my campaign experience.

This, of course, took place at the house which Haslam had taken just outside Canterbury, very splendid, gravel walks, fine lawns, shrubbery and trees, gaslight throughout, beautifully appointed rooms, best of food and drink, flunkeys everywhere, and go-as-you-please. There were about a dozen house guests, for it was a great rambling place, and Haslam had seen to every comfort. He gave a sumptuous party on that first Monday night, at which Mynn and Felix were present, and the talk was all cricket, of course, but there were any number of ladies, too, including Mrs Leo Lade, smouldering at me across the table from under a heap of sausage curls, and in a dress so décolleté that her udders were almost in her soup. That’s one over we’ll bowl this week that won’t be a maiden, thinks I, and flashed my most loving smile to Elspeth, who was sparkling radiantly beside Don Solomon at the top of the table.

Presently, however, her sparkle was wiped clean away, for Don Solomon was understood to say that this week would be his last fling in England; he was leaving at the end of the month to visit his estates in the East, and had no notion when he would return; it might be years, he said, at which there were genuine expressions of sorrow round the table, for those assembled knew a dripping roast when they saw one. Without the lavish Don Solomon, there would be one luxurious establishment less for the Society hyenas to guzzle at. Elspeth was quite put out.

‘But dear Don Solomon, what shall we do? Oh, you’re teasing – why, your tiresome estates will do admirably without you, for I’m sure you employ only the cleverest people to look after them.’ She pouted prettily. ‘You would not be so cruel to your friends, surely – Mrs Lade, we shan’t let him, shall we?’

Solomon laughed and patted her hand. ‘My dear Diana,’ says he – Diana had been his nickname for her ever since he’d tried to teach her archery – ‘you may be sure nothing but harsh necessity would take me from such delightful company as your own – and Harry’s yonder, and all of you. But – a man must work, and my work is overseas. So—’ and he shook his head, his smooth, handsome face smiling ruefully. ‘It will be a sore wrench – sorest of all in that I shall miss both of you’ – and he looked from Elspeth to me and back again – ‘above all the rest, for you have been to me like a brother and sister.’ And, d---e, the fellow’s great dark eyes were positively glistening; the rest of the table murmured sympathetically, all but old Morrison, who was champing away at his blancmange and finding bones in it, by the sound of him.

At this Elspeth was so overcome that she began piping her eye, and her tits shook so violently that the old Duke, on Solomon’s other side, coughed his false teeth into his wine-glass and had to be put to rights by the butler. Solomon, for once, was looking a little embarrassed; he shrugged and gave me a look that was almost appealing. ‘I’m sorry, old boy,’ says he, ‘but I mean it.’ I couldn’t fathom this – he might be sorry to miss Elspeth; what man wouldn’t? But had I been so friendly? – well, I’d been civil enough, and I was her husband; perhaps that charming manner of mine which Tom Hughes mentioned had had its effect on this emotional dago. Anyway, something seemed called for.

‘Well, Don,’ says I, ‘we’ll all be sorry to lose you, and that’s a fact. You’re a d----d stout chap – that is, I mean, you’re one of the best, and couldn’t be better if … if you were English.’ I wasn’t going to gush all over him, you understand, but the company murmured ‘Hear, hear,’ and after a moment Mynn tapped the table to second me. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘let’s drink his health, then.’ And everyone did, while Solomon gave me his bland smile, inclining his head.

‘I know,’ says he, ‘just how great a compliment that is. I thank you – all of you, and especially you, my dear Harry. I only wish—’ and then he stopped, shaking his head. ‘But no, that would be too much to ask.’

‘Oh, ask anything, Don!’ cries Elspeth, all idiot-imploring. ‘You know we could not refuse you!’

He said no, no, it had been a foolish thought, and at that of course she was all over him to know what it was. So after a moment, toying with his wine-glass, he says: ‘Well, you’ll think it a very silly notion, I daresay – but what I was about to propose, my dear Diana, for Harry and yourself, and for your father, whom I count among my wisest friends—’ and he inclined his head to old Morrison, who was assuring Mrs Lade that he didn’t want any blancmange, but he’d like anither helpin’ o’ yon cornflour puddin’ ‘—I was about to say, since I must go – why do the three of you not come with me?’ And he smiled shyly at us in turn.

I stared at the fellow to see if he was joking; Elspeth, all blonde bewilderment, looked at me and then at Solomon, open-mouthed.

‘Come with you?’

‘It’s only to the other side of the world, after all,’ says he, whimsically. ‘No, no – I am quite serious; it is not as bad as that. You know me well enough to understand that I wouldn’t propose anything that you would not find delightful. We should cruise, in my steam-brig – it’s as well-appointed as any royal yacht, you know, and we’d have the most splendid holiday. We would touch wherever we liked – Lisbon, Cadiz, the Cape, Bombay, Madras – exactly as the fancy took us. Oh, it would be quite capital!’ He leaned towards Elspeth, smiling. ‘Think of the places we’d see! The delight it would give me, Diana, to show you the wonder of Africa, as one sees it at dawn from the quarterdeck – such colours as you cannot imagine! The shores of the Indian Ocean – yes, the coral strand! Ah, believe me, until you have anchored off Singapore, or cruised the tropical coasts of Sumatra and Java and Borneo, and seen that glorious China Sea, where it is always morning – oh, my dear, you have seen nothing!’

Nonsense, of course; the Orient stinks. Always did. But Elspeth was gazing at him in rapture, and then she turned eagerly to me. ‘Oh, Harry – could we?’

‘Out o’ the question,’ says I. ‘It’s the back of beyond.’

‘In these days?’ cries Solomon. ‘Why, with steam you may be in Singapore in – oh, three months at most. Say, three months as my guests while we visit my estates – and you would learn, Diana, what it means to be a queen in the Orient, I assure you – and three months to return. You’d be home again by next Easter.’

‘Oh, Harry!’ Elspeth was positively squeaking with joy. ‘Oh, Harry – may we? Oh, please, Harry!’ The chaps at the table were nodding admiringly, and the ladies murmuring enviously; the old Duke was heard to say that it was an adventure, d----d if it wasn’t, and if he was a younger man, by George, wouldn’t he jump at the chance?

Well, they weren’t getting me East again; once had been enough. Besides, I wasn’t going anywhere on the charity of some rich dago show-off who’d taken a shine to my wife. And there was another reason, which enabled me to put a good face on my refusal.

‘Can’t be done, m’dear,’ says I. ‘Sorry, but I’m a soldier with a living to make. Duty and the Life Guards call, what? I’m desolate to deny you what I’m sure would be the jolliest trip’ – I felt a pang, I’ll admit, at seeing that lovely child face fall – ‘but I can’t go, you see. I’m afraid, Don, we’ll have to decline your kind offer.’

He shrugged good-humouredly. ‘That’s settled, then. A pity, but—’ he smiled consolingly at Elspeth, who was looking down-in-the-mouth ‘—perhaps another year. Unless, in Harry’s enforced absence, your father could be persuaded to accompany us?’

It was said so natural it took my breath away, but as it sank home I had to bite back an angry refusal. You b-----d, thinks I, that’s the game, is it? Wait till old Flashy’s put himself out of the running, and then innocently propose a scheme to get my wife far away where you can cock a leg over her at leisure. It was plain as a pikestaff; all my dormant suspicions of this smooth tub of nigger suet came back with a rush, but I kept mum while Elspeth looked down the table towards me – and, bless her, it was a doubtful look.

‘But … but it would be no fun without Harry,’ says she, and if ever I loved the girl it was then. ‘I … I don’t know – what does Papa say?’

Papa, who appeared to be still tunnelling away at his pudding, had missed nothing, you may be sure, but he kept quiet while Solomon explained the proposal. ‘You remember, sir, we spoke of the possibility that you might accompany me to the East, to see for yourself the opportunities of business expansion,’ he was adding, but Morrison cut him short in his charming way.

‘You spoke of it, no’ me,’ says he, busily engulfing blancmange. ‘I’ve mair than enough o’ affairs here, withoot gallivantin’ tae China at my time o’ life.’ He waved his spoon. ‘Forbye, husband an’ wife should be thegither – it was bad enough when Harry yonder had tae be away in India, an’ my wee lassie near heartbroken.’ He made a noise which the company took for a sentimental sniff; myself I think it was another spoonful being prised loose. ‘Na, na – I’ll need a guid reason afore I’ll stir forth o’ England.’

And he got it – to this day I can’t be certain that it was contrived by Solomon, but I’ll wager it was. For next morning the old hound was taken ill again – I don’t know if surfeit of blancmange can cause nervous collapse, but by afternoon he was groaning in bed, shuddering as with a fever, and Solomon insisted on summoning his own medico from Town, a dundreary-looking cove with a handle to his name and a line in unctuous gravity that must have been worth five thousand a year in Mayfair. He looked down solemnly at the sufferer, who was huddled under the clothes like a rat in its burrow, two beady eyes in a wrinkled face, and his nose quivering in apprehension.

‘Overstrained,’ says the sawbones, when he had completed his examination and caught the tune of Morrion’s whimpering. ‘The system is simply tired; that is all. Of organic deterioration there is no sign whatever; internally, my dear sir, you are sound as I am – as I hope I am, ha-ha!’ He beamed like a bishop. ‘But the machine, while not in need of repair, requires a rest – a long rest.’

‘Is it serious, docter?’ quavers Morrison. Internally, as the quack said, he might be in A1 trim, but his exterior suggested James I dying.

‘Certainly not – unless you make it so,’ says the poultice-walloper. He shook his head in censorious admiration. ‘You captains of commerce – you sacrifice yourselves without thought for personal health, as you labour for family and country and mankind. But, my dear sir, it won’t do, you know. You forget that there is a limit – and you have reached it.’

‘Could ye no’ gi’ me a line for a boatle?’ croaks the captain of commerce, and when this had been translated the medico shook his head.

‘I can prescribe,’ says he, ‘but no medicine could be as efficacious as – oh, a few months in the Italian lakes, or on the French coast. Warmth, sunshine, rest – complete rest in congenial company – that is my “line” for you, sir. I won’t be answerable for the consequences if you don’t take it.’

Well, there it was. In two seconds I had foreseen what was to follow – Solomon’s recollection that he had only yesterday proposed just such a holiday, the quack’s booming agreement that a sea voyage in comfort was the ideal thing, Morrison’s reluctance being eventually overborne by Elspeth’s entreaties and the pill-slinger’s stern admonition – you could have set it all to music and sung the d----d thing. Then they all looked at me, and I said no.

There followed painful private scenes between Elspeth and me. I said if old Morrison wanted to sail away with Don Solomon, he was more than welcome. She replied that it was unthinkable for dear Papa to go without her to look after him; it was absolutely her duty to accept Don Solomon’s generous offer and accompany the old goat. If I insisted on staying at home in the Army, of course she would be desolate without me – but why, oh why, could I not come anyway? – what did the Army matter, we had money enough, and so forth. I said no again, and added that it was a piece of impudence of Solomon’s even to suggest that she should go without me, at which she burst into tears and said I was odiously jealous, not only of her, but of Don Solomon’s breeding and address and money, just because I hadn’t any myself, and I was spitefully denying her a little pleasure, and there could be no possible impropriety with dear Papa to chaperon her, and I was trying to shovel the old sod into an early grave, or words to that effect.

I left her wailing, and when Solomon tried to persuade me later himself, took the line that military duty made the trip impossible for me, and I couldn’t bear to be parted from Elspeth. He sighed, but said he understood only too well – in my shoes, he said with disarming frankness, he’d do the same. I wondered for a moment if I had wronged him – for I know I tend to judge everyone by myself, and while I’m usually not far wrong to do so, there are decent and disinterested folk about, here and there. I’ve seen some.

Old Morrison, by the way, didn’t say a word; he could have forced my hand, of course, but being as true a Presbyterian hypocrite as ever robbed an orphan, he held that a wife should abide by her husband’s rule, and wouldn’t interfere between Elspeth and me. So I continued to say ‘no’, and Elspeth sulked until the time came to put on her next new bonnet.

So a couple of days passed, in which I played cricket for Mynn’s side, tumbling a few wickets with my shiverers, and slogging a few runs (not many, but 18 in one innings, which pleased me, and catching out Pilch again, one hand, very low down, when he tried to cut Mynn past point and I had to go full length to it. Pilch swore it was a bump, but it wasn’t – you may be sure I’d tell you if it had been). Meanwhile Elspeth basked in admiration and the gay life, Solomon was the perfect host and escort, old Morrison sat on the terrace grumbling and reading sermons and share prices, and Judy promenaded with Elspeth, looking cattish and saying nothing.

Then on Friday things began to happen, and as so often is the case with catastrophe, all went splendidly at first. All week I’d been trying to arrange an assignation with the tantalising Mrs Leo Lade, but what with my own busy affairs and the fact that the old Duke kept a jealous eye on her, I’d been out of luck. It was just a question of time and place, for she was as ready as I; indeed, we’d near got to grips on the Monday after dinner, when we strolled in the garden, but I’d no sooner got her panting among the privet with her teeth half way through my ear than that bl----d minx Judy came to summon us to hear Elspeth sing ‘The Ash Grove’ in the drawing-room; it would be Judy, smiling her knowing smile, telling us to be sure not to miss the treat.

However, on Friday morning Elspeth went off with Solomon to visit some picture gallery, Judy was shopping with some of the guests, the house was empty except for old Morrison on the terrace, and Mrs Lade bowled up presently to say that the Duke was abed with an attack of gout. For show’s sake we made small talk with Morrison, which infuriated him, and then went our separate ways in leisurely fashion, meeting again in the drawing-room in a fine frenzy of fumbling and escaping steam. We weren’t new to the business, either of us, so I had her breasts out with one hand and my breeches down with the other while I was still kicking the door to, and she completed her undressing while we were positively humping the mutton all the way to the couch, which argued sound training on her part. By George, she was a heavy woman, but nimble as an eel for all her elegant poundage; I can’t think offhand of a partner who could put you through as many different mounting-drills in the course of one romp, except perhaps Elspeth herself when she had a drink in her.

It was exhilarating work, and I was just settling myself for the finish, and thinking, we’ll have to have more of this another time, when I heard a sound that galvanised me so suddenly that it’s a wonder the couch didn’t give way – rapid footsteps were approaching the drawing-room door. I took stock – breeches down, one shoe off, miles from the window or any convenient cover, Mrs Lade kneeling on the couch, me peering from behind through her feathered headdress (which she had forgotten to remove; quite a compliment, I remember thinking), the doorknob turning. Caught, hopeless, not a chance of escape – nothing for it but to hide my face in the nape of her neck and trust that the visible side of me wouldn’t be recognised by whoever came in. For they wouldn’t linger – not in 1843 – unless it was the Duke, and those footsteps didn’t belong to a gout patient.

The door opened, the footsteps stopped – and then there was what a lady novelist would call a pregnant pause, lasting about three hours, it seemed to me, and broken only by Mrs Lade’s ecstatic moanings; I gathered she was unaware that we were observed. I stole a peep through her feathers at the mirror above the fireplace – and almost had convulsions, for it was Solomon reflected in the doorway, his hand on the latch, taking in the scene.

He never even blinked an eye; then, as other footsteps sounded somewhere behind him he stepped back, and as the door closed I heard him saying: ‘No, there is no one here; let us try the conservatory.’ Dago or not, he was a d----d considerate host, that one.

The door hadn’t closed before I was trying to disengage, but without success, for Mrs Lade’s hands reached back in an instant, clamping her claws into my rear, her head tilting back beside mine. ‘No, no, no, not yet!’ gasps she, chewing away at me. ‘Don’t go!’

‘The door,’ I explained. ‘Must lock the door. Someone might see.’

‘Don’t leave me!’ she cried, and I doubt if she knew where she was, even, for her eyes were rolling in her head, and d----d if I could get loose. Mind you, I was reluctant; torn two ways, as it were.

‘The key,’ I mumbled, thrusting away. ‘Only take a moment – back directly.’

‘Take me with you!’ she moans, and I did, heaven knows how, hobbling along with all that flesh to carry. Fortunately it all ended happily just as my legs gave way, and we collapsed at the threshold in joyous exhaustion; I even managed to get the key turned.

Whether she could dress as quickly as she stripped, I can’t say, for she was still swooning and gasping against the panels, with her feathers awry, when I flung on my last garment and shinned down the ivy. Feverish work it had been, and the sooner I was elsewhere, establishing an alibi, the better. A brisk walk was what I needed just then – anyway, I had a match in the afternoon, and wanted to be in trim.

* * *

[Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, June —, 1843]

… never have I felt so guilty – and yet, what could I do? My heart warned me, when Don S. cut short our visit to the gallery – and there were some Exquisite Watercolours which I would have liked to view at leisure – that he had some Purpose in returning early to the house. What my Foreboding was I cannot explain, but alas! it was justified, and I am the most Wretched Creature in the world!! The house was quite deserted, except for Papa asleep on the terrace, and Something in Don S.’s manner – it may have been the Ardent Expression in his eyes – led me to insist that we should seek out my Dear H. at once. Oh, would that we had found him! We looked everywhere, but there was no one to be seen, and when we came to the conservatory, Don S. filled me with Alarm and Shame by declaring himself in the most forward manner – for the atmosphere of the plants, being extremely Oppressive, and my own agitation, made me feel so faint that I was forced to support myself by leaning on his arm, and find relief by resting my head on his shoulder. [A likely story!!! – G. de R.] In that moment of faintness, picture my utter distress when he took advantage of the situation to press his lips to mine!! I was so affronted that it was some moments a moment before I could find the strength to make him desist, and it was only with difficulty that I at last Escaped his Embrace. He used the most Passionate Expressions to me, calling me his Dear Diana and his Golden Nymph (which struck me, even in that Moment of Perturbation, as a most poetic conceit), and the Effect was so weakening that I was unable to resist when he clasped me to his bosom yet again, and Kissed me with even greater Force than before. Fortunately, one of the gardeners was heard approaching, and I was able to make good my retreat, with my wits quite disordered.

My Shame and Remorse may be imagined, and if aught could have increased them it was the sudden sight of my darling H. in the garden, taking his exercise, he explained, before his match in the afternoon. The sight of his flushed, manly countenance, and the knowledge that he had been engaged in such a healthy, innocent pursuit while I had been helpless in the Heated Embrace of another, however much against my will, were as a knife in my heart. To make it worse, he called me his Jolly Old Girl, and asked eagerly after the picture gallery; I was moved almost to tears, and when we went together to the terrace, and found Mrs L.L., I could not but remark that H. paid her no more than the barest civility (and, indeed, there was very little about her to Entice any man, for she appeared quite bedraggled), but was all kindness and attentiveness to me, like the dear best of husbands that he is.

But what am I to think of Don S.’s conduct? I must try not to judge him too harshly, for he is of such a warm temperament, and given to passionate disclosure of it in every way, that it is not to be wondered at if he is Susceptible to that which he finds attractive. But surely I am not to blame if – through no fault of mine – I have been cast by Kind Nature in a form and feature which the Stronger Sex find pleasing? I console myself with the thought that it is Woman’s Portion, if she is fortunate in her endowments, to be adored, and she has little to reproach herself with so long as she does not Encourage Familiarity, but comports herself with Proper Modesty …

[Conceit and humbug! End of extract – G. de R.]