Читать книгу The Officer and the Proper Lady - Louise Allen - Страница 8

Hal had the reputation of never losing his temper. It was a valuable characteristic, whether on a battlefield, in a gaming hell or looking down the barrel of a duelling pistol. He reminded himself of it, while his friends ragged him about his assignation with Mrs Horton.

‘So you can’t describe her boudoir?’ Captain Grey said, pushing the bottle across the table to Jameson.

The major caught it as it rocked perilously. ‘Too caught up in the toils of passion to notice, old chap?’

‘You must recall something,’ Will wheedled. ‘Don’t be a spoilsport, Carlow. Mirrors on the ceiling? Silken drapes? Golden cords? A bath with swan-headed taps?’

‘I cannot describe it, because I have not been in it,’ Hal said, taking a swig of claret.

‘What?’ The captain’s chair legs hit the ground with a thump. ‘But we saw you, last night. Damn it, the way you were looking at each other, you might as well have called the town crier in to announce what you’d be doing later.’

‘I changed my mind.’ Hal stretched out and took hold of the bottle, just as Major Jameson reached for it again.

‘You changed your mind? Bloody hell.’ Grey stared at him. ‘Are you sickening for something?’

‘No. Are we going to the Literary Institute, or not?’

‘We’re not moving until we hear why you didn’t stagger out of the luscious Barbara’s bedroom, weak at the knees after a night of passion,’ Jameson said, obviously fascinated. ‘Cards can wait.’

‘I never stagger weak at the knees after a night of passion,’ Hal said. ‘I stride. Last night I changed my mind and, no, I do not intend telling you why.’

‘My God,’ said Grey, awed. ‘She’ll be hissing like a cat this morning.’

‘You are welcome to go and try putting butter on her paws, if you like,’ Hal suggested, making his friend blush and grin. ‘But naturally, I sent a note of apology.’

‘Citing what reason, exactly?’

‘Pressing military duties.’

They subsided, agreeing that even Lady Horton would be placated by such an irrefutable excuse under the present circumstances. Lieutenant Hayden, silent up to this point while he demolished the remains of the fruit tart and cream, looked up, his chubby face serious. ‘Turning over a new leaf, Carlow? New Year’s resolution or something?’ The others laughed at him, but he just grinned amiably. ‘I know, it’s May. Thought you might be getting into fighting trim—early nights, clean living.’ He sighed. ‘It’ll be the betting next and then we’ll all be in the suds. How will we know what to back if you give it up?’

‘I am not giving up gambling or betting and I am not giving up women,’ Hal said, trying to ignore the strange sensation inside his chest. It felt unpleasantly like apprehension. Or the threat of coming change.

He had watched Julia Tresilian walk away from him in her modest little home-made gown, her nose in the air, her words ringing in his ears, and he had laughed. It was funny, it genuinely was, that a notorious rake should give his head for a washing by a prim nobody who had about as much clue about the things she was lecturing him on as the canary in a spinster’s parlour.

And then he saw her cross diagonally in front of Barbara Horton and felt suddenly as though he had eaten too much rich dessert: faintly queasy and with no inclination to dip his spoon in the dish for another mouthful. What he wanted was a draught of sharp, honest lemonade.

He wanted Miss Julia Tresilian. As he stood there staring blindly at the chattering crowd, it hit him like a thunderbolt. He wanted Julia Tresilian.

It was impossible. It had sent him back to the hotel last night with his head spinning, and it woke him up at hourly intervals all night with waves of panic flooding through him. He was losing his mind, he told himself at breakfast, washing mouthfuls of dry toast down with cup after cup of strong black coffee. He never spent nights tossing and turning—not before battle, not before a duel. He, Hal Carlow, did not lose sleep over some prudish little chit.

She was an innocent, respectable young woman. A gentleman did not toy with such a woman—not unless he meant marriage. Hal did not want to marry, and he most certainly could not marry a girl like that. Not with his reputation, all of which had been hard-earned and was entirely justified.

He was not fit to touch her hand, he knew that. She might be almost on the shelf, she might be dowerless and of no particular family. But decency and integrity shone out of those expressive brown eyes and all he had was his honour as a gentleman—and that was telling him to run a mile before he touched her, physically or emotionally.

Hal drained his glass. If he had fallen in love with her, he could understand it. But he had not. He hardly knew the girl. Men he knew who had fallen in love mooned about writing poetry, or lost weight, or likened their beloved to a moonbeam or a zephyr.

Not his brother Marcus, of course, Marcus had spent most of his courtship in a state of violent antagonism to Nell, but they were obviously the exception. Marcus was the sort of virtuous son and heir who did things properly, took his pleasures discreetly and then settled down, married and produced heirs. But a second son did not have that obligation, although that did not stop family disapproval when he acted on his freedom.

Hal shrugged away memories of tight-lipped arguments, sighs and youthful disgrace. He wasn’t a youth any more, he didn’t feel like mooning, he couldn’t think of a line of poetry, and Julia was neither a moonbeam nor a zephyr. She was innocent, sharp-tongued, painfully honest, intelligent and pleasant to look at. He was not in lust either. In fact he shocked himself even thinking about physical passion in the same sentence as Julia’s name. And he could not recall the last time he had shocked himself. And yet, he wanted her. Ached for her.

This is a passing infatuation, an inner voice lectured him, or you’ve been overdoing things. Just keep out of her way and you’ll get over it.

‘Right.’ He grounded the empty bottle with a thump. ‘The Literary Institute it is.’

The eminently respectable Institute was where the gentlemen of the British community retreated daily to use the library, write their letters, read the London papers and argue about the best way to deal with Napoleon.

It was also a front for a gaming hell. How their sharp-nosed wives had not discovered this was a mystery to Hal. Men whom he knew were living in Brussels on the economic plan, necessitated by excessive gaming, could be found cheerfully losing hundreds of pounds a night, often to him. It just went to prove, he thought, handing his cloak, hat and sabre to the attendant, that men were incapable of reform, whatever women believed.

‘I’ll see you down there, just need to look something up,’ he called, turning into the library as they clattered off down the stairs into the candlelit fug of the gaming rooms. The Landed Gentry was on the shelves and he began to thumb through until he found Tresilian.

Here they were: her father David, younger brother of the present baronet. Hal cross-checked Sir Alfred Tresilian, Bt. A modest marriage, a quiverful of children, so presumably uncle had no great resources himself. David had married Amelia Henry, there were two children—Julia Claire and Phillip David—and he was marked as deceased 1810.

What had that achieved? Hal asked himself, as he walked into the card room and chose a table. Nothing, except to feed this ridiculous obsession.

Julia had been correct about her mother’s reaction to the Reverend Mr Smyth. After checking with the vicar of the English church in Brussels she pronounced him eminently suitable. ‘Not that we must put all our eggs in one basket,’ she warned Julia. ‘There is nothing wrong with meeting more eligible gentlemen.’

‘No, Mama,’ Julia agreed. She allowed herself the pleasure of a ride in Mr Smyth’s smart curricle and then, in the space of three days, was gratified by introductions to Mr Fordyce, the confidential secretary to Lord Ellsworth, a diplomat dealing with British relations for the new King of the Netherlands, and Colonel Williams, a widower in his forties with a fifteen-year-old daughter. She attended a small dance, a musicale and a charity luncheon.

At none of these events did she see Major Carlow, which was, of course, a relief. At frequent intervals she recalled the way she had spoken to him and his laughter as she had stalked off, and her cheeks burned afresh. Frequently she saw the blue uniform of the Light Dragoons amongst the scarlet and the green of other regiments and her heart would behave oddly for a beat: but it was never Hal.

She did see Major Fellowes at the musicale, and whispered to Lady Geraldine that the slimy dragon was there. Her ladyship kept her close and raised her eyeglass when she saw him watching. His retreat was highly gratifying.

Julia was becoming accustomed to her new life. In the course of one week her world had been turned on its head and she felt as she had after that glass of champagne: slightly dizzy and surprisingly confident. Mrs Tresilian, receiving every detail with great interest, was delighted.

On the last Saturday in May Julia got up early, dressed in one of her new gowns, picked at her breakfast and then fidgeted, waiting to be collected for an all-day picnic in the Fôret de Soignes.

It was the most talked-about event for weeks and now, as she looked out at a cloudless sky, she could hardly believe she was attending. Her gown was more than suitable, thank goodness. Madame Gervais, the elegant modiste that Mama had discovered in the Lower Town, had shown them the illustration in the Journal des Dames et des Modes.

‘The hat composed of white and lilac satin,’ Julia had translated from the French. ‘Ornamented with bows of ribbon and a cluster of flowers. Robe de satin lilas…lilac satin—I suppose I had better have muslin—trimmed entirely round the bosom and at the bottom with a large quilling of blonde lace. Gloves, pale tan, shoes of lilac kid.’ She studied the drawing. ‘I like the way the hat brim turns up and the detail of the sleeve.’

And now she was tying the thick, smooth ribbons under her chin while Mama fluffed up the sleeves and the specially dyed lilac kid slippers peeped out from under the blonde lace—not quite as lavishly applied as in the illustration, but a positive snip at three shillings and six pence the yard. Would Major Carlow think this gown a model of chaste simplicity? But he was unlikely to be at something as staid as a picnic, she supposed.

‘Now, be sure not sit down on the ground until the blankets are spread,’ Mrs Tresilian fussed. ‘I do not know what it is about picnics, but the most tidy young ladies always come back looking complete romps.’ She frowned. ‘And I worry a little about it being in the woods—do not go wandering off alone, dearest, or with a gentleman, even Mr Smyth.’

‘Why not?’ Phillip enquired. He was watching all this early morning prinking with close attention. ‘What’s in the woods?’

‘Er…wolves,’ Julia explained, earning a chuckle from her mother and sending Phillip off on a new game of Hunt the Wolf that the landlady’s kittens found highly entertaining.

Lady Geraldine’s barouche arrived on the stroke of nine. Mr Masters had gratified his wife by accompanying her, and they had already taken up Miss Marriott, a picture in lemon muslin and scalloped lace with a cottager hat trimmed with artificial primroses.

Felicity chattered; Julia simply sat drinking it all in. Around them, the cream of Brussels Society streamed out through the Namur Gate on the road south through the forest to Ixcelles and its lake, the site of the picnic. Mr Smyth waved from his curricle, a friend beside him. She saw groups of officers on horseback and numerous carriages like their own. This was going to be a picnic on an epic scale and someone had organised it with military precision.

‘Miss Tresilian?’ Mr Masters was looking at her in concern. ‘Are you chilled? You shivered.’

‘No, sir, thank you. I am not cold. A goose just walked over my grave,’ she said with a smile. It would not do to spoil everyone else’s enjoyment with foolish premonitions. But the sight of all those brave scarlet coats, the sound of masculine laughter and shouts, the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels reminded her vividly of why all these men were here. Soon, within weeks perhaps, troops would be streaming south out of this gate, down towards the French border. Towards war.

But no-one spoke of it in so many words. Not of the death and destruction to come, only of the politics, the tactics, as though they all just happened to be gathered in Brussels as an extension of the Congress in Vienna. And the balls and the parties must go on and everyone must pretend—on the surface at least—that the storm was not coming.

Her nerves were still jumping when they reached the picnic site on a rise of ground overlooking the lake. Tents had been set out for refreshments, for sitting in the shade, for the ladies to retire to. The band of the 52nd Foot played by kind permission of its colonel. It was, Lady Geraldine remarked, as though a Hyde Park review had been dropped into the midst of a garden party.

Mr Smyth was there to help her down from the barouche, Colonel Williams strolled past with his daughter and stopped to talk, his eyes appreciative when he looked at her, and then both gentlemen were cut out by Mr Fordyce who swept her off to the breakfast tent with the aplomb of the seasoned diplomat.

It was all very glamorous and rather unreal. Her gloomy visions of battles evaporated in the face of sunshine and tables with floral arrangements and Charles Fordyce fetching her hot chocolate and tiny pastries.

Only Julia could not be easy. Someone was watching her. She could feel it like the touch of a finger on her spine, the merest pressure. She scanned the sweep of meadow in front of her, but everyone was sitting or strolling and not paying her the slightest attention. She shifted in her seat and looked into the refreshment tent. But there were only bustling waiters and assiduous gentlemen fetching laden plates of delicacies for their parties.

‘The woods are so pretty.’ She turned in the other direction, hoping Mr Fordyce would not think her both fidgety and inane—and there he was. Major Carlow leaned against the trunk of a beech tree on the edge of the wood, his eyes steady on her.

Julia turned back, her pulse spiking all over the place, and picked up her cup. ‘Is Lord Ellsworth at the picnic?’ she enquired, almost at random. He is here, she thought, realizing how much she had secretly hoped he would be. And she had sensed him, had felt that sultry gaze on her. What did it mean, that she was so aware of him?

‘His lordship is afflicted with the gout. He bit my head off when I brought in his post, then relented and told me he did not want to see my face again until tomorrow and I should go and fritter the day away. I was not, he informed me, to give a thought to him, alone, in pain and having to manage without his secretary.’

‘Thus ensuring you felt thoroughly guilty?’ Julia said sympathetically. She had learned that Charles Fordyce was set on a political career and his post with Lord Ellsworth was considered to be a useful first step. It sounded a very trying position.

‘I soon learned not to take any notice of his megrims,’ Charles said cheerfully. ‘He will be fine once his gout subsides.’

Julia set herself to make conversation. It should be very pleasant in the sunshine, nibbling cinnamon curls and listening to the band. Only, the touch of Hal Carlow’s regard did not leave her and she had to fight the urge to turn round and stare back. Her stomach tightened with nerves, not unpleasantly. She could feel her colour rising and her pulse quickening at the thought of another exchange of words with him. Why was he watching her? Surely not to give her the opportunity to throw any more ill-considered and outrageous remarks at his head?

With the last crumb consumed, Charles Fordyce stood. ‘Shall we stroll down to the lake, Miss Tresilian?’

Julia opened her new parasol and took his arm. It gave her the chance to look up towards the trees, but the lean figure in blue had gone. Had she imagined him?

Julia made herself attend to the man with whom she was walking. He was pleasant, intelligent, cheerful and well-connected and although Mama thought his current circumstances not as comfortable as Mr Smyth’s, Julia found him better company. But it was a very cool and calculating matter, this husband-hunting, she decided, thinking of the little rituals, the formal games, the pretences that one was expected to go through on the route to the altar.

What did the men make of it? Or perhaps they did not mind very much, provided their bride brought what they required to the match, whether it was connections, or breeding or money. Or, in my case, Julia thought, waving to Mr Smyth and his friend, none of the first, a touch of the second, none of the third but an unblemished reputation to sweeten the bargain if a gentleman is attracted enough to overlook what was lacking. Falling in love was out of the question. Respectable couples only did that in novels and a realistic young lady did not think of it.

‘Mr Fordyce!’ A lady was gesturing imperiously.

‘Oh lord,’ he muttered. ‘Lord Ellsworth’s sister, Lady Margery.’

‘You must go and speak to her, of course.’ It would not do for him to antagonise his employer’s relative. ‘Look, there is Miss Marriott, feeding the ducks. I will join her.’

‘Bless you. Lady M will want a blow by blow account of the gout and what medicines he is taking.’ Charles rolled his eyes and strode off. ‘Ma’am?’

Underfoot, something squelched. Julia looked down and saw the ground was marshy. For the first time she realized that Felicity was standing on a low wooden jetty; to join her she would have to go up the slope to the path. She reached the fringe of the wood and rested a hand on a tree to look at her new kid slippers.

‘Botheration!’ There were traces of mud along the sides and the ladies’ retiring tent with its attendant maids was right across the far side of the site. By the time she got there the moisture could have soaked in, taking the dirt with it.

But she could hardly remove her shoes here, baring her stockinged feet in full view: only the fastest young lady would do such a thing. Julia slipped between the trees and into the wood. It did not take long to be completely out of sight of the open meadow, although the music was still clearly audible. The trees parted onto a sunlit glade with not only a fallen tree to sit upon but soft long grass to wipe her shoes with.

Julia perched on the trunk and untied the ribbons around her ankles, slipped off the shoes and regarded them critically. The water had not soaked through and a careful dab with the grass took off the mud almost entirely. A careful wash with soapwort when she got home and they would be as good as new.

She wriggled her stockinged toes and leaned back, staring up through the leaves to the cloudless sky above. This was perfectly lovely. She must persuade Mama to hire a gig one day and they could bring Phillip for a picnic by the lake.

‘Why, Julia! Tying your garter in public? How very dashing of you.’ Major Fellowes strolled out of the trees, an almost lurid figure in his scarlet uniform against the fresh greens.

‘I am wiping my shoes,’ she said coldly. There was nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. She was only yards from a crowd of people. ‘And a gentleman would leave me in privacy.’

‘Let me tie up your ribbons for you,’ he said, his voice suggestively husky. ‘Or untie some others.’

But of course, as he very well knew, she might be within yards of safety but if she ran she was going to burst out of the woods, barefoot and dishevelled—and he had only to let his vivid uniform be glimpsed through the trees for it to appear that she had been involved in a most disreputable tryst.

Julia jammed her feet into the slippers, tying the ribbons with a hasty knot. ‘Go away.’ She got to her feet, the fallen tree trunk massive behind her: no escape that way. She began to edge around the glade, but he was faster. With two long strides he had her, his hand fastening around her wrist to jerk her to him. Julia landed with a thump against his very solid chest, the braid and buttons of his uniform imprinting themselves painfully through spencer, gown and camisole.

‘Now then, stop being difficult—’ Fellowes wrapped his left arm around her, imprisoning her as she struggled to lift her free hand.

‘Stop it!’ Julia ducked her head to find some bare skin to bite. She wouldn’t win, she knew that, he was too big and too strong, but if she could just get him off balance she might have a chance to run.

‘Let her go.’ The words dropped into the still air of the clearing like three strokes on a bell. Hal.