Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 5

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The Balcombe family had assembled about the table for the evening meal. Because of the importance of the day and the excitement which had gripped the whole island, the two boys had been allowed to stay up; William, who was eight, and little Alex, who was four. They sat on each side of their mother and, being very well brought up, had little to say. Already, in fact, the eyes of little Alex were beginning to show the first signs of uncontrollable sleepiness.

The head of the house, looking about him with an affectionate glance was filled suddenly with a sense of his blessings and forgot the main topic of the moment. He had already explained that the ex-emperor of the French would not come ashore until after sundown and that he intended to ride back to Jamestown to watch. Now his thoughts had taken a different turn. “I suppose they still say at Carlton House that I married beneath me,” he mused silently. “Ha, those red-nosed wine swillers, I wish they were here! Has any man a prettier or more affectionate wife? Where are there children to equal these of mine?” He smiled to himself as he raised his second glass of port and admired its deep coloring. It might have been said that he had a Georgian face, jaw more conspicuous than the brow, the eyes very much alive, the hair a mass of dark close curls. His white stock was immaculate but his coat and his braided weskit had a suggestion of age about them.

The second daughter was not much interested in her food. She fidgeted about until her father, who understood the signs, realized she had something on her mind. Finally she spoke up.

“Papa!”

“Yes.”

“Papa, I think I’ll go with you.”

Before the head of the house could declare himself, Mrs. Balcombe took the matter in hand. “You are not going with him, Betsy. It’s entirely out of the question. You will have to go to bed at your usual time.”

Betsy frowned as though she did not understand the reason for such finality in the maternal dictum. “But, Mamma—”

“No ‘buts,’ young lady,” said Mrs. Balcombe. “You’re going to bed as usual and there’s no use saying anything more.”

“But, Mamma, I have something—something very important I want to say about it.”

William Balcombe smiled up the length of the table at his wife. “I think, my dear, we should hear this very important communication.”

“Well,” said Betsy, seizing the opportunity instantly, “when I grow up—when I’m married and have children of my own—they’ll know I was here when Napoleon Bonaparte came. Aren’t they going to ask me questions and questions and questions? They’ll want to know—oh, everything! What am I going to say to them? That I was sent to bed early?”

“You may be worried about what you’ll say,” declared her mother, who was now smiling broadly. “But I’m not. You’ll think of things to say, dear child. You always do.”

“Betsy,” said Mr. Balcombe, in his quiet-spoken way. “I’d like to take you, child, but I’m sure no women will be there. It may be a noisy crowd. Might even develop into a bit of a riot, you know. It wouldn’t be safe for you. I’m sure your mother doesn’t want to go. Nor Jane.”

Jane, who was two years older than Betsy, faced her across the table. It was clear that she was not so much interested in the matter as the rest of them. Her mind, apparently, was on other things at the moment. In the past year she had been growing into a young lady, graduating from the wearing of pantalettes and becoming deeply concerned with such major concerns as parties and dresses and beaux. She was slender and had a brunette prettiness; and was in every way a sweet and pleasant young lady.

Betsy was quite different. In her fourteenth year she already showed the beginnings of an exquisite beauty. With this rare heritage, however, she was still a tomboy and much more concerned about her pony and the sports in which she indulged with her friends than with bothersome considerations of dress and appearance. Her hair was a mass of close fair curls but it never occurred to her that it demanded any further attention after the combing she gave it on rising. It must be acknowledged that Betsy was untidy, a burden which her usually gentle mother found hard to bear. Her eyes, quite large in a heart-shaped face, were a bright and vibrant blue; but as one result of an active summer her cheeks were tanned brown and there was a small cluster of freckles on her nose.

Sarah Timms, the colored servant who looked after the two sisters and helped with the serving of the meals, came in to distribute plates for the dish of stewed veal already on the table. She was a comfortable figure in a loose dress of broad colors and with a purple cloth wrapped around her head. She loved purple and would not wear anything else. She had warm and loving eyes.

“Miss Betsy,” she said, “yu mammy right. Dis Bom’part, he terr’ble man. He get at yu an’ tear out yu heart. An’ eat it!”

“I did not ask for your opinion, Sarah,” said Mrs. Balcombe. She was an indulgent mistress, but, after all, there were limits which had to be enforced.

“No’m, mistuss. My ’pinions nevah ast. But allus give.”

“Yes, they’re always give, Sarah Timms.” Mrs. Balcombe sighed. “I really believe I’ve heard you express your views on every subject under the sun.”

The ample and tenderhearted Sarah’s concern at the moment was all for her charge. Betsy had fallen into the land of despair that the very young can engender over small matters. “You goan eat veal, chile?” she asked.

“No,” answered Betsy. “You know I don’t like stewed veal. It’s stringy and it has no taste.”

Her father regarded her sternly. “Now, young lady, you know how hard it is to keep fresh meat on an island like this. We’re lucky to have veal. I don’t know what we’re coming to. The number of vessels stopping here seems to shrink all the time. Perhaps we’ll do better with this distinguished visitor in our midst. You’d better powder into that veal like a good girl.”

“Perhaps Mamma will let me have an egg instead.”

“No eggs!” decided Sarah. “We’s gonna be sho’t on eggs. Dis Bom’part he eats on’y chickem and soon all chickemn on island be gone. Den where eggs cum fum?”

William Balcombe expected to assume the responsibility for the supplies needed in the Napoleonic household. His eyes began to twinkle.

“I must say that’s a slant that never occurred to me. Perhaps I better look into it.” He poured himself another glass of wine. “Sarah, are you really afraid of this man?”

“Cose I’se ’fraid. Dis night I’se goin’ do like eve’yone in Jamestom. I’se goin’ to bed and covah mah haid in blankit. He ain’ goin’ git at me!”

Mantee Timms, Sarah’s husband, who was a general handyman about the place, came in with more dishes. He was not of much use and had careless habits with his shirts, which always seemed to be out. His hand trembled as he placed the dishes in the center of the table.

“Tee!” said Mr. Balcombe, sharply. “You been at the brandy again?”

“Huh, suh?” Mantee always needed to have a question repeated at least once in order to get a full grasp of the meaning.

“You heard me, Tee; have you been at the brandy?”

“No, suh, mas’r. No brandy. No, suh. None tall.”

“Then why does your hand shake? Is it because you’re afraid of this man Bonaparte too?”

Mantee was so eager to grasp at any excuse that he did not need to have this suggestion repeated. “Das it, suh. Yas, suh, das it. I’se ’fraid o’ dis Bonumpart.”

“Then you have no wish to go into town tonight to see him?”

“No, suh!”

Sarah had moved around the table to stand behind Betsy. “I’s knew yu not eat veal, chile. I make johnnycake. Yu want now?”

“Yes, Sarah, please. But I must have sirup with it.”

“Deys sirup foh yu, chile.”

“For me too, I hope,” said the head of the house. “I like sirup.”

“On’y nuff foh one, Mist’ Ballum.”

Mrs. Balcombe had made a discovery. “Betsy!” she said, sharply. “You’ve got that dog beside you. How many times must I say he’s not to be brought to the table?”

Betsy’s voice took on a pleading note, as she laid a protecting hand on the head of the small pug dog she had smuggled in beside her. “Please, Mamma. You know Snooky hasn’t grown as fast as the others. They pick on the poor little fellow and don’t let him go near the plates. He’d starve to death if I didn’t look after him.”

“But not at the table, Betsy Balcombe! Have you given him anything off your plate?”

Jane knew that her younger sister had broken this rule by giving her pet some surreptitious bites of the unwanted veal, so she came to her aid by asking their mother a question. “Did I tell you I was in Teach’s shop yesterday, Mamma?”

The well-meant red herring served its purpose. Mrs. Balcombe turned at once to the older daughter. “I didn’t know you were going into town, Jane. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, Mamma, I just wanted to have a quiet look around all by myself. I’m getting so tired of white. I’ve worn nothing else for five or six years and I do want my new dress to be something different.”

The mother of the family became so completely engrossed in the point raised by Jane that she turned sideways in her chair and indulged in a slight frown. Betsy took advantage of this by carrying the dog to the side door and putting him out on the porch with a friendly pat. “Don’t you worry, Snooky,” she whispered. “I’ll see you get plenty to eat tonight.”

“Jane,” declared Mrs. Balcombe, “I’m not sure anything will suit you as well as white. You look so girlish and pretty in it.”

“That’s just it, Mamma! I don’t want to look girlish any longer. I saw”—with a sudden enthusiasm—“a really lovely India muslin. It’s the new dusky shade, you know. They call it graine de réséda. I just love it.”

Mrs. Balcombe gave some thought to the problem. “I’ll go in and look at it, Jane. But, mind, I’m not promising.”

The head of the house rose to his feet, reluctantly pushing the port bottle to one side. “Time to start for town, if you’ll excuse me, my dear,” he said. “I know a man’s opinion is of no value but it seems to me this muslin would suit Jane very well. She’s growing up, you know. Tee, bring Conquistador around. I’ll ride him in tonight.” His voice rose to a shout of exasperation. “Your shirt’s out at the back again! If you aren’t more careful, I’ll send you to the stables for good!”

He passed Betsy at the door and paused to drop a hand lightly on her head. “Sorry I can’t take you.”