Читать книгу The Last Love - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 7

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Betsy interrupted the breakfast that her parents were enjoying together by bursting in with her news.

“I’ve seen him!” she declared.

William Balcombe looked up from the kedgeree he was eating; a common dish in St. Helena because of the abundance of fish. Although there was no bacon, no sausage, no kidneys on the table—in fact, none of the classic dishes of a fine English breakfast—Sarah Timms had a special gift for the first meal of the day. There was a loaf of bread right out of the oven and smoking hot, an array of small containers with the most delectable of jams and jellies, and a pot of coffee filling the room with the most agreeable of odors. The dining room was on the east side and so had the benefit of the early sun. It was warm and bright and cheerful.

“Do you mean Napoleon?” asked the head of the house.

“Yes, Papa. He was riding up the shore road and I was behind the gates. So I saw him as plain as plain.”

Although none of the other children had yet come down, Betsy seated herself in her usual chair. She reached for the bread. Holding up the piece she had secured, she emitted a cry of triumph. “The crusty end! I’ve haven’t had it for—oh, for weeks and weeks. One of those greedy little brothers of mine always gets it.”

“The little fellows like the crusty ends,” said Mrs. Balcombe.

“And so do I. And so does Jane. And you. And Papa.” Betsy let the subject drop and proceeded to eat the bread with relish.

“Now tell us your impression of Napoleon,” said her father.

“He looked—well, like a schoolteacher. You know, kind of stern and very sure of himself. And not willing to have any back talk at all. But I liked him.”

“Then you’ll be able to calm the fears of poor Sarah and the rest of the servants. They sometimes seem inclined to listen to you. They won’t listen to me, although I got much the same impression as you did. Of course, I didn’t get a close view of him.”

Betsy began to draw on the information she had received from the sentry. “You weren’t as lucky as Private Knock. He saw the emperor very close.”

William Balcombe, having finished his kedgeree, frowned at this. “And who is Private Knock?”

“Oh, I haven’t told you about him, have I? I saw him as soon as I went out this morning. He was on sentry go at our gates. So I went down to find why he was there and we had a long talk.”

“Indeed. Don’t you know, child, that young ladies should not have long talks with private soldiers? Or talks of any kind!”

“Oh, Papa, he was just filled with interesting things to tell me. You see, he was born in London and he joined a group who called themselves the Kincher Coes. They were a pretty bad lot, I’m afraid.”

“Kincher Coes,” said her father in a reflective tone. “That would be a corruption of the old cant term, I suppose. Some time ago—oh, several centuries—the crooks of England used to call their girls kinchin morts and their boys kinchin coes. So this interesting sentry had been a kinchin coe!”

“Oh, yes,” said Betsy eagerly. “And they got into trouble. I think it may have been stealing fruit from barrows or the quarts of milk left on area steps. The bobbies were after them—”

“Bobbies?” said Mrs. Balcombe, who was beginning to show symptoms of shock.

“The police, my dear, the police,” said her husband. “It’s largely a London term but surely you’ve heard the word used.”

“Well, anyway,” went on Betsy, “Private Knock thought he had better get himself out of trouble, so he took the shilling.”

“That means he enlisted,” explained Mr. Balcombe for his wife’s enlightenment. “And so, Betsy, this private soldier had a close look at Napoleon. How did that come about?”

“He was on sentry duty. On the steps of the cackle-tub—” Betsy stopped abruptly, wearing an expression of dismay. “Oh, please, Mamma, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“And what,” in the sternest of terms, “is a cackle-tub?”

Betsy knew from the ominous expression on her mother’s face that she was in serious trouble. She hesitated. “It’s a name they have for—well, for a church.”

“Betsy Balcombe! That is blasphemy! How could you say such a thing? How can you expect to go to heaven if you utter such terrible words? Tonight you must say your prayers twice and you must beg the Lord to forgive you. I hope He will.”

“Come, come, my dear,” commented the head of the house. “I think Betsy is very much at fault. She should never use such words. But”—he could not keep himself from smiling—“there’s a lot of cackling goes on in churches when a committee of women get together. Not to mention what we suffer from church choirs.”

Mrs. Balcombe’s pretty face was flushed with indignation. “Mr. Balcombe, must it always be this way? Must you feel called upon to stand up for the child, no matter what she says or does?”

Noticing that his plate was empty, she rose and carried it to the sideboard for a second helping. Ordinarily she always felt a sense of satisfaction in using this particular piece of furniture. It was of the period of James I and quite authentically ugly in a heavy oakish way, being as stoutly built as the legs of a cavalryman. All of her best furniture had been broken in the passage out from England with this one exception. She cherished it beyond its just deserts but she had no room in her mind for anything approaching satisfaction at the moment.

Returning to the table, she placed the replenished plate in front of her husband. “I expect you to agree, Mr. Balcombe, that Betsy must go to her room at once. And stay there until I say she can come down.”

The girl’s face was a picture of dismay. “But, Mamma! please let me tell you first what I was going to say. I noticed something when the emperor—I mean General Bonaparte—was passing. It was very strange.”

Mrs. Balcombe hesitated. “Well—if it’s something we ought to know.”

“He acted in a funny way. I couldn’t see much more than his head because of the dip in the road but, as soon as he caught sight of our place, he became—very watchful. I think he must have turned in his saddle as he rode by, because there was his face for the whole distance staring up here. Now why was he so interested?”

“Perhaps,” said William Balcombe, helping himself to marmalade, “he heard that the Duke of Wellington occupied the pavilion once.”

The girl shook her head emphatically. “No, Papa, it was more than that. He was studying the place. Just as though it was a battlefield.”

“Still he may have heard about the duke,” said Mrs. Balcombe. “Everyone talked about the way he enjoyed himself here. He was such a kind man. I’ll never forget what fine eyes he had.”

“Most observing eyes, my dear,” declared her husband. “He most certainly observed you. It’s no wonder his men always call him the Beau. They say right now that Napoleon’s old flame Grassini—the great Italian singer, you know—is in Paris and that our duke—”

“That will do, Mr. Balcombe,” interrupted his wife. “There are things that even our Betsy should not hear.”

Betsy, strangely enough, had not been paying close attention to what her parents were saying. She was busily pursuing her own thoughts.

“You know, Mamma and Papa,” she said, “something occurred to me when I saw him riding by. I thought how odd it would be if he wanted to stay here too.” She indulged in a throaty laugh which could not be described as a giggle, although it belonged somewhere in that classification. “Just think! Napoleon sleeping in the same room as the Duke of Wellington! Wouldn’t that be funny?”

“Yes, that would be most peculiar,” declared her father, thrusting back his chair and getting to his feet. “Well, I must hie me down to the marts of trade. The offices of Balcombe, Fowler and Chase do not begin to clatter noisily until I arrive.” He kissed his wife and then leaned over to give Betsy an affectionate hug. “I’m sure if Napoleon does come here, he’ll admire you, my dear, quite as much as the Iron Duke did. I bid you adieu, my fair ladies.”

He was scarcely out of the room when sedate footsteps on the stairs announced the approach of the older daughter of the house. Jane was a picture of neatness. Her hair was combed back perfectly, her dress was so starched that it rustled loudly.

“You are early, my dear,” said her mother, as Jane took her place at the table.

Jane looked at the remains of the loaf. “But not early enough, it seems. Who got the end?”

“I did,” answered Betsy. “And my, how I enjoyed it!”

“There was a lot of talk going on down here. What was it all about?”

Betsy answered eagerly. “I saw Napoleon this morning.”

Jane did not seem too much interested. “Oh! Where?”

“Down on the road to Longwood.”

“Isn’t it funny he should be up so early?”

“I read somewhere that he won his battles that way.”

Jane’s interest in the topic was exhausted. “Mamma, could we go into town today? I want you to see that material before it’s all sold.”

“Well, dear, perhaps I can spare the time. And, Betsy, I’ll suspend your punishment and let you go too. If we go.”

“Thanks, Mamma. But, really, I think I ought to stay here. Just in case something happens.”

A sound of irate barking from all the pups in concert took Betsy to the side porch. They heard her voice raised in expostulation and Mrs. Balcombe went out to investigate. The girl lost interest at once in the canine controversy and turned in a suddenly grave mood to face her mother.

“Mamma, it’s a good thing you have Jane, isn’t it? She’s so sweet and just the kind of daughter you like to have.”

Mrs. Balcombe regarded her with an equally sudden gravity. “Betsy, dear child, you don’t think that I—that I have a preference for Jane?”

“I wouldn’t blame you, Mamma. I must seem like a great nuisance at times.”

Her mother leaned down and put an arm around her, hugging her with a sudden emotional tightness. “Betsy! Betsy! It’s not true, little girl. I love you as much as I do Jane, even if I am sharp with you sometimes.”

“Well, I seem to do so much thinking about things and I always feel I should tell you about it. For instance, Mamma, surely the time has come when we, Jane and I, ought to be told about Papa and his family.”

A slight note of sharpness resumed possession of Mrs. Balcombe’s tongue. “Now, Betsy, you know we’re not supposed to talk about that. Your father doesn’t want it.”

“But we don’t even know if it’s true what people say.”

“How do you know what people say?”

“Why, don’t you suppose they ask us questions? I guess they’re afraid to say anything to you or Papa, so they come to us, to Jane and me. All the women you know come to us. They speak in low whispers. They want to know if it’s true that Papa—”

“Please! Please! Let’s not talk about it. Your father prefers not to have it discussed. I don’t know why. But he does.”

“Mamma, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. He ought to be proud. When we were at school last year in England, all the girls used to talk about us, Jane and me. They seemed to think we were—well, like princesses in disguise.”

“What do you and Jane say when these women ask you questions?”

“We say we don’t know. That’s all we can say, isn’t it? But you must know, Mamma. Surely you must.”

“Please, Betsy. Your father has asked me not to talk. Not with anyone. Perhaps when you get a little older he may think differently about it. But I’m not sure. Something happened that I don’t know about. I think it left a mark on him.”

“I wouldn’t have brought it up except I got to thinking. If Napoleon did want to come here, we could meet him on equal grounds, couldn’t we?”

“You do have a way all your own of looking at things,” said Mrs. Balcombe, with a rather strained smile. “Now be a good girl. Run along and find something useful to do.”