Carola Dunn (6 page)

Felix knew Wellington intended the display of the crack troops of his Reserve to reassure the faint-hearted. The Duke also wanted to show French sympathizers among the Belgians that the Corsican usurper would not find smooth sailing if he decided to march on Brussels.

The opinions of the Belgians would doubtless be of interest to Rothschild. Felix decided to mingle with the crowd and listen to what the man in the street was saying--the French-speaking man in the street at least. Miriam had taught him to speak French; now doubtless hers was rusty with disuse while his had been polished by constant exercise.

He caught odd phrases: “What’s to choose between a Dutch King and a French...?” “They say the Russians...” “Milord Wellington has never faced the Emperor in...” “Milord does not worry: balls, horse races, le cricket...” “And the English pay in good gold, and besides...” He grinned at the notion that Rothschild gold had won more allegiance among the Belgians than their own King William.

Listening and strolling, Felix watched out for Fanny and her unknown escort, but he wasn’t surprised to miss them. He stopped when he reached the bridge over the canal and leaned against the parapet. Slow barges, painted red and yellow and green, slid past on the still water, neither bargees nor their plodding, be-tasselled horses paying much attention to the crowds on land.

A commotion at the far end of the Allée Verte resolved itself, as it drew closer, into cheers and the stirring, martial clamour of bagpipes. Whatever their feelings about the Allies, the Belgians adored the Scots. Small boys jumped up and down in an ecstasy of excitement as the Cameron Highlanders marched past with swinging kilts, followed by the Royal Scots, then the Gay Gordons. Between them came a battalion of Riflemen in their dark green, their caps set at a jaunty angle. Felix recognized Major Sir Henry Bissell riding alongside his men. At least, at this precise moment, one of his rivals was not busy fixing his interest with Lady Sophia.

The Belgians lost interest and began to head for home as a Hanoverian regiment brought up the rear. Felix strolled back along the alley, wondering whether the Duke had heard yet from King William about the Hanover subsidy. He would mention the matter tonight, to Lord Fitzroy if not to Wellington himself. The Duke had invited him to dine before the British Ambassador’s ball.

A pair of riders, waiting in the shade of a tree for the crowds to pass, caught his attention. Their horses were no Thoroughbred hacks but heavy troopers, dwarfing one of the mounted figures.

It was Fanny, in a brown habit and practical black hat, perched high above the ground on a side-saddle, looking perfectly at ease. She was smiling at her companion. Felix switched his gaze to the other rider and scowled as he noted the Horse Artillery blue and scarlet.

Was it Captain Mercer who dared to risk her life on a brute far too powerful for any female? Or that young lieutenant who had gazed at her like a mooncalf when they met in the park? Aghast at the risk she was taking, furious with her careless escort, he pushed through the leisurely throng towards them, his heart in his mouth.

By the time he was close enough to recognize Lieutenant Farrow--not the adoring mooncalf--three more mounted artillerymen had joined them. Two were strangers, the third was Frank. He said something to his sister and she laughed. Handling the reins with unselfconscious competence, she turned her monstrous mount towards the Allée.

Felix felt foolish. He found it difficult to remember that Miss Fanny Ingram’s slight, delicate-seeming frame had endured hardships at which he could only guess. He wondered which of the officers was the escort she had mentioned. All of them, perhaps. But if so, why had she not invited him to join them? Did she consider him too high in the instep? He was about to slip away, hiding himself in the crowd, when she saw him. Her round face, with its engagingly tip-tilted little nose, lit with pleasure and she waved to him. He changed his mind and approached the group.

“Are the Highlanders not splendid, Lord Roworth?” she said, smiling down at him. “I have been telling our fellows they ought to try wearing kilts.”

“To please you, Miss Fanny, I’d consider wearing kilts,” declared one of the strangers, a dark, stocky man with captain’s insignia, “if only it weren’t for the bagpipes. They give me indigestion.”

Fanny shook her head at him with a mocking expression, and Felix at once took him in dislike. “Indigestion?” he queried skeptically. “A headache, perhaps, or even nightmares...”

“Gerald has a delicate stomach,” Fanny explained. “You have not met? Roworth, allow me to present Captain Gerald Lloyd, and--oh dear, I expect I ought to have introduced you first--Major Prynne.”

Felix nodded as the two officers bowed awkwardly in the saddle, then he recognized the major’s name and decided he liked the look of the tall, thin man with the mournful face. “Your wife is looking after Anita, Major?”

“Aye, m’lord. She don’t care for this kind of do and the child’s no trouble. We’ve three of our own.”

“She will be wondering where I have got to,” Fanny put in. “Frank, it is time I was going home. With so many people about, it might be quicker on foot.”

“If you want to take the horses back to their stable, Ingram,” Felix suggested, “I’ll be happy to escort Miss Ingram home.”

The twins accepted this offer and Felix gave Fanny his hand to dismount, which she did with more energy than elegance. Standing next to the huge beast she looked more fragile than ever. No female could have dismounted from the brute gracefully, Felix decided.

“Drat, I forgot the train,” she said, looping the extra length of skirt over her arm. “I have scarce worn riding dress since we arrived in Brussels. I’ll see you later, Frank. Thank you, gentlemen, for a delightful afternoon.” Gaily she blew them a collective kiss.

“Entirely our pleasure, Miss Fanny,” said Captain Lloyd with altogether too much warmth.

The riders turned their horses’ heads toward the bridge, while Felix and Fanny set off in the opposite direction.

“Is every officer in the artillery a close friend of yours?” Felix asked, carefully casual.

“In the Horse Artillery, at least, they are more like family than friends. How do you suppose we survived when my father was killed at Vimeira? Frank was an ensign; Mama had a tiny pension, until she died on the retreat to Corunna. If it were not for them, all of them, I’d probably be struggling in some back slum to earn a living as a washerwoman, or on the streets. They are the only family I have.”

Felix thought of his parents, retired from the social whirl--to the family mansion at Westwood; of his sisters, deprived of their London Seasons, to be sure, but never doubting that there would be food on the table. He had bitterly resented having to earn his own living while his friends sparred at Gentleman Jackson’s, gambled at White’s, strolled down Bond Street, or raced their curricles to Brighton. Yet always he had known that one day the mortgages would be paid off, one day Westwood would be his.

“I have shocked you,” said Fanny in a small voice.

“No!” He pressed the little hand resting on his arm. “No, if I’m shocked it’s at the way I have always taken for granted the support of my own family.”

“How gratifying to think that I have taught you a salutary lesson,” she exclaimed with a smile, restored to teasing cheerfulness.

They fetched Anita from Mrs Prynne’s and returned to Madame Vilvoorde’s. As they approached the house, a man darted out from the shade of a nearby doorway. For a moment Felix was certain the inquisitive Cockney had come back, then he realized that the fellow was much younger, and clad in a respectable coat of old-fashioned German cut.

“Milord Rovort?”

He recognized the mangled mess most foreigners made of his name. “Yes?”

“
Ich komme aus Frankfurt
, milord, on my way to London. The old woman would not let me wait in the house.”

A courier from Amschel Rothschild. “Come in,” he invited. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Fanny had already opened the front door and taken Anita inside. Madame Vilvoorde emerged from her den and began to complain in her fractured French about the constant disturbance of her lodgers’ and their visitors’ coming and going.

“I’ll deal with her,” Fanny said.

Anita was hiding behind her, afraid of the sharp-tongued, sharp-faced woman in her black dress and starched white cap. Felix picked her up and took her with him into the parlour, followed by the mystified courier.

“Milord’s daughter?” he asked as Anita settled on Felix’s lap and promptly fell asleep, exhausted by her afternoon at the Prynnes’.

“No, she is just a friend of mine. What news have you brought me?”

Half an hour later, the man was on his way, anxious to catch the next morning’s packet to England if the Rothschilds’ yacht was not waiting. He took Felix’s latest report to Nathan Rothschild, with a few final words scrawled without waking Anita. Carrying in the tea tray a few minutes later, Fanny found them in the now familiar pose.

“Heavens, are you still holding her? Lay her down on the sofa.”

“I don’t want to disturb her. No doubt she’ll wake any moment, since I see you have brought bixits.”

“I thought your courier might be in need of refreshment. He’s left already? I’m sorry I was so long.”

“He was in a hurry.” He accepted a cup of tea and balanced it on the arm of his chair as Anita stirred. “You were dealing with Madame Vilvoorde, I take it.”

“Madame is threatening to raise the rent because of all the wear and tear on her house.” She laughed. “Believe it or not, she has kept a record since we arrived of every single time any of us or our visitors has gone up or down stairs or opened and closed the front door!”

“Is that what she’s been up to? I was beginning to think she must be spying for Boney.”

“Nothing half so exciting.” She sobered. “I hope I have talked her around. We cannot afford a higher rent.”

“I shouldn’t worry. Unless I’m mistaken, she will soon have other matters to occupy her attention. Amschel Rothschild sends word that the Russians are nearing Frankfurt. Napoleon must be aware of it, or will be shortly, and he’s surely not fool enough to wait until they reach the French border before he attacks the Allies.”

Fanny felt the blood drain from her cheeks. How could he be so sensitive and considerate towards Anita and yet speak so casually of the coming war with its attendant horrors? “You think there will be a battle soon?” she faltered.

“No, no, I am a wretch to frighten you so!”

His dismay made her struggle to master her feelings, ashamed of her loss of self-control. She shook her head and managed a smile. “Not frighten; you took me by surprise. Of course I know that we shall have to fight Boney sooner or later, and a lifetime with the army has taught me not to let the uncertain future torment me. You took me by surprise,” she repeated, “when I was thinking about Madame Vilvoorde.”

Frank, entering at that moment, overheard her and demanded, “What’s the old harridan up to now?”

“What’s a harridan, Tío?” asked Anita, inconveniently waking at the sound of his voice.

“Never mind, pet. Have a biscuit,” said Fanny hurriedly. “She wanted to raise the rent, Frank, because we have too many visitors.” She proceeded to describe her interview with Madame in the mixture of Flemish, French, and English used by the landlady. Frank and Felix were soon helpless with laughter, while Anita, nibbling her biscuit, watched them indulgently.

Felix set out for Wellington’s dinner party in good spirits. Trevor had spent the day brushing and polishing and ironing and starching; he was prepared to swear that no one would guess his lordship’s black evening coat was the only one he possessed, his dancing shoes resoled a dozen times.

The dinner party was a masculine occasion, the guests being foreign diplomats, divisional commanders, and, of course, the Duke’s personal staff.

The Prince of Orange had ridden over from Braine-le-Comte, bringing a copy of the French newspaper
Moniteur
with a glowing account of Napoleon’s magnificent “Champ de Mai” assemblage on June 1st. The vast demonstration of support for the Emperor shocked Wellington, who had hoped his power was crumbling, into a momentary silence. Felix broke it with his news of the approach of the Russian army. The Duke at once recovered his countenance, and a babble of diplomatic French arose as his guests discussed the consequences of the latest information.

After dinner, there was no sign of the gathering breaking up to go on to Lord Stuart’s ball. Port and brandy circulated, cigars were lit, and Felix checked the time every five minutes. Lady Sophia had promised him two dances; she would never forgive him if he missed them.

Several gentlemen had left their seats at the long table to exchange views with others seated at a distance. Lord Fitzroy caught Felix with his eye on the clock and came to speak to him.

“The Goddess waiting?” he asked knowingly.

“The trouble is, she won’t wait. There are plenty of fellows ready to lead her out if I’m not there.”

“The Duke won’t notice if you leave, or won’t mind if he does. I’ll explain if necessary--it will amuse him and he could do with a good laugh. Thank you, by the way, for producing the Russians at precisely the right moment. I’ve never seen him so cut down.”

“Have you had any word from King William on the Hanover business?”

“Nothing yet, and we don’t expect anything good. Thank God for Rothschild! The Russians wouldn’t be at Frankfurt if he hadn’t arranged that subsidy, too. Off you go, now, before Lady Sophia gives your waltz to that Belgian count.”

When Felix arrived at the Ambassador’s residence, a cotillion was in progress and Lady Sophia was dancing it with St Gérard. Discovering that a waltz was next on the program, he was glad he had left the dinner party early, especially since it turned out to be the waltz she had written him down for. He was even more glad when, considerably later, Wellington and his guests at last entered the ballroom as he was going down the set of a country dance with her.

To leave a young lady dangling when she had been so kind as to promise two dances would have been unforgivable. His rivals would have leaped to take advantage of such shockingly ungentlemanly conduct.