Women of Courage (161 page)

Marianne’s laughter bubbled over. “Oh, but you must! How serious you are - you are just like him! This is how men think of
us
, you know - surely we should be allowed to think of them in the same way?”

“Perhaps. But ‘tis vanity to think just of that. The face is the window of the soul.”

Marianne raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh ho! So you are a Puritan too! You are not one these canting fanatics who meet in conventicles and the like, are you? But surely not, or you would have been safe with Monmouth’s troops.”

“My family go to church every Sunday, Mrs Ashley.” Ann kept her voice level, realising the mistake she had made. It was strange how half the truth could be a lie. The seriousness of her gaze seemed to convince her hostess.

“And so you should. But you are not one who sees a little powder and paint as the invention of the devil, are you, instead of as an adornment to this window you speak of?”

Ann smiled at the obviousness of the question. “No, I have never thought that. Though I have not had much opportunity to try them.”

“Then perhaps it is time you did. Finish your chocolate, girl, and then we will see what we can find to help you to make my cousin the envy of his colleagues tonight. It is the least you can do to repay him for his rescue.”

28

I
T WAS nearly two hours later that Ann descended the stairs again to meet Robert and the other officers. She was at once terrified and absurdly, ridiculously proud. The butterflies in her stomach were held in tightly by a corset that gripped her waist and forced her breasts up and together over the low decolletage that left half her shoulders bare. Her mother, she knew, would have fainted to see her like this. But Ann was in a dream - the dream she had had when she imagined leaving home and going with Robert to London. She knew it was only a dream, but for the moment there was no escaping it, so she might as well do it with show.

As Marianne said, somehow the light dusting of scented powder over her breasts and neck made them feel a little more clothed, as something she was wearing rather than a naked part of her. The powder on her face, and the little beauty patch on her cheek, made her feel as though the face were not her own, but a beautiful mask behind which she could hide. She knew now that what her mother had said was true; if the face was the window of the soul, then powder was a disguise, a curtain, rather than an ornament. The irony was that the sense of disguise helped the very Puritan part of her soul which disapproved of all this. She, the real Ann, could hide behind the performance and powder and scent, and meet the officers who were the enemies of God and her family, without herself being seen.

But for the moment this part of her was in abeyance; she was in too much of a trance of joy and nervousness. The long russet dress matched her auburn hair, which hung in carefully combed curls around her face; her hands, coming delicately out of the broad, white-slashed sleeves, held out the wide skirts of her dress, which the bustle spread out voluminously from around her narrow, pointed waist. The dress and underclothes had been relatively easy to adjust; the main problem had been to find her shoes, but in the end Marianne had managed to borrow a pair from a neighbour. They were a little too tight, but then no-one could see them under the dress, and Ann thought she might be able to kick them half-off if she were sitting down.

Marianne had come upstairs to fetch her, and they descended the stairs together. There was already a murmur of conversation from the main room, and at the foot of the stairs three men turned to look at them. One was Lord Churchill; another, a short, cheery man in a green coat and yellow waistcoat, was Marianne’s husband; the third was a tall, well-built man of about fifty, in a rich blue coat and fawn waistcoat. Ann looked at him curiously, and instantly felt respect for the strong, commanding, rather harrassed-looking face framed by the immaculately curled full- bottomed wig.

Marianne’s husband was the first to see them.

“So-ho! This is the surprise you have been keeping from us for so long, my dear!” His eager, jovial eyes appraised Ann with frank delight. “Am I to be presented to my own guest?”

“Of course. Gentlemen, this is Mistress Ann Carter, a refugee from the Duke of Monmouth’s army, whom my cousin has bravely rescued for us.”

All three men bowed, and Ann curtsied in return, glad of the powder to hide her blushes. She glanced anxiously at John Churchill, afraid that he would tear aside her pretence and tell her true story; but he merely smiled ironically back at her, and she sighed with relief. Perhaps Robert had told him she was to be here tonight. If there were a conspiracy to make her part of these people, at least it was thorough.

Marianne was presenting the men to her.

“This old rake is my husband, as you may have guessed; Lord Churchill you know; and this distinguished gentleman here is Monsieur Louis Duras, the Earl of Feversham, the saviour of Bath, and commander-in-chief of his Majesty’s army. It is a great honour to have you in our house, my lord.”

Lord Feversham bowed. “It is a great pleasure to come, madame. We need such a relaxation after a ‘ard day in ze field.”

Ann was surprised at the heavy, charming French accent; she had never heard one before, and found it hard at first to understand what he said. But as she watched him throughout the evening she saw how perfectly it fitted him, like the fine manners and clothes that made him somehow more of an aristocrat than any of the Englishmen around him.

“And you ‘ave ‘ad a dangerous escape from our enemies, I hear, mademoiselle. I trust you ‘ave not been ‘armed?” His eyes crinkled as he smiled, with almost fatherly concern. She wondered what he would have said if he had known the truth.

“No, thank you my lord. Robert - Captain Pole - rescued me in time.”

“I am glad to ‘ave such gallant gentlemen in my army. I trust we will be able to take our revenge upon your enemies before too long.”

“Yes, my lord. You are very kind.” She could not bring herself, even now, to speak words that wished destruction upon her father’s army, even in a lie; she had an awful fear that if she did so, especially in front of this man, the commander of the King’s armies, it might come true just because she had said it. But Lord Feversham was satisfied; his words were mere politeness.

“How soon do you think it will be, my lord? Surely it cannot be long, now that you have them in retreat?” Marianne’s husband asked, his short, round figure oddly self-important beside his aristocratic guest.

“A few days only, I hope, now zat we ‘ave our full forces gathered. But we ‘ave yet to bring zem to bay. If zey dare to stand to face us, at all, of course.”

“As they failed to do at Bristol, I hear. ‘Twas a gallant action indeed, my lord, to save the city with so few against so many.”

“Merci, monsieur, you are most kind.” Lord Feversham bowed with a rather stiff good-humour. “But of course, it is normal for a small force of regulars to defeat large numbers of rebels, as my Lord Monmouth could tell us from his own experience in Scotland. And our Lord is usually smiling on men who show resolution, rather than those who ‘esitate.”

Ann shivered at his words, so that Marianne glanced at her anxiously for a moment. Then Marianne’s face relaxed into a knowing smile as Robert came into the hall. His eyes widened as he saw Ann, and he hurried to be near her.

“La fortune de la guerre, hein?” smiled Feversham. “So you are zis young man who uses war to capture young ladies, are you? I ‘ope it does not lead him to neglect his other duties, my Lord Churchill?”

John Churchill smiled. “Not so far, my lord. I shall be ready to claim the young lady in payment myself when it does.”

“I congratulate you on your luck, monsieur. Such beauty does not fall into the hands of tout le monde.”

Ann blushed again, not knowing what to say, and Robert bowed.

“Thank you, my lord. And may I say that having been favoured with such luck, I shall do my utmost to see that she does not fall into the hands of any other man.”

There was general laughter at this, but Ann hardly heard it. After the conflicts of last night the words were the greatest compliment she would have wished for. As she caught his eye and looked her thanks, there was such pain and hope under the surface of the smile he gave her that she looked away again, unable to bear it. For some reason, despite all the power and opportunities he had, he loved her - gauche, ignorant and rebellious as she was. If only she could enter wholly into his world, and be what he wanted, then she would not feel so guilty at his kindness.

They went into the dining room, and sat down around the table. There were about fifteen of them all told, but only five women, so that Ann had men all around her: Robert on her right, Lord Churchill on her left, and opposite, two officers from the foot regiments. Churchill turned to her while Robert was engaged in conversation with the people to his right.

“I am glad to see you looking so much better than when we last met. I had no idea we had captured such a lady of fashion.”

“I doubt if anyone would look so fine if they’d been treated as I was, my lord. I suppose we all look much the same when we come into this world, and leave it.”

“With a few differences, yes.” He glanced down appreciatively at her bosom, then looked up with an amused twinkle in his eyes. “But I am all in favour of people improving themselves in the time in between, as you seem to be doing.”

“I am glad you find me improved. After all, ‘twas you who ordered Robert to look after me.”

“I did indeed. I only hope things go as well for the rest of your family.”

Again she felt a cold shiver down her spine. But her courage was growing; perhaps she really could play this part that Robert had given her, at least in public. Her eyes did not waver from his.

“Thank you, my lord Churchill. I am sure they are in God’s hands.”

Which is more than I am
, she thought; I am in my own hands now, and those of these men. But then God favours those who do not hesitate, as Lord Feversham said. She sipped the wine in front of her, and felt its glorious courage flood through her veins.

“Tell, me, Lord Churchill, there is something Lord Feversham said just now that I did not understand. I wonder if you could explain it to me.”

“It depends what it is. His Lordship moves in higher circles than I. Not all his reasoning is clear to me either.” The frosty clarity in his words reminded Ann of something Robert had said about Churchill hoping to be commander of the King’s forces himself.

“It was only that he said that the Duke of Monmouth should know about regular troops being able to beat rebels, because of something that happened in Scotland. What did he mean by that?”

Churchill laughed. “‘Tis a good question indeed, young lady, and raises some more interesting ones. Have you heard of the battle of Bothwell Bridge?”

“No. Where is that?”

“In Scotland. I suppose you are too young, and your friend Robert too. But ‘tis famous enough in the army. I think Colonel Weston was there, were you not, sir?”

“Where’s that, John?” One of the officers opposite, a florid, red-faced man of about forty-five, leant forward, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“With Monmouth at Bothwell Bridge. Miss Carter wants to know about it.”

“Does she, by God! Damn fine battle, miss, best I was ever in! Brilliant campaign, superb - set out from London and caught the damn covenanting Highlanders while they were still doing their kilts up!” The man laughed, and winked at Ann as he bit enthusiastically into a drumstick.

“Yes, but why were you fighting them?” Ann smiled to herself at the pop-eyed eagerness with which his eyes kept returning to her breasts. The other officer was staring at her too, eager to break into the conversation. A dress like this was certainly a wonderful way of getting attention.

“Why? Damn load of rebels, that’s why! Covenanters, Presbyterians, like this lot here, rising against the King. But we gave ‘em what for! No match for regular troops, see. Half of ‘em never seen a musket before!”

“And the Duke of Monmouth was with the King’s soldiers?”

“With ‘em? He was leading ‘em, girl. Best campaign we ever fought, I say, though Maastricht wasn’t so bad. But he was too soft with ‘em afterwards, too soft by half. Hardly hung more than three or four at most - sent the rest home, telling ‘em to be good boys and not do it again. He was too soft-hearted.”

“But they didn’t rebel again, did they? He was right about that,” said Churchill quietly, helping himself to some more venison.

“No, John, they were too well beaten. But you’ve got to make an example of rebels. Now regular war’s a different thing. I remember at Maastricht ... “

“But if the Duke of Monmouth defeated the rebels then, surely he may defeat you now?”

The simple innocent question fell gently into a lull in the general conversation, so that more eyes turned to Ann in surprise. Colonel Weston’s jaw fell open, the words robbed from his mouth; then he recovered himself with a hearty laugh. Robert looked at Ann uneasily.

“Ah, well now, there’s a question. But ‘tis rather a different situation, don’t you see. Quite different altogether, wouldn’t you say, John?”

“As far as
he
is concerned, it is.” Churchill seemed amused by the stir Ann had caused, and glanced quizzically at Lord Feversham to see how he would take it. The Frenchman’s calm face gave little away.

“But how is it different?” Ann persisted. “Surely if the Duke of Monmouth could win a battle then he could win one now. You said he was a brilliant soldier.”

Churchill intervened. “He was brilliant then, Miss Carter, because he had men like Colonel Weston and his troops to lead. Well-disciplined troops, regulars, used to obeying orders in battle. And he was fighting men who two weeks before had been shearing sheep on the farm. But now the situation is reversed. It is he who is leading untrained rebels, we who are the regulars. And of course we have our own fine commander, who has shown us at Bristol the difference that that can make.”

There was the slightest hint of irony in Churchill’s voice as he spoke of Lord Feversham, which made Ann wonder for a second about his sincerity.