Ram; being the tale of one Ramillies Anstruther, 1704-55 .. (41 page)

The summer slipped by. The mines were opened, but the veins faulted and it meant tunneling deep to recover them. To keep the work going, Ram had to draw on his bankers. But the miners did find coal near the surface, which could be used to smelt the ore.

One day Sue came to Ram with a large inlaid box. "Do ye recall this?" It was the set of chessmen he had sent home. " 'Twould pass the time fine, if ye could teach me the game."

He could, at least the Indian version. "There's a piece missing." He remembered the diamond. But when he asked if she were sure it had never arrived, she nodded. "If it had, I'd have found it in Gammer's things."

He swore softly. It must have been stolen in Customs; no chance of retrieving it now. Resignedly, he began teaching her the moves of chess. Soon he so enjoyed having her face him across the board he

had to fight down the idea of testing her virtue. Damme, no, he decided, for were she not my cousin, I'd gladly wed her.

With the first snowfall, Young Joe returned astride a post horse. Annie had sent him back, but was keeping Williams and the coach, sure that the "Captain" would permit. She'd be London-bound soon, but didn't want to delay him longer. Privately, the boy added: "There's a young laird, sir—James Campbell o' Cleugh—and he's cursedly attentive to madam."

Ram swore, not through jealousy but at being discarded so cavalierly, "We leave tomorrow for London," he said curtly.

That night Rob came to his room. Near tears, he begged: "Take me with you! 'Fore Gad, I can't stand it here longer. I'll do anything to be with ye—I'll even be your lackey!"

"No," Ram refused. "You're too valuable, with your book learning about mining and the way you drive the men. Stay, and in time we'll all have fortunes and you can go where ye will."

"Damn fortunes! I hate this wilderness. Town's the place, where there's always something new. Give me but a garret there and I'll even complete studies for taking holy orders."

Ram, however, was adamant, sure that if he relented Rob would soon find his level in London's stews.

Riding his favorite stallion, Alan o' Bowes, with Young Joe on a hackney, he reached London and was welcomed back by Lord Deane, Major Holton and the rest. Again there were the nightly games.

Annie returned and sent back his coach and coachman. She was, she wrote politely, busy reopening her house and would ask him to call later. She said nothing about the laird, but Williams implied the young Scot not only used her purse but her person.

Ram shrugged cynically. Each had served the other's turn. Now it was ended. London had other compliant ladies.

On a night in March, he went to the opera with friends, Charles Holton insisting that, as the Prince of Wales would attend, everyone of fashion would be there. It was a public secret, Holton added, that the Prince had lately taken the opera's famous Signorina Bartholdi into keeping.

His Highness duly arrived and the whole house rose in salute. That done, Holton pointed out persons of note: "Lord Baltimore, who

owns land in the American plantations larger than all Britain. There's another Irish peer, Lord John Percival, a member of Parliament."

A box nearby was being occupied. "His Excellency the Spanish Minister and his suite," he indicated. "Bah, the rogue's but a runaway Irishman. He calls himself Giraldini, but he was born Tom Fitzgerald." He looked more intently. "Ha, that's a fine little filly there, next the fat lady in the green gown!"

Ram glanced casually. The minister's party numbered three men and four females. Yes, the girl was handsome in her mantilla and the jeweled comb in her ringleted black hair. His nerves jumped. That man beside her—Hell's damnation, the Irishman of Belgrade!

He half rose and Holton, noting his expression, gasped: " 'S'blood, Nabob, have ye seen a ghost?"

"Aye! One I'll lay forever!"

"Hold! If he's an old enemy, there's time enough. God's name, you can't make a quarrel now, with His Highness present. Sit down!"

Slowly Ram complied, oblivious of the overture, the rising curtain or the singers. At last! His gaze riveted upon the man with the white eyebrows and lean, impassive face. "I'll avenge you. Father!" he breathed, unaware he was speaking aloud.

"Nabob!" Deane, to whom Holton had whispered, caught his arm. "Stap me, I know not what's passed between you and the Spaniard, but you can't brawl here."

Ram barely heard him, being back in that room, with Father on the floor and this bastard cloaking himself and walking out.

During the entr'acte many of the audience rose to promenade, but the Irishman remained with his party. Icy now. Ram made his plan. He would identify himself and give the challenge. This must be final.

The opera ended and all saluted the departing prince. Giraldini's bow was especially low, but the white-browed man hardly bent.

Ram was already in the corridor as the Spanish party emerged. His enemy was giving an arm to the stout woman, who was breathing painfully. The girl hovered anxiously at her other side.

Ram followed them outside, where twenty footmen were bawling the names of their masters, and coaches were drawing up to receive them. The minister's vehicle arrived.

"Nabob!" Holton caught Ram's arm. "Are you mad? The fellow's under diplomatic immunity. Lud knows, Walpole's trying hard enough

to placate the Dons, and if you stir 'em up by a duel, you'll be ruined forever—especially after the Rale affair,"

Ram pulled away and plowed through the crowd. The Spanish coach could evidently hold only six and someone must travel by other means. Already the Irishman was signaling for a chair. Reaching him Ram swung him around. "Sir!" Briefly they glared at each other, the older man in angry surprise. Ram with deadly intensity. "Permit me to introduce myself. Captain Ramillies Anstruther. We had occasion to meet when I was a lad. On the eve of the Belgrade battle."

The other's lips tightened. "I have some faint recollection, sir. The matter was settled."

"You killed a drunken man. You murdered my father. Now you answer to me!"

The Irishman's eyes flamed. "I do not brawl with puppies." He entered the chair. "To the Spanish Ambassador's."

As the chair moved off. Ram's control snapped. "Out of my way!" He shouldered through the gaping spectators and started afoot for his house. By God, he vowed, the devil won't escape me now!

"Bah, I would settle him easily," Brian shrugged, "He bears me hatred, and anger will make him unwary. Doubtless I too would feel the same if someone had killed my father before my eyes. But the knave deserved it, boasting how he'd cut down Irish cowards at Kinsale!"

Senor Giraldini shook his head. "I'd gladly let you kill him, but you're a servant of Spain—and of King James. So I'll see this major myself and say I forbid you the pleasure of thrusting your blade through his friend's heart."

"Yes," Brian conceded unhappily. "It would be madness to lose all by a mischance, should the lad be fortunate. I recall how he beat his small fists against me, screaming, 'You killed my father!' Had mv own son lived, I'd have expected him to do the same over my corpse."

Giraldini touched a silver bell. "So there'll be no misunderstanding, remain while I give this major my decision."

Holton was ushered in. "Gentlemen," he bowed stiffly.

"Sir, as representative of His Most Catholic Majesty, I cannot grant the Baron del Lago permission to proceed further in this affair," the ambassador stated. "His duty comes before personal considera-

tion. Have no illusions regarding his courage. My denial of permission alone prevents his giving your principal satisfaction. Further, if the matter's pressed, I shall bring it before His Britannic Majesty's Government."

Holton turned disdainfully and left.

"I'd give much to send that Sasanach to hell!" Brian said softly.

Giraldini rose. "I'm glad it ends so. What if others egged Anstruther on to quarrel with you? Though we've friends among the English officers, there are also many Hanoverian agents who suspect your mission and hope to be rid of you."

Brian bit his lip. "This spying and plotting! God send the day when a man can fight as he should—in the open at the head of troops!"

"A rank coward, ecod!" Ram cried incredulously.

"No," Holton denied. "But I'll wager he's here to plot with the Jacobites. He and Fitzgerald serve Spain but, like all Papist Irish, they also serve the Pretender. Yet rather than offend the Dons, Wriggling Bob Walpole would have ye back in Newgate for good; so beware!"

Ram pretended to accept the advice, but had no intention of giving up now, after fourteen years. There must be some way to goad the devil out of his diplomatic shell. How, how?

He sent for Hilary Brown and gave orders. Two days more and the cockney reported that, loitering outside the Spanish Embassy in the pose of a horse-holder, he had seen all who came and went. Baron del Lago didn't reside there, but had a house in newly built Cavendish Square. The baroness was sick of the dropsy and rarely went out; the daughter only to visit a nearby Popish chapel, accompanied by a "doo-anna."

The daughter! Ram saw the way then. He'd hurt his enemy so deeply he must fight!

Paying Hilary and dismissing him, he sent Young Joe to find lodgings close to Cavendish Square for "Mr. John Royston," a gentleman in the wine trade, recently returned from Spain.

Ram's plan was worthy of Baja himself; to draw the buck by luring the doe or rather, as she was elderly and sick, the fawn.

So began his double life. By day he was John Royston, lodging

modestly up a pair of stairs at the Widow Sparling's when he wasn't tending his "wine business." By night he gamed and drank with his friends in his own character.

Familiar with the mass from having watched Father Mateo celebrate so often, he began to drop in at the unobtrusive little chapel on Chandos Street. Adherence to the Roman faith being illegal, few Englishmen dared to attend services; but there were many Catholic foreigners in London, so the officials looked aside and let them worship as they willed.

Dressed with sober taste, as befitted a young merchant, his hair worn plain and clubbed back, he attended mass whenever the over-plump little duenna appeared there with her charge. He made a point of always being before them at the font to take holy water, so that he could stand aside courteously and give them precedence.

At last he was rewarded by a shy smile from the girl. He bowed gravely. Blue-eyed, her black ringleted hair covered by a lacy mantilla, she was, he decided, about sixteen—old enough. Careful not to look at her directly, he concentrated on the duenna, who thanked him in Spanish.

Her eyes widened when he answered her in the same tongue.

"You are of my nation, seftor? What pleasure to meet in this bleak land!"

"Ay de mi, senora, I am only an Englishman who has lived in Spain. I'm a merchant dealing in choice wines." They were leaving the chapel as he spoke. The girl had drawn her mantilla modestly around her face until only one bright eye showed.

"You are of the English merchants at Corunna?" the duenna queried.

He smiled, "You know the city, senora?"

"No, I am from Madrid, but I have heard many English live there."

"I was there only two years, to learn how to judge and select wines," he said glibly, falling into step beside them.

"It is strange to find an Englishman of our faith." She seemed uneasy.

"There are many, senora, though in secret." His voice lowered. "One is obliged to attend the English Church once a year under what is called the Test Act. It is merely lip service and we do it to hoodwink the authorities."

They had reached Cavendish Square. "Gracias, senor. Vaya con Dios," she smiled.

"Adios, senor a. Sefiorita\" Bowing, he turned back. Good! She wanted to talk.

Within a week she had introduced herself as Senora Dorotea Mejia, a widow who had been duenna to her precious Erinne since the girl had left a Madrid convent a year before. The baroness, alas, was too ill to attend mass, but the priest officiated for her at home. But how fortunate the senor was, understanding both Spanish and English! Old Pepe, who did the buying for the house, spoke only Spanish and was always cheated by the tradesmen, as she was herself.

Here was what he had been hoping for. "If the senora permits, we could practice a few English words whenever we meet."

"I speak a leettle Engleesh," the girl volunteered, blushing at her temerity. "But I do not theenk my dear Papa approve I speak eet."

He smiled courteously, but turned back to the duenna, explaining that, having excellent clerks, he could spare time from his business. "So perhaps I could accompany you as interpreter when you wish to make purchases, senora."

"Ah, if you could! But it is true the baron does not like the English. He may not permit."

"We could meet at the chapel," he pointed out, which satisfied her. He was to understand, however, that always she must first take Erinne home.

He never asked about the baron or the household and was deliberately formal with the girl, but he knew he had won the widow's confidence. Soon, she was practicing " 'Ow mooch?" "Ees too dear." "I tak' wan pound," and so on. She was delighted with her progress, more delighted with her handsome teacher. And though he sometimes arrived with an aching head after a night's hard drinking, he was always ready to escort her to grocers and fruiterers.

Three months passed and the town emptied of people of fashion, so that often he slept in his lodgings, where Young Joe would attend him and brush the flour from his hair for his transformation into "John Royston." The lad, too, was enjoying this double life. Ram began trusting him with the payment of all bills that didn't come under Joseph's care.

One shopping day, Dorotea confided: "How sad the baron dislikes

you islanders so! If only he permitted, my darling could make acquaintance with young gentlewomen of her own age. For Dios, the child's most lonely!" She brightened. "But soon he leaves on a journey. Perhaps then I could find some young ladies who would call upon us. Do you know of any such, senof?"

He didn't. So the baron would be traveling!

A week later, he sat in the small walled garden of the baron's house, patiently correcting Senora Mejia's stumbling English. The adventure thrilled her deliciously. It would be most improper, of course, for her darling to be present; but, she confided, the girl was listening from her room—there, with the French windows giving upon that small balcony.

"Say, 'I wish we could take a coach into the country,'" he instructed, and the widow dutifully repeated the sentence.

"Are there orange trees and vineyards in this dismal land?" she asked, when he had explained the phrase's meaning. "We have seen nothing but dirty streets, streets, streets."

He said that only in rich men's gardens were there oranges and grapes, but the countryside was green and lush, with quiet streams and wide rivers.

From somewhere within came the petulant whine of an invalid. Dona Dorotea sighed. "Will the senor forgive? The baroness requires me. Madre de Dios, I never have a minute of my own." Grumbling, she went inside.

He waited, conscious of those French windows. Yes, a slim hand was opening one leaf wider. Rising, he bowed. "Senorita, since you already understand English, you must think these lessons stupid," he insinuated. The hand was followed by the face. The girl was as shy as some wild forest thing, ready to fly at the least danger. God, she's lovely! he had to admit. Black hair and blue eyes are devilish attractive.

"You are so good, Don Juan, to take this trouble with my dear Dorotea." Then in English: "Eef ees not im-modest, I would like lessons also to 'ave." She was on the balcony now.

His heart pounded. Careful, don't frighten her, she's entering the trap! "Senorita, I would give much if you could be my pupil."

But Dorotea had returned. ''For Dios, how the poor baroness suf-

fers!" She sank upon a bench, fanning herself. "Now, Senor, what must I learn next?"

"We spoke of the countryside," he reminded. "It is not like Spain, yet it too is beautiful. Ah, the pity you cannot see it!"

Her eyes grew speculative. It would be a great pleasure, she admitted, and would have said more. But Erinne cried that her father had returned, and fled back into her room. The duenna paled. "Ay de mi, so soon? Senor, you must go. Quickly, to the garden door!"

He had no wish to meet the baron at this point. "We meet at the chapel as usual?" he asked as she was closing the door, and she agreed.

Next day, he arranged for bouts with the best fencing master in town. He must get his wrist back, must practice his thrusts. The Irishman had killed Father by a trick of fence. No sense in being o\'er-confident.

August was almost o\er before he was again invited to the garden. The baron had gone on some other mission, probably to Rome, Dorotea hinted, and might not return for months. The heat was now stifling and Ram spoke again of the cool country. Erinne had overcome her shyness enough to sit beside her duenna and share the lessons, and was an apter pupil.

"A rich friend has gone visiting into Kent and left me his coach," he told them. "Were it possible. Dona Dorotea, I'd be most honored to take you and the senorita for a short jaunt. I know of a lovely spot by the Thames, not ten miles away, so discreet that no one would see you."

"If only we could escape this wet heat," the duenna cried. "It's so unlike our dry Spanish summers." Pulling the sleeve from one perspiring arm, she looked at the girl. "Would it please you, my dove?"

"Oh, yes!" Erinne exclaimed. "It would be heavenly."

"Pepe and Ema could take care of the baroness," Dorotea thought aloud. "I can say that my darling wilts and must have fresh air. Yes, it can be arranged."

In her excitement, Erinne dropped her needlework and both she and Ram bent to retrieve it. His arm brushed her breast. She gasped, blushed and bit her lip.

Dona Dorotea, not noticing, said that two days hence would do.

Would Don Juan, however, remain in the coach when it stopped outside the garden door?

Promising to bring them back by nightfall, Ram left. The girl was ripe; a little skill now at the right moment and he could pluck the fruit.

The morning was hot and clear as they rolled westward past Hyde Park and through Kensington village. The duenna kept staring out and was garrulous. Erinne said little, but her eyes sparkled.

Watching her, Ram wondered. 'Twas said some girls remained virgins overlong, while other merely pretended a chastity they'd long lost. Among which was she? He'd heard gay tales of convents.

They clattered through Hammersmith and Chiswick, close to the river, drawing up at last at the Fish and Bait Tavern. Young Joe, as advance guard, had made all arrangements and Mine Host was most deferential. A cold collation awaited in a private room, and with the food were fine Spanish wines from Ram's own cellars. The ladies enjoyed every moment and Dona Dorotea, knowing good wine, appreciated what she was served. But then she hadn't seen Ram's signal for the lad to pour laudanum into her third glass.

Erinne, though gay, seemed restless. "It is charming here," she praised. "But, oh, if we could only see the fields and the river!"

"I was about to suggest it, sefiorita." Ram was watching Dorotea closely. Another glass should do it. "Permit me to give orders."

Soon they were back in the coach, which turned down a lane toward the Thames. Dorotea's face was flushed and she kept fanning herself. "Hot!" she complained. "Hot, but most pleasant." She closed her eyes.

The coach halted abruptly and, while Young Joe ran to hold the lead horses, Williams climbed down from the box, swearing loudly.

"Sir, the off rear wheel—'tis loose. All must step down."

The women were dismayed and Ram pretended annoyance, but they got out and stood in the shade while Williams began tinkering with the wheel. Joe placed rugs on the lane's grassy verge and produced wine and glasses. Dorotea sat and soon was sipping some pre-doctored Amoroso. As for the wheel, Williams said he must send Young Joe back in search of a blacksmith.

Ram apologized profusely, but Erinne accepted everything gaily,

while Dorotea, with a coach cushion for a pillow, began snoring.

"I had so much wished to show you the river," Ram regretted. "The vista there is very lovely."

"Is it too far to walk?" Shyly Erinne displayed a small foot. "I am strong, seiior, and I was quite used to walking with the other girls at the convent."

Half an hour more and they sat together on the river's bank, sharing his spread coat. Save for the occasional rise of a fish and the distant scything of harvesters, there was no sound. A river! He thought of Carla and the Danube. It had seemed so natural then, so right. But now? He gnawed his lip. Then he remembered the aftermath of that glorious day: clashing swords, flaming hatred in a stranger's face. Father's amazed expression as the blade transfixed him. "Damn you!" he swore.