Soldier of Fortune (9 page)

'Why
did you send him on his way like that?' said Abigail Piper.

'I
did nothing of the kind,' responded Dorothy. 'I merely told him that you would
not stir from your room for hours and that there was no point in his waiting
for you.'

'There
was every point, Dorothy. I just needed to be alone to compose myself. As soon
as I'd done that - and it took no more than twenty minutes - I intended to come
back to resume my conversation with Captain Rawson.'

'It
had already been terminated by you.'

'That's
not true at all.'

'Put
yourself in Captain Rawson's position,' suggested Dorothy. 'When a young lady
flees from his company in floods of tears, he's entitled to conclude that she
no longer wishes to speak to him.'

'But
he wished to speak to me,' said Abigail. 'According to you, he tried to follow
me as I ran out. You barred his way.'

'I
could hardly let him chase you upstairs.'

'He
wanted to console me. I was touched to hear that.'

'You
acted too rashly in charging off.'

'I
was deeply upset - what else was I to do?'

Dorothy
put a sympathetic arm around her sister's shoulders. Abigail was still young
and inexperienced but it was not the moment to school her in the subtleties of
dealing with male admirers. In any case, now that she had seen Daniel Rawson,
Dorothy was certainly not going to help Abigail to ensnare the captain. She
felt that Daniel deserved a more seasoned woman, one who was well-versed in the
elaborate rituals of courtship. In spite of the circumstances in which they had
met, Dorothy wanted him for herself.

They
were in the parlour of the Westminster house, side by side on a large sofa.
Abigail was still fretting over the departure to Holland that day of the man
whom she idolised. Her fear was that he had been estranged by her conduct and
would dismiss her from his mind and heart. That was something Abigail could
never do with him. Daniel Rawson occupied her every waking hour. She could not
stop thinking about him, cherishing him, desiring him and constructing
imaginary dialogue for the two of them to speak. In running away from him, she
was afraid that she had made a fatal mistake.

'Do
you think I should write to him?' she asked.

'I'd
not advise it, Abigail.'

'But
I could apologise for the way I behaved.'

'A
young lady should never apologise,' said Dorothy loftily, 'least of all in
writing. It could be construed as a sign of weakness. Besides, if anyone should
issue an apology, it is Captain Rawson. He led you to believe that he would be
in London for some time.'

'He
admitted that and was very contrite.'

'I'm
still opposed to the notion of a letter.'

'Why
is that, Dorothy?'

'To
begin with,' said the other, removing her arm from her sister's shoulder,
'there's no guarantee that the letter would reach him. When an army is on the
move, correspondence with any member of it is bound to be difficult.'

'I
thought of that,' said Abigail, 'and I believe I have the answer. I can ask
Father to help me. Lord Godolphin will be in constant touch with the army,
wherever it may be. Father will know how letters are sent and can prevail upon
the Lord Treasurer's messenger to carry mine with him.'

Dorothy
was impressed. 'That's a clever idea,' she said, 'though I still feel it would
be unwise of you to write.'

'I
have this urge to do so, Dorothy.'

'Then
you must control it. On the strength of a week's acquaintance, you would appear
very forward if you tried to begin a correspondence with Captain Rawson.'

'He
might appreciate it.'

'Were
that the case, he will write to you in the hope of eliciting a reply. Why not
wait to see if he does that, Abigail?'

'I
feel the need to make him aware of my feelings
now.'

'Do
not even consider it,' warned Dorothy. 'You must hide your true feelings until
the proper time. In your present state of mind, you would commit things to
paper that would make you look naive and unguarded. You have to show maturity.'

'What
should I say to him?'

'Say
nothing at all, Abigail. It is up to Captain Rawson to make the first move and
you must be patient. The campaign last year was long and exhausting. There's no
reason to think that it will be any different this year. In other words,
Captain Rawson will be very busy. If he can find a moment to write to you, then
perhaps he will. When he does, you have an excuse to write to him.'

'But
I may have to wait months,' wailed Abigail, getting up and moving restlessly
about the room. 'What am to do until then? How can I live until I know Daniel's
true opinion of me? He's paid me many pretty compliments since we met but will
he requite my love?' She came to a decision. 'I
must
write,' she announced. 'I'll do it instantly.'

'No,'
said Dorothy, standing up to prevent her from leaving. 'I forbid you to do
that, Abigail. Never show an admirer how vulnerable you are. If it will relieve
your torment,' she continued, 'then put your thoughts in a letter - but do not
send it.'

Abigail
was crestfallen. 'You really think it unwise?'

'It's
foolhardy in the extreme.'

'How
can I let him know that I love him?'

'You
must show forbearance. Captain Rawson will return one day - God willing - and
he will be moved to learn that you have been steadfastly carrying a torch for
him while he was away. That will impress him far more than a mawkish letter
written on impulse.'

'Do
you really believe that, Dorothy?'

'Yes,
I do - bide your time, sister.'

'Is
that what you would do in my place?'

'It's
exactly
what I'd do.'

After
thinking it over, Abigail elected to take her advice. She gave Dorothy a kiss
of gratitude on the cheek then went out of the room so that she could be alone
with her thoughts. Dorothy was glad that she had dissuaded her from hasty
action with regard to man on whom she doted. It left the field clear for her.
Five minutes later, it was the elder sister who was penning a missive to Daniel
Rawson.

They
reached Harwich hours after the
Peregrine
had set sail and they had to
wait the best part of a week before they could board a ship that would take
them to Holland. As they made their way along the quayside, Frédéric Seurel was
pessimistic.

'We'll
never catch up with him, Charles.'

'Of
course, we will,' said Catto, taking a more philosophical attitude to the
delay. 'Armies do not march fast. We'll soon overhaul Captain Rawson.'

'How
can we get to him when he is surrounded by thousands of soldiers?' asked
Seurel. 'It's impossible.'

'We'll
lure him out somehow.'

'We
do not even know where he'll be.'

'He'll
be attached to his regiment and my guess is that it will never be far away from
the Duke of Marlborough. There are Austrians, Dutch, Germans, Belgians, Danes,
Irish, Swiss and even some renegade Frenchmen at his command but the Duke will
always favour British soldiers.'

'They
stand no chance against Marshal Tallard.'

'Do
not underestimate him, Frédéric,' said Catto. 'The Duke is an astute general.
He has not lost a major battle and he recaptured all the Barrier Fortresses
from us. He began last year's campaign by seizing Bonn only two weeks after the
first trenches had been dug. While the garrison was preparing itself for a
lengthy siege, they were overwhelmed by a sudden attack. That was bold.'

'We'll
soon capture Bonn back again.'

'I
doubt that.'

'France
has a bigger and better army,' asserted Seurel. 'We also have the support of
the Elector of Bavaria. We must win.'

'I'm
sure that we will - in time. But forget about the war,' Catto went on. 'That
will take care of itself. Our only concern is the private battle we have with
Captain Rawson.'

'Let
it wait.'

'What
do you mean?'

'My
worry at this moment is
that
,' said the Frenchmen, pointing
at the ship towards which they were strolling with their luggage. 'I'm scared,
Charles. Sailing across the Channel was bad enough. The North Sea will be far
worse.'

'We'll
make a sailor of you yet, Frédéric.'

'The
very thought of a voyage makes my stomach heave.'

'This
is the last one you'll have to make and it's certainly the last one that
Captain Rawson will have made. He'll pay dearly for his hour between the thighs
of Madame Salignac.'

Seurel
grinned. 'He may think it was worth it.'

'No
woman is worth losing your life over.'

'I
don't agree. I'd much rather be shot in bed with another man's wife than
stabbed to death on the battlefield by a bayonet. At least I'd die with a smile
of my face.'

They
joined the end of the queue to board the ship. Proximity to other passengers
made them keep their voices down. Seurel eyed the vessel warily then let his
gaze travel up to the sky. It was overcast. A squall was in the offing. His
stomach heaved more violently. He had heard many stories about how perilous the
North Sea could be. People moved slowly forward, their passports examined
before they were allowed aboard. Until now, the two men had spoken in French.
As they edged towards the gangplank, Catto took the precaution of resorting to
his native tongue.

'Have
you been to Holland before?'

'No,'
replied Seurel.

'It
will be a novelty for you.'

'All
I want is dry land.'

'Then
you are going to the right place,' said Catto. 'The Dutch are very clever.
They've reclaimed land from the sea by building dykes. When we disembark, we
will, in effect, be walking on water.'

'I
just hope to get there safely.'

'We
will, Frédéric. We have an appointment with a great lover.'

Seurel
was mystified. 'A great lover?'

'Yes,'
said Catto, whispering in his ear. 'He's a man who lost his head over a woman.'
They shared a grim laugh.