The Shocking Miss Anstey (4 page)

He was in this questing and dissatisfied mood when he turned into Larkin’s chophouse, next to the Little Theatre in the Haymarket, in search of a quiet dinner. It was a house he was beginning to like, of good standing but not of the
haut ton,
so that he was not troubled by airs and graces, and usually there was plenty of room. But the incident in the Park had made him late. It was now six o’clock, the fashionable hour for dinner in this London after the war, and he could not see an empty table anywhere. Then the head waiter bowed him to a table under a window, where a man was sitting alone, and for a moment Grant hesitated. The table was laid for two, but he was not sure that he had a right to intrude upon a stranger, or even that he wanted to. Then the man looked up while he waited for his dinner, and he had obviously understood the situation. He waved courteously to the vacant chair, and he seemed on the point of speaking when his lean sun-tanned face became suddenly sharp. A little furrow came to his forehead, as if he were trying to recall something, and then he came quickly to his feet.

‘Haven’t we met, sir?’ He spoke in a clear pleasant voice. ‘I’m sure we have.’

‘I don’t remember it.’ Grant spoke more slowly, and there was doubt in his tone. ‘It’s possible, of course. Were you in the war?’

‘Peninsula. And you?’

‘Well--offshore, if you like.’ A half-memory was stirring now, and a thought that he had indeed seen this man before. ‘My name’s Grant, and I’ve the honour to be a captain in the Navy.’

‘Grant?’ The man echoed it, and then his hand slapped suddenly on the table. ‘Of course. You were in--what was the name?--
Altair.
God, how she rolled!’

‘Now where---’

‘You took us from Oporto--a half-company of infantry-- and you put us on that damned beach, up Vigo way.’ ‘Good God!’

‘About three years ago. A French look-out post, I think it was. We were to raid the place.’

‘Of course.’

It was coming back to him now, just an incident in the years of war, and for a moment the bright and noisy room seemed to fade from his sight. It was dark again now, and quiet, with only a splash of water, a creak of cordage, and a drone of surf from the shore.
Altair
was lying in the trough of the sea, her deck crowded with soldiers, who were dropping over the side, one by one, into the launch and two cutters that were rising and falling alongside. Rain was threatening, and a rising wind that was more than Grant had liked. He could remember turning his face to it, feeling its strength, as he stood by the gangway for a last word and a handshake with the infantry officer who would command the raid. Then the boats had pulled away, and for
Altair
there had been the long wait, standing on and off from a lee shore, till the dark line of it grew bright with musket flashes and a signal rocket flared at last from the beach. It was all in memory now, even the scent of breakfast from the galley as
Altair
stood in, closer than was really safe, to let her guns sweep the sand as the boats pulled out. The soldiers would be hungry after this, and the Navy was looking after them.

‘Of course.’ Grant spoke quickly, and he was in the crowded room again. Then he held out his hand. ‘I remember it perfectly. Except--stupid of me--I don’t recall your name.’

‘Wickham. And, to be honest, I’d forgotten yours. John Wickham. Major, the 112th Regiment. Captain when we last met.’

‘Thank you. I---’

‘Now for heaven’s sake, join me at dinner. We needn’t stand up like this.’

They settled down, ordered dinner, and then looked at each other with interest while a waiter brought them a half-pint each of sherry. They tasted it, and Wickham looked up with a smile.

‘Captain
Grant, did you say? Then you’ve had a step up, too?’ ‘Yes.’ Grant nodded, recognizing this as a fair opening for talk. ‘When was that beach landing?’

‘Three years back. March, perhaps.’

‘It was March weather. Well, I’d another year or so in
Altair,
doing the same sort of thing, though we were working more to the north after that--round Santander, making sure the supply ships got in for you--and then they gave me my frigate--
Amphion
--so, of course, I was made.’

‘Made?’

‘Posted captain. It’s a phrase we use. So after that it was more deep-water work.’

‘Any prizes?’

‘A few. One good one. How of you?’

‘Oh . . .’ Wickham sounded carefully casual. ‘I just soldiered on. We all did. I missed Badajoz, thank heaven!--but we got the rest of it--Salamanca, Vittoria, Toulouse, the whole lot, and some small stuff in between. And then, of course, this last affair.’

‘Waterloo?’

‘Yes. Well--here’s our dinner.’

Waiters had arrived with a boiled fowl, and were making the usual fuss as they carved it on a trolley. Talk languished until they had gone, and then Grant looked up as he was dipping a ladle into the oyster sauce.

‘Congratulations, then, on your promotion.’

‘If they’re due.’

‘Oh?’ The ladle stayed suspended for a moment. ‘That sounds cautious?’

‘It depends how a vacancy rises, I suppose.’

‘Oh, you mean--death of holder?’

‘Yes.’ It came rather quickly. ‘Both our majors---’

It ended in a shrug, and silence followed while they gave attention to the fowl and the sauce. Then Grant spoke without looking up.

‘Waterloo?’

‘Yes. Free of purchase, of course, but I’d sooner have had it otherwise.’

‘I know.’ He nodded and then spoke more cheerfully. ‘Well, what are you doing now?’

‘I hardly know. Officially I’m on sick leave.’ There was a faint smile for a moment. ‘That Waterloo affair took it out of us, and we were pretty tired to start with. We hadn’t been home for seven years.’

‘What!’

‘We went out in 1808, in battalion strength. For a month, they said, and we damn well stayed.’

‘How about leave?’

‘There wasn’t any. Lisbon, of course--forty-eight hours--but not home. Not even in winter. One of the Peer’s little whims.’

‘Peer?’

‘Sorry.’ Wickham laughed quietly. ‘One of
our
phrases. Wellington--after Talavera, when they first made him a peer, and he’s been the Peer ever since. But isn’t this enough about me? What are
you
doing?’

‘Nothing very much.’ Grant explained his situation briefly. ‘I don’t know this London, and I’m cruising at large, really, trying to get my bearings. Same with you?’

‘Well, more or less.’ Wickham stared thoughtfully at an empty plate. ‘Officially I’m here to collect a new chariot my Uncle Barford has just had built. I’m to take it home for him.

That’s in Dorset. Actually, I’m getting away from things for a while. They’re not good, at home. Same tale, of course.’

‘War?’

‘Yes.’ For an instant Wickham sounded curt. ‘It’s all very well these people celebrating a victory--waving flags and getting drunk--but it cost something. Have you seen the casualty lists?’

‘From Waterloo?’

‘It was worse than Badajoz, and it hits some families worse than others. It took my father and my brother-in-law.’

‘Your---’ A memory of a published list came suddenly to Grant. ‘General Wickham? Sir Harry?’

‘Yes. He was on the Staff, and, of course, they were first targets all the time.’

‘I’m sorry. I---’

‘Can’t be helped. It was right at the end of the day, though, when we had them on the run. Just a stray musket shot. One’s enough, of course.’

‘You need not tell me.’

‘No. But you can guess---’

Roast beef arrived, and vegetables and horse-radish, and again the talk was discreetly dropped while waiters were in earshot. Then Grant brought him gently back to it.

‘You were saying?’

‘Was I?’ He had a wry smile for a moment. ‘I think I was
trying
to say that it isn’t very lively at my home just now. I’m not quite used to the notion that it
is
my home--not my father’s. We buried him there.’ He paused for a thoughtful sip at his burgundy. ‘I must say the Peer was decent. He sent for me. “Sorry we’ve lost your father, Wickham. A good officer. Take him home, and bury him decently.” That was all he said, but he sent an order that I was to have special leave for it, and they’ve extended it now to sick leave.’

‘Convenient, perhaps. What will you do?’

‘I don’t know. I’m tempted to sell out and be done with it. I’ve had enough of soldiering.’

‘You’ve--er--inherited?’

‘Modestly. Just a house in the village and a little in the Funds. Barford’s the landowner. He lives at the Manor, with a good deal in the Funds. Which is why he can have a new chariot.’

‘Very pleasant.’

‘If you like the life.’

‘You mean you don’t?’

‘I don’t think I can judge. I haven’t had village life since I was a boy. There’s a danger, perhaps, of turning into a sort of vegetable.’

‘When you’ve been away--as we have?’

‘Perhaps not, and Barford seems all right. He’s lively enough. Do you know him, by the way--Lord Barford?’

‘Ambassador to Lisbon?’

‘That’s the man. I suppose that’s how he’s got the peerage --officially--though I’m not sure that playing whist hadn’t something to do with it too. But he illustrates what you were saying--you don’t go to seed in the country if you’ve been away.
He’s
spry enough. Of course he’s been everywhere--knows everybody. Quite useful, but disconcerting. You feel at times he sees right through you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes.’ Wickham sat back laughing while waiters swooped deftly on the table again. ‘He knew exactly why I offered to fetch his chariot for him--the old devil! He just said, “Yes, go by all means, and my compliments to the ladies, please--rep or demi.” Cream?’

‘Thanks.’ Grant accepted the jug and carefully poured cream over apple tart. ‘And what did you say?’

‘What the devil could I say? I just said, “Delighted, sir,” and then he looked at the ceiling and said he’d had it on the best authority that forty-eight hours was enough.’

‘For what?’

‘Yes--what?’ Wickham laughed softly again. ‘I’ve told you we had Lisbon leave in the Peninsula? Forty-eight hours was usual, and some fool sent in a complaint that this seemed

a bit short. He got a neat little chit back--Peer’s own writing--that it was as long as any reasonable man would wish to stay in bed with the same woman.’

‘Oh ho! That’s a bit sharp. Still, I suppose the fellow asked for it, writing in like that?’

‘Of course he did. And it was the right answer, really. I mean, the Peer knew his officers. We all did it, you know. But going back to Barford, he knows too much. I told him I’d need a week in Town to make sure of his chariot, and he kept his face all straight and asked for news of the pretty horse-breakers. This port isn’t bad.’

‘Better than we used to get.’

‘Well, one thing about the Peninsula, the port was pretty good. We’ll have another bottle.’

‘Certainly. What do you mean by pretty horse-breakers?’

‘Oh, it’s a Cyprian who’s good with horses. Tools the ribbons well. Or so Barford says, and
he
ought to know. He was in the regiment himself once, till he found diplomacy suited him better--and whist. I suppose I’ll have to tell him of this Anstey creature. She’s certainly the talk.’ Again Wickham chuckled happily. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘Well--yes.’

‘More than I have, except across the Park. What’s she like?’

‘Very--er--charming. An original, I should say.’

‘She must be. Ah, here’s the port. Thank you, waiter. Is it true about that curricle? She drove it herself?’

‘Oh yes. Prime style, too.’

‘What a woman! Do you know Jack Critchley?’

‘Can’t say I do.’

‘Rifle Corps. Damn nice fellow. But you shouldn’t try to walk through his picquets at night. The Peer once tried it.’

‘And what hap---’

‘We’d better forget it. The point is, I met him last night-- Critchley, I mean, not the Peer--and he was telling me about her. It seems he was riding in the Park that day, and he was one of that view-halloo party that made a chase of it.’

‘Was he?’ For a moment Grant hesitated, and then he could not resist it. ‘As a matter of fact, I was in that affair myself.’

‘What! You mean---’ Wickham stared at him. ‘It wasn’t you that went cross-country and cut her off?’

‘Well, yes. More by luck, I’m afraid, than---’

‘What a man! Here, fill the glasses, and don’t talk about luck! Call it an eye for country. Tactical interception, if you like, and here’s to
it,
you and her!’

‘Thanks. But---’

‘What comes next? You’re following it up, I hope?’

‘I don’t know that I want to. And even if I did, she seems to be someone else’s prize.’

‘Hildersham? Yes, I hear he’s moved in--protecting arm and so on. But are you letting him?’

‘Well, she seems to have rounded under his lee, and Hildersham’s a three-decker at this sort of thing. I mean, he can give her what the rest of us obviously can’t.’

‘Oh, he has everything. I agree about that, of course.’ Wickham nodded slowly. ‘Yes, you might be right.’

‘Exactly. Let’s refill.’

He reached for the bottle, charging the glasses again, and for a long moment they sat in silence. Then Wickham spoke more cheerfully.

‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘Hildersham’s a good fellow. He’ll treat her decently.’

‘You know him?’

‘Slightly. That’s to say---’ The other look came back to him as he stopped. You know he was on the Peer’s staff?’

‘At Waterloo?’ Grant nodded. ‘I was a shade surprised.’

‘You needn’t have been. As a matter of fact he was in the Peninsula, the last year or two. He came out about Salamanca time. Served as an aide-de-camp, and just the man for it. He can
ride.
He has a nerve you can’t shake, and an eye for country. You can trust him to get through.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I told you what happened to my father, and what the Peer said about taking him home. But it wasn’t so easy.

Imagine what it was like, trying to get transport just then--with the place littered with dead horses and smashed wagons and wounded to be taken out?’