Under Enemy Colors (3 page)

Robert’s partly suppressed smile blossomed fully. He took a malicious pleasure in making his friend perform.

Hayden took up his glass in resignation. “The style, largely; the French and the Spanish have different ideas about wine. And then each variety of grape has its own distinctive palette.” Hayden tasted the wine. “This is a skilful blend of Carignane…Teret noir, with perhaps a hint of the Picpoule. But I am no authority. My uncles could tell you who made the wine and precisely where the grapes were grown. They would go on at length regarding the
terrier
, then shake their heads at the backward methods of the rustic wine-makers.” He held the glass up to the light. “Where this wine is made the soil is often so thin over the rock that the vineyard owner must use a dibble, an iron bar, to break a depression in the stone into which the vine is planted. Then the vine is allowed to grow over the ground, wherever it will, rather than upon
echalas
—properly constructed wooden frames. They persist in crushing by foot, and refuse to use the press. Scientific methods have not reached them.”

Henrietta glanced at her cousin, the look impenetrable to Hayden.

“When this foolish war is over,” Mrs Hertle said, “Charles has promised to take us on a tour of France. Until then, I suppose, we must be content with seeing the parts of England we do not know, though I can’t imagine when we will manage even that, with Dame Duty always knocking at our door.”

“You must come to visit Lady Endsmere with me this summer, Eliza,” Henrietta urged, returning to their earlier subject. “Captain Hertle shall be upon his ship, and you will not be disappointed in the countryside.”

“Yes,” Robert said, “you must not miss this chance. I want to hear the stories.”

“You see,” Henrietta said, “you will join ‘the menagerie,’ as everyone names it, for there are monkeys and exotic birds and who knows what all around the grounds. Lord Uffington said the only difference between the animals and the humans was that the animals only dressed for supper if they were of a mind to…because a monkey once spent most of a meal sitting in Lady Endsmere’s lap, like a favoured child, eating whatever it fancied from her plate.”

“Now we know you are exaggerating, Henri!” Mrs Hertle laughed.

“You will come with me this summer and see for yourself. Enough stories can be gathered in a fortnight to dine out on the rest of the year.”

The smile suddenly disappeared from Mrs Hertle’s face. “But I shall worry so for Captain Hertle,” she responded softly.

Henrietta reached out and patted her cousin’s hand. “We will pray the war will be over, the radicals all suffering the fate they so readily prescribe others.”

“What do you think, Charles?” Mrs Hertle asked, lines appearing at the corners of her eyes. “You know more of France than anyone in our circle. Certainly this war cannot be as long as the last?”

Charles took a sip of claret. As his glass returned to the table the footman leaned silently forward and recharged it. “So we might hope, but it is my experience that wars often defy predictions of their brevity.”

“But so many of the officers of both the French Army and Navy have resigned their commissions,” Mrs Hertle said. “How will they fight without officers?”

“Recent evidence would indicate quite well,” Hayden said, “in the case of the Army, at least. The Navy has yet to be tested.”

Robert waved a hand. “Charles, you let your sympathies blind you, I think. Surely an entire officer corps cannot be replaced by ill-trained tailors and farm boys and success then expected.”

Charles felt suddenly defensive. “But imagine a navy where promotion was by merit rather than interest. Would not our own service be the better for it?”

“Certainly it would, but if we destroyed the officer class and promoted from the foremast hands, what kind of navy would we have?”

Hayden did not have an answer for that, and when he did not speak, Mrs Hertle said softly, “Then it
will
be a short war…”

“Certainly it must be,” Hayden offered, trying to sound reassuring.

“I should be allowed nothing but milk or water,” Hayden said passionately. “Wine makes me too forthright. I do apologize, Robert, I didn’t mean to frighten Mrs Hertle.”

Robert poured two glasses from a decanter. They had retired to the library for after-supper port and conversation. A brief interlude of male association before joining the ladies in the drawing room.

“Don’t apologize. Mrs Hertle is accustomed to hearing the truth, however distasteful. And you know I should rather have a harsh truth than a sweet lie.” Robert pressed a glass into his friend’s hand. Taking up a poker, he crouched and thrust it into the embers, tumbling a small hill of coal in a clatter. “You don’t believe that this conflict will be brief, I collect?”

“I have no special knowledge of the future, Robert, but such pronouncements have often proved frightfully optimistic in the past.”

Robert raked out the coals, then, satisfied with the effect, he stood, leaning a shoulder against the mantle. “What do you think of the situation across the Channel, now?”

Charles walked three paces, and turned, regarding his friend, propped against the mantle, a soft sadness come over him. “It grows more frightening by the day. That is what I think. The Girondins were the voice of moderation, and with them gone…I fear what might occur next. You read reports of the prison massacres last autumn. The resentments of the Paris mob are too easily inflamed; they have not done their worst yet, even without Marat to provoke them. I will own this, Robert: thank God for my English common sense or I might be among the mob even now.”

“I am thankful for your English half, too,” Robert said. “I cannot imagine having grown up without your friendship.”

The two men raised glasses in a silent toast to that bond.

“Perhaps we should both take oaths of temperance,” Robert said. “A bit of wine and you become uncomfortably candid, and I am overwhelmed by sentiment.”

Charles smiled. He knew what was in his friend’s mind, though neither would speak of it. Men went off to war and did not always return. Charles’ own father had been lost at sea when his son was only aboy.

As if his thoughts had run in the same path, Robert asked, “How fares your mother, pray?”

“Very well, when last she wrote; life in Boston seems agreeable, her husband adores her. One might think America had been created just for her, so happily does it appear to suit her temperament.”

“I am glad to hear it. She deserves happiness. God knows she has had sorrows enough.”

Charles did not answer. Truth seemed to be in the air that night. Not the most common thing in London that summer.

“
And
a French mother,” Henrietta observed. “That explains much.”

Mrs Hertle could not help but note that her cousin had rather adroitly worked the conversation around to her husband’s childhood friend, Charles Hayden.

“There is something in his face…” a crease appeared between Henrietta’s lovely eyebrows—her thoughtful pose.

“Charles always says he inherited his grandfather’s Gallic nose,” Mrs Hertle responded. “His ‘unfortunate nose,’ he calls it.”

“Though he seems entirely English in his manner,” Henrietta offered.

“Indeed he does, but I have come to believe that he is more French beneath the surface than one would guess. One must be wary of these Navy men, Henri, they are not always what they seem. Both Robert and Charles have been at sea much of their lives—since they were but thirteen—beginning together as midshipmen. Since that early date they have been trained to be very decisive—indeed, irresolution at an inopportune moment might cost many lives aboard a ship. Some Navy men bring this decisiveness ashore with them, where often their understanding is not so great as at sea. I have watched the ill effects of this many times. It is fortunate that Robert does not suffer this defect of character, or from its opposite disability—a chronic indecisiveness upon the land where they are so out of their element. These Navy men take some little study, I have found.”

Henrietta nodded, her attention apparently focussed on smoothing a crease in the skirt of her gown. They perched on chairs in the drawing room, speaking quietly.

Mrs Hertle had noted before that women were almost never neutral in their response to Charles Hayden: they either found his overly serious mind an impediment, or they could not stop speaking of him. She could hardly remember how she herself had felt when first introduced, some four years past. Certainly, she had thought him well made, though thick of thigh, “just shy of a fathom in height” as he said himself. A strong, appealing face, surely—though rather full-featured—inky hair drawn back in a queue. Nose, aquiline—not unhandsome but neither was it modest in proportions; mouth full and pleasant, very used to smiling. His brow, however, could only be termed “heavy,” imparting a certain intensity to eyes that would have been perfectly fine if one had not been blue and the other shading to green.

“The Lords of the Admiralty must be sensible of his parentage?” Henrietta ventured.

Mrs Hertle nodded.

“It is a wonder he has a commission at all.”

“I fear you are right, Henrietta. Robert refuses to see it. In his mind Charles can do no wrong. Though I am sure he is a fine seaman and officer; Robert is not so blind as that.”

“I wonder what will become of him?” Henrietta asked, now examining a fingernail with great attention.

“I believe his future is in America. His stepfather is a very prosperous Boston merchant and has offered Charles command of one of his ships. A few more disappointments and I think poor Charles will finally perceive this proposal differently.”

“But it would be so demeaning—from officer in the King’s Navy to master of a merchantman—an
American
merchantman.”

“Indeed, but in America he would find acceptance, I think. His step-father is a man of some influence.”

“I should not want to live in Boston. Should you?”

“Whoever asked you to live in Boston, dear Henrietta?” Mrs Hertle said quickly.

“Well, of course, no one did,” Henrietta protested. “And I did not mean
that
, as you well know!”

Mrs Hertle laughed gently at her cousin’s response. “Let us call the gentlemen for tea. The hour grows late.”

She was all long limbs and slim torso, Hayden thought, yet she perched upon her chair with such easy elegance, a look of amused contentment upon her face, that Hayden could not help but think her as lovely as a naiad. Her carriage was erect and proper but not without a hint of sensuality. In truth, Hayden was beginning to think Henrietta’s distinctive appearance perfectly matched her somewhat unconventional disposition.

The Carthews, he knew, were of good family, distantly related to the Russells. Her father was a gentleman of some means, had married well, and spent life riding his own particular hobby horse, which was the matter of education, and the education of women in particular. As he was a father of six daughters, Mr Carthew’s preoccupation with this subject was clearly defensible, and his daughters had been the subject of much experimentation in regards to their own learning, though it had gained them a perhaps undeserved reputation as bluestockings.

Mrs Hertle was gently chafing her cousin, teasing about this very subject, as Hayden raised his teacup.

“How many languages do you speak, dear Henri? Come now, don’t be modest.”

“Fluently?” Henrietta asked. Apparently they had played this game before.

“Let us begin with those you speak fluently and pass on to the others presently. Is it five or six?”

“You are evidently more familiar with this subject than I,” Henrietta protested.

“English we shall not count,” Mrs Hertle rejoined. “French, of course.” Mrs Hertle pushed up a slim finger, a glance finding Charles, then returning. “Italian, Spanish, High German—or is it Low?”

“Both,” Henrietta admitted.

“Greek and the Latin…”

“Not to be counted, as I read them only.”

“Dutch,” Mrs Hertle continued. “Does it come in High and Low?”

“Mmm…” her victim shrugged, pretending not to know.

Mrs Hertle counted off another finger. “Six, or is that seven? And then either Danish or Swedish, I can never remember.”

“Danish, but I am by no means fluent.” Henrietta’s unblemished skin had begun to colour—the object of Mrs Hertle’s cross-examination, Hayden guessed.

“We shall count Danish…” Mrs Hertle said, “for you are rather prone to modesty. I will make that eight, or seven if you insist, but we must not forget Russian.”

“By no means, Russian. I am unable to carry a conversation beyond mere pleasantries.”

Mrs Hertle laughed. “Seven, plus one half for Russian, and I’m certain I have missed a tongue or two. It is quite a little catalogue, don’t you think, Lieutenant Hayden?”

“Very impressive. Apparently Mr Carthew’s pedagogical methods were as successful as he claimed.”

“I think, the truth is that dear Henrietta has a genius for language.”

“Rather like me,” Robert declared, to a roll of the eyes from his wife and laughter from the others. Robert’s attempts at French and Spanish were the subject of much teasing within their circle.