Conversation at the table never once touched upon anything of a serious nature. It was as if the gentlemen were determined to enjoy a short respite from weightier matters by making light of every trial and tribulation, and rumor had it that there were many.
“Do you recall, Thornhill, what the Duke said in Spain when you and Rathbourne presented yourselves as two fresh young officers just out from England?” a voice asked derisively from the end of the table.
“Certainly I remember,” said Major Thornhill gravely. “He paid us the highest compliment it is possible for any commander to pay an officer.”
The hilarity was general, and Lady Fenton asked diffidently, “What did Wellington say?”
“I remember his words exactly,” drawled Major Thornhill. “He looked us over with that supercilious expression that no one has quite managed to emulate, and he said in his usual bored way, ‘I only hope that the enemy trembles as much as I do when he learns the names of my newest officers.’”
“And why did he say that?” asked Lady Fenton innocently. But no one gave her a satisfactory answer, although there was much innuendo and laughter at Major Thornhill’s expense.
They were such splendid young men, all of whom had served under Uxbridge in Spain and looked forward to serving with him again, that Deirdre at one point in her reflections blinked rapidly to dispel the gathering tears. By the time breakfast was over and the ladies had retired to their own rooms, Deirdre was forced to the conclusion that Lord Uxbridge’s credit with his men, both as a man and as an officer, could not have stood higher. It caused her estimation of his character to shift slightly in his favor.
Lord Uxbridge’s presence in the hotel made a great difference to Deirdre, for a goodly contingent of gentlemen and officers (among them, Rathbourne) came to wait on him and they filled the hotel with their laughter and jests. Uxbridge went out of his way to show every courtesy to the Fentons, and in the ordinary course of events made them known to many fellow officers. Deirdre could not forget the threat of war that gradually crept closer and she treated each with a sisterly affection which more than one aspiring suitor deeply regretted. Only Major Ogilvie, quiet yet doggedly persistent, refused to accept the brotherly role which Deirdre attempted to cast him in and, within a fortnight of having made her acquaintance, was on such a familiar footing with Deirdre that he was forced to endure much good-natured raillery from his colleagues.
The notion of making up a form-fitting spencer in the color that she preferred above all others had taken a firm hold on Deirdre’s fancy. She enlisted the advice of Lady Fenton, who, though not as au fait with the current fashions as her friend Serena, was no dowd and thought Deirdre’s idea a splendid one. They spent several pleasant hours designing the garment and deciding on the placement and quantity of brass buttons. When a slight difference of opinion arose over how much gold frogging would be appropriate, Deirdre always tending to understatement, they sent for Armand to give the benefit of the male point of view. He sided with the older woman, saying with crushing finality that Deirdre’s dress sense verged on the mediocre, “modest and unmodish,” and that she was saved from becoming a complete nonentity only because she was such a handsome creature.
Deirdre, slightly cowed by her brother’s frankness, gracefully submitted to the dictates of her self-appointed mentors. The four yards of scarlet kerseymere (the softest and finest wool twill that was to be had), one dozen brass buttons, and yards of gold braid were duly purchased. It was Armand who found a seamstress to make up the garment, but Deirdre did not question him too closely on how he had come by that piece of information.
It was with some relief that she discovered that Mrs. Dawson was a perfectly respectable Englishwoman whose husband was a lieutenant with the 95th Rifles—that crack regiment which had covered itself with glory in the Peninsular Campaign. The Dawsons, with their three young children, were billeted in two rooms in a private dwelling only a stone’s throw from the Hotel d’Angleterre. Deirdre found herself drawn to a woman who, though not much older than herself, had seen a side of life that was far from Deirdre’s experience. Mrs. Dawson was an army wife who had made up her mind early in her marriage that she would not be separated from her husband as he pursued a military career. Deirdre had often heard the expression “follow the drum,” but she had never understood its full significance or the hardships and sacrifice such a life entailed till she met Mrs. Dawson.
She took to dropping in of a morning with treats for the children, who soon came to recognize her step on the landing, and she would insist in relieving Mrs. Dawson of the care of the baby while the kettle was put on the boil for a cup of good English brew. In normal circumstances there could have been little converse between women of such disparity in station, for the Dawsons at home would have been considered “genteel” rather than “gentry,” and their paths would have been most unlikely to cross except by accident. Nor would the wife of a lieutenant have deemed it proper to sell her skills as a seamstress, but such niceties were overlooked in the situation in which they found themselves. Moreover, the Dawsons were putting aside every spare penny to buy Lieutenant Dawson his captain’s commission, and Mrs. Dawson was determined that their growing family (she was again breeding) should not stand in the way of her husband’s preferment.
Deirdre was by turns aghast and admiring of the life that wives who chose to “follow the drum” were obliged to endure.
“You were there, at the Battle of Salamanca?” Deirdre tried to cover her incredulity without much success.
“Certainly,” responded Mrs. Dawson calmly. “We women weren’t in the thick of it, you understand, and mostly the officers’ wives were sent to safety far behind the lines. But the wives of those enlisted men who had won the lot were never far from the battlefield.”
“Won the lot?”
Mrs. Dawson took the baby from Deirdre’s arms and settled him in his basket. “Didn’t you know? Five enlisted men in every company are allowed to take their wives overseas with them. They draw lots to choose the lucky ones. Officers have no such restrictions placed upon them.”
“And these women were actually present when the battle took place?”
“I think that I have offended your sensibilities.”
“Not at all,” Deirdre hastily disclaimed. “It’s just that I find it so incredible and, to be frank, rather foolhardy and pointless.”
“I cannot agree. There are many stories I could tell you of wives saving their husbands’ lives after a battle—yes, and the lives of other wounded as well. You needn’t look so shocked, Miss Fenton. It is only when the smoke has cleared that the women venture upon the field of battle to look for their loved ones.”
“Yes, but what if the battle were lost? What happens then?”
“That is something I never think about.” She picked up Deirdre’s scarlet spencer and became engrossed in setting in one sleeve. Deirdre sipped her tea pensively.
Her thoughts drifted back to that memorable night in Vauxhall Gardens, and some words she could not quite recall that Rathbourne had spoken. He had wanted her to follow him to Spain, but as his wife or as his doxy had been left in some doubt. If things had been different, she might have spent five years “following the drum.” She wondered if she would have had the stamina for it. But then, Mrs. Dawson had been the daughter of a country parson. There was nothing in her early life to predict the pluck she had demonstrated under the most trying circumstances.
“I think,” said Deirdre, lightening her tone, “that if I were Wellington, I would award medals to the brave wives who act as unpaid auxiliaries of the British Army.”
Mrs. Dawson flashed Deirdre a grateful smile. “Thank you. But we only do our duty. You mustn’t think that we are braver than we are. It is the French girls who run the most appalling risks.”
“I cannot conceive of anything that could possibly surpass what you have just told me.”
Mrs. Dawson carefully maneuvered a length of scarlet thread through the eye of
her needle. “There are many who would dispute what I am going to tell you, but I know for a fact that many French girls go into battle with their husbands and sweethearts.”
Deirdre carefully replaced her cup on the saucer. “How do you know?” she asked skeptically.
“Because after the battle, the dead are stripped of their uniforms, and I’ve seen, with my own eyes, the bodies of young French women where they have fallen, yes, and sometimes entwined in the arms of a dead lover.” She glanced cautiously at Deirdre and decided against telling her that it was looters of the victorious army who stripped the dead of anything of value and left them naked where they lay. She was beginning to regret that she had told this gently bred and sheltered girl so much, but she had done it with a purpose. There was a favor she wished particularly to ask of her.
“Miss Fenton,” she began diffidently, then hesitated, unsure of how to frame her request. “Miss Fenton,” she began again with more resolution, “before the battle begins, you will be sent to Antwerp for safety.”
“No one has told me so.”
“Believe me, I know. The wives and families of diplomats and senior officers are rarely to be found in the vicinity of the battle. No, don’t protest! Whatever you might wish, you will have no say in the matter. My place is with my husband—but the children…” She faltered to a halt and looked expectantly at Deirdre.
Deirdre’s expression was stricken. “You cannot mean to tell me that, in your condition, you mean to follow the army to the battlefield?”
“Certainly! I had hoped to find someone to take my children to a place of safety, but if I fail, I shall take them with me.”
Deirdre used all her powers of persuasion to try to deflect the young woman from her purpose, but nothing she said had the least effect. She felt helpless in the face of so much immovable determination. Mrs. Dawson was more fortunate. She secured the promise from Deirdre that when the time came, she would convey the Dawson children to Antwerp and safety.
This was no hardship, since Deirdre was fond of children and had taken a particular liking to the two little Dawson girls, Sally and Sophy, who at three and four years old respectively, were very well brought up infants. She formed the habit of taking them to the park for outings over the halfhearted protests of their mother, so that Mrs. Dawson, who had no maid, might be relieved of their care for an hour or two. It was with great relief that Deirdre discovered that her aunt’s new abigail, Solange, a young Belgian girl of sixteen years or so, was inordinately fond of children since much of the care of the youngsters would fall on her shoulders once the time to remove from Brussels arrived.
Rathbourne, mounted on a handsome gray charger, happened upon her one afternoon when she was sitting on a park bench with baby William resting contentedly in her lap. Solange was playing a game of ball with the two little girls, and their squeals of pleasure carried delightfully on the air. Deirdre was deeply contented, her imagination running riot as she dreamily gazed down at the infant in her arms. Rathbourne took in the scene at a glance, checked his mount, and cantered toward Deirdre. It was a moment before she recognized him.
“A prettier portrait of domestic bliss, I have yet to see,” he remarked pleasantly.
Deirdre straightened instinctively and blushed as if he had caught her red-handed in some nefarious plot. “I happen to like children,” she said defensively.
“So I see. Whose children are they?”
“They belong to Lieutenant Henry Dawson of the 95th.”
“I remember the fellow. His little girls were born in Spain. That would be Dawson’s son in your arms and the hope of his family, I collect?”
Deirdre replied that it was and fell silent, not knowing what to say next. An awkward pause ensued, with the Earl making no move to disengage himself. She stole a quick glance at him and thought that he looked very grave.
“They might have been ours, if things had been different—but I am forgetting your sentiments on my capacity to be a worthy father.”
There was bitterness mingled with injury behind those words and Deirdre was moved to say earnestly, “Gareth, I already asked your forgiveness for expressing that stupid lie. I would have said anything then to wound you. I swear I did not mean it. Can’t you forget that I ever said it?”
His expression softened. “Children become you,” he said quietly. “I am delighted to see that you have at least some of the instincts that are natural to your sex.”
If he had meant the sentiment to be conciliatory, he failed miserably. Deirdre’s head went back.
“And you, sir, have all the predatory instincts that are natural to a man. I regret deeply that I ever questioned your aptitude for fatherhood. How can I say what sort of father a man of your stamp might make? But as a husband, I make no mistake that you would fail miserably.”
Baby William, as if sensing the anger between the two adults, began to whimper, and Deirdre soothed him by laying her hand against his cheek and crooning words of comfort.
Rathbourne’s jaw clenched. “And you, Miss Fenton,” he ground out, “had best resign yourself to maidenhood, I beg your pardon, spinsterhood. You have the capacity for passion, I grant you, but the softer virtues of your sex are beyond you.”
He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and rode off at a furious pace, leaving Deirdre deeply mortified and searching in vain for the words that would cut the feet from under the detestable Earl.
She made up her mind that the next time they met, since she had yet to win a contest of wits with him, she would give him the cut direct. After mulling over the form of retaliation such an insult might provoke, her resolve wavered and she determined merely to go out of her way to avoid him. Further reflection convinced her that this was the coward’s way. No, she would heap coals of fire on his head. She would show him how much his thoughtless words had wounded her. This humiliating pose, however, was naturally distasteful to Deirdre since it forcibly brought to mind her mother’s air of martyrdom, and she soon discarded that particular means of bringing the Earl to heel.
As it happened, she might have saved herself much needless deliberation for it was some time before she was to see Rathbourne again. She heard from Ogilvie that the Earl had left Brussels, but when she asked for particulars, he became evasive, and she let the subject drop.
They were at a small dinner party given by Lord Uxbridge on the eve of his departure, along with his staff, for Ninove where cavalry headquarters had been established.
“I shall miss you all,” said Deirdre wistfully to Ogilvie, her eyes lingering on Uxbridge and his aides.
“Don’t sound so forlorn. Ninove isn’t so far away, and we are under orders to fraternize with the general population. You’ll be wishing yourself shot of us before long. Still,” he went on with mock reproach, “it is rather lowering to find oneself only one among many whose absence you regret.”
“What will you do when all this is over?” she asked, ignoring his quiet cajolery.
“I’m a professional soldier,” he answered. “I have no settled domicile, so to speak.” He took her gloved hand and gently turned Deirdre toward him. “My sword and my heart are my fortune, fair lady.”
Deirdre felt a pang of dismay at the gravity of his expression and, fearing that he was on the point of making a declaration, made an effort to turn the subject. “Everyone has a home,” she said flippantly, “even soldiers. Where were you born and bred?”
“In a place you’ve probably never heard of,” he said with an inaudible sigh, releasing her hand as she moved slightly apart from him. “In the hills of Scotland, a place called Aboyne, near Aberdeen.”
“Aberdeen? Why, I might have been there now visiting a friend, if my aunt had not invited me to come with her to Brussels.”
“Then it must have been fate that brought you to me,” he said quizzically.
“You were telling me about Aboyne,” she reminded him.
“How can one describe the beauty that is Scotland to a native of England—mountai
ns, mists, and barren peaks? You English prefer a gentler landscape—your verdant valleys and gently rolling hills with forests of trees—pretty, I grant you, but give me the loneliness of our moors and the mystery of our mountains.”
“It sounds to be something like the Lake District.”
“True, but beautiful as the English Lake District is, it is only a shade of what is to be found in Scotland.”
“Pooh!” said Deirdre derisively. “Don’t speak to me of mountains. I am a farmer and horse breeder. Can mountains raise wheat or barley or provide pasture for my beasts? What good are they?”
“Mountains, you little ignoramus, are for climbing and conquering. For a man to pit his skill against the elements of nature, that is a true test of endurance and character.”
“I think, Captain Ogilvie, that you like to flirt with danger.”
“Well, it is dangerous, but I’ve only once been involved in a climbing accident. Did Rathbourne ever tell you about it?”
“No. What happened?”
“The worst thing possible. Rathbourne’s younger brother, Andrew, lost his life. We were at Harrow at the time—boys really. I suppose I was to blame for getting him all fired up about climbing. He came for a holiday and brought Gareth along with him. Rathbourne was a natural. We tried the easy peaks first—nothing too hard for beginners. But Andrew wouldn’t rest with that, not daredevil Andrew. Rathbourne and I did one of the more difficult climbs. My father’s gillie wouldn’t allow Andrew to attempt it. Andrew didn’t like that and protested loud and long. It didn’t do a bit of good. Robertson stood in place of my father when I went climbing, and when he made up his mind, nothing could sway him. Andrew broke one of the cardinal rules of climbers. He went out alone early the next morning before anyone was about. I suppose he wanted to show us how we had misjudged him. We knew immediately what had happened, of course, but we were too late.”
The Passionate Prude Page 22