Colonel Sandhurst to the Rescue

by M C Beaton

  Frederica brought Belinda into focus and her heart sank. She was not aware of her good looks, feeling that her father had prized her attractions too high, and only saw that Belinda was fashionably beautiful with reddish-brown hair, brown eyes, a small straight nose, and a small mouth. That tinge of red was only a little comfort.

  “Good evening, Miss Frederica,” said the captain. “May I present Miss Belinda Devenham? Miss Belinda, Miss Frederica… Black.”

  Belinda stared haughtily at the glowing vision of loveliness that was Frederica. Frederica’s hand was outstretched. Belinda gave a brief nod and then said, “Oh, good, there is Mr. Warren. Pray excuse me.”

  Behind her, her mother and Lady Manners raked Frederica up and down with hard glances.

  “I must apologize for my fiancée’s rudeness,” said the captain.

  “On the contrary, Miss Devenham was behaving just as she ought,” said Frederica. “One does not introduce a servant to a member of the ton.”

  “Frederica,” said Miss Tonks breathlessly. “Sir Philip is in need of assistance. Jack here will serve the negus.”

  Frederica curtsied to the captain and followed Miss Tonks to where Sir Philip was standing. The captain went after them, almost feeling his mother’s eyes boring into his back. He knew he was behaving badly, that he should immediately swing round and go and join his party, but he seemed to be drawn after Frederica as if on wires. He stood a little away, affecting to look about him, but he distinctly heard Sir Philip say, “You are attracting too much attention, miss. Lady Fortescue suggests that you return to the hotel. If you stay, you may be subject to coarse pleasantries from the men, which is something we should have considered. Mr. Davy will escort you and then come straight back here.”

  The captain waited, seemingly unable to move until Mr. Davy was summoned, until he saw the last glimpse of Frederica’s bright hair under the little tiara moving out of the room and being lost to view.

  Then he returned to the recriminations of his mother, his fiancée, and Mr. Warren, who could not believe that he had forgot himself so much as to introduce Belinda to a servant.

  “They are all aristocrats.”

  “They are all in trade,” snapped Lady Manners. “And as for aristocrats, that one who left with your servant girl is none other, I have just learned, than that actor, Jason Davy.”

  “Well… let us talk of something else,” said the captain wearily. They moved into the ballroom. He danced with Belinda, he danced with several plain young ladies who would otherwise have been wallflowers, and all the time he felt an increasing excitement rising within him. Frederica would be alone at the hotel… alone, that is, apart from some of the guests who had not been invited and temporary staff. Belinda, he noticed, also danced two dances with Jack Warren. How well they got on together, he thought. Suddenly he could not take any more of it: the offered snuff-boxes; the languid, scurrilous gossip; the combined smells of scent to cover unwashed bodies and musk-pills to disguise the smell of rotting teeth; the posturing and bowing and primping. He approached his mother and said that an old war wound in his back was causing him considerable pain and he must leave.

  “What war wound?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I told you. The one from a sabre cut on my back.”

  “You never told me about any war wound!”

  “I did not want to worry you at the time, Mama. It only hurts occasionally.”

  Jack Warren came up with Belinda on his arm at that moment.

  “Here’s a coil,” said Lady Manners, torn between worry and exasperation. “Peter tells me that he is in pain from an old war wound.”

  “What—?” began Jack and stopped abruptly as the captain stepped on his foot.

  “Oh, dear,” said Belinda pettishly. “We are about to go in for supper.”

  “I would be charmed, honoured, to escort you,” said Mr. Warren.

  “Oh, good,” said Lady Manners, fixing her son with a suspicious look. “We will talk about this further tomorrow, Peter.”

  Captain Manners made his way to the duchess and presented his apologies and then escaped into the London night.

  He felt he was behaving madly, badly. Frederica was probably asleep by now. To picture her sitting waiting and available in that sitting-room at the top of the hotel was folly.

  As he walked along Bond Street, he ran into a party of army friends and answered their jokes and sallies, while all the time his brain screamed with impatience, longing to get away.

  At last he was free. The church clocks began to strike midnight. Midnight! Surely she would not still be awake. Only the fashionables stayed up till dawn.

  The hotel entrance was quiet, with only a footman and a page dozing on a bench outside the office. He made his way up the stairs to the sitting-room and gently turned the handle and opened the door.

  Chapter Seven

  The night has a thousand eyes,

  And the day but one;

  Yet the light of the bright world dies,

  With the dying sun.

  The mind has a thousand eyes,

  And the heart but one;

  Yet the light of a whole life dies,

  When love is done.

  —FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON

  Frederica had gone to the hotel sitting-room in all her finery, reluctant to take it off. She felt lost and sad. Not only did she not belong in society, she could not even attend functions. She felt miserable, thinking that there must be something blowzy about her appearance that she had to be protected from insult. She had to admit that she had nourished hopes that the captain might fall in love with her, just like in a romance, and would sweep her up in his arms, that they would be married and live happily ever after.

  One look at Belinda had been enough to show her how ridiculous such thoughts were. She rose and stirred up the fire and threw on a shovelful of coal. Perhaps the best thing would be to go next door to bed and sleep and perhaps life would look brighter in the morning. She seemed to have been in the sitting-room for hours, but the little French clock on the mantel was chiming out midnight, not five in the morning, which was what it felt like. She walked restlessly over to the piano and rippled one hand inexpertly over the keys.

  Then she heard the door behind her open and swung round.

  Captain Peter Manners and Frederica stared at each other.

  Frederica was the first to collect her wits. “May I be of assistance, sir?”

  “No… no,” he said. He entered the room. “I had to leave early. I was feeling unwell.”

  “I am so sorry. I trust it was nothing to do with our cooking.”

  “No, I left before supper. An old war wound.”

  “Are you in pain? Can I fetch you something?”

  “I thank you, but the pain has abated. It was a sabre cut in my back.”

  “How dreadful. But you must be hungry. I, too, have not eaten anything. Unfortunately Betty and John, our personal servants, will have retired for the night. If you care to wait here, I will bring us something from the kitchens…”

  “We will go together,” he said, suddenly ridiculously light-hearted.

  It was only when they reached the kitchens that Frederica realized she was still wearing her tiara and jewelry. She took down a large white apron from a cupboard in the corner and tied it on. “Pray be seated,” she said firmly, “and I will find something. There is some cold ham and veal pie. The cellars are locked, so you will need to be content with servants’ ale. If you would be so good as to draw two tankards from the firkin over there.” She moved about efficiently and deftly, putting out plates, knives, and forks, taking some little pride in showing off how easily she knew her way around.

  She tossed salad in a bowl, saying quickly and nervously, “It is such a pity you missed Despard’s cooking. He has excelled himself this evening, I am sure of that,” and all the while he watched her bright figure, the light from the candles causing the pearls in her tiara to shine with a soft gleam.

 
“There,” she said at last. “We are ready.” She sat down opposite him at the kitchen table.

  “When you do not know what to say to a gentleman,” echoed the voice of her governess in her head, “then ask him about himself. It is the favourite subject of all gentlemen.”

  “Are you on leave for very long?” she asked.

  “Until I am recalled. I had one brief leave last year, and before that nothing since I joined the army.”

  “What age were you when you enlisted?”

  “Sixteen. Quite battle-hardened by now.”

  “I always think our soldiers look so very grand in their uniforms.”

  “You would not have thought so had you seen us in the Peninsula,” he said wryly. “I used to dream of a proper pair of boots. Can no one make boots for the British army? The trouble is that boots are so fashionable, they are still made for dilettantes rather than officers. Do you know that Sir John Shelley went to his bootmaker’s in Saint James’s and complained that the new pair of boots he had recently purchased had split in several places when he had first worn them? ‘What were you doing?’ asked the bootmaker. ‘Why, walking to my stables,’ said Sir John. ‘Walking to your stables!’ exclaimed the bootmaker. ‘I made those boots for riding, not walking.’ After the Battle of Salamanca, the Guards had walked their footwear off, so we all adopted the mode of footwear used by the Spanish muleteers. The raw hides of freshly killed bullocks were placed flat and the man’s foot placed on it. A sufficient piece of hide was cut to cover the foot and a sandal was made. They proved to be so comfortable that the Guards refused to wear captured French army boots.”

  “But the great Duke of Wellington is considered something of a dandy,” said Frederica. “Would he not make an effort to see his men well-clothed?”

  “Wellington said he cared little what his men looked like provided they came into battle ‘well appointed and with sixty rounds of ammunition.’ He said he never looked to see whether their trousers were black, grey, or white. He himself hardly ever wears his full uniform, preferring civilian garb of blue coat and buff breeches.”

  “It must be a hard and dreary life.”

  “It is not all battles. We have our balls and parties. But some officers ruin themselves by trying to maintain a luxurious life-style. A chap called Dawson was always seen surrounded by muleteers with whom he was negotiating to provide transport for his immense personal supply of hampers full of wine, liqueurs, hams, potted meats, and other delicacies brought out from England. He also had his own cooks, said to be the best in the army, as well as a host of servants from Spain, Italy, and Portugal, and even France. He was very open-handed and much loved by his fellow officers, but his stay in the Peninsula was cut short after a year. He had only a younger brother’s fortune, and his debts became so considerable that he was obliged to quit the Guards.”

  The captain’s voice grew dreamy with recollection. “I remember a ball we gave at Pueblo to entertain the Spanish. The officers of Don Julian Sanchez’s corps had given a ball for us, so we were returning the hospitality. We constructed a huge hut and the floor was grass. For supper, we pooled our rations and punch was made in the camp kettles. The ball began at seven but at midnight we were told we were to march at dawn, which we knew would give us all about two hours’ sleep. Still, the Spanish ladies and gentlemen were much pleased with the ball. Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I must be boring you.”

  “Not in the slightest,” said Frederica truthfully. “Tell me more.”

  And so he talked on, reliving old battles while an entranced Frederica listened to his pleasant voice and looked at his handsome face and wanted the night to last forever.

  At last, when a pale dawn began to filter in through the grimy window above their heads and the candles started to gutter in their sockets, he rose almost guiltily to his feet.

  “I have kept you up all night,” he said ruefully. “I have talked too much.”

  “I enjoyed it,” said Frederica. “I do not think anyone has ever talked to me before. I mean apart from polite conversation. Miss Tonks talks to me, but it is not the same.”

  She walked with him to the kitchen door and unbolted it. “You had best leave this way,” she said. “The others will be returning soon, and if they knew you have been with me, I should get a terrible lecture.”

  “We have behaved most unconventionally.” He raised her hand to his lips. “Is Mr. Davy really an actor?”

  “Yes, he is. He is working with us at the moment. Why do you ask?”

  “It gave me an idea, that is all. He supervises the coffee room, does he not?”

  “Yes, and very successful he has turned out to be.” She giggled. “Sir Philip is quite furious. He is jealous of Mr. Davy.”

  They stood together at the bottom of the area steps. A passing watchman peered down curiously at the pair in their evening dress, lit by the red light of dawn.

  “May I see you again?” he asked.

  All the glory of the night tumbled about her ears. She looked up at him in dismay. “That would not be… fitting.”

  The shadow in her eyes was mirrored in his own. “I suppose not,” he said sadly.

  He went up the area steps, hearing the kitchen door being shut and locked behind him. He stood outside the hotel, irresolute, and then began to walk away from it down through the Bond Street Straits, Old Bond Street and so to Piccadilly, his thoughts in a turmoil. Had Frederica proved stupid, he thought, then it would have been so easy to forget her. But she had listened so intelligently. She had not flirted with him or said, as his fiancée and the other females of his acquaintance would have said, “Oh, you must not horrify us with stories of war.”

  He walked by the reservoir in the Green Park and heard the noises of London all about him as the rich went to bed and the poor came awake. The red of the dawn had faded, to be replaced by grey. A thin drizzle was beginning to fall and moorfowl called plaintively from the pond outside Buckingham House.

  He stared moodily down at the water. He wondered for the first time what Belinda thought of him, or indeed, if she thought anything at all about him. He felt that in her eyes he was a property, like a house, to be changed and decorated and made more to her taste. And yet this was the woman he was supposed to tumble in his arms on the marriage bed. And how unexciting that would be. She would lie there like a plank, suffering what she would no doubt privately damn as his “necessary ministrations,” which was how he had once heard a colonel’s wife describing the act of love. But by the laws of society, he could not break the engagement. She must be the one to do it. Tired as he was, he decided that the first thing he should do was to find that actor and enlist his aid.

  ***

  Mr. Davy was in the coffee room that afternoon, glad that for once the place was tolerably quiet. He marvelled at the stamina of his older colleagues who, after only a few hours’ sleep, had risen to go about the hotel business just as if they had not been working all night. He himself felt weary. He usually coped very well with the business of the coffee room because he acted his part. As long as he was acting, he felt comfortable with the world.

  He looked up as Captain Manners came in, reflecting it was a pity he was not an actor, because such incredibly good looks would surely have made him a success. “Coffee, sir?” he asked, sweeping forward and at the same time signalling a waiter to come forward.

  “Yes, coffee,” said the captain. “I am weary.” He sank down at a table near the window. “Will you join me, Mr. Davy? I have a proposition to put to you.”

  Mr. Davy ordered coffee for himself and gratefully sat down. Like most men of the Regency, he wore shoes a size too small for him and his toes were pinched.

  The captain waited in silence until the coffee had been served and then said, “I would pay you handsomely for the acting abilities of some of your friends and of yourself.”

  “How many?”

  “Four. Yourself and three others.”

  “Are we to put on a play for you or you
r family?”

  “No, what I want is this. I enjoy my freedom here and I told my mother, Lady Manners, that the reason I stay in a hotel and not at our town house is because I wish to have a place to entertain my army friends, they being, or so I said, too uncouth for a lady’s drawing-room. I wish you and some acting acquaintances to masquerade as friends of mine. You are to be loutish and uncouth.”

  “We will need to have genuine military uniforms,” said Mr. Davy, looking not at all taken aback by this odd request because he privately thought the whole of society to be slightly touched in their upper works.

  “Have you ever seen any army officer wear his uniform when off duty?” demanded the captain. “Civilian clothes will do.”

  “Thanks to Colonel Sandhurst’s generosity,” said Mr. Davy, “I can make myself presentable. But there will be a difficulty in making my friends elegant enough.”

  “I do not want them elegant,” said the captain with a tinge of exasperation in his voice. “As I said, I want them uncouth. Go and study the Corinthians who frequent Limmer’s, if you have not done so already. They must be prepared to slouch and spit and swear. I do not expect them to emulate coachmen, like some of the Corinthians, and file their teeth to points, but a few snuff-stains and wine-stains down an unclean cravat will serve admirably.”

  “I think I know what to do,” said Mr. Davy, looking amused. “To get down to the vulgar side of the business. How much?”

  The captain named a handsome sum. “When is this to take place?” asked Mr. Davy.

  “As soon as you have engaged your friends, let me know.”

  Sir Philip suddenly appeared at Mr. Davy’s elbow. “You may not have noticed, Davy,” he said waspishly, “but there are several people in the coffee room demanding attention.”

  Mr. Davy looked round mildly. “They all seem to be well taken care of by the waiters.”

  “But it is your job to supervise the waiters, not to sit drinking coffee.”