Blossom of War

by May Woodward

  The main course of jugged hare arrived. As the footmen served, Amathia gave him a withering look.

  ‘Has it not occurred to you that this person is most likely a fraudster after your brother’s money?’

  Richard stabbed the hare with his fork, chewed, and finally looked up.

  ‘Isabella believes him. She’s the only one of us who’s met him so far.’

  ‘But he could have discovered what he knows about the family and Eardingstowe from guidebooks!’

  Richard raised a brow.

  ‘I don’t believe Mr Baedeker mentions Bella’s rodent.’

  ‘Some dismissed servant, then, would be privy to this kind of information!’ Amathia snapped.

  ‘I appreciate what you say, my dear,’ said the baronet. ‘Quite right you are, of course. As a matter of fact – that was the gist of my long conversation with Boscawen. I’m thinking of taking out a lawsuit.’

  His listener gazed in surprise, and then looked pleased.

  ‘Bravo, sir!’ Amathia said. ‘Of course, this person’s a fake! I’ve no time for Isabella. Sometimes I think she’s as mad as Clemence. Indeed, let’s see a lawyer on the case!’

  Yet suppose he’s for real? The silent words made the meat in Richard’s mouth taste rather uncooked. After all he’s suffered – his own family shuns him! And really – there was nothing implausible in memory loss after a blow on the head, was there?

  ‘Are we sure this is Aubrey?’ Clemence asked at last. ‘I mean… he will have changed so.’

  ‘Bella’s convinced of it,’ the countess said. ‘She’s met him. I suppose she learned first because her husband’s with the diplomatic corps. Bella’s been to see him at the hospital in Vienna.’

  ‘So, what happened to him?’

  ‘He’d lost his memory. Now his memory has come back.’

  Clemence twisted the quatrefoil charm on her pendant around and around. Could she picture Aubrey’s face after so long away?

  She heard her own stunned voice asking where had he been?

  ‘A captive in some kind of gaol. He didn’t know his own name, poor soul. Imagine the terror!’

  ‘I’ve thought he was dead all these years!’ Clemence turned her eyes to her aunt. ‘It’ll be like meeting a phantom.’

  How had she felt during that old tragedy? Heaven knew. The war and its aftermath had gone dim, and good riddance to most of it; blasted, she supposed, when Dwellan House turned her mind to mush. Could not remember what Sebastopol looked like, what colours this or that regiment wore, what famous people who she knew she’d met like Lord Raglan, Captain Nolan or Florence Nightingale had ever said to her. It was all a wasteland like what a dust-whirling tornado would leave behind.

  Only… now it appeared it was all going to be raked up again.

  ‘What does Dickon think?’

  ‘It remains to be seen, chicken.’ A merrily wicked look came into Lysithea’s eye. ‘But Richard has Aubrey’s inheritance now, remember? This is going to be very awkward for him.’

  ‘If the man even is Aubrey.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lysithea demanded.

  ‘He could be a fraud… All the world’s heard of Aubrey Somerlee, the dashing hussar who never returned from the Valley of Death. And all the world knows he’d be worth a lot of money if he resurfaced.’

  That night, Clemence had difficulty sleeping. Flipping one way on the mattress, and then the other. Sitting up. Thumping the pillow.

  The brass inkstand and Tompion clock on the davenport desk, frilled rim of the toilet-table, oriental fan in the fireplace, and silk swag draping the mantelpiece… all gave off a yellowy glow from the light of the lamp below the window. The hour was close to midnight, but from the roadway there came an unstopping rattle of wheels, hooves and coachmen’s cries.

  Even after a decade of living in the metropolis with her aunt, still she missed the lullaby of the owls, watery moonbeams shimmering through the branches of the yew. Clemence had not seen her birthplace for many years. Visiting the dotty relation in Dwellan House was her only contact with her native shire.

  Immersed in her work among London’s poor, she was forgetting.

  Until this shattering news had come. Aubrey not dead. Something worse. A lonely prisoner without friends, loved ones, even a name all those years. It was ghastlier than the most gruesome of battlefield slaughters she’d conjured in her nightmares.

  Meanwhile, she had to face him soon. Where would she find the courage to meet this spectre? Or trust that he was who he said he was?

  The butler came in and bowed.

  ‘A visitor, Your Grace.’

  Already? Clemence’s drawing-room calls were not due to start until the afternoon, and many would they be. Stacks of cards had been left in recent days – callers wanting mainly to jabber and drool over the wonder of the season. The return of Cornet Somerlee had pricked the attention of even the morose widow of Windsor: Lysithea had been invited to court so that the Queen might hear the news in person.

  ‘Who is it, Pickford?’

  ‘His Grace, Your Grace.’

  Clemence soothed a hand over her eyes. She laid down her pen.

  ‘Good day to you, Philo.’

  The Duke of Ardenne poked his head around the morning-room door, beamed at her, strode across the carpet, swept up her hand, and embraced it.

  ‘You’re looking well, m’dear.’

  ‘Any reason I shouldn’t?’

  ‘Well, I am a tad relieved, Clemence, to see you radiant!’ Philoctetes Consett stood beside the escritoire, her hand clasped within both of his. ‘Heard you’d been consorting with some rough sorts down the East End. Feared I might find you smoking a pipe and singing sea-shanties!’

  He took himself to an easy chair, sank into it, and crossed his legs.

  ‘Don’t mind if I smoke, do you, Clemence?’

  ‘Lysithea does…’

  Philoctetes lit a cigar and began puffing away.

  ‘Really – it is good to see you blooming, Clemmie!’

  ‘Yes. Not in your interest, is it, that I should go before Aunt Lizzy? Then you’d not see her inheritance.’

  ‘Now, now, Clemence! So cynical you can be!’

  ‘Philo – you and your sister shut me away in a nuthouse. How cynical should that make me?’

  ‘Come, Clemmie! You know that was sissy’s doing, not mine. And you were genuinely in a state, you know…’

  ‘So I was.’

  She found her eyes trailing the coils of cigar-smoke, and making dragon-patterns out of them, as she tried to think back to a lost time. Her month or so of marriage-tide, before they’d taken her to Dwellan, was obscured in the dreaminess of her illness. One scant remembrance she had was her bridegroom parading about the boudoir in a quilted dressing-robe and tasselled nightcap.

  ‘Well… you can’t do me much harm now I don’t suppose, Philo… except give me the clap, perhaps. But what brings you here?’

  ‘Just a social call! I say – ’ The duke leaned towards her. ‘That brother of yours what went missing. Dash it – I’ve heard he’s turned up again!’

  ‘Oh… I see… you’ve heard the news.’

  ‘Sure he’s the real thing, are you? Well, I mean, he could be an impostor you know.’

  ‘As I haven’t met him I cannot say!’

  She invited him to stay to luncheon so that he could hear all about Aubrey. He could then regale his courtesans with the tale, and his path need not cross hers again for the foreseeable future. Since he was here, though…

  ‘Philo… are you intending to spend the summer at Kingsmede this year? Only reason I ask… Lizzy and I quite fancy a country sojourn.’

  ‘Sorry, old thing. Bluebely Baxter and I are heading off to Biarritz. But you’re the Duchess of Ardenne, damn it. Your home as much as it’s mine, old g
irl. Shall I tell the staff to expect the both of you?’

  ‘I’ll… I’ll have to discuss it with Lizzy,’ Clemence uttered. Probably she wouldn’t dare; Lizzy might wonder at her ulterior motive.

  ‘So, Clemence, I hear his regiment are bringing Aubrey over right now…?’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  She stared up at the soaring, blond façade of Dorchester House – one of the city’s most elegant residences. The twin turrets glowed in the light of flambeaux which jutted over the street. It was a blustery evening so the flames flickered and darted. Orchestra music floated from within. That polka – didn’t she once dance to it with James?

  Lysithea, meanwhile, had mounted the wide, marble steps. She was giving her name to the footman, while Clemence held back. She didn’t really want to attend a ball, did she? And prance and stuff herself while half of London starved and shivered in the rotting tenements? She’d rather be in Seven Dials among the beggars, thieves, whores and cut-throats… wouldn’t she?

  Stuff and nonsense – she was no saint, really.

  ‘Well, Aunt, I’ll come for your sake. Because they’ll all be twittering about Aubrey. I’ll not leave you to face the clacking tongues alone,’ she’d said, or something like it. But in her secret thoughts? It’s a ball… I may wear my prettiest dress again…and you-know-who will probably be there…

  ‘My dear, dear Countess! What’s this we hear about your nephew, the wandering cavalryman?’

  Three feathered headdresses and two evening suits with sky-blue sashes zoomed down upon them the instant the Somerlee women stepped into the entrance-hall.

  ‘Is it true Aubrey’s been found alive?’

  ‘Why! My dear Duchess!’

  Lady Percival swept across the vestibule, manoeuvred through the horde, and then thrust her arm through Clemence’s.

  ‘All the town is talking about the news! Your brother – that brave hussar who disappeared – coming home at last? How thrilled you must be! But apprehensive, too, perhaps?’

  ‘What a tremendous shock for you, eh, Duchess?’ Sir George Rutherford appeared on her other side. ‘Have you met the chappie yet? Convinced he’s really Aubrey and not some impostor, are you?’

  ‘He’ll be much thinner, I daresay, after being kept a prisoner in that castle all those years,’ said a second chortling gentleman. ‘Feed him up, Duchess, feed him up!’

  Clemence had never lost her fear of crowds and wide-open spaces. No man of medicine she had consulted seemed to understand her malady… just another symptom of hysteria. So very usual in females who had no husbands, or who lived apart from them in her case. And she didn’t wish to be sent back to hospital now, did she?

  Normally these days she could confront and overcome this bugbear.

  This swarm of beings in the entrance-hall of Dorchester House, however, felt as if it was going to suffocate her. Separated from her aunt in the crush, Clemence mumbled an apology – then flitted away. Creatures… so many creatures… A splotch of social-climbers, place-seekers, fortune-hunters… Like a swarm of insects. Buzzing every unknown tongue in the galaxy. Sucking all the air, suffocating!

  Up the grand staircase to the saloon where the music was she hurried.

  She found a seat with the other matrons at the edge of the dance-floor. No sign of Philo as far as she could see. That was a relief. Otherwise she’d be obliged to partner him in a waltz or two.

  ‘Your Grace!’

  She looked up to see a rather charming beau standing in front of her. He made a polite little bow.

  ‘Are you otherwise engaged?’

  He was requesting her hand for a dance? The fellow couldn’t be more than twenty-two! Heartbeat quickening, she glanced to either side to be sure it was no mistake, and he hadn’t meant to address some youthful beauty sitting nearby. No… only dames even older than herself flanked her. Fancy… she was a girl again in her first season – going all fluttery when asked onto the floor.

  ‘Thing is, Your Grace,’ the young man went on, ‘I was wondering whether you would… ’ He hesitated, diffidently. ‘Well, Your Grace… my sire’s the proprietor of the Daily Globe. We were wondering about the possibility of an interview with you and your aunt. About this person claiming to be your brother Cornet Somerlee…’

  ‘Oh! Ah, yes, of course!’ She snapped open her fan to hide her blush.

  ‘Is he truly Cornet Somerlee, Your Grace? Can you be certain of his identity?’

  ‘As I haven’t met the man yet, I cannot say. Please put your request for an interview to my aunt in writing. We shall consider it,’ she said.

  What had she been thinking? Even the gouty oldsters weren’t likely to ask a dowdy duchess to dance. She was a married matron… kept forgetting that somehow. What a scandal her tripping a measure with this young cavalier would have been… the thought rather cheered her up.

  Her eyes followed each dancing pair which came by. Green silk Polonaise gown. Black velvet embroidered Swiss belt. Dress uniform of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. A triple loop of pearls with a diamond pendant. A pearl-studded cachepeigne with a lace net. Over by Sir Robert Holford’s magnificent fireplace, meanwhile, Aunt Lysithea was talking with an elderly, be-medalled, military gentleman.

  Presently, Clemence’s sister, Lady Markham, swept into the saloon. She was at once beleaguered as Clemence had been – and didn’t Bella just adore it.

  ‘Lady Markham!’ Clemence heard someone exclaiming. ‘Do, do tell us about seeing your poor brother in Vienna. Pray, how has his ordeal altered the poor fellow?’

  Isabella might see Clemence any moment and bring her retinue over. So Clemence stood and slipped away.

  Artificial greenery in a Grecian urn partly covered the doorway. The leaves obscured the people who were gathered on the balcony beyond.

  ‘Heaven forefend!’ came a female voice. ‘What can have persuaded the countess to bring her? What is the creature wearing, I ask you? That garment must have been gathering mothballs since 1858!’

  ‘Oh, dear me yes, Janet dear,’ said a different woman. ‘I daresay flounced gowns were high fashion in her girlhood in the fifties. But this is 1870! Hasn’t she heard of the bustle the poor thing?’

  ‘And, oh, that hairstyle, Clarinda! Ha-ha! No doubt she hasn’t heard of the chignon either! Ringlets belong to the day Sebastopol fell! The day, I suppose, that Clemence Somerlee’s mind stopped.’

  Clemence’s knuckles, which were clenched around her fan, turned white.

  ‘No wonder the dear duke wouldn’t be seen dead in her company! Poor Aubrey will head back to Austria in horror when he glimpses her, ha-ha!’

  ‘Mad as the moon, like all the Somerlees! You know the unbalanced creature actually visits the very worst parts of the city? Bringing home heaven knows what rampant diseases.’

  ‘Probably came straight to the ball without changing or taking a bath, ha-ha!’

  Clemence swept into view.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Marchelsea, Mrs Wriothesley,’ she said with a welcoming smile. ‘A wonderful soirée Sir Robert is giving as usual, do you not think? And how remarkably clean he keeps Dorchester House! No rampant diseases anywhere.’

  Clemence went on her way, leaving the fragments of shattered social careers trembling on the airwaves behind her.

  Scurrying downstairs, she brushed past someone just mounting. She sprang to one side.

  ‘Your Grace!’

  ‘Lord Fanshawe!’

  Her voice had come out as a squeak. She snatched at her silver quatrefoil and twisted it around her fingers.

  ‘Is the ballroom on fire?’

  Oh, yes, Fanny, it sure is. She turned her eyes away from him.

  ‘Are you here with the duke?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! With Aunt Lizzy. And you… you are here with Lady Fanshawe?’

  ‘Regrettably not. My wife is indisposed with a s
easonal ailment.’

  ‘Ah! They can be such a trial.’

  ‘But you, I trust, are in good fettle?’

  ‘Very rude health, thank you, My Lord. I’ve barely had a day’s sickness since the cholera almost bore me off.’

  The dance ended. A new waltz begun. She’d not heard it before. Might it be that new piece the world was talking about? The Blue Danube. Mr Strauss, wasn’t it? In Vienna. Vienna… her thoughts came back to Aubrey.

  ‘Lord Fanshawe, have you heard that Aubrey has been found? Yes, he has been alive all these years. A prisoner, it seems. He’d suffered memory loss.’

  ‘Your Grace… I do read the newspapers…’

  ‘Everyone is talking about it. Talking, talking all the time! Asking me what I think, what I’m going to do about it…’

  ‘Your Grace!’ His tone was sharp. ‘Clemence,’ he went on, gently. ‘Please don’t talk about it if it upsets you.’

  ‘You’ve as much right to ask as any! You were with us when he vanished.’ She flapped her fan so hard the breeze ruffled the locks of hair which had strayed loose from her ringlets.

  ‘Clemmie!’ He caught hold of her hand and halted the flapping. ‘Look at me, Clemence.’

  She focussed, blood flooding her cheeks as she did.

  Green-flecked grey eyes. She’d once thought they were like the sea – deep, deep, deep and changeable. Sometimes, in the fastness of her bedtime, she thought of Phyllis receiving an anonymous warning that there was an assassin out to get her. Or being able to spy on Fanny in disguise without his knowing.

  ‘Clemmie.’ He smiled suddenly and bowed his head to her. ‘May I have the pleasure of the next dance if you are not already engaged?’

  Clemence found her way out onto the terrace. She could still hear the music despite the walls in between.

  She needed air, Clemence had told Brandon after their dance, and hurried out here alone. She breathed in the earthy, grassy scents of a damp garden.

  One dance with Fanny and all the pain of losing him – dull after so long – had burst like an ulcer. She’d never got over him. Just shut a flimsy door on the wailing waif. And fantasising about hurting him, or Phyllis and therefore him? What kind of a beast was gestating inside her?