Summer Campaign

by Carla Kelly

  “Jack! ‘ Cum Juno omnipotens …’ ”

  “‘ Longum miserate dolorem,’ ”Beresford concluded, grasping the dandy's kid-gloved hand. “And that's all the Aeneid I remember. H-Harrow was a l-long time ago.”

  “Dashed long time ago. I didn't recognize you.”

  “I didn't expect you to. Put any bears in a steeple lately?”

  Tidwell laughed. “Did we do that?”

  “I remember something about a bear. It may have been a boar.”

  They began to walk toward the city again. Tidwell motioned to his tiger to drive his curricle beside them as Beresford's horse trailed behind.

  “Lord Paget has a set of prime goers on the block tomorrow. I toddled over for a look. Too late, it seems.”

  “I'm here for a horse. What time in the morning does Tatt's open?” Jack asked.

  Tidwell looked at him in wide-eyed surprise. “You're asking someone who never rises before noon? Spain must have dazzled your brain-box.”

  Jack smiled, but at the same time felt a flash of irritation that four years ago would have dumbfounded him. Was I like Tides Tidwell once? he asked himself as they sauntered along.

  “I just want to get home,” he said finally, when his temper cooled.

  Tidwell stopped still. “You can't do that! Didn't I remember hearing the newsboys shouting something this time last year about the ‘Hero of Badajoz?’ ”He took Beresford by the arm, careful not to get Spanish dust on his coat of palest blue superfine. “Look, man, come with me this evening! You'll make me the darling of Almack's. The toast of Watier's. Even my tailor may extend my credit.”

  “No, Tides,” Jack said firmly. “I'm going home.”

  “Suit yourself then,” Tides sniffed.

  They parted company at the corner. “My regards to your brother and Emily,” Tidwell said as he climbed into his curricle again and took the ribbons from his tiger. “By the by, we didn't see them in London during the Season, and a Season without Emily Beresford to brighten it is dull work indeed.”

  “I th-think Adrian is ill.”

  Tides waved his hand, “Well, man, tell him to stiffen up a bit! Tell you the truth, the Season was dashed flat this year. Adrian wasn't here with his cockroach races. You tell him from me that since he wasn't here, no one, absolutely no one, placed any wagers on Prinny's waistline or Caro Lamb's lovers. Or is it the other way round? Dashed if I know.”

  Jack watched Tidwell as the tiger climbed around to his perch behind. Again he felt that same shock. Did we do things like that? I don't remember it, he thought.

  “Well, sir, if you won't make me London's most popular host, can I at least offer you my rooms on Half Moon Street?”

  Jack shook his head. “Thanks, but I'll lodge here tonight.”

  Tidwell looked around him. “If you do, keep your door double-locked and prop a chair under the knob.” He leaned forward confidentially. “This is not a well-regulated neighborhood, Jack.”

  “I could tell you about caves I've slept in, Tides, and cannibals I've seen,” said Jack, stepping back.

  Tides jerked on the reins and his horses danced about. “Merciful heaven, man, what kind of a place is Spain?”

  Jack smiled at him. “There's a war going on,” he said gently. “Have you heard of it?”

  Tidwell wasn't listening. He was busy with his horses. When they were under control again, he nodded to the major and started off.

  “One moment, Tides!” Jack called. “Know any good inns on the road north?”

  Tidwell slowed his horses. “Dashed good place near Bramby Swale, near Morecombe: Dry sheets and good ale. Morecombe's about where you'd reach by nightfall. Called the Fox and Hare. Anyone can tell you where it is.”

  Jack Beresford was at the door of Tattersall's when it opened the next morning. Fifteen minutes later he had a horse, a big rangy black monster that reminded him of the first horse shot out from under him at Ciudad Rodrigo. Fifteen more minutes added a saddle, bridle, and reins to his acquisitions.

  London was still foggy with morning mist from the Thames and smoke from breakfast cooking fires when Major Beresford started toward home on the Great North Road.

  Leaving Lady Daggett and Sir Matthew caused Onyx Hamilton so little pain that she spent the first hour of her journey toward Chalcott wondering if there was a heart left in her body.

  She knew that Lady Daggett would miss her. Now there was no one except Amethyst—who was notoriously undependable—to fetch her shawl, her netting, no one to listen to her complain about the price of beeswax candles or the difficulty of keeping good servants. No one would be there to mediate when the cook suffered some insult—real or imagined—at the hands of the butler.

  Onyx also knew that Lady Daggett was relieved to see her go. Gone now, finally and at last, was the tangible reminder of an act of unforgivable kindness by her first husband, the late Reverend Hamilton. Now Lady Daggett would no longer have to be ever vigilant against the smiles and stares. Surely the polite world would soon forget Onyx Hamilton and leave the field clean for her own daughter, Amethyst.

  Onyx rested her cheek against the tiny pane of glass in the carriage, a relic from Sir Matthew's past that he grudgingly loaned for the journey. “I don't know why that … that girl cannot ride the stage to Chalcott,” he had fumed at Lady Daggett, almost, but not quite, out of Onyx's hearing.

  “I own it would be more fitting, considering her station,” Lady Daggett had replied. “But what would our friends and neighbors say if they heard of such a thing?”

  And so Sir Matthew had whined and complained for the better part of two days about the personal inconveniences and dreadful expense that he was incurring, and all for “your stepdaughter.” Onyx wondered all over again, as she had since she came, wide-eyed, into his household when she was twelve years old, if Sir Matthew even knew her name.

  When she could not bear another one of his tirades, Onyx became an earlier riser and avoided him at breakfast. As she was seldom included in the family circle for dinner if anyone of any consequence was present, she succeeded in staying out of range of Sir Matthew's hurtful tongue until the morning she left for Chalcott.

  Her trunk had been packed for two days. She had packed twice. The first time, her clothes had been in one trunk, neatly folded with tissue paper. She had filled Gerald's trunk too, this one with his dress uniform and his books and the bird nests he had collected.

  She got no farther than the upper landing with Gerald's trunk. Sir Matthew stopped her. “See here, girl, put that trunk back. Do you want to break the carriage springs and ruin my horses? You'll take your things, and nothing more. We'll take good care of poor Gerald's things.”

  She knew they would not. As soon as the carriage rolled out of the driveway, Sir Matthew would order Gerald's effects burned, and he would be lost to her.

  Kettering helped her get the trunks back to her room. Swiftly she unpacked her dresses and put them back in the clothes press. When her trunk was empty, she put Gerald's books in, the letters he had written from Spain, and his dress uniform. There was enough room for half her dresses, shoes, and the fabric that would become her wedding gown.

  Alice Banner, Lady Daggett's one grudging contribution to Onyx Hamilton's upbringing, had helped Onyx repack the trunk but drew the line at Gerald's bird nests. “Onyx, some things we can't save. And don't look at me like that!” She smiled and patted Onyx's cheek. “Here, help me shove these under your bed. Won't that make Mrs. Clouse furious when she finally cleans your room?”

  The two conspirators laughed like schoolgirls as they pushed the ragged nests into a dark corner under the bed. “There, now. It looks like an invasion of hedgehogs,” said Alice, peering under the bed onher hands and knees.

  Onyx smiled. “Mrs. Clouse will throw up her hands and scream and run to the Gorgon. She'll threaten to resign and Lady Daggett will be forced to raise her pay.” She sat on the trunk while Alice buckled the straps. “Lady Daggett may have spasms.”

  “Oh
, I hope so,” said Alice.

  As Onyx took her leave of Sir Matthew's household, her mother offered her cheek. Onyx kissed her, leaning forward carefully so as not to disrupt the perfection of Lady Daggett's muslin morning gown. She curtsied to Sir Matthew.

  “Mind you be a good girl. Lady Bagshott, I don't mind telling you, doesn't have much use for inferior behavior.”

  That was too much. “My behavior has never been a trial to you, Sir Matthew,” she said and allowed Kettering to help her into the carriage.

  “Good for you, miss,” the butler whispered as he helped her arrange her skirts. “The servants and I—we want to wish you the very best.”

  She touched his hand. “Thank you, Kettering.” She wanted to say more, but she couldn't.

  “Did you get all of Gerald's—”

  “Everything except his sword,” she whispered back.

  “Hurry up, Kettering, you old dodderer,” Sir Matthew roared. “We haven't got all day to stand about! My breakfast is getting cold!”

  The butler placed a light carriage robe over her lap. “We'll find a safe place for Gerald's sword in the servants’ hall, miss.”

  “Thank you, Kettering, thank you,” was all she could trust herself to say.

  A wave to Lady Daggett, who was already turning to go into the house, and they were off, lumbering down the long driveway. Onyx looked back only once, when they were some distance from the manor.

  “I leave with no regrets, Alice,” she said simply to her companion.

  “Oh? Well, I have a regret, Onyx,” replied her servant. “I regret that you have to marry that paralyzing bagpipe!”

  Onyx looked at her for a long moment. “Let's not think about it right now. August is a long time away.”

  “Not far enough,” muttered the woman, settling herself in the corner and folding her arms emphatically. After a few miles her head nodded forward and she slept, snoring lightly, as the countryside moved slowly by.

  As much as she loved Alice Banner, Onyx was glad for the solitude, glad for the fact that, even if for only a few days, there was no one to tell her what to do. I'm on my own, she thought, and the notion filled her with no fear. Even if it's only until I exchange the tyranny of Sir Matthew's house for Lady Bagshott's rule, I will enjoy the moment.

  She smiled to herself, thinking of the wish game she and Gerald began to play after Papa's death. Her smile turned militant. No matter how Lady Daggett had railed at her and scolded, Reverend Hamilton would always be Papa. The game had started out simply enough. “I wish Papa would come for us,” Gerald had said after the funeral.

  “I wish that he would come for us and take us to Bath,” she had chimed in. They had all been to Bath once for Papa to drink the waters, and to her young mind, it had seemed the most magnificent of cities.

  “Well, I wish he would take us to Bath and buy me a horse.”

  And so it went, until they were laughing at the extravagance of dreams that would never be fulfilled but were pleasurable because they shared them with each other.

  “I wish that Reverend Littletree would fall headfirst into a bog wallow,” she whispered out loud.

  That was hardly kind, even as much as she detested him.

  “No. No. I take that back. I wish instead that something exciting would happen.” What, she did not know. “Something exciting enough to get me through this summer,” she added, glancing over to make sure Alice was still asleep. Onyx knew she was too old for such games, but it was fun, even if for only a moment, to forget that she was twenty-two years old and headed toward a future not of her choosing.

  Her wish came true almost as soon as the words had left her lips. As the coach negotiated a curve in a wooded area well beyond Morecombe, the back axle gave a sudden creak and Sir Matthew's elderly carriage crashed to a halt.

  They were tipped at an alarming angle. Alice Banner, fully awake now, shot out of her corner and into Onyx's arms. “Onyx! What can be the matter?” she shrieked as she struggled to right herself. Onyx and Alice were crammed together against the squabs, from which the dust rose in alarming puffs. Alice began to sneeze.

  “God bless you,” said Onyx as she struggled to help Alice straighten herself.

  The servant's hat was askew and perched over one eye, giving her an almost piratical look. She again tried to right herself and fell to the carriage floor with a plop.

  Against her will, Onyx Hamilton felt laughter welling up inside her. She knew it was the height of impropriety to laugh at a servant, especially one as dear to her as Alice Banner, but she couldn't help herself. There was her beloved Alice, sitting on the carriage floor sneezing. Each explosion dropped the hat lower and lower over her eye.

  A valiant attempt at control succeeded finally. Onyx helped Alice to her feet. Alice glared at her and perched her hat back where it belonged.

  “I thought I taught you something besides rag manners, young lady!” she barked in commanding tones.

  Onyx wiped her eyes. “Oh, you did, Alice, but I have to confess, this little accident is entirely my doing!” She abandoned herself to another gust of laughter that abated only when John, the coachman, opened the door and looked in.

  The coach was far enough on its side so that the door appeared to be in the roof. John leaned inside, reaching for Alice. “Are you ladies all right?” he asked anxiously.

  “Quite well, thank you, John,” said Onyx, with only a small giggle betraying the well-bred tones of her voice. “Nothing the matter with us except that our pride is slightly wounded.”

  She helped Alice stand and leaned back as the servant grasped the coachman's hand and scrambled out of the carriage with a flash of petticoats and striped stockings. Onyx untied her hat and tossed it out the window after Alice. She straightened her skirts, dusted off her pelisse, and then held up her hands for John, who pulled her out and set her carefully on the roadway.

  All of their luggage had tumbled off the coach's luggage rack. Onyx's hatbox had burst open, scattering her few hats across the road, where they perched like feathered birds too large to fly. The sight made her laugh, but she put her hand to her lips. She could tell from the look that Alice was giving her that the servant was in no mood for additional levity.

  John Coachman was unwise enough to address some prosaic comment to Alice, who turned on him. “This is outside of enough, sir,” she raged. “Suppose Onyx had been killed! Must you drive like a Corinthian!”

  John blinked his eyes, and Onyx was forced to turn away to keep from laughter. In his shabby livery a size too large, a hat that sat squarely on his ears, and his obvious state of agitation, John was as far from a sporting dandy as That Beast Napoleon was from Father Christmas.

  “Oh, dear,” Onyx said faintly to herself. “I must set a better example.” When she felt fully composed, but still not trusting herself to look at the aggrieved coachman, Onyx gathered her hats from the road and brought them back to the coach.

  John had retreated from Alice Banner's wrath to his beloved horses, where he stood talking to them and casting darkling glances at the servant. “Wasn't my fault!” he muttered as Onyx approached him, hats in hand.

  “I'm sure it was not,” she said soothingly, petting one of the horses, which still trembled in agitation. “Should you not unhitch the animals? Wouldn't it be better for them?” she inquired kindly.

  She handed the hats to Alice and returned to help the coachman.

  “’Tis no task for a lady,” he protested as she helped him remove the traces that held the horses to the whiffletree. Gathering up the long reins, she led the horses to a tree by the edge of the road and looped the ribbons over a sturdy branch, making sure that the animals had length enough to graze. When she was sure they were comfortable, she returned to the carriage, where John was gazing at the back axle.

  “Snapped clean in two, miss,” he said. “That's what comes from using ancient equipment last fit for the road when our good old king was sane!”

  “Is that any way to address Onyx
Hamilton?” asked Alice, still in her high ropes.

  “Never mind, my dear,” said Onyx. “I understand quite plainly what John is saying. One can hardly argue with his logic.” She turned back to the coachman. “The question is, sir, what should we do about this?”

  He took off his hat and held it in front of him like a beggar. “Well, miss, I can ride one of the horses for help.”

  He looked doubtful. “I think that is an admirable idea, John,” she said to encourage him.

  John shifted his overlarge hat from one hand to the other. “But, miss, that will leave you and Alice alone here on the roadway.” His face clouded again, and he crammed his hat back on his head. “I asked Sir Matthew about postboys, but he only laughed at me! Even after I reminded him about murderers and thieves!”

  Onyx touched his arm. “John, it's only early afternoon, and we will be fine. Surely you do not have to go far?”

  He shook his head. “No. At least, I do not think so, miss. We are only a few minutes from Morecombe. It's a middling place, to be sure, but there must be someone about handy with tools.”

  “Well, then,” she urged, “if you hurry, we'll be on our way soon enough.”

  He left with real reluctance, sitting atop the gentler of the two coach horses, looking back at them until the newly leafed trees swallowed him from view.

  Alice had removed the trunk from the fastenings where it hung. She dusted off the top and sat down on it, patting the remaining space. “Come sit, my dear; we may be here for a while.”

  Onyx did as she said, hitching herself onto the trunk.

  She raised her dress and surveyed the ruin of her stockings. “I'm glad they weren't silk,” she said, fingering the rip that ran from her knee to her ankle.