Flashman's Lady

by George MacDonald Fraser

  Even the doddering Duke came up to compliment me and say that my style reminded him absolutely of his own—“Did I not remark it to you, my dear?” says he to his languid tart, who was fidgeting with her parasol and stifling a yawn while showing me her handsome profile and weighing me out of the corner of her eye. “Did I not observe that Mr Flashman’s shooter was just like the one I bowled out Beauclerk with at Maidstone in ’06?—directed to his off stump, sir, caught him goin’ back, you understand, pitched just short, broke and shot, middle stump, bowled all over his wicket—ha! ha! what?”

  I had to steady the old fool before he tumbled over demonstrating his action, and his houri, assisting, took the opportunity to rub a plump arm against me. “No doubt we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Canterbury next summer, Mr Flashman,” she murmurs, and the old pantaloon cries aye, aye, capital notion, as she helped him away; I made a note to look her up then, since she’d probably have killed him in the course of the winter.

  It wasn’t till I was towelling myself in the bathhouse, and getting outside a brandy punch, that I realised I hadn’t seen Elspeth since the match ended, which was odd, since she’d hardly miss a chance to bask in my reflected glory. I dressed and looked about; no sign of her among the thinning crowd, or outside the pavilion, or at the ladies’ tea tables, or at our carriage; coachee hadn’t seen her either. There was a fairish throng outside the pub, but she’d hardly be there, and then someone plucked my sleeve, and I turned to find a large, beery-faced individual with black button eyes at my elbow.

  “Mr Flashman, sir, best respex,” says he, and tapped his low-crown hat with his cudgel. “You’ll forgive the liberty, I’m sure—Tighe’s the monicker, Daedalus Tighe, ev’yone knows me, agent an’ accountant to the gentry—” and he pushed a card in my direction between sweaty fingers. “Takin’ the hoppor-toonity, my dear sir an’ sportsman, of presentin’ my compliments an’ best vishes, an’—”

  “Thank’ee,” says I, “but I’ve no bets to place.”

  “My dear sir!” says he, beaming. “The werry last idea!” And he invited his cronies, a seedy-flash bunch, to bear him witness. “My makin’ so bold, dear sir, was to inwite you to share my good fortun’, seein’ as ’ow you’ve con-tribooted so ’andsome to same—namely, an’ first, by partakin’ o’ some o’ this ’ere French jam-pain—poodle’s p--s to some, but as drunk in the bes’ hestablishments by the werriest swells such as—your good self, sir. Wincent,” says he, “pour a glass for the gallant—”

  “Another time,” says I, giving him my shoulder, but the brute had the effrontery to catch my arm.

  “’Old on, sir!” cries he. “’Arf a mo’, that’s on’y the sociable pree-liminary. I’m vishful to present to your noble self the—”

  “Go to the d---l!” snaps I. He stank of brandy.

  “—sum of fifty jemmy o’ goblins, as an earnest o’ my profound gratitood an’ respeck. Wincent!”

  And d----d if the weasel at his elbow wasn’t thrusting a glass of champagne at me with one hand and a fistful of bills in the other. I stopped short, staring.

  “What the deuce…?”

  “A triflin’ token of my hes-teem,” says Tighe. He swayed a little, leering at me, and for all the reek of booze, the flash cut of his coat, the watch-chain over his flowery silk vest, and the gaudy bloom in his lapel—the marks of the vulgar sport, in fact—the little eyes in his fat cheeks were as hard as coals. “You vun it for me, my dear sir—an’ plenty to spare, d---e. Didn’t ’e, though?” His confederates, crowding round, chortled and raised their glasses. “By the sweat—yore pardon, sir—by the peerspyration o’ yore brow—an’ that good right arm, vot sent back Felix, Pilch, ’an Alfred Mynn in three deliveries, sir. Look ’ere,” and he snapped a finger to Vincent, who dropped the glass to whip open a leather satchel at his waist—it was stuffed with notes and coin.

  “You, sir, earned that. You did, though. Ven you put avay Fuller Pilch—an’ veren’t that a ’andsome catch, now?—I sez to Fat Bob Napper, vot reckons e’s king o’ the odds an’ evens—’Napper,’ sez I, ‘that’s a ’ead bowler, that is. Vot d’ye give me ’e don’t put out Mynn, first ball?’ ‘Gammon,’ sez ’e. ‘Three in a row—never! Thahsand to one, an’ you can pay me now.’ Generous odds, sir, you’ll allow.” And the rascal winked and tapped his nose. “So—hon goes my quid—an’ ’ere’s Napper’s thahsand, cash dahn, give ’im that—an’ fifty on it’s yore’s, my gallant sir, vith the grateful compliments of Daedalus Tighe, Hesk-wire, agent an’ accountant to the gentry, ’oo ’ereby salutes”—and he raised his glass and belched unsteadily—“yore ’onner’s pardon, b----r them pickles—’oo salutes the most wicious right harm in the noble game o’ cricket today! Hip-hip-hip—hooray!”

  I couldn’t help being amused at the brute, and his pack of rascals—drunken bookies and touts on the spree, and too far gone to appreciate their own impudence.

  “My thanks for the thought, Mr Tighe,” says I, for it don’t harm to be civil to a bookie, and I was feeling easy, “you may drink my health with it.” And I pushed firmly past him, at which he staggered and sat down heavily in a froth of cheap champagne, while his pals hooted and weaved in to help him. Not that I couldn’t have used the fifty quid, but you can’t be seen associating with cads of that kidney, much less accepting their gelt. I strode on, with cries of “Good luck, sir!” and “Here’s to the Flash cove!” following me. I was still grinning as I resumed my search for Elspeth, but as I turned into the archery range for a look there, the smile was wiped off my lips—for there were only two people in the long alley between the hedges: the tall figure of a man, and Elspeth in his arms.

  I came to a dead halt, silent—for three reasons. First, I was astonished. Secondly, he was a big, vigorous brute, by what I could see of him—which was a massive pair of shoulders in a handsomely-cut broadcloth (no expense spared there), and thirdly, it passed quickly through my mind that Elspeth, apart from being my wife, was also my source of supply. Food for thought, you see, but before I had even an instant to taste it, they both turned their heads and I saw that Elspeth was in the act of stringing a shaft to a ladies’ bow—giggling and making a most appealing hash of it—while her escort, standing close in behind her, was guiding her hands, which of course necessitated putting his arms about her, with her head against his shoulder.

  All very innocent—as who knows better than I, who’ve taken advantage of many such situations for an ardent squeeze and fondle?

  “Why, Harry,” cries she, “where have you been all this while? See, Don Solomon is teaching me archery—and I have been making the sorriest show!” Which she demonstrated by fumbling the shaft, swinging her bow arm wildly, and letting fly into the hedge, squeaking with delighted alarm. “Oh, I am quite hopeless, Don Solomon, unless you hold my hands!”

  “The fault is mine, dear Mrs Flashman,” says he, easily. He managed to keep an arm round her, while bowing in my direction. “But here is Mars, who I’m sure is a much better instructor for Diana than I could ever be.” He smiled and raised his hat. “Servant, Mr Flashman.”

  I nodded, pretty cool, and looked down my nose at him, which wasn’t easy, since he was all of my height, and twice as big around—portly, you might say, if not fat, with a fleshy, smiling face, and fine teeth which flashed white against his swarthy skin. Dago, for certain, perhaps even Oriental, for his hair and whiskers were blue-black and curly, and as he came towards me he was moving with that mincing Latin grace, for all his flesh. A swell, too, by the elegant cut of his togs; diamond pin in his neckercher, a couple of rings on his big brown hands—and, by Jove, even a tiny gold ring in one ear. Part-nigger, not a doubt of it, and with all a rich nigger’s side, too.

  “Oh, Harry, we have had such fun!” cries Elspeth, and my heart gave a little jump as I looked at her. The gold ringlets under her ridiculous bonnet, the perfect pink and white complexion, the sheer innocent beauty of her as she sparkled with laughter and reached out a hand to me. “Don S
olomon has shown me bowling, and how to shoot—ever so badly!—and entertained me—for the cricket came so dull when you were not playing, with those tedious Kentish people popping away, and—”

  “Hey?” says I, astonished. “You mean you didn’t see me bowl?”

  “Why, no, Harry, but we had the jolliest time among the side-shows, with ices and hoop-la…” She prattled on, while the greaser raised his brows, smiling from one to the other of us.

  “Dear me,” says he, “I fear I have lured you from your duty, dear Mrs Flashman. Forgive me,” he went on to me, “for I have the advantage of you still. Don Solomon Haslam, to command,” and he nodded and flicked his handkerchief. “Mr Speedicut, who I believe is your friend, presented me to your so charming lady, and I took the liberty of suggesting that we…take a stroll. If I had known you were to be put on…but tell me…any luck, eh?”

  “Oh, not too bad,” says I, inwardly furious that while I’d been performing prodigies Elspeth had been fluttering at this oily flammer. “Felix, Pilch and Mynn, in three balls—if you call it luck. Now, my dear, if Mr Solomon will excuse—”

  To my amazement he burst into laughter. “I would call it luck!” cries he. “That would be a daydream, to be sure! I’d settle for just one of ’em!”

  “Well, I didn’t,” says I, glaring at him. “I bowled Felix, caught out Pilch, and had Mynn leg before—which probably don’t mean much to a foreigner—”

  “Good G-d!” cries he. “You don’t mean it! You’re bamming us, surely?”

  “Now, look’ee, whoever you are—”

  “But—but—oh, my G-d!” He was fairly spluttering, and suddenly he seized my hand, and began pumping it, his face alight. “My dear chap—I can’t believe it! All three? And to think I missed it!” He shook his head, and burst out laughing again. “Oh, what a dilemma! How can I regret an hour spent with the loveliest girl in London—but, oh, Mrs Flashman, what you’ve cost me! Why, there’s never been anything like it! And to think that we were missing it all! Well, well, I’ve paid for my susceptibility to beauty, to be sure! Well done, my dear chap, well done! But this calls for celebration!”

  I was fairly taken aback at this, while Elspeth looked charmingly bewildered, but nothing must do but he bore us off to where the liquor was, and demanded of me, action by action, a description of how I’d bowled out the mighty three. I’ve never seen a man so excited, and I’ll own I found myself warming to him; he clapped me on the shoulder, and slapped his knee with delight when I’d done.

  “Well, I’m blessed! Why, Mrs Flashman, your husband ain’t just a hero—he’s a prodigy!” At which Elspeth glowed and squeezed my hand, which banished the last of my temper. “Felix. Pilch, and Mynn! Extraordinary. Well—I thought I was something of a cricketer, in my humble way—I played at Eton, you know—we never had a match with Rugby, alas! but I fancy I’d be a year or two before your time, anyway, old fellow. But this quite beats everything!”

  It was fairly amusing, not least for the effect it was having on Elspeth. Here was this gaudy foreign buck, who’d come spooning round her, d----d little flirt that she was, and now all his attention was for my cricket. She was between exulting on my behalf and pouting at being overlooked, but when we parted from the fellow, with fulsome compliments and assurances that we must meet again soon, on his side, and fair affability on mine, he won her heart by kissing her hand as though he’d like to eat it. I didn’t mind, by now; he seemed not a bad sort, for a ’breed, and if he’d been to Eton he was presumably half-respectable, and obviously rolling in rhino. All men slobbered over Elspeth, anyway.

  So the great day ended, which I’ll never forget for its own splendid sake: Felix, Pilch, and Mynn, and those three ear-splitting yells from the mob as each one fell. It was a day that held the seed of great events, too, as you’ll see, and the first tiny fruit was waiting for us when we got back to Mayfair. It was a packet handed in at the door, and addressed to me, enclosing bills for fifty pounds, and a badly-printed note saying “With the compliments of D. Tighe, Esq.” Of all the infernal impudence; that b----y bookie, or whatever he was, having the starch to send cash to me, as though I were some pro, to be tipped.

  I’d have kicked his backside to Whitechapel and back, or taken a cane to him for his presumption, if he’d been on hand. Since he wasn’t, I pocketed the bills and burned his letter; it’s the only way to put these upstarts in their place.

  [Extract from the diary of Mrs H. Flashman, undated, 1842]

  …to be sure, it was very natural of H. to pay some attention to the other ladies at Lord’s, for they were so forward in their admiration of him—and am I to blame you, less fortunate sisters? He looked so tall and proud and handsome, like the splendid English Lion that he is, that I felt quite faint with love and pride…to think that this striking man, the envy and admiration of all, is—my husband!! He is perfection, and I love him more than I can tell.

  Still, I could wish that he had been a little less attentive to those ladies near us, who smiled and waved to him when he was in the field, and some even so far forgot the obligations of modesty upon our tender sex, as to call out to him! Of course, it is difficult for him to appear indifferent, so Admired as he is—and he has such an unaffected, gallant nature, and feels, I know, that he must acknowledge their flatteries, for fear that he should be thought lacking in that easy courtesy which becomes a gentleman. He is so Generous and Considerate, even to such déclassé persons as that odious Mrs Leo Lade, the Duke’s companion, whose admiration of H. was so open and shameless that it caused some remark, and made me blush for her reputation—which to be sure, she hasn’t any!!! But H.’s simple, boyish goodness can see no fault in anyone—not even such an abandoned female as I’m sure she is, for they say…but I will not sully your fair page, dear diary, with such a Paltry Thing as Mrs Leo.

  Yet mention of her reminds me yet again of my Duty to Protect my dear one—for he is still such a boy, with all a boy’s naiveté and high spirit. Why, today, he looked quite piqued and furious at the attention shown to me by Don S.H., who is quite sans reproche and the most distinguished of persons. He has over fifty thousand a year, it is said, from estates and revenues in the Far East Indies, and is on terms with the Best in Society, and has been received by H.M. He is entirely English, although his mother was a Spanish Donna, I believe, and is of the most engaging manners and address, and the jolliest person besides. I confess I was not a little amused to find how I captivated him, which is quite harmless and natural, for I have noticed that Gentlemen of his Complexion are even more ardent in their addresses to the fair than those of Pure European Blood. Poor H. was not well pleased, I fear, but I could not help thinking it would do him no harm to be made aware that both sexes are wont to indulge in harmless gallantries, and if he is to be admired by such as Mrs L.L., he cannot object to the Don’s natural regard for me. And to be sure, they are not to be compared, for Don S.H.’s addresses are of the utmost discretion and niceness; he is amusing, with propriety, engaging without familiarity. No doubt we shall see much of him in Society this winter, but not so much, I promise, as will make my Dear Hero too jealous—he has such sensibility…

  [End of extract—G. de R.]

  * See Flashman.

  It was eight months before I so much as gave a thought to cricket again, but I’m bound to say that even if it had been blazing summer from October to March I’d still have been too busy. You can’t conduct a passionate affair with Lola Montez, in which you fall foul of Otto Bismarck—which is what I was doing that autumn—and still have much time for recreation. Besides, this was the season when my fame was at its zenith, what with my visit to the Palace for the Kabul medal; in consequence I was in demand everywhere, and Elspeth, in her eagerness for the limelight, saw to it that I never had a moment’s peace—balls and parties and receptions, and d---l a minute for serious raking. It was splendid, of course, to be the lion of the hour, but confounded exhausting.

  But little enough happened to the point of my s
tory, except that the stout Don Solomon Haslam played an increasingly lively part in our doings that winter. That was an odd fish, decidedly. Nobody, not even his old Eton chums, seemed to know much about him except that he was some kind of nabob, with connections in Leadenhall Street, but he was well received in Society, where his money and manners paid for all. And he seemed to be right in the know wherever he went—at the embassies, the smart houses, the sporting set, even at the political dinners; he was friendly with Haddington and Stanley at one end of the scale, and with such rascals as Deaf Jim Burke and Brougham at t’other. One night he would be dining with Aberdeen,5 and the next at Rosherville Gardens or the Cider Cellars, and he had a quiet gift of being first with the word from all quarters: if you wanted to know what was behind the toll riots, or the tale of Peel’s velveteens, ask Solomon; he had the latest joke about Alice Lowe, or Nelson’s Column, could tell you beforehand about the new race cup for Ascot, and had songs from the “Bohemian Girl” played in his drawing-room months before the opera was seen in London.6 It wasn’t that he was a gossip or couch-whisperer, either; whatever way the talk turned, he just knew the answers.

  He ought to have been detestable, but strangely enough he wasn’t, for he didn’t push or show off. His entertainment was lavish, in his house on Brook Street, where he gave a Chinese Party that was said to have cost twenty thou., and was the talk for weeks, and his appearance was what the ladies called Romantic—I’ve told you about the earring, enough said—but with it all he managed to appear modest and unaffected. He could charm, I’ll say that for him, for he had the true gift of flattery, which is to show the keenest possible interest—and, of course, he had money to burn.

  I didn’t mind him much, myself; he went out of his way to be pleasant to me, and once I had satisfied myself that his enthusiasm for Elspeth wasn’t likely to go the length, I tolerated him. She was ready to flirt with anything in breeches—and more than flirt, I suspected, but there were horny captains I was far leerier of than the Don. That b-----d Watney, for one, and the lecherous snob Ranelagh, and I fancy young Conyngham was itching after her, too. But Solomon had no name as a rake; didn’t even keep a mistress, apparently, and did no damage round Windmill Street or any of my haunts, leastways. Another odd thing: he didn’t touch liquor, in any form.