The Rising Storm

by Dennis Wheatley

  At the invitation of Count Apponyi—a most dashing, handsome man—she and her father had removed for a while to Budapest, and also paid a visit to the Count’s Castle, near Lake Balaton. Budapest had to be lived in to be believed; its nobility were graced with all the culture of the West, yet lived as though still in the Middle Ages, wore scimitars instead of swords, and clad themselves in all the rich, barbaric trappings of the East. While in the country she had attended a wedding. It had been kept up for three days, a dozen oxen had been roasted whole to feast the local peasantry, and they had danced every night till dawn to a gipsy band that distilled pure romance instead of music.

  After a further sojourn in Vienna they were now about to remove to Salzburg, and thence to Munich. By August they hoped to reach the neighbourhood of the Rhine, as they had accepted an invitation to stay at Darmstadt; and another, later, for September, from Prince Metternich, to be present at the vintage on his estate at Schloss Johannisberg.

  She ended by saying that since a contrary Nature had seemingly made it impossible for her to remain good for any length of time, she was at least trying to be careful; and urged on Roger the same sisterly precept.

  He could not help laughing as he laid the letter down, but he wondered if Georgina’s zest for enjoyment would ever fail her, as his own had done. He sincerely hoped not, as he already knew it to be a terrible thing to be still young yet unable to any longer take pleasure in anything. Moreover, he could not help contrasting her carefree existence with that which now confronted the scared, white-faced young French women who had crossed with him in the packet-boat from Calais. Even if none of them had been blessed with a combination of her abounding health, fine brain and dazzling beauty, many of them had been brought up in the same security and comfort that she had enjoyed as a young girl; and the thought of their uncertain future saddened him.

  Next day he learned that the indefatigable Mr. Pitt was still in London, and managed to secure an interview with him. The tall, lean, young old-looking Prime Minister offered him a glass of Port as usual, and listened with interest to his first-hand account of the last days of the absolute monarchy at Versailles; but the news of the events that had followed was already stale.

  Apart from securing the Queen’s letter, which was now an old affair, Roger had brought off no considerable coup during his four months abroad; and the Prime Minister suggested, a little coldly, that he might have arranged for the safe delivery of the copy to the Grand Duke through British diplomatic channels, instead of wasting seven weeks in a journey to Italy and back.

  Roger thought the comment unfair. He protested that if he had not delivered the letter personally he might have found it impossible to convince the Queen that he had carried out her mission, or she might later have learned from her brother that he had not done so, which would have proved equally disastrous.

  Mr. Pitt admitted that there was something to be said for the points Roger had made, and let him go on to give his impressions of Leopold of Tuscany; but the truth was that he was giving his visitor only half his attention. Had Roger’s business been urgent or important he would have got a fair and full hearing, but, as it was neither, the Prime Minister was allowing his mind to roam on a subject that was then giving him much concern.

  That summer, inspired by his closest friend, the great humanitarian William Wilberforce, and supported by many Members on both sides of the House, including even his normally most bitter opponent, Charles James Fox, he had made a determined attempt to abolish the Slave Trade. But the vested interests that would have suffered from abolition, particularly in Liverpool, Manchester and Bristol, were enormous, and the anti-abolitionists had enlisted in their aid the crafty and powerful Lord Chancellor Thurlow. It now looked almost certain that the Chancellor would succeed in wrecking the measure, and Mr. Pitt was wondering if he could possibly devise some means of saving it.

  However, his brilliant memory had not deserted him, and as Roger was about to take his leave, he said: “When last we met we talked of the Bourbon Family Compact. Have you, perchance, Mr. Brook, happened upon any circumstances which might be developed as a lever for the breaking of it?”

  In spite of his grande affaire de cœur with a beautiful lady of Spain, Roger knew little more of that country’s present political relations with France than he had when he left England; and he had to confess as much.

  The Prime Minister shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Ah, well! There is no great urgency about the matter, but I should be glad if you would bear it in mind. I judge you right that the National Assembly will take a month or two to settle down; so you had best enjoy what is left of the summer here, then return to France in the autumn and endeavour to find out what you can of the new Government’s intentions.”

  After his visit to Mr. Pitt, Roger tried to make up his mind what to do with himself. He did not want to go to his home at Lymington just yet, because he felt certain that his mother would remark upon his moodiness, and, dearly as he loved her, he was averse to giving her a true explanation. Now that he had discharged his responsibilities to the Prime Minister, the impulse came to him again to get drunk and beat up the town. But for that one needed suitable companions, either male or female. During most of the year he could have found some young sparks at his Club with whom to drink and gamble; but it was closed for its August cleaning. He knew a gay and pretty trollop of the more superior kind who was kept by an elderly nobleman in a comfortable apartment off Jermyn Street. It was most unlikely that her Earl would be visiting her at such a season, and he wondered if a week or so spent in her hilarious company would dispel his misery; but he decided that feminine endearments would only repel him at the moment.

  He had had to abandon his horse at Calais, not having had time to sell it, but he had returned from the Continent with more money than he had ever possessed before. Isabella had refused to allow him to pay for anything on their journey south to Italy, which had meant a considerable saving of his own funds, and the string of animals he had bought in Florence had cost less than an eighth of the hundred pieces of Spanish gold she had given him; so he had on him nearly £600 in bills of exchange on London, and it seemed absurd that with such a sum at his disposal he could not find some means of buying himself distraction.

  For an hour or two he mooned about the art dealers’ in the West End, but saw nothing that he really liked in the way of pictures, and even looking at them made him feel the loss of Isabella more poignantly. Suddenly it occurred to him that it would be intriguing to lay in a stock of wine; and the idea had to some degree the merit of unselfishness, as he knew that a good addition to the cellar at home would please his father.

  Accordingly, having long recognised the wise principle that the best is always the cheapest in the long run, he took a sedan chair along to the King’s wine-merchants, Messrs. Justerini and Johnson, at No. 2, Pall Mail.

  A scene of desolation met him in the neighbourhood, as on July 17th the Royal Opera House in the Haymarket, upon which the wine-merchants’ shop backed, had been burnt to the ground. But the southern frontage of Sir John Vanbrugh’s fine edifice had been saved, and Messrs. Justerini were still carrying on their business among the surrounding debris.

  Mr. Augustus Johnson the younger, a pleasant young man of about Roger’s own age, received him and pressed upon him a glass of excellent French cognac for the good of his health; then spoke with quiet confidence of his wares. They had just received a particularly good shipment of Constantia from the Cape, and some Canary Sack that would be much improved from having been sent on a voyage round the world. Roger bought some of each, some Port that had been shipped to Newfoundland and back, some Madeira, Coti-Roti, Alicante Rhenish, Bordeaux and sparkling Sillery. To these he added a number of liqueurs in which the firm specialised, many of which were strange to him.

  It was this purchase of good liquor that suddenly decided him to go home after all, as he would then have the fun of binning the stuff away himself and trying each of the items out at his
leisure. Mr. Johnson agreed that there would be no difficulty about having them packed in wicker hampers to go on a conveyance the following morning; so Roger hired a private coach and set out next day. He spent the night at Basingstoke and on the afternoon of the 3rd of August arrived at Lymington.

  He found that his father was at sea as a Rear-Admiral with the Mediterranean Squadron, but his mother was there, and her surprise at his unannounced return added to the joy of her welcome. On their first evening together he gave her Madame Marie Antoinette’s handkerchief, and on Lady Marie Brook learning how it had come into his possession her tears fell upon the little square of cambric that only eighteen days before had been wet with those of the unhappy Queen.

  In making the present to his mother Roger wrought better than he knew, for she at once accepted his sadness as the result of the harrowing scenes through which he had passed, so he was spared any necessity to either tell her about Isabella or invent some excuse for his acute depression. Yet, after a few days, seeing that he showed no signs of cheering up and did not even go out to see his old friends in the neighbourhood, she became worried about him, and with the object of taking him out of himself decided to give a small dance.

  From fear that Roger might oppose the idea she told him nothing about it until the servants began to prepare the house on the morning of the party; then she announced with a laugh that it had been planned as a surprise for him, and swiftly began to reel off the names of the twenty-odd young people she had invited. Casually, towards the end of the list, she put in that of Amanda Godfrey, adding that Amanda was staying again for a while with her uncle at Walhampton. Although Lady Marie was not supposed to be aware of the fact, she knew quite well that Roger had had a somewhat hectic flirtation with Amanda the preceding Christmas, and she had been greatly disappointed that nothing had come of it.

  Lady Marie had little hope that Roger would really settle down, even if he did marry. She had only the vaguest ideas about his work—having been led to believe that he carried information that was considered too confidential to entrust to paper from Mr. Pitt to the British Ambassadors in various capitals, then acted as a liaison officer, as required, between them—but she knew that foreign travel had become the breath of his life, so it was most unlikely that he would be prepared to give it up. She did not even think that it would be a good thing for him to do so. He was much too imaginative and highly strung to be happy with the humdrum pursuits of a country squire. She supposed that part of his character came from her own West Highland folk, as they had always been mercurial in temper, and better at thinking out a skilful plan for raiding their neighbours’ cattle than sticking to the unexciting business of rearing their own. It was just as well that the boy had also inherited some of his father’s practical good sense and tenacity of purpose.

  Lady Marie herself had plenty of good sense and knew that it was useless to try to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Her son’s interests were not in country things. They were in books, pictures, ancient cities and strange foreign customs; so it was right for him that he should spend a large part of his life in places where he could enjoy such things.

  But she did not see that as any bar to Roger marrying. As a sailor, her own husband had often been separated from her for years at a stretch by his duties, and that had not prevented them from being very happy. Such absences often had the effect of making the spiritual tie much deeper; and she felt that the time had come when Roger should get married. His first love, for Athénaïs de Rochambeau, had kept him out of serious trouble as a youth; but last year there had been that unfortunate episode with the Russian woman; and now it was possible that he might get himself tied up at any time with some other foreigner. Lady Marie felt very strongly that only marriage with the right type of English girl could give him the solid background that he lacked.

  Amanda’s uncle was Sir Harry Burrard; he was the richest man, and his estate of Walhampton the finest property, in the district. But, far more important in Lady Marie’s eyes, she thought Amanda just the sort of daughter she herself would have liked to have. It was not that Amanda was especially beautiful, or good or intelligent; but she had a certain something that made women her friends as well as men. She was at times an absurdly vague creature, and often said the most outrageously silly things, but always with such airiness and charm that people loved her for it. When she spoke to anyone she always looked them straight in the eyes and her mouth, which was one of her best features, was always a trifle open, ready to break into laughter. She always behaved with naturalness, and she could afford to, as no one had ever known her to express a mean thought or do an unkind action. But perhaps the real secret of the fascination that she exercised over both sexes was that, although she was so vague about mundane matters, she possessed the tolerance and understanding of human frailties which goes only with real wisdom.

  One thing Lady Marie had omitted to mention to Roger was that Amanda, having no male relative of an age suitable to escort her available at Walhampton, had asked if she might bring a beau of hers who was a Captain of Dragoons. Naturally Lady Marie had assented, and she had been delighted, as she felt that nothing could be better calculated to arouse Roger from his torpor than the sight of the young woman for whom he had shown an inclination hotly pursued by another admirer.

  This time it was Lady Marie who had wrought better than she knew, for had she had the choice of all the men in England she could not have provided Amanda with an escort more certain to electrify her son. As they stood together that evening just inside the drawing-room, receiving their guests, old Ben, the houseman, now raised to the rank of butler by the donning of his black coat, announced: “Miss Amanda Godfrey. Captain George Gunston.”

  Roger stiffened and the blood drained from his face. Gunston had been at Sherborne with him and had distinguished himself only as the bully of their year. Many a time he had taken an oafish delight in tormenting young “Bookworm Brook”, as he had dubbed Roger. Since, they had fought a duel with pistols, each wounding the other slightly and, at the insistence of their seconds, afterwards made up their quarrel. But although they had observed the formality of dining together when they had recovered from their wounds they had no single trait in common, except courage, and Roger still regarded George with an almost passionate hatred. The very sight of him, therefore, was like that of a red rag to a bull.

  Next moment Roger had completely recovered himself, and was welcoming the couple as a well-bred host. Once he had sustained the initial shock he gave Gunston the credit for being less prone to bear rancour than himself. It was, too, much easier to forget having been a bully than having been bullied; so it seemed only fair to assume that Gunston would never have come to the house had he not regarded the past as over and done with.

  But as the party got under way Roger was quick to observe that Gunston adopted a possessive attitude towards Amanda, and, evidently having heard of her affair with his host, was deliberately flaunting her under his nose. The hearty soldier’s by-play was of the clumsiest, so it was soon apparent that he had accepted the invitation for the fun of crowing over his old enemy; and that was more than Roger was prepared to stand.

  It was not that he was in the least in love with Amanda. They had had only a brief holiday romance of the very lightest kind. He had scarcely given her a thought in the past six months, and now, his heart turned to stone by the loss of Isabella, seeing Amanda again in any normal circumstances would not have made the least impression on him. Had she produced any other man and introduced him as her fiancé, Roger would have wished her joy with all possible sincerity. But he was certainly not going to let George Gunston pose as the beau of the most sought-after girl in the district. It seemed even possible that Amanda might be thinking of George seriously. That would never do. She was much too nice a person for a lout like that.

  Roger let George have his fun for an hour or so, then took an opportunity to go up and talk to him and Amanda just as they were moving off to the buffet after a dance
. He could not help noticing that they made a striking couple. George was as tall as and broader than himself; a fine specimen of manhood; handsome in a florid way, with a crop of ginger curls, and he derived an added glamour from his scarlet uniform. Amanda was also red-headed, but her hair was of a much darker shade, which reminded Roger of the Titian locks of Donna Livia. But Donna Livia’s hair had been only artificially curled, whereas Amanda’s had a natural crinkle, which at times made it almost unruly. She was a little above medium height and had a fine figure; her skin was milk-white but inclined to freckle in the summer. Her features were strong rather than pretty, and it was her laughing mouth that gave her whole face such charm.

  It soon emerged that George’s regiment was now quartered in Lymington Barracks, for the purpose of readily supporting, whenever called upon, the operations of the Preventive Officers against smuggling. Roger knew quite well that such arrangements were customary, but with an air of complete innocence he suggested that since George had become interested in the suppression of crime he ought to transfer to the Police.

  The soldier flushed, and stuttered something to the effect that no gentleman would consider soiling his hands with such dirty work. Upon which Roger blandly apologised for his ignorance and enquired the difference between catching smugglers and cut-purses.

  Gunston had never been quick-witted or overburdened by intelligence. Moreover he had spent the past six years among the provincial society of garrison towns; whereas Roger had been born a man of parts, and since leaving school had walked in Courts and talked with Kings. He could tap his snuff-box with the air of a Prince of the Blood, and launch a sarcasm with the swift acidity of Mr. Pitt. Without ever overstepping the bounds of courtesy imposed upon him by the fact that he was in his own house, ten times in ten minutes, by some subtle inference, he made Gunston look cheap and foolish. Then, with a delicate flutter of his lace handkerchief as he bowed to Amanda, he excused himself to look after his other guests.