by Deryn Lake
‘Goodbye, my Lord.’ Algy was always terribly formal with George.
‘Goodbye, Mother.’
Anne’s chin lowered again and she gave her son a very penetrating glance from eyes that were still a rare shade of blue.
‘Goodbye George. Goodbye Frances. I hope that you will find happiness in Europe.’
She stood very straight and proud as she said this and the atmosphere was knife-like. George caught himself wishing that things could have been different, that he could have been different, that he had not enjoyed drinking and gambling and fighting quite as much as he did. But, most of all, he wished that he had not loved his brother’s widow so desperately that he had permanently blacked his name in England by an illegal marriage to her.
‘I hope that you will be happy too,’ he said inadequately.
Horatia stepped forward looking very beautiful in a simple summer dress of muslin.
‘Will we hear from you?’ she asked.
‘Yes, we will write,’ said Frances. She added very softly indeed, ‘I bought that fan for your mother. Will you see that she gets it on her birthday?’
Unsaid thoughts hung between them; thoughts of each other’s beauty and wit, thoughts of whether they could ever really like one another, thoughts that one of them had already had two husbands and the other none at all.
Horatia brushed her cool lips against Frances’s cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘Well I,’ said Ida, ‘will be glad to see the back of you both.’
‘How dare you!’ shouted her mother furiously, because it was very much what she would like to have said herself. ‘It is not your place to speak like that. I’ve a mind to take the strap to you.’
‘Then do so. It would be worth it just to have seen her face.’
‘Come on, Frances,’ said George, ‘this is no place for us.’
She smiled, a trifle wistfully.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t think it is.’
And with that she turned and got into the waiting carriage without a backward glance. As George jumped in beside her and the coachman cracked his whip, the auctioneer’s voice could be heard from inside Strawberry Hill: ‘Going, going, gone.’
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Anne, ‘nothing will ever be the same again. Poor Strawberry Hill, poor Sutton Place. Is it the fate of both of them to be ruined?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Mr Hicks jollily. ‘Something usually turns up.’
*
Despite the fact that it was six o’clock in the morning and Vienna was still suffused with that roseate glow brought only by the first hour of summer daylight, the entire population seemed to be on the move. Carriages bustled, street-cleaning carts sprayed, horsemen rode past and large and old-fashioned coaches trundled busily towards the city gates. Flower girls thronged everywhere, offering their fresh-picked blooms to carriage folk and riders alike, and cheeking the newspaper boys who sold their wares with cheerful shouts.
And the general flow of all this equipage and excitement was to the royal palace itself — the Schönbrunn — which stood, like Versailles, outside the city, backed by the hills and fronted by an enormous courtyard, in the centre of which a great fountain leapt in a million rainbows towards the sun.
For today was one of great celebration — the Emperor’s official birthday. In fact even now, even as everyone — all washed and shining and smart — made their way to the Investiture that began the proceedings, a twenty-one-gun salute was fired to wake those Viennese who were still in their beds.
All the soldiers — including those members of the 3rd Light Dragoons who were to receive an honour — rode together. And as these military men crashed into the vast court before the palace, their horses’ hooves echoing and re-echoing a million times, there had never been such a dazzle and sparkle of breastplate, such a jingling and ringing of spur, such a rattle of sword hilt, on such a fine summer morning. It was a sight to soften the most cynical heart, to see the Emperor’s troops come to his palace in their pride and glory, and all aglow in the early sunshine.
In their midst — and picked only for their extreme loyalty to the Empire — rode the English soldiers of fortune, that band of Catholic gentlemen who had chosen a foreign Army where they might make a career for themselves rather than the frustrations of English military life. And amongst them, handsome, world-weary, but still fractionally moved by the greatness of the occasion, rode Captain John Joseph Webbe Weston to receive the honour of Knight of the Order of Malta for his part in keeping the uneasy country in a state of peace.
He was in a strange mood, half of him elated and another half quite miserable and wretched that he had absolutely no one of his own to sit in the gallery of the Throne Room and watch him be dubbed by ancient sword. He felt a million miles from home and lonely as a gypsy.
As always, when he thought of England, his thoughts went to Marguerite and then veered straight off again. It had been a strange thing but more and more — noticeably since his last leave at home — he had found himself hardly able to remember what she looked like. And more and more strongly had come to him the thought that perhaps he had been obsessed by the idea of her rather than by her herself.
Another strange thing had been the way Lady Horatia Waldegrave kept coming into his mind. He had found himself more than once — in fact very frequently — picturing her as she had dropped on one knee before him and proposed marriage. Of course, he had treated it as a joke. The only thing to do in the circumstances. But nonetheless ...
He caught himself — even here, even outside this magnificent palace the area of which covered a square mile — thinking about her; remembering the way her hair glowed; recalling her little habit of wrinkling up her nose when she was in earnest; the way her eyes sparkled like gem stones, like lake water, like ...
‘Captain Webbe Weston?’
He started violently and found himself looking down into the face of his Austrian sergeant.
‘Yes Lutz?’
‘Time to dismount, Sir. The procession is forming up. I’ll take your horse, Sir.’
‘Very good.’
John Joseph swung out of the saddle and saw that the rest of his fellow officers were already marching to the end of a mighty queue — in which stood at least eight hundred people — stretching from the doors of the Schönbrunn right across the courtyard and into the distance. At its head were Princes, at its foot foreigners, all of them intent on seeing the crazy Emperor celebrate his anniversary and perform his duties as best he could.
‘If only she were here,’ thought John Joseph — but his mental picture of Marguerite, swaying through the crowd beneath her pink parasol, faded. Try as he would he could only picture Horry, dressed in green and smiling like a mermaid.
It was two hours before the huge doors finally closed behind the last man, and the hundreds of feet had walked the quarter-mile corridor and found their way into the Throne Room. Everywhere, as they went, were flowers and palm trees; reflecting in the thousand mirrors, woven into the arches and round the pillars, hanging in garlands from the balconies. John Joseph, who had been in the palace many times on duty, had never seen it more festive and could not help but wonder what caprice had taken the Emperor today.
That the monarch suffered from epilepsy was, the Captain knew, without doubt; that he was actually idiotic was dubious. The best that could be said was that intellectually Ferdinand was simple, the worst that he was raving mad. At first his fitness to succeed his father had been questioned, and now Prince Metternich — who had supported the Emperor’s succession at the time — virtually ruled Austria and Hungary through what was, in practice, a council of regency.
Poor child-like Ferdinand. He could write his name only with difficulty and yet he was the figurehead to an Empire rivalled by that of Britain alone. While his ministers decided the fate of millions of subjects, he played in the gardens of his palaces. But it was for his wife, the unsuspecting Princess Anna Caroline of Savoy, that John Joseph felt far more sor
ry.
The Emperor was obviously quite incapable of consummating the marriage. Terrible tales of the wedding night were told to this day, reminding the Captain of the legend of the curse of Sutton Place — of the tortured and unconsummated love between King Edward the Confessor and his bride Edith.
‘What a terrible fate,’ John Joseph thought — and unbidden came the idea that it was high time he married and produced a son, followed by the notion that he would only be siring another heir to the curse. He wondered if this was the way it had manifested on him — by forcing him into the role of self-imposed exile.
But further melancholy thoughts of this nature were arrested by a wild fanfare of trumpets. Everyone rose to his feet — the recipients of honours from small gilt chairs placed in the body of the Throne Room, the onlookers in the balcony above. This was followed by a great drum roll and, glancing up, John Joseph saw that Maestro Strauss had been called to the palace to conduct the music for today’s ceremony: the black hair and fiery eyes that had earned him the nickname the Moor just visible over the railed musicians’ gallery. At a passionate move of Strauss’s arms the orchestra launched into the national anthem and it was to this accompaniment that the Emperor made his entrance.
The reason for the palm trees was immediately obvious, for with his dress uniform — which he had obviously been forced to wear — he carried a pith helmet of the type worn in Africa. This, as soon as the music had ceased playing, he solemnly put on his head. John Joseph felt the hysteria of sheer tension come upon him and was quite sure that he would crack with laughter if he so much as caught anyone’s glance. He gazed fixedly at the toes of his boots, the bright polish reflecting his moustache and his eyes creasing at the corners. For the third time that morning he thought of Horatia and was only thankful that she was not there, for he would never have been able to resist her impish grin.
‘My subjects,’ said the Emperor, ‘my Princes, my Dukes, my toy soldiers — sit down if you will.’
He gave them a smile totally without malice. For all his stupidity he was perfectly harmless and had earned himself the nickname of ‘the Kindly’.
Now he said, ‘Let my birthday — let all my birthdays — begin.’
And with that Maestro Strauss struck up a waltz.
The Investiture took four hours, the Emperor constantly wandering off the dais on which the thrones were raised. Sometimes he would vanish for as much as ten minutes and come back with a mouth full of biscuits. At other times the interval would be shorter — presumably he was relieving himself — and he would trot back looking more cheerful. Meanwhile the poor recipients, without the benefit of such luxuries, suffered manfully and could hardly await their call to the ante-room in which they were allowed to sit just before they received their honour.
‘My God,’ said Wingfield, a fellow English officer, coming back from the jakes, ‘I thought I was going to burst. How did you fare, Webbe Weston?’
‘I tried mathematical problems to keep my mind off it. What an ordeal!’
‘I suppose it’s worth it. Your family here to watch?’
‘No, they’re all in England. Yours?’
‘My wife lives here. We’re in the married quarters. Dashed comfortable. I suppose you’ll be trying them some day.’
‘Yes,’ said John Joseph slowly, ‘I suppose so.’
But it was his call. From the doorway the major domo was shouting out, ‘Captain John Joseph Webbe Weston of the 3rd Light Dragoons, Your Majesty.’
John Joseph drew himself up to full height, put his shoulders back and walked with measured tread — every inch an Englishman and proud of it — to the foot of the crazy old Emperor’s throne.
‘Well, my boy,’ said Ferdinand, ignoring the aide-de-camp who was whispering in his ear, ‘and what are you here for, eh?’
‘I am to receive the Knighthood of the Order of Malta, Your Majesty.’
‘Are you? Well, well! And what have you done to deserve that?’
‘I have been serving with the occupying force in Cracau, Sir, and before that in Pesth.’
‘Pesth? Is that across the Danube from Buda?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
The Emperor looked delighted, as if he had just been given top marks in a geography examination.
‘You see, I know more than they think.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘You remind me of a tin soldier I have. I am very fond of my English soldiers, you know. Will you come and play battles with me?’
John Joseph looked up into the simpleton’s kind blue eyes. He remembered his own little regiment, with which he had played at Sutton Place. He thought of Jackdaw, of his sister Mary, of all the people with whom endless games of Battle and Beat Boney had been executed.
‘I should enjoy that, Your Majesty.’
‘Would you? Would you really?’ A wistful expression crossed the Emperor’s face. ‘But I don’t suppose they’ll let you. Will you try to ignore them?’
‘I won’t listen,’ said the Captain. ‘I shall come if I may, Sir.’
‘Then tonight. After the birthday ball. Is that agreed?’
‘It is,’ answered John Joseph — and for no reason kissed the warm old hand that was extended towards him.
‘For that I shall knight you.’
And with that mad Emperor Ferdinand of Austria and Hungary raised the sword of state, gasping as he did so, tapped John Joseph on both shoulders and said, ‘Arise a Knight of Malta, my little English soldier.’
Then he gave a charming smile — and winked one of his eyes.
Part Two
17
Time blurred, slipped sideways and passed. Five whole years went by — for some fast, scampering times; always Christmas, always Easter, always New Year; for others the monotony of week in, week out, dragging like a leaden weight. Yet it was the same time-span for them all. And that was part of the mystery; some saw life as rushing along, others felt it a daily monotony of never-ending length.
But to the two inanimate objects so deeply involved in the link between the Webbe Westons, the Waldegraves and the Wardlaws, change came gradually. Sutton Place — so beautiful and proud when Richard Weston laid a great carpet beneath the feet of Henry VIII — slipped with each melancholy falling brick into shabbiness. While Strawberry Hill — Horace Walpole’s little jewel — grew wretchedly more dilapidated and deserted. ‘A place intrinsically more paltry does not exist’ was the opinion of a writer on a tour of the Thames in 1845.
But what of the people? They whose lives had become joined within the boundaries of destiny? How had they fared in five years? Had they moved any nearer to the places they must adopt before End Game?
Of the Webbe Westons, small change. John Joseph serving his adopted country like a true soldier; not posing too many questions, obeying orders, turning his brain into a machine, not asking his soul about the rights of another’s death put into his hands. Of the girls — Mary, Matilda, Caroline — children, children, children. Yet Mary was too bossy, Matilda too sensitive, Caroline too clever, to become mere reproductive machines with no thoughts of their own.
And of the Wardlaws, what? Helen and the General — now that deep middle age lay upon them both — were becoming as one. She always the adored, the more aloof, the brighter, had at last seen the boring and conventional man for what he really was: kind, attentive, prepared to die for her instantly should the order be given. With the change of her life, she mellowed. Began to love as she never had before. And at last he was rewarded for the years of worship and felt himself totally at one with her; the children all gone, only he and she to stare out of the window of 5 Pelham Crescent into the wild sweet blue of an evening seascape.
And of Rob, Jackdaw, Violet? The first named to rise ever upward in the British Army, to become a family man and know the joy of stability. For Jackdaw, the wonder of enlightenment to set against the nagging of his heart. He had been patient for five years yet with no sign of the crystal beauty, the wondrous joy, that only Hora
tia could bring. And for little Violet — motherhood again. But this time with a closed mind in its wake. Nothing for her but warm pink bodies, nurseries with night lights, waiting for a husband to come home. No thought, no quest — but just as happy for all that.
But finally what of the Waldegraves — the Earls of Strawberry Hill — who had chosen to fly in convention’s face and live their lives to each full second, regardless of public opinion? How had they fared in the sweep of Fate’s avenue?
Of Anne, the Dowager Countess, and Mr Hicks — family happiness. He, who had never asked anything of life except a good Walk and a pat upon his willing head, had found contentment with that brittle little lady who had overcome a bastard child, a shot-gun wedding, a naughty husband, two infant deaths, the death of two adult sons — for George had recently died, leaving Frances a widow again — and the ruin of the home she had once loved.
And her three beautiful daughters? Annette of the moonstone gaze delighted in producing children for Archibald Money; delighted in her status as Colonel’s lady; delighted in getting away from all the mad, bad days and living now in a tidy house with a tidy mind.
And of beautiful Horatia, the jewel of her generation? Had she married well and wisely, without thought or care for the dictates of her true heart? No, of course not. She preferred to sit, warm as a sun rose, and wait for the moment when either her great love would come to her or she would forget all about him and find that some other young man was as sweet and loving as she.
And that is how they were all positioned when destiny called the tune once more. When the wheel of fortune opened up to them the paths that each might follow.
The first thing to happen was the return of John Joseph — who had not been on leave to England for five years, so bad was the situation in the Empire. The next was that Frances — funny little half-Jewish Frances — walked round the ruinous Strawberry Hill and thought, ‘I cannot, I must not let this fall to the ground.’ The third was that Horatia turned down her latest proposal of marriage. So there they were — ready.