Fortune's Soldier (Sutton Place Trilogy Book 3)

by Deryn Lake

  ‘One at a time,’ he bawled in voice military. ‘Archie, man that far door. Everybody goes out single file, understood? If they refuse, you are at liberty to strike, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ said the Lieutenant, letting go of Annette and executing a smart salute which seemed quite ludicrous in the circumstances yet at which nobody had the heart to laugh.

  And somehow order was restored. Lieutenant Money, strong with importance, took his father at his word and threatened with look and gesture those who tried to push their way into the corridor; meanwhile George picked up the fainting ladies and carried them through to the Round Room, and J.J. took one of Horace Walpole’s lacquered screens and placed it in front of the Earl’s body.

  Annette and Horatia, with no time to think about themselves, looked after the Countess who, in a little bundle of pain, had sunk on to the floor in a corner, and now howled like a vixen bereft of her fox. It was terrible to hear and it took all Horatia’s courage to so much as lay a hand on her mother’s shoulder as Anne gave way to the most bitter tears that can ever be wept.

  Eventually, with Uncle William and his wife helping, to say nothing of Anne’s personal and most beloved servant, they managed to lift the Countess and take her to the Tribune where she broke free of them and ran round and round the room like a tragic and maddened animal. This most frightening sight sent Annette into an hysteric that was only cured by Lieutenant Money surprisingly showing steel and slapping her cheek.

  The physician came at last, wiping his spectacles upon his sleeve, and four of them managed to hold Anne Waldegrave down while the medical man dropped some liquid into her throat from a phial. After this she was still and finally fell asleep, J.J. and George holding her hands and Horatia sitting at her feet.

  ‘Oh poor Mama, poor Mama,’ cried Annette to Archie Money. ‘What will become of her?’

  ‘Time heals most things,’ he said sensibly.

  He really was a pleasant young man, Uncle William thought, and very good for his eldest niece.

  ‘Yes, but ...’ Annette was going on, ‘she needed my father so much. You see, they fought every day.’

  Archie stared astonished and she added, ‘It was the thing that kept her going — the constant battle of wits. She loved him to distraction, yet could never forgive him for being born to the aristocracy when she was not. Oh dear, oh dear.’

  She started to weep again and Archie took the opportunity of once more holding her closely in his arms. Horatia, meanwhile not listening to them, had slumped forward on her mother’s bed and was almost asleep herself — yet could still hear whispering in the room.

  ‘The Earl is being laid out now, Sir,’ the butler was saying.

  To which Uncle William replied, ‘He must be put in the Library.’

  ‘Yes Sir.’ There was a shift in the balance of sound and it was obvious that the servant spoke to someone else. ‘Have you any further instructions, Lord Waldegrave?’

  There was a moment’s pause and Horatia opened her eyes. Uncle William, J.J. and George were staring at each other blankly.

  ‘But ...’ said William.

  ‘I meant the new Lord Waldegrave, Sir.’

  And with that the butler gave a deferential bow in the direction of George who, with an odd expression of both fear and excitement upon his face, suddenly stood up.

  ‘Yes, Hemsley,’ he said. ‘We shall retire to the Breakfast Room. See that several decanters are sent up, would you. And have the nursery maid help Lady Horatia to bed. That will be all at present.’

  Then he turned and led the way out of the door. The new reign had begun at Strawberry Hill.

  *

  On the very same day the Earl died at Walpole’s Gothic castle, the most beautiful party was being held at Sutton Place; so elegant and pretty was it, in fact, that some said it was the finest gathering seen at the mansion house that century. And as the year was 1835 and only the Webbe Westons and Mrs Trevelyan had been tenants of any note since 1800, it was very likely true.

  Marguerite had had Sutton Place cleaned from rafter to cellar — except for the Chapel which was not her responsibility as it was still opened every Sunday for public worship. It was rumoured she had even had the lawn polished. Whether this was true or whether it was not, she had certainly hired the services of a small brass band who now sat on little gilt chairs, some distance from the house, playing every merry tune they had in their repertoire.

  Elsewhere, many other small tables and chairs had been dotted about outside with the thought that, should the weather prove inclement, they could always be carried quickly into the Great Hall. But Mrs Trevelyan seemed to have organized even that. The same sun that had shone so brilliantly upon the Waldegraves now blessed the widow of Sutton Place; the sky was a perfect blue, the birds sang in time to the music — or so it seemed — and Mrs Trevelyan swayed amongst her guests beneath a shady hat and a parasol like a rose in bloom.

  There were those unkinder souls amongst the ladies who asked — some silently and some aloud — whether this was the widow’s equivalent of a coming-out ball; whether the grand display, with every eligible man in the County present, not to mention a great many from London as well, was Mrs Trevelyan’s determined effort to gain herself a match before the year was out. And then there were those who equally said that young Mr Webbe Weston would offer immediately — if Mrs Trevelyan would but consent to hear him — and that he had been mad with love of her for the last two years. And then eyes turned towards the poor relations of Pomona House as they were covertly known — and lorgnettes were raised and heads were nodded.

  Certainly young John Joseph seemed none too happy as he strolled along the lawns, his sister Mary on his arm and Caroline and Matilda just behind: and his Mama — what a shame she always wore such drab and silly clothes! — looked ready to weep if anybody should so much as speak to her. However, boring Mr Webbe Weston — ill at ease in a frock coat and top hat — was obviously truculent, as if he knew full well he should be the host today and the house really en fête for him.

  ‘They say he lost his money through an ancient curse,’ commented Mrs Beltram with a snort.

  ‘I’d say he lost it through sheer stupidity,’ answered her sister Lady Hey, munching hard upon a fondant and raising her eyeglass at the same time. ‘Damn fool had a fortune when he inherited, frittered it all away.’

  ‘Oh, hardly frittered, Gertrude. They poured money into the restoration of Sutton Place.’

  ‘And a lot of good it did them! All they can do is look green about the gills with envy while their tenant queens it over the whole damn bunch of ’em.’

  She waved a gloved hand at Mrs Trevelyan who was wending her way amongst her guests, being charming. ‘She’s a pretty girl.’

  ‘Yes. And she wants a pretty man, too.’

  ‘I’ve heard ...’ Lady Hey lowered her voice and leaned towards her sister’s ear, ‘that she is John Joseph’s paramour.’

  Mrs Beltram’s lorgnette fell from her hand.

  ‘But he is far too young for her! Why, he could almost be her son!’

  ‘Oh, nothing will come of it. I dare say he is vigorous — and that will be the beginning and end of it as far as she is concerned.’

  ‘You’re speaking very frankly today, sister.’

  ‘Getting too old to do much else. Good Heavens, there’s that ghastly Huss woman. You remember, the skinny governess? She married old lecher Gunn when nobody else would have him.’

  ‘She’s looking quite well on it. How dee do, Lady Gunn? Very good weather for the rout, is it not?’

  Miss Huss approached, rolling her eyes slightly.

  ‘Good afternoon, Lady Hey, Mrs Beltram. May I sit with you a moment?’

  ‘By all means. Have a cake.’

  The erstwhile governess waved a feeble hand. ‘No, thank you. Sir Roly and I dined quite fully today.’

  She smirked for a second and Lady Hey said, ‘Enjoying married life, are you?’

  Lady Gunn co
loured up. ‘Er ... yes.’

  ‘Not with child yet?’

  Lady Hey was old enough and distinguished enough to adopt the role of eccentric and yet keep her place in society.

  ‘I believe so.’ Lady Gunn looked profoundly uncomfortable as she spoke.

  ‘Well, I’m blessed,’ roared Lady Hey — while her sister made shushing sounds — ‘who’d have thought Roly to have so much go! Well done, my dear.’

  Lady Gunn looked round miserably and was never more pleased to see anyone than Mrs Trevelyan bearing down upon them with a sweet smile.

  ‘What charming dresses,’ she said. ‘Lady Hey, you look most elegant.’

  “Really? I thought myself a regular frump. There’s no accounting, is there?’

  ‘I must be on my way,’ said Lady Gunn, rising. ‘There’s Sir Roly over there now, talking to Caroline Webbe Weston.’

  ‘And giving her the eye, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Lady Hey as Lady Gunn disappeared.

  Mrs Beltram tut-tutted but Mrs Trevelyan merely smiled and said, ‘Caroline has grown into the most beautiful of those three girls.’

  ‘I hear she paints,’ said Mrs Beltram.

  ‘Yes, she’s very good — in both oil and watercolour. Ah, here comes her brother.’

  Lady Hey and Mrs Beltram exchanged a flicker of eyelids as John Joseph approached and bowed.

  ‘Good afternoon, Lady Hey. Good afternoon, Mrs Beltram. I hope I find you both well.’

  ‘I cannot complain at all for my age, thank you. I see you’ve grown a moustache, John Joseph. Very dashing — but it makes you look older.’

  John Joseph appeared pleased.

  ‘I wonder if I might speak with you, Mrs Trevelyan,’ he said.

  ‘But of course,’ she answered, smiling.

  John Joseph looked at his feet.

  ‘Well ... er ... that is if Lady Hey has no objection, it is a little matter relating to the estate. It might be better said privately.’

  Marguerite stood up. ‘Ladies, will you forgive me? It is such a nuisance — but it is a fact. Business can intrude even on the merriest of days.’

  She swept off, her full skirts wafting behind her, and John Joseph found himself hurrying to catch her up.

  ‘Marguerite,’ he said beneath his breath, ‘this really is too bad.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You have not had a word for me all the afternoon. Every time I look at you you are laughing with some man or other.’

  She stared at him icily.

  ‘May I remind you that a great deal of organization has gone into this gathering and that it is the duty of a hostess to be with her guests. Don’t be such a child, John Joseph.’

  He looked back at her miserably. What gossip said about him was true — he was almost insane with passion for her. And the two years that he had been her lover and had so many times possessed her body — sometimes roughly, though she had always forgiven him for that — had made things a thousand times worse. For feasting made him hungrier: he was completely obsessed with the very idea of Marguerite Trevelyan, all thoughts of bettering himself or joining a foreign Army gone for nothing.

  Now he said, ‘So I am a child, am I? You did not seem to think so two nights ago.’ But her answering frown had him cajoling and pleading. ‘Don’t be angry. I can’t bear it. Oh, Marguerite, could we not be married and put an end to this hell?’

  ‘You know that is out of the question. I am fifteen years your senior. We would be completely dropped by polite company.’

  ‘Who cares about them? Marguerite, if you would consent to be my wife I could happily join the Austrian Army or the Spanish. You would be the leader of the field as an Army wife in either of those countries and Guildford society could go to Hell.’

  Marguerite changed her expression to that of a sad, sweet smile.

  ‘Oh, John Joseph, if only it could be. But your Mama and Papa would never forgive me.’

  ‘They had their lives. Now I want mine. As far away as possible from Sutton Place — and with you beside me.’

  He looked at her, his seascape eyes earnest and shining.

  Marguerite’s little laugh rang out. ‘Why, here comes Lord Dawe. How are you today, my Lord? I was just telling our young friend what fun it is to arrange a garden party.’

  Lord Dawe, who was seventy if a day and had a face like a walrus, gave a breathy laugh, revealing teeth as irregular as a mountain pass. His voice, however, was like cream as he said, ‘I think it a splendid occasion, my dear. Would you organize such a rout for me? I have to entertain some fellow magistrates quite soon and since my beloved wife died I simply don’t have the heart for that kind of thing.’

  Marguerite dropped a little curtsey.

  ‘It would be my pleasure, Lord Dawe. When do you plan to have this gathering?’

  He offered his arm. ‘Stroll with me, Mrs Trevelyan, and I’ll tell you. Good day to you, Webbe Weston.’

  He raised his silk hat to John Joseph who stood glaring furiously, unable to do a thing. Marguerite dropped another curtsey.

  ‘Good day, John Joseph.’

  ‘Mrs Trevelyan ...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I speak with you later?’

  She turned to look at him over her retreating shoulder. ‘I may be a little too tired. If you could call tomorrow.’ He turned on his heel, giving only the most peremptory of bows, and walked towards the nearest table where he sat down, his arms folded and his chin on his hand.

  ‘Want a cup of tea?’ said Cloverella, appearing from nowhere. ‘I’m serving maid in this part of the garden.’

  ‘She’s organized it like a military manoeuvre,’ commented John Joseph bitterly.

  Cloverella followed his eyes to where the figure of Marguerite — once again pushing mourning to its limits in a gown of lavender lace — swayed beneath her pink parasol on the arm of Lord Dawe.

  ‘I should think she’s very clever at that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just what I say.’ Cloverella grinned at him, her teeth an ivory flash in her nut-brown face.

  ‘Cloverella, are you suggesting ...’

  ‘I’m suggesting nothing, John Joseph, except that you are going to seed and need a kick. Why, if I was a man I’d give you a thrashing.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that, Miss. You are only a serving girl here — old Blanchard’s bastard. Just you remember that.’

  Her hand flew to her mouth and she let out a cry. John Joseph had never seen the funny little creature weep before — but now tears trickled silently out of the corners of her eyes and into her mouth.

  ‘You’re a beast to say that to me. I’ve always been a good friend to you but now I swear that’s at an end. I’ve a mind to put a spell on you, I truly have. You deserve all you get, John Joseph.’

  ‘Cloverella, I’m sorry ...’

  But she had flounced off, her silver tea tray in her hand, her mob cap starting to work loose and fall down over her eyes.

  In the distance the wretched young man espied his sisters hurrying towards him rather excitedly, in fact Mary — despite the elegance of the occasion — had broken into a delicate run.

  ‘John Joseph,’ she was calling, ‘you will never guess what has happened.’

  He rallied himself sufficiently to give a smile.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Amy has just come up from Pomona House with a message. General and Mrs Wardlaw and all three of the children have called unexpectedly and Father is asking Mrs Trevelyan if they might join us here at Sutton Place. Oh, John Joseph, Jackdaw is here!’

  She was pink with pleasure.

  ‘Don’t get too excited. Mrs Trevelyan might say no and then we’ll have to go home.’

  ‘I don’t care. It will just be so wonderful to see him — them — again.’

  In the distance Mr Webbe Weston could be seen nodding at Mrs Trevelyan and she — still holding the arm of Lord Dawe — was nodding back and smiling.

  ‘She
’s saying yes,’ said Caroline. Her light blue eyes twinkled at her sister. ‘There Mary, this day has been made perfect for you.’

  In the distance the little band played a chugging version of ‘Greensleeves’ and Matilda in her best schoolmarm manner said, ‘That was written for Anne Boleyn by Henry VIII, you know — or so it is told. To think she walked these very lawns we tread now.’

  Nobody answered her for a second as her brother and sisters, in their individual ways, thought about what she had said.

  ‘Do you think she was truly wicked?’ Mary asked at last.

  ‘No.’ This from Caroline. ‘I think the King turned against her because she could not bear a son.’

  ‘But our kinsman — Francis Weston, though one can hardly call him an ancestor — was beheaded because of her.’

  ‘Perhaps he loved her,’ said John Joseph. ‘Perhaps he adored her so much that he would gladly have gone to the block for her.’

  Caroline gave him a sharp look from beneath her darkened brows.

  ‘I don’t think so. I think he loved Rose, his wife. I think Francis was a little foolish courtier caught up in Henry VIII’s great black web.’

  Mary shivered. ‘How nasty that sounds.’

  ‘I think it was nasty. I think they were dangerous times. But then what times are not, pray?’ Her light eyes ran over the distant form of Mrs Trevelyan and then slowly moved round to take in her brother. ‘Anybody can make a total idiot of themselves in any century for a comely woman.’

  John Joseph gave her a quick stare but Caroline seemed merely to be looking around her generally so he answered nothing.

  Mary said, ‘I do believe I can espy General Wardlaw over by the house. Is that he?’

  Matilda screwed up her coffee-coloured eyes.

  ‘Oh yes, it is. And there’s Mrs Wardlaw. Good gracious, those officers can’t be Jackdaw and Rob!’

  But they were! Resplendent in their uniforms of the King’s Dragoon Guards and the 9th Lancers, Robert and John Wardlaw — the elder taller than his brother by almost a foot — stood brightening the company of guests with their scarlet and blues.

  ‘Goodness me,’ chorused the Misses Webbe Weston. For the soldier brothers were without doubt at an age when the passing of years could do nothing but bring further compliment. The very notion of sagging flesh, thinning hair, rounding stomachs and slowing steps was, for Jackdaw and Rob, one that could not even be considered. They waited at the back entrance of Sutton Place looking about them like two young champions, melting hearts and creating flutters wherever they gazed.