A Dark and Distant Shore (23 page)

She had learned endurance in the last two years. She had learned, somehow, to detach her body and even her mind from what was going on, until all she was conscious of was a mixture of distaste and boredom as her husband’s handsome, muscular body went through its fixed ritual. She had discovered that he didn’t expect her, or even want her to participate, as if, by taking all the labour on himself, he was giving his fullest proof of his love. It was like a worshipper making his devotions to the statue of a goddess. On one occasion, with a touch of hysteria, she had wondered if every army officer behaved as Andrew did in bed, whether there was some official series of manoeuvres to which all His Majesty’s officers were required to conform?

Never had he succeeded in touching any spring of pleasure within her, as with busy hands, probing tongue, and industrious loins he proceeded urgently, night after night, through his private drill manual. So she had learned to lie under the strong, smothering body and cut herself off from its thrusting assault on every corner of her being.

But tonight, emotionally stripped, her defences failed her. Andrew, she soon realized, must have been drinking steadily for hours before he came home, and the reek of brandy sickened her. As she felt the clumsy hands and invading tongue go to work, her nerves began to quiver as if they had been exposed, raw and sensitive, to some cold, salt wind from the sea. She screamed deep inside, and screamed again, and then continuously, though not a sound escaped her. He must finish soon, she prayed, must hurry on to those last convulsive moments which brought him to ecstasy and her to deliverance, must recognize his own need for rest before the days ahead. But, dear God, he did not. And did not.

He stayed with her until it was time for him to rise and dress, and was touched by the tears that racked her towards the end. Just before he left, he bent over her to stroke the white-gold hair that lay tangled on the pillow. ‘Don’t cry, my dearest,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t fear for me. I’ll come back safe. I promise I will!’

On the Sunday, she received a letter from her husband, dated from Ramsgate on the evening of the day he had left her, June ninth, 1815.

My dearest wife – I have time to write you only a few words before I leave our shores. We sail almost at once and hope to be in Flanders in thirteen hours or less, for there is a good fresh breeze, I am told. I could wish I were not prey to that vilest of maladies, sea-sickness, although I have learned by now to bear it with tolerable equanimity! We arrived here, saddle-weary but in good heart, soon after midday. I believe I did not mention to you that I was travelling in company for the first part of the way, at least, with Mr Gordon, a sub-lieutenant of my own regiment, and two surgeons, who have not so far shown any sign of that distressing propensity medical men so often have, of exchanging reminiscences of their experiences. One of them, Surgeon Storey, seems a very good fellow.

How strange it is that no more than a few hours have passed since I bade you farewell. Never before, I think, have you wept to see me go! Be assured, the memory of those loving tears will give me strength to face whatever may be to come.

Ramsgate is very empty of company. There are only a few parties of private soldiers who will embark with us. The Duke has been complaining that, although he has a small and (he swears) ruinous army of no more than 90,000 men, he has generals and staff enough to command ten times that number, so perhaps he will be glad to see even these few! But it has always been in Old Hookey’s nature to complain, and to tell the truth, I shall be much surprised if he and Blücher cannot, after all, contrive to put the Little Corporal to rout. So do not fear, my dearest, for the wellbeing of – Your most loving husband, Andrew Lauriston (Maj.)

Postscriptum:
If I should have the fortune to encounter a courier returning to England, I will take the opportunity to write to you again, even if no more than a note in haste. – Yrs &c, A.L. (Maj.)

Vilia was young and resilient, and three days and two nights without Andrew had done much to restore her to herself. She was able to read his letter with a trace, even, of amusement. Who but Andrew could think to reassure his wife with talk of sea-sickness, and surgeons, and Wellington’s disgust with the army on which the fate of Europe, and of Andrew himself, depended?

She had asked the messenger who brought the note whether there was any news. He had been a very junior subaltern, his uniform caked with dried mud and sweat, and his face white with tiredness. He had come straight on from the Horse Guards after travelling from Ostend. ‘No, ma’am,’ he had said. ‘Nothing. Boney was still in Paris on the morning of the tenth, according to reports.’

‘The tenth? Yesterday?’

His bloodshot eyes had been hazy. ‘Was it? Yes, I suppose it must have been. My apologies, ma’am. I seem to have lost sense of time. Now, if you will forgive me... Your servant, ma’am.’ And he had saluted and gone, refusing her offer of refreshment. He had looked younger than she was herself.

On Sunday evenings, no one came calling and the house was quiet. Even the servants were out – or most of them. The Blackwoods, who acted as butler and cook-housekeeper; little Maggie, the maidservant; Jenny the nurserymaid; and Vilia’s personal maid, Rachelle. Andrew had disapproved of the servants being given a night off every week, but Vilia had insisted, and gradually he had become reconciled. She took pleasure in having the house to herself – except for the babies, and Nurse, and Ellen the second maidservant, and Sorley, God bless him! – and was accustomed to dine sparingly on cold meats and salads and a glass of wine, served on a tray in the drawing-room, her own private sanctum.

The house was tall and narrow and inconvenient, and didn’t lend itself to a satisfactory arrangement of rooms. The kitchens, store rooms, servants’ quarters, and night nursery were distributed between the basement and the attics, while the day nursery occupied the back of the top floor, with Andrew’s bedroom and dressing-room at the front. On the ground floor, of necessity, were the dining-room and Andrew’s study, and there was a snug parlour where she and Andrew sat of an evening. It would have been more orthodox for them to retire to the drawing-room, on the middle of the three main floors, but somehow they had never fallen into the habit of it. Somehow? Behind the drawing-room lay Vilia’s own bedchamber and dressing-room, too close – much too close – for comfort. It was only when Andrew was away that she felt at ease in the drawing-room. But then it was her favourite room.

For almost three days, her tormented mind had fretted ceaselessly at her problems, seeking solutions that it discarded as soon as they suggested themselves. She wouldn’t even contemplate the thought – the intolerable thought – of living with Andrew in his father’s house. The old man hated her, and she knew that he and Andrew would bring out the worst in each other as they competed to bring her to heel. If she could persuade Andrew – but how? – to stay in the army! If it hadn’t been for the babies, she could have left him altogether and gone gipsying. The discomforts of such a life seemed to her a small price to pay for the unimaginable treasure of freedom for her mind and body. But with the babies, if she left him she would have to find some genteel way of earning a living for the three of them.

When she found herself giggling aloud at the thought of setting up as a modiste or milliner – she, who would never thread a needle if she could possibly avoid it – she knew that the darkest shadows lay behind her. There was no way out of her troubles that she could see, nothing positive she could do. She could only resign herself and let Fate take its course. It was a restful sensation. She felt suddenly quite tranquil, as if her emotions, scrubbed and scoured and beaten and rinsed, had been laid out peacefully on the heather, under a mild, warm sun. The kind of sun that, at Kinveil, sometimes shone out of a pale sky on bland spring days set like jewels in the cold heart of winter.

Insensibly, the thought of Kinveil led her to thoughts of Perry Randall. The wild elation she had felt on Thursday afternoon had been bludgeoned to death on Thursday night. She knew she had been mad to invite him to Half Moon Street, but still couldn’t regret it. She settled back in her chair, and the tiny black kitten in her lap stirred, and purred voluptuously. With a gentle forefinger, Vilia stroked between its ears and it opened its golden eyes a little, and gazed at her as if heaven could hold no greater bliss. She smiled at it. Andrew had bought it for the nursery, but within hours it had fled from the clutch of infant hands and attached itself to her like some familiar spirit.

Perry Randall had not come. She thought, now, that he wouldn’t. Driving back from Ascot, she had justified her madness to herself with the argument that all she wanted to do was see him again, and talk to him. There couldn’t be any harm in that. She had made it sound quite reasonable, but now she smiled at her own self-delusion. Reason had nothing to do with the alchemy between them, and he, wiser than she, must have recognized the danger.

All that remained was to teach herself, once again, to banish him from her mind. If, by some mischance, they were to meet, she must be capable of decent self-control. She was, after all, not some giddy schoolroom miss, but nineteen years old, a wife, and twice a mother.

With the faintest of sighs, she scooped up a sleepily indignant kitten and crossed to the bookshelves. Something light, or something difficult to concentrate her mind? The new novel by the author of
Sense and Sensibility,
or Ricardo on
The High Price of Bullion
?

She was still staring blindly at the shelves when she heard the thick, metallic, rat-tat-tat
of the front door knocker.

‘The major iss not at home, sir.’ Even after twelve years in London, Sorley still hadn’t lost his Highland sibilance.

Perry hesitated. ‘Has he gone out of town?’

‘Yess, sir.’

‘Very well. Thank you.’ He smiled. ‘You must be McClure?’

‘Yess, sir. Kind of you to remember, sir.’

He was turning away when the footman’s voice halted him. ‘With your permission, sir? Mistress Vilia is at home, and I am sure she would be blithe to see you. Would you be wishing me to tell her you are here?’

Before he could answer, Vilia’s voice came from the staircase. ‘Who is it, Sorley? Oh, Mr Randall. How kind of you to call.’ Descending a step or two, seeming almost to drift in her simple muslin gown, she said, ‘Please stay a moment and relieve my tedium. My husband has been called away, but I pride myself on being as well informed about affairs at Brussels as any gentleman at the Horse Guards. Perhaps I can tell you what you want to know.’

He tried to withstand her. ‘I mustn’t disturb you, Mrs Lauriston. Indeed, I apologize for calling at such an hour, but I found myself in Piccadilly and thought the major might not object. Forgive me. I won’t trouble you.’

She couldn’t read his face, or his feelings. All she could see was the tall, lithe figure outlined against the dusk. She said, ‘Napoleon was still in Paris yesterday. Did you know?’

There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘No, I didn’t know.’

‘Does it help you, knowing?’ She was behaving like a shameless hussy, and she didn’t care.

After a moment, he glanced down at the gloves and cane in his hand, and then, stepping across the threshold, handed them to Sorley, with his hat. He looked up, and smiled. ‘As you see, Mrs Lauriston, my consideration for your comfort crumbles at a touch. If it wouldn’t incommode you, I should indeed be grateful for anything you can tell me.’

‘Will I bring the tea tray up, madam?’

‘Yes, Sorley, if you please.’ She turned. ‘Unless Mr Randall would prefer something else?’

‘Thank you, no. Tea will be admirable.’

Their conversation at first was extraordinarily banal. The weather. The convenience of Half Moon Street as an address, and the inconvenience of its style of architecture. The form shown the other day by the runners at Ascot. Nothing that could be remotely construed as personal. They might have been discussing Paracelsian medicine, the Hindu scriptures, or the Baltic herring trade, and Vilia would have been equally content. All she wanted of him was his presence, and the sound of his light, warm, humorous voice. She sat, and sipped tea, and smiled serenely, and said very little.

Sorley came to remove the tray even before she had rung, which surprised her a little, and when he departed, the kitten, its eyes on the cream jug and its tail in the air, pranced out at his side. The door closed, and they were alone without prospect of interruption, and Perry Randall said with a rueful grin, ‘How delightful to have desires that are so easily satisfied. Does it have a name?’

‘She. My maid has christened her the Duchess, because she is so supercilious with the servants.’

He laughed a little. They were sitting facing each other across the fireplace, which was screened off, the evening being warm, with a great vase of greenery. The room had a fresh, outdoor charm, with pale woodwork, upholstery that was the green of young leaves, and sprigged curtains that blew in the light breeze from the open windows. He thought how well it all suited her.

It was, he supposed, the peculiar fragility of her looks that made the incisive style of her mind so disconcerting at first. All the fair beauties he had ever known had been shallow and vapid. But with Vilia Cameron the mind’s quality was there to be observed in the candid eyes, the chiselled features, the soft but resolute lips...

He said abruptly, ‘The news from Brussels. I believe you have heard something?’ Then, before she could answer, he collected himself and went on, ‘I should, in all courtesy, explain my interest. I am not a rich man, but I have some investments in government stock which, in the present situation, are losing value daily. The jobbers, in fact, closed their books some time ago, although my man of business tells me that private dealing is still going on. The essence is that, if I sell – as I am advised to do before the situation deteriorates further – I must make a loss, which I can ill afford. And matters
will
deteriorate further if Napoleon is restored to his former glory, for then all Europe will be at war again and British government stock could become almost worthless. It wouldn’t just be a question of panic in Change Alley, but a general failure of public confidence.’