True Soldier Gentlemen (Napoleonic War 1) (10 page)

‘It is going to be glorious,’ said Redman. Eager anticipation for once revealed the boy he still was. ‘The Hansons shall be there I am sure.’ He was convinced Miss Emily favoured him.

‘I am sure it will be a most pleasant distraction,’ was as far as Pringle was willing to go, and neither he nor Hanley showed any desire to discuss the subject further. Redman hurried away to find Hatch, leaving the other three strolling along in silence. Williams trailed a little, for he had decided now that he dared not request a dance from Miss MacAndrews and was busy despising himself.

P
ringle, Hanley and Williams stuck together after arriving at Mr Fotheringham’s house. Most of the seventy or so guests were already there, but their arrival was not so late as to cause either offence or excessive attention. They slid into the crowd, and were soon joined by Truscott. Together they watched their younger colleagues as they flirted, made too much noise, and generally made asses of themselves. At times their enthusiasm almost drowned the orchestra, which it was said their host had brought down from London.

Mr Fotheringham had retired to the county after a career in government, buying the Old Hall on the edge of the village. He had only a single daughter, a quite sartlingly severe woman who seemed far older than her twenty-three years. No doubt in time she would nevertheless find a husband, drawn by the family fortune if nothing else. She was already much in demand this evening, something which came as a relief to Pringle and the others, who felt absolved from the courtesy of asking the host’s daughter for a dance.

The four drifted over to a table and began to take some food, where they were joined by a Yeomanry officer named Thompson, who seemed sensible enough by the low standards of Britain’s volunteer cavalry. His splendidly braided blue jacket was tight fitting, and rather outshone their own red tunics. Truscott had met him before, and swiftly made the introductions. Servants quickly found them and refilled their glasses, although Williams had in fact taken little of his wine. For courtesy’s sake, he would sip at the glass every few moments, trying to take as little as possible.

‘Fourteenth-century?’ Hanley had almost to shout to be heard over the music and general hubbub. The main hall was certainly a grand and high-roofed structure, with the musicians seated way above in a minstrel’s gallery.

Pringle nodded to a rotund matron trailing two daughters behind her. ‘No, sixteenth.’ He winked at Hanley. ‘She looks Tudor to me.’ Whether or not she heard, the mother passed the group by, looking for more likely dance partners for her offspring. Still, their presence had been noted, and no doubt she would return if spaces remained in the girls’ commitments.

Billy Pringle was hoping not to dance or drink too much this evening. He liked both things exceedingly, and even more he liked and thought of women for most of his waking hours. By now the fear that he had made love to Jenny Dobson had receded. She paid him no particular attention when they had passed each other earlier that day and her father’s demeanour towards him had not changed in any way. He was almost certain that his partner had been someone else. In spite of this, the fear made him cautious. Too young and indeed not really sufficiently wealthy or well placed to contemplate a serious courtship, and anyway not especially intrigued by any of the local belles, he felt that there was not one of them with whom he
had
to dance. There was pleasure in simply looking at the young ladies, most of whom appeared at their finest on such an occasion. Dancing permitted an intimacy and contact which might raise his ardour too far. If he then drank too much, he might leave in such a mood that another encounter with a more available woman was likely. Pringle wanted to remain in enough control to make certain that this time it would not be with any girl who was inappropriate. Moderation in both drink and passion was now his goal. Then he noticed a tall dark-haired girl with elegant carriage and an excellent figure and felt his restraint weaken. He gestured to a servant to fill his glass.

Truscott liked observing, even more than he enjoyed dancing. He had tried to point things out to Williams, but the latter was too nervous to converse freely, and after a while the lieutenant turned his attention to Hanley. The artist in the latter had already
appreciated the scene, and the flickering shadows cast by the chandeliers. Truscott drew his attention to the patterns formed by the people, the wider dance already started before the partners took to the floor.

‘We are just in the middle,’ he said, indicating the older officers who had retired to the even darker corners in the hope of remaining inconspicuous.

Hanley smiled, and part of him pictured the scene as a cartoon. He had never attempted such a thing, concentrating on the pursuit of the highest art, but one of his friends in Madrid had been a devotee of Hogarth, and had always been asking him to explain some of the more English references and objects in his collection of prints. Military life might well offer fruitful subjects. That took his mind back to the musketry drills, and from there it was but a small leap to the shots and death that haunted his memory. He changed the subject.

‘Our friend appears to be the perfect audience.’ He gestured at Williams, juggling a nearly full glass and an overburdened plate and with an expression of solemn interest as Thompson spoke to him of horses. The subject was clearly his great passion and he needed no more encouragement to continue at considerable length. Truscott suspected that Williams could hear little and understood even less, for his background had clearly not permitted the keeping of a stable. Thompson took his nods for agreement, and became more and more convinced that the volunteer was an excellent judge of horseflesh.

It was nearly time for the dancing to begin, and since there were decidedly more ladies than men at the gathering, efforts to remain inconspicuous were doomed to failure. One by one the recalcitrant groups were hunted down, usually by a mama intent upon finding suitable partners for her daughters. The arrival of the MacAndrews saved them for the moment, as they hurried to greet their commander and his family.

Miss MacAndrews looked magnificent. She wore a white gown, its fashionable high waist gathered with a turquoise sash. A silk ribbon of the same colour bound her piled hair. Around
her neck hung a silver chain, ending in a pendant which lay on the bare skin just above the fringed line of her dress. This rose to short puffed sleeves, leaving her arms bare down to her long white gloves. She walked on her father’s left arm, while her mother was on his right. Mrs MacAndrews was once again in green, although this time a much paler shade, apart from the very dark turban around her black hair. The captain looked somewhat embarrassed as rather a hush fell across the room, although it was clear that his wife enjoyed making an entrance.

Mr Fotheringham, his florid wife and icy daughter welcomed them formally and without any warmth. Pringle and the others were then the next to greet the family. Bows were exchanged, and the young gentlemen showered the ladies with compliments. After that there was an awkward pause, which Mrs MacAndrews decisively ended.

‘Mr MacAndrews, I wish to dance. Is it necessary for me to order one of these young gentlemen to ask Jane?’

‘Of course not, ma’am,’ said Hanley, feeling that there could be worse ways to spend the time. ‘Miss MacAndrews, if you would do me the honour.’

‘Seniority, old boy,’ interrupted Pringle.

‘Indeed yes,’ added Truscott, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Regimental seniority.’ He bowed low to Jane.

‘That is settled, then. Well, Jane, we have your first four dances. I must say they all look more handsome without that dreadful white paint on their hair.’ For the ball the officers of the 106th had followed the normal practice of washing their hair and simply tying it back with black ribbon. ‘Look at Mr Williams, with his blond hair. You are quite the Viking, sir. Be careful, Jane, or he might carry you off to his ship!’

Mrs MacAndrews ignored Williams’ blustering and confused denial of any such evil intention. ‘Come, husband, we shall dance. And watch where you are placing your great clumsy feet!’ The pair disappeared happily, closely followed by Truscott and Jane, and went to take their places among the line of couples on the dance floor.

‘She is a terrifying woman, in the nicest possible way,’ said Billy Pringle. Before they could escape to the fringes of the crowd they were trapped and caught. Mrs Wickham bore down on them with the fixed gaze of a determined matchmaker. In tow were two Miss Stocktons, Miss Crabbe and a Miss Dawlish. There was the usual flood of words.

They had been deliberately hiding – she was sure they had – for none of them had yet asked for the dance they must know she was saving for them – it was most ungallant (the last remark emphasised by striking each of the three men lightly with her fan) – and why were they neglecting such fair companions as these ladies – did they not know them – then introductions must be made.

Williams was trying to watch Truscott and Jane and did his best to ignore the flow of chatter. He saw the couple now and again, marked how gracefully Miss MacAndrews moved and felt excitement that her mother seemed to have arranged a dance for him.

Out on the floor, Lieutenant Truscott complimented his partner on her dancing.

‘You are too kind, sir,’ said Jane. Her eyes looked for a moment into his, and then flicked down and instead focused on the golden epaulette on his right shoulder. Truscott saw her blink.

‘Are you disturbed, Miss MacAndrews?’ he asked with real concern, as they once again passed close, her right hand held high in his left as she turned.

‘It is merely a bad memory. My first ball was two and half years ago, when the regiment was in Port Royal. All the uniforms brings it back so very vividly.’ He noticed that her eyes were glassy as she looked up at him once more, the move complete and they again followed the other dancers down the length of the ballroom.

‘But surely that was a happy event?’

‘It was, but nearly all the men I danced with that night were dead by the end of the year. The fever, you know.’

Truscott, like Pringle and most of the other officers, had joined the regiment after it had returned or had been at the depot during its service in the Caribbean. Still, everyone knew of the losses.

‘It is a soldier’s fate, ma’am. Sad, but we all must take the risks. At least . . .’ He struggled for a moment. ‘. . . at least those men first enjoyed a dance with a most beautiful and kind young lady.’ He knew it was a peculiar compliment, but his always generous nature warmed to the girl’s sympathetic spirit and he yearned to lift her sorrow.

‘You are too kind.’ Jane gave him a brittle smile. They spoke no more, but Truscott could not remember having ever enjoyed a dance more than this. It was with real warmth that he thanked her at its end, bowing once again, and then leading her back to the others.

Their arrival was a welcome relief to Williams even more than the other two. He had been jerked from his reverie by the sharp demand of Miss Elvira Stockton for him to explain his rank. He was so young, and yet the splendour of his jacket must mean that he was senior to the others. Hamish had borrowed white breeches, stockings and shoes from Pringle, but otherwise wore his regimental jacket. Like all those of the ordinary soldiers it had broad white lace in pairs running up the front, unlike the rather plainer officer’s jacket. The shoulder wings were also higher and fringed with white wool. In the candlelight it was not obvious that it was a much duller red and of coarser weave than their uniforms.

Mrs Wickham had laughed her inimitable laugh, pointing out very loudly that she should not embarrass poor Mr Williams so. He had then been forced to explain the status of a volunteer. It was always awkward proclaiming oneself to be a gentleman – surely that should be self-evident. There was the usual reaction, as the various misses realised that he would make a most unsuitable husband. The Stockton sisters remembered that they had promised their mother to ask after Mrs Fotheringham’s health, and promptly left. Miss Crabbe had evidently taken a strong liking to the bespectacled Pringle, and at Mrs Wickham’s urging he seemed to have no choice but to beg humbly for the next dance. Miss Dawlish began to look expectantly at Hanley. She was a brown-haired, plump girl, not yet eighteen. Her face might almost have been pretty, were it not for its childlike petulance.

Miss MacAndrews saved him. She arrived and boldly interrupted, reminding Mr Hanley that he was already promised to her, since Mr Pringle had so selfishly vanished. She was sure that Mr Williams would be delighted to partner Miss Dawlish.

Moments later Hanley found himself holding Miss MacAndrews, who stared directly up at him.

‘All this is a little tiresome, do you not think?’ Jane asked softly.

‘I would have agreed, until now.’ He smiled. For all the whirl of the wider dance, this was the most intimate moment he had enjoyed with a woman since Madrid.

‘You are kind,’ she said, returning his smile and seeming to press a little closer. ‘But I remember the balls in Charleston last year – the colours and the light. It is not London or Paris . . .’

‘Or Madrid or Rome,’ he said.

‘Oh, have you been to those places?’ There was a thrill in the girl’s voice. ‘I so dearly want to travel more.’

Williams passed them, clutching Miss Dawlish in his arms. The look of concentration on his face was almost savage in its intensity, and most of the time he looked downwards, checking that his feet were obeying him precisely.

Hanley could not help smiling. Jane also grinned. ‘Poor Williams,’ she said, ‘I was most unkind to him just now. Well, I shall make it up to him, and dance with him later on.’

‘Are you sure you want to take the risk?’ Williams had made a mistake and his feet were thrashing wildly as he tried to recover. ‘He is not the best of dancers.’

‘He will be when he dances with me,’ the girl said with an assurance that was surprising, and all too reminiscent of Mapi. The memories pressed in on his mind once more, and so he looked straight into Miss MacAndrews’ eyes, and tried not to think, but to enjoy her beauty and the movements of the dance itself.