Jack sighed. They’d want to take a look at him and, if he could walk, ship him off to fight. He did not want to go. This war was over, near enough, the newspapers testifying to the fact that the French were beaten nearly everywhere. This attack on Belleisle, an island just off their Atlantic coast, was a mere diversion, drawing resources away from the war in Germany. It would just be his luck, having survived all he had, to be killed on the last day of the war.
Still, he would have to report. But they could not know how quickly the letter had reached him, nor the affairs he must settle before he went. And if one particularly ended the way he hoped … well, he’d been a reluctant soldier anyway, circumstance forcing him in. And he’d done enough. If the war was nearly over, he saw no future in a peace-time career. The uniform was pretty but there were many colours he preferred over scarlet. And more comfortable places to spend winters than a barracks.
Energized, he arose, made a quick toilet and dressed. The tattered uniform was smelling worse by the day, Fagg’s cleaning being as slack as his other labours. He hoped she wouldn’t notice it when he proposed. It would detract somewhat from the romantic image she so desired.
He left, as ever, via the back door. He doubted she or Mrs O’Farrell watched the front but he needed to maintain the illusion of the aunt whom he visited occasionally. Leaving by the front door just after eight in the morning would not serve that.
Jack proceeded by a side path to the Circus. Once reached, he looked first to the house on the other side, number six, where his love resided. The front door was still shrouded in scaffolding. Indeed, it seemed to Jack that nothing had been done to it in the time he’d been there. Certainly he’d never seen a workman upon it. It must have annoyed Mrs O’Farrell especially, always having to use the garden entrance.
He looked behind him, to the magnificent doorway of his own number twenty-two. He’d been little concerned with architecture though knew this style was called Palladian; also knew enough to recognize these Woods – father and son – had built well, although a little extravagantly for his taste. A frieze of figures derived from antiquity, children’s toys and, Jack noted, Masonic ritual ran through each house on its architrave, linking each to its neighbour. The whole gave the impression of some Roman Coliseum, and though many opposed this constant harping on the Classical, Jack found it reassuring. It reminded him of London and especially his own Mayfair.
It will be good when they finish it, he thought. Letty’s was only one of about ten still being worked upon, though near all labour was concentrated at number twenty-one. Red Hugh had mentioned that the activity was to do with the visit of no one less than the King of England. George, third of that name and succeeding to the throne the year before, was making his first progress through his realm. And the Corporation of Bath thought they might draw an even wealthier crowd to their town if they bribed the King to stay by gifting him one of John Wood’s superb new houses in this, the most fashionable new development in the town.
A group was attempting to insert a chandelier through the front door, the glass structure wider than the frame. Jack smiled at some of the language, in a variety of provincial tongues, thought he could hear some good Cornish curses among them. He’d met a countryman of his on the works, one Dirk Trewennan, who was convinced Jack left by the back door each morning because he was tupping some rich married woman inside. He’d also told Jack to prevail upon her to let him stay the next day, when the house was to be presented to ‘Georgie’. ‘From that house you’ll have the best view in all of Bath, young squire,’ he’d declared.
Jack truly didn’t care. If there must be kings – and his mother kept assuring him that there did not have to be – he preferred the late one to his grandson. At least the old George was a cavalryman. In fact, he’d knighted Jack’s father on the field at Dettingen. Not to mention sending Jack as his messenger to Canada. Besides, Jack Absolute had far more important affairs to deal with.
*
He found her at the King’s Bath. There was a bit of a struggle to gain a viewing step – the town urchins would cling to the rail and bawl, ‘Murder!’ if he didn’t buy one off – but a groat secured him the place.
He didn’t see her at first, such was the crowd, all dressed in the uniform of the bather, the plain linen smock that covered everyone ankle to chin. Half crowded the edge, half were in the water looking, from his elevation, like so many spaniels aimlessly seeking duck. The women wore loose bonnets, the men went barehead, both sexes pushing little floating trays that held their snuff, nosegays, cloths and other trinkets. It was early enough for the surface of the water not to be too thick with scum. Later bathers, Jack knew, would be cutting courses like ploughs through a manure-rich field.
He shuddered as he kept up the search. Give him a clear Canadian river for his bathing any day! Despite the quacks’ opinions, such immersion could not be good for one. He knew that the water flowed direct from the ground but once in the pool, what horrors of the human body did it mix with? The same revulsion made him avoid drinking the waters. It may have been pumped straight into his glass from volcanic depths but it tasted as if it had run over a few scrofulous bodies first, all sulphur and iron. He’d never liked to drink water, even when he knew he had to aboard the Robuste. Fortunately the beer in Bath was excellent. From small beer in the morning that would not affect his motion, through pints of porter in the afternoon that made him smile, ending with a few strong ales in the evening to hasten sleep, he had renewed his love for all things brewed. Give him beer and he was happy. It delighted the senses, ruddied the complexion and had already begun to put back the weight the fever had taken away. He was halfway to health with his self-prescribed treatments. The quacks could go hang!
Then he saw her, and all thought of beer, of illnesses, of anything else, vanished. She rose from the water almost directly beneath him, with the linen sack that was meant to obliterate all distinctions of the body spectacularly failing to do so. He assumed it was the same as everyone else wore there, a shapeless sack. But whereas everyone else’s clung to them in a unifyingly dull manner, hers was pushed out by what could only be a pair of the most divinely shaped breasts, then fell to splay over gently rounded hips. Even the plain bonnet seemed to enhance rather than obscure the natural magenta of her hair.
She climbed the stone steps slowly, carefully. At the top she paused, a naked ankle glimpsed as her foot sought a drier piece of stone from which to advance. And as she paused she looked up, straight at him. She knew he’d be there. He knew she knew. But the surprise that widened those extraordinary green eyes was so genuine, so delighted, he couldn’t help a thrilled laugh. He winked, she winked back. Then he saw a bonnet following Letty. He stepped away. Mrs O’Farrell must not catch him there; indeed anywhere. Her guardian had grown careful ever since she’d discovered some trifle of a poem he’d sent. Though he’d signed it ‘your Anonymous Amour’, she had guessed at its provenance, and Letty had been ordered to spurn all future contact and return, unopened, any correspondence. If he encountered them in the street, he was allowed polite formalities for the sake of his gallantry ten nights before; but he was allowed no private audience – that she knew of! Jack didn’t mind. It heightened Letty’s sense of persecution. When that became unbearable …
He ran a hand through his straggling black hair. As always, the force of his desire took him by surprise. Sometimes when he was plotting, he thought that was all this was – a plot, an escapade to be carried out with daring and pluck – and then he’d see her.
She emerged in a speedy half-hour, that magnificence now held within a fetching gown of lavender silk, her arm through Mrs O’Farrell’s. Jack ducked behind a column, watched them cross from the baths towards the south side of the Abbey. He knew where they were bound; their daily activities followed a fixed pattern. After their ablutions they would take refreshments, either at a coffee-house reserved for ladies or at a subscription library. One of each faced the Orange Grove at the far side of the church.
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Jack watched them disappear round the corner. Normally he would leave them to it. But with the sun now warm on his face and the memory of clinging linen so fresh in his mind, he decided to follow. Perhaps she would look back and he could kiss his fingers to her?
They passed the ladies’ coffee-house, walked into the doorway of Frederick’s bookshop and library. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, Jack followed.
He had been there once before, when he’d sought inspiration for his romantic gestures, and had stood between the stacks of books skimming through one entitled The Vanquish’d Heart. He had learned much of what behaviour was expected in the five minutes before Frederick himself discovered he had no subscription and no desire to take one out. Fortunately this day the owner was not stood sentinel at the table by the entrance.
It was a long room, from the far end of which came the thrum of low-voiced conversation, the clink of spoon in cup. Two rows of bookcases of about shoulder height stood between the volume-lined walls, making three passages. In the central one, he could make out Mrs O’Farrell’s towering hair. ‘I’ll order us a bowl and buns, my dear. You may browse,’ he heard her say. Immediately there came a loud ‘Shhh!’ and the hair nodded its way to the far end of the room, where talk was allowed and gossip encouraged.
Crouching, Jack slid along the first bookcase till he could see. He stepped immediately back. Two dresses occupied the middle passage; the lavender was the second. He tip-toed up the side of the room and, when he was opposite where he calculated she would be, he popped up.
‘Good day,’ he said brightly.
‘Shh!’ came the harsh reply from a mottled, puffy face opposite him of a woman some way beyond sixty.
‘So sorry.’ Jack glanced left, as Letty rose from inspecting a lower shelf. Her eyes widened when she saw him. He smiled at the fury in front of him, turned and gestured with his head to the right, then sank down again to disappear behind the bookcase. He heard her follow, her heels loud upon the wooden floor. He went the opposite way to the one he’d indicated and, when he sensed she was about to turn the corner, he turned his. He was now in the central passage; the she-dragon glared at him. He moved on to the opposite wall, listening for those footsteps again. When they stopped near him, he rose.
She was a foot away, facing him across the stack. She had covered the last few feet silently. And he was meant to be the forest stalker!
‘Ahem!’ he said.
‘Shh!’ came the admonition again, this time from two mouths. Letty put a finger to her lips then used it to point out a sign hung on the wall: ‘Silence amidst the stacks.’ Then she mouthed a word at him, indicating with her head the end of the room and her clearly visible guardian. He shrugged in incomprehension.
She took her lower lip between her teeth, looked down to the shelves before her. Her eyes suddenly narrowed and she bent, snatched up a book. She fiddled for a moment, then raised its spine to him. Her fingers obscured two parts of the title, highlighting a single word.
Fool, he read.
He shook his head, feigning hurt, and reached for the volume. She withdrew it, replaced it, crossed her arms, raised one exquisite eyebrow.
A-ha, a challenge! He looked down, at the spines and their gold writing. He appeared to be before some works of fact and he did not think Horse-hoeing would serve his purpose. Then he glanced left, saw it and snatched it out, needing to block out no words. He tried to look abashed as he raised it but could not help the grin.
The Mistakes of the Heart.
She crossed her eyes at him, then lifted Journal of a Bedlamite. She indicated, with a look of pity, that he was certainly the author.
Mad, was he? He took up another volume, placed his fingers, leaving only Cruel exposed.
Truth was ventured.
Chains of love, he gave her as an excuse.
She sought a little longer, then offered him Desire, the question in the tilt of her head. Then she shifted fingers, revealing a second word, another question.
Freedom?
By now, silent though they were among the stacks, their suppressed giggles were attracting attention. The older lady had turned a more dangerous red, trying to figure out what they were doing and how to object to it; while a swift glance right showed him that Mrs O’Farrell, drawn by noise or some sense of danger, had risen from her table and was coming to look for her ward.
Letty noted the approach, too, looked back. For a moment their eyes met, then both looked down, racing the other for the deciding volume. Bollocks, he thought, why the hell do they mix up manuals and novels? In desperation he reached, grabbed.
‘Laetitia?’ came the call.
‘Shh!’ went the she-dragon.
He placed his fingers, lifted. She read and looked puzzled. He turned the book and saw what he had done. In his haste he had obscured the name of the author, not the words in the title. She had read Observations in Husbandry instead of what he had meant to say: Husband.
She waited till he was looking into her eyes before she slowly lifted the volume she held. She didn’t need any fingers. The title was plain.
‘The Triumph of Woman?’ he bellowed, aloud. ‘That was in your pocket!’
Her eyes widened again. Innocent as the dawn. Guilty as hell.
‘Laetitia!’
He crouched, turned, scuttled along the stack. He may have lost the fight, but at least he knew how to flee a battlefield undetected.
In excellent spirits, he went to a coffee-house to breakfast. He had taken a subscription of a crown and quarter under yet another false name. He needed somewhere to rest while he waited for Letty’s next event – the Abbey at noon. He’d follow her there, let her see him, but he would not enter. He had managed to excuse himself the service, telling her that he could not afford the plate. In reality, he’d detested church from school. And this Abbey was worse than most, for in addition to the turgid sermons, it was noisesome – too many bodies buried too shallow within the walls and under flagstones, giving off a decided whiff of putrefaction.
With a bowl of coffee and a fresh Bath bun, he settled down for the wait. The latest Public Advertiser told of the resignation of Pitt, the King’s First Minister. Apparently he was the one man in the country who thought the war would continue because the Spanish would ally with the French and prolong it. Jack thought it unlikely as well as undesirable. However, it reminded him of the summons from his regiment, of time marching to its own steady drum. The thought took away his appetite.
‘I must bring this matter to a crisis,’ he muttered, throwing the half-eaten bun down. A servant thought he was asking for more coffee and topped up his bowl.
He must talk with her tonight, when the she-dragon slept. He’d kneel on that damn hoggin in her garden, plead for her to make him the happiest fellow in the realm by fleeing with him to Scotland where English law did not run and an obliging Presbyterian could be found to marry them forthwith. Elopement would serve them both – her sense of adventure and his of honour for, with a marriage at the end of it, her reputation would not suffer while his would be enhanced!
Excited now, Jack could no longer read. He left, waited opposite Frederick’s. He saw her see him as he dogged their steps to the Abbey. But he couldn’t wait for the service to end; she could take a chair back to her house without his vigilance for once. He needed to think, to plan the fine details of elopement as well as how best to delay his return to the Army. And the best way to do that was to use a pint of beer and a game of billiards to free his mind.
The Three Tuns in Stall Street had been recommended to him by his fellow Cornishman, Trewennan. It was Jack’s favourite kind of inn – strong ale, fresh turtle soup and one of the few public billiard tables in the back. This room was deserted – it was still a little early for the gentlemen of the baize to be abroad, which suited Jack’s purpose. He could practise a trick shot he’d seen one of the fellows execute the day before – taking Jack’s wagered crown with a double baulked cannon – and use the activity t
o clear his mind and plot his future.
He’d planned some of the elopement, but the shot still eluded him more than twice in five attempts. Certain that both matters could be settled by a second mug of ale, he had duly ordered it. Crouching, his cue tip high on the ball to give it the requisite spin, he heard the door open. ‘Just set it down on the table,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the target. It wasn’t just the spin but the angle the spinning ball made, plus the force of the shot. It needed a short, punchy motion. He drew back the cue …
‘Is this what you call military service, sirrah?’
The words came on a roar that could have drowned out the bells of the Abbey. Shocked, Jack’s hand shot the cue forward and hit, not the top of the target but its bottom, the force lifting the ball from the baize and launching it off the table – where it was caught.
Jack stepped swiftly back, cue raised before him, pointing like a sword at the man now tossing the ivory sphere into the air, catching it, tossing it again.
His father.
– ELEVEN –
Fatherly Love
Jack was so shocked he couldn’t even stutter, just stood there hissing like a snake, stuck on the first sound of ‘sir’.
‘Well, boy?’ Sir James Absolute leaned forward and rolled the ball down the table. It sank into a pocket. ‘Nothing to say? Lost your capacity for speech?’
‘Uh …’ offered Jack. He could not have been more surprised. Having only that morning consigned his father to the safety of a war a thousand miles away, it was almost impossible to accept his appearance before him now.
‘No doubt you were going to offer me this beer,’ said Sir James, pointing to the one the tavern servant was just carrying in. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’
The short time it took for his father to drain the pot restored Jack’s speech. At least to the servant. ‘T-two more of those, if you please.’