They had by this time covered some nine and a half miles, and were glad to be leaving the shade of the Forest. In a few minutes the village was reached, and Lady Taverner was exclaiming at the size and style of the church, a strange edifice with a domed roof, standing on one side of the chaussée. Opposite, among a huddle of brick and stone-built cottages, was a small inn, with a painted signboard bearing the legend, Jean de Nivelles. There was little to detain sightseers, and after pausing for a short while to look at the church, they drove on, up a gentle acclivity leading to the village of Mont St Jean, three miles farther on.
Here the chaussée diverged, one fork continuing over the brow of a hill, and crossing, a little over half a mile beyond Mont St Jean, an unpaved hollow road running from Wavre to Braine l’Alleud, towards Charleroi; and the other running in a south-westerly direction towards Nivelles. The Nivelles road, which the coachman had been instructed to follow, was straight and uninteresting, bordered by straggling hedges, and proceeding over undulating ground until it descended presently between high banks into a ravine extending from the village of Merbe Braine to Hougoumont.
The Château was situated to the south of the hollow road from Wavre, which here, having taken a turn to the south-west, crossed the Nivelles chaussée; and to the east of the chaussée, from which it was approached by an avenue of fine elm trees. The Count’s directions had been exact; the coachman turned into the avenue without hesitation; and the carriage bowled along under the spreading branches, and soon passed through the northern gateway of the Châeau. The travellers found themselves in a paved courtyard, surrounded by a motley collection of buildings.
The Château was one of the many such residences to be found in the Netherlands, a semi-fortified house, half manor, half farm. The Château itself, built of stone and brick, was a pretty house, with shuttered windows; there was a small chapel at the southern end of the courtyard; and opposite the Château, on the western side, were some picturesque barns. A gardener’s cottage and a cowshed made up the rest of the buildings, which were all clustered together in a friendly fashion, and bathed, at this moment, in pale spring sunlight.
As the barouche drew up outside the door of the Château, Barbara strolled out, with the tail of her habit caught up over one arm, and a glass of wine in her hand. She had taken off her hat, and her short red curls were clustering over her head in not unpleasing disorder. She looked rather mannish, and neither her eyes nor her glancing smile held a hint of the softness which Judith had seen in both the day before.
‘Have you had a pleasant drive?’ she called out. ‘We beat you, you observe.’
‘Yes, a delightful drive,’ replied Judith, stepping out of the carriage. ‘And I have now fallen quite in love with this pretty little Château! How cosy it is! There is nothing stiff, nothing at all formal about these Flemish country houses.’
Lavisse came out of the house at this moment, and while he welcomed the ladies, and directed the coachman where to stable his horses, Barbara stood leaning negligently against the doorpost, sipping her wine and blinking, catlike, at the sunshine.
The owner of the house was away, but Lavisse, who appeared to be quite at home, had advised the housekeeper of his advent, and a light luncheon had been prepared for the party. A fille de chambre conducted the ladies upstairs to a bedroom where they could leave their pelisses and bonnets, and when they were ready led them down again to a parlour overlooking a walled garden with an orchard beyond.
A table had been laid in the middle of the room, and a fire burned in the hearth. Barbara was lounging in the window, leaning her shoulders against the lintel. As Judith and Harriet came in, a burst of laughter from the two men indicated that she was in funning humour.
The Count at once came forward. He drew Harriet to a chair by the fire, declaring that she must be chilled from the long drive, and insisted on her taking a glass of wine. She accepted, and he stayed by her, engaging her in conversation, while Judith went to the window to admire the garden.
It was laid out in neat walks, much of it under cultivation for vegetables, but there were some flowerbeds as well, and the tops of the fruit trees beyond the mellow brick wall were heavy with blossom. From the window could be seen rose bushes, some fine fig trees, and several orange trees. Judith thought the garden must be enchanting in summer.
‘I daresay it is,’ agreed Barbara. ‘We might arrange another expedition here, perhaps in June.’
‘June! Who knows what may have happened by then?’
‘Oh, you are thinking of the war, are you? I am tired of it: we have heard too much of it, and nothing ever happens.’
‘It certainly seems out of place in this peaceful little Château,’ Judith remarked. ‘You must have had a delightful ride through the Forest. Such noble trees! I do not think there can be any tree to compare with the beech.’
‘Beech trees, are they? To tell you the truth, I did not notice them particularly,’ said Barbara. ‘Etienne, fill my glass, if you please!’
‘Ah, allow me!’ Peregrine said, hurrying to the table for the decanter that stood on it.
She held out her glass, smiling at him. He filled it, and his own, saying audaciously: ‘To your green eyes, Lady Bab!’
She laughed. ‘To your blue ones, Sir Peregrine!’
Luncheon was brought in at this moment, and soon the whole party was seated round the table, partaking of minced chicken and scalloped oysters.
Lady Barbara was in spirits, the Count scarcely less so, and everything might have gone off merrily enough had not Lady Taverner taken one of her rare dislikes to Barbara. Like many shy women, she had some strong prejudices. She had never liked Barbara. Until today, she had known her merely by sight and by repute, and, being a just little creature, had refused to condemn her. But from the moment of seeing Barbara come down the steps of her home in her hussar dress she had felt that gossip had not lied. Barbara was fast, and, since she chose deliberately to ride off alone with a dreadful rake, unprincipled into the bargain. She offended every canon of good taste: lounged like a man, tossed off her wine like a man, and (thought Harriet, in her innocence) swore like a trooper. Listening to her conversation at the luncheon table, Harriet decided that some of her sallies were a trifle warm. Shocked, and with a very prim expression on her face, she tried to give the conversation a more decorous turn. It was too pointed an attempt; Barbara looked at her, blankly at first, and then in frank amusement. She addressed an idle remark to Harriet, received the chilliest of monosyllables in reply, and openly laughed.
Judith intervened, and the awkward moment passed. But as Harriet, mortified by the laugh, remained for the rest of the meal apparently oblivious of Barbara’s presence, she began to wish that she had never hit upon the idea of arranging this pleasure party. The task of talking to Harriet without ignoring Barbara taxed her powers to the utmost, and by the time they rose from the table she would have been hard put to it to say which of the two ladies she most blamed.
Luncheon at an end, a walk in the orchard and wood was proposed. Harriet declined it, but when she had been comfortably settled with a book by the fire, the rest of the party strolled out into the garden, and after wandering about its paths for a little while, made their way into the orchard. Daffodils were growing under the fruit trees in great profusion. Judith could not resist the temptation of picking some. The Count gave instant permission: his cousin would be only too happy! had, in fact, written to beg that the visitors would consider the Château their own. She soon had an armful; he very considerately ran back to the house with them, to save her the trouble of carrying them; and returned to find her waiting for him under a gnarled old apple tree, Barbara having gone off to explore the wood with Peregrine.
Judith believed Peregrine to be too devoted to his Harriet to be in danger of succumbing to Barbara’s charms, but the light raillery that had been going on between them made her feel a little uneasy. Courtesy had obliged her to wait for Lavisse’s return, but when he joined her it was she, an
d not he, who suggested catching up with the others.
They made their way into the wood, but after they had been walking about for a time without seeing anything of the truants, the Count suggested that they should follow the track which led from the Château, through the wood, and over a slight hill to the Charleroi road.
‘I mentioned to Bab that there is a view to be obtained from the top of the hill. Without doubt they have gone there,’ he said. ‘You will not be too tired? It is perhaps a kilometre’s distance.’
‘I should enjoy it of all things. This spring weather is invigorating, don’t you agree?’
‘Certainly. But I fear my poor country must disappoint one accustomed to the varied scene in England.’
‘By no means. Perhaps there is a variety in England not elsewhere to be found: I myself am a native of Yorkshire, where, we flatter ourselves, we have unsurpassed grandeur. But there is something very taking about this country of yours. If you have none of the rugged beauty I could show you in Yorkshire, you have instead a homely, thriving scene which must inevitably please. So many rivers, so many neat farmsteads, shady copses, and rich fields!’
‘This is unexpected praise, madame. Bab declares my country to be too tame. Nothing can happen here, she says.’
‘She speaks lightly,’ Judith replied. ‘My knowledge of history, though not at all profound, reminds me that, in spite of every appearance to the contrary, stirring events have happened here.’
‘You are thinking of your Duke of Marlborough. It is true: this poor land of mine has been often the battlefield of Europe, and may be so yet again—perhaps many times: who knows?’
‘Oh, do not think of such a thing! There must be no more wars: we seem to have been fighting ever since I can remember! We shall defeat Bonaparte, and win a lasting peace. Can you doubt it?’
‘Be sure I do not desire to doubt it, madame,’ he replied.
They were climbing a slight hill, and were soon rewarded by the sight of Barbara and Peregrine, resting on the top. Barbara had found shelter from the wind in the lee of a hedge, and was sitting on the bank. She waved, and called out: ‘It is all a hum! Nothing to be seen but a plain sprinkled with hillocks, and a great many fields of green corn.’
Country-bred Peregrine corrected her. ‘No, no, you understate, Lady Bab! There are fields of rye as well, and at least two of clover. What a height the crops must grow to here! I never saw anything to equal it, so early in the year!’
‘Oh, now you go beyond me! I find myself at one with Dr Johnson, who declared—did he not?—that one green field was just like another!’
‘Horrid old man!’ said Judith, who had come up to them by this time. She looked around her. ‘Why, how could you libel the view so perversely? How pretty the grey stone walls look through the trees! Is that the Charleroi road?’
‘Yes, madame,’ said Lavisse. ‘The little farm you are looking at is La Belle Alliance.’
‘Delightful!’ said Judith. ‘So many of the villages and the farms here have pretty names, I find. Can we see the place where you are quartered from here?’
‘No, it is too far. I ride to it by the Nivelles road, until I am tired of that way, which is, in effect, quite straight and not very amusing. If you should ever honour Nivelles with a visit, I recommend you to come by the Charleroi road. It is a little longer, but you would be pleased, I think, with the village of Vieux-Genappe which one passes through. There is an old stone bridge, and many of the quaint cottages you admire.’
‘I know the way you mean,’ said Peregrine. ‘I went to Nivelles one day last autumn, with a party of friends, and I believe we turned off the chaussée about four miles beyond Genappe.’
‘That would be Quatre-Bras,’ said the Count.
‘Another pretty name for you, Lady Worth,’ said Barbara. ‘What is that monument I can see in the distance, Etienne?’
He glanced southwards, following the direction of her pointing finger. ‘Merely the Observatory. There is nothing here of interest, no monuments, no famous scenes.’
‘Very true; it is infamously tame!’ she said, with one of her flickering smiles. ‘And yet I don’t know! Had you taken us to Malplaquet, or Oudenarde, you would have dragged us through hedges and over muddy fields to look at an old battlefield, I daresay. Nothing is more tedious, for there is never anything to be seen but what you may as well look at anywhere else! My late husband plagued my life out with such expeditions. I have seen Sedgemoor, and Naseby, and Newbury—two battlefields there, as I remember—and I give you my word there was nothing to choose between any of them, except that one was not so far from the road as another.’
Peregrine, who had been gazing abstractedly to the south, said: ‘Well, I suppose for all we know there might be a battle fought hereabouts, might there not? Isn’t the Charleroi road one of the main ways into France?’
‘Oh, don’t, Perry!’ said his sister. ‘This is too peaceful a spot for battles. There are other ways into France, are there not, Count?’
‘Assuredly, madame. There is, for instance, the road through Mons. But Sir Peregrine has reason. It is to guard this highway that my division is quartered about Nivelles.’
‘Oh, you don’t frighten us, Etienne!’ said Barbara. ‘When Boney comes—if he comes, which I am beginning to doubt—you will meet him at the frontier, and send him about his business. Or he may send you about yours. I shall certainly remain in Brussels. How exciting to be besieged!’
‘How can you talk so?’ Judith said, vexed at the flippancy of these remarks. ‘You do not know what you are saying! Come, it is time we were returning to the Château!’
But at this Barbara began to take a perverse interest in her surroundings, desiring Lavisse to name all the hamlets she could perceive, and wishing that she could explore the dark belt of woods some miles to the east of them. From where they stood, half a mile to the west of La Belle Alliance, a good view of the undulating country towards Brussels could be obtained, and not until Lavisse had pointed out insignificant farmsteads such as La Hay Sainte, north of La Belle Alliance, on the chaussée; and obscure villages such as Papelotte, and Smohain, away to the east, could she be induced to quit the spot. But at last, when she had satisfied herself that the rising ground beyond the hollow crossroad that intersected the chaussée made it impossible for her to see Mont St Jean, and that the wood she wished to explore was quite three miles away, she consented to go back to the Château.
Lady Taverner had been dozing by the fire, and woke with a guilty start when the others rejoined her. A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece made her exclaim that she had no notion that the afternoon could be so far advanced. She began to think of her children, of course inconsolable without her, and begged Judith to order the horses to be put to.
This was soon done, and in a very short time Harriet was seated in the barouche, warmly tucked up in a rug, with her hands buried deep in her muff.
Barbara was standing in the doorway when Judith came out of the house, and said: ‘I wonder where Charles is now?’
‘In Ghent, I suppose,’ Judith replied.
‘I wish he had been with us,’ Barbara said, with a faint sigh.
‘I wish it too.’
‘Oh! you are disliking me again? Well, I am sorry for it, but the truth is that respectable females and I don’t deal together. I should be grateful to you for getting this party together. Shall I thank you? Confess that it has been an odious day!’
‘Yes, odious,’ Judith said.
She directed a somewhat chilly look at Barbara as she spoke, and for an instant thought that she saw the glitter of tears on the ends of her lashes. But before she could be sure of it Barbara had turned from her, and was preparing to mount her horse. The next glimpse she had of her face made the very idea of tears seem absurd. She was laughing, exchanging jests with Peregrine, once more in reckless spirits.
Any plan that Peregrine might have formed of deserting the barouche was nipped in the bud by his sister, who said so poin
tedly that she was glad to have the escort of one gentleman at least that there was nothing for him to do but jog along beside the carriage with the best grace he could muster.
Lavisse and Barbara soon allowed their horses to drop into a walk; the barouche outstripped them, and was presently lost to sight over the brow of a slight hill. Lavisse studied Barbara’s profile with a faint smile, and said softly: ‘Little fool! Little adorable fool!’
‘Don’t tease me! I could weep with vexation!’
‘I know well that you could. But why?’
‘Oh, because I’m bored—tired—anything that you please!’
‘It does not please me that you should be bored or tired. I do not wonder at it, however. For me, these saintly Englishwomen are the devil.’
‘I don’t dislike Lady Worth, if only she would not look so disapproving.’
‘Consider, my Bab, she will do so all your life.’
‘Oh, confound her, I’ll take care she don’t get the chance!’
‘Ma pauvre, I see you surrounded by prim relatives, growing staid—or mad!’
‘Wretch! Be quiet!’
‘But no, I will not be quiet. Figure to yourself the difference were you to marry me!’
An irrepressible laugh broke from her. ‘I do. I should then be surrounded by your light-o’-loves. I have seen enough of that in my own family to be cured of wanting to marry a rake.’
‘You have in England a saying that a reformed rake—’
‘My dear Etienne, if you were reformed you would be as dull as the next man. You are wasting your eloquence. I do not love you more than a very little. You are an admirable flirt, I grant, and I find you capital company.’
‘Do you find your colonel—capital company?’
She turned her head, regarding him with one of her clear looks. ‘Do you know, I have never thought of that: it has not occurred to me. It is the oddest thing, but if you were to ask me, what does he look like? how does he speak? I couldn’t tell you. I think he is handsome; I suppose him to be good company, because it doesn’t bore me to be with him. But I can’t particularise him. I can’t say, he is handsome, he is witty, or he is clever. I can only say, he is Charles.’