Flashman's Lady Read online

  I left her wailing, and when Solomon tried to persuade me later himself, took the line that military duty made the trip impossible for me, and I couldn’t bear to be parted from Elspeth. He sighed, but said he understood only too well—in my shoes, he said with disarming frankness, he’d do the same. I wondered for a moment if I had wronged him—for I know I tend to judge everyone by myself, and while I’m usually not far wrong to do so, there are decent and disinterested folk about, here and there. I’ve seen some.

  Old Morrison, by the way, didn’t say a word; he could have forced my hand, of course, but being as true a Presbyterian hypocrite as ever robbed an orphan, he held that a wife should abide by her husband’s rule, and wouldn’t interfere between Elspeth and me. So I continued to say “no”, and Elspeth sulked until the time came to put on her next new bonnet.

  So a couple of days passed, in which I played cricket for Mynn’s side, tumbling a few wickets with my shiverers, and slogging a few runs (not many, but 18 in one innings, which pleased me, and catching out Pilch again, one hand, very low down, when he tried to cut Mynn past point and I had to go full length to it. Pilch swore it was a bump, but it wasn’t—you may be sure I’d tell you if it had been). Meanwhile Elspeth basked in admiration and the gay life, Solomon was the perfect host and escort, old Morrison sat on the terrace grumbling and reading sermons and share prices, and Judy promenaded with Elspeth, looking cattish and saying nothing.

  Then on Friday things began to happen, and as so often is the case with catastrophe, all went splendidly at first. All week I’d been trying to arrange an assignation with the tantalising Mrs Leo Lade, but what with my own busy affairs and the fact that the old Duke kept a jealous eye on her, I’d been out of luck. It was just a question of time and place, for she was as ready as I; indeed, we’d near got to grips on the Monday after dinner, when we strolled in the garden, but I’d no sooner got her panting among the privet with her teeth half-way through my ear than that bl----d minx Judy came to summon us to hear Elspeth sing “The Ash Grove” in the drawing-room; it would be Judy, smiling her knowing smile, telling us to be sure not to miss the treat.

  However, on Friday morning Elspeth went off with Solomon to visit some picture gallery, Judy was shopping with some of the guests, the house was empty except for old Morrison on the terrace, and Mrs Lade bowled up presently to say that the Duke was abed with an attack of gout. For show’s sake we made small talk with Morrison, which infuriated him, and then went our separate ways in leisurely fashion, meeting again in the drawing-room in a fine frenzy of fumbling and escaping steam. We weren’t new to the business, either of us, so I had her breasts out with one hand and my breeches down with the other while I was still kicking the door to, and she completed her undressing while we were positively humping the mutton all the way to the couch, which argued sound training on her part. By George, she was a heavy woman, but nimble as an eel for all her elegant poundage; I can’t think offhand of a partner who could put you through as many different mounting-drills in the course of one romp, except perhaps Elspeth herself when she had a drink in her.

  It was exhilarating work, and I was just settling myself for the finish, and thinking, we’ll have to have more of this another time, when I heard a sound that galvanised me so suddenly that it’s a wonder the couch didn’t give way—rapid footsteps were approaching the drawing-room door. I took stock—breeches down, one shoe off, miles from the window or any convenient cover, Mrs Lade kneeling on the couch, me peering from behind through her feathered headdress (which she had forgotten to remove; quite a compliment, I remember thinking), the doorknob turning. Caught, hopeless, not a chance of escape—nothing for it but to hide my face in the nape of her neck and trust that the visible side of me wouldn’t be recognised by whoever came in. For they wouldn’t linger—not in 1843—unless it was the Duke, and those footsteps didn’t belong to a gout patient.

  The door opened, the footsteps stopped—and then there was what a lady novelist would call a pregnant pause, lasting about three hours, it seemed to me, and broken only by Mrs Lade’s ecstatic moanings; I gathered she was unaware that we were observed. I stole a peep through her feathers at the mirror above the fireplace—and almost had convulsions, for it was Solomon reflected in the doorway, his hand on the latch, taking in the scene.

  He never even blinked an eye; then, as other footsteps sounded somewhere behind him he stepped back, and as the door closed I heard him saying: “No, there is no one here; let us try the conservatory.” Dago or not, he was a d----d considerate host, that one.

  The door hadn’t closed before I was trying to disengage, but without success, for Mrs Lade’s hands reached back in an instant, clamping her claws into my rear, her head tilting back beside mine. “No, no, no, not yet!” gasps she, chewing away at me. “Don’t go!”

  “The door,” I explained. “Must lock the door. Someone might see.”

  “Don’t leave me!” she cried, and I doubt if she knew where she was, even, for her eyes were rolling in her head, and d----d if I could get loose. Mind you, I was reluctant; torn two ways, as it were.

  “The key,” I mumbled, thrusting away. “Only take a moment—back directly.”

  “Take me with you!” she moans, and I did, heaven knows how, hobbling along with all that flesh to carry. Fortunately it all ended happily just as my legs gave way, and we collapsed at the threshold in joyous exhaustion; I even managed to get the key turned.

  Whether she could dress as quickly as she stripped, I can’t say, for she was still swooning and gasping against the panels, with her feathers awry, when I flung on my last garment and shinned down the ivy. Feverish work it had been, and the sooner I was elsewhere, establishing an alibi, the better. A brisk walk was what I needed just then—anyway, I had a match in the afternoon, and wanted to be in trim.

  [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, June—, 1843]

  …never have I felt so guilty—and yet, what could I do? My heart warned me, when Don S. cut short our visit to the gallery—and there were some Exquisite Water-colours which I would have liked to view at leisure—that he had some Purpose in returning early to the house. What my Foreboding was I cannot explain, but alas! it was justified, and I am the most Wretched Creature in the world! ! The house was quite deserted, except for Papa asleep on the terrace, and Something in Don S.’s manner—it may have been the Ardent Expression in his eyes—led me to insist that we should seek out my Dear H. at once. Oh, would that we had found him! We looked everywhere, but there was no one to be seen, and when we came to the conservatory, Don S. filled me with Alarm and Shame by declaring himself in the most forward manner—for the atmosphere of the plants, being extremely Oppressive, and my own agitation, made me feel so faint that I was forced to support myself by leaning on his arm, and find relief by resting my head on his shoulder. (A likely story ! ! !—G. de R.) In that moment of faintness, picture my utter distress when he took advantage of the situation to press his lips to mine!! I was so affronted that it was some moments a moment before I could find the strength to make him desist, and it was only with difficulty that I at last Escaped his Embrace. He used the most Passionate Expressions to me, calling me his Dear Diana and his Golden Nymph (which struck me, even in that Moment of Perturbation, as a most poetic conceit), and the Effect was so weakening that I was unable to resist when he clasped me to his bosom yet again, and Kissed me with even greater Force than before. Fortunately, one of the gardeners was heard approaching, and I was able to make good my retreat, with my wits quite disordered.

  My Shame and Remorse may be imagined, and if aught could have increased them it was the sudden sight of my darling H. in the garden, taking his exercise, he explained, before his match in the afternoon. The sight of his flushed, manly countenance, and the knowledge that he had been engaged in such a healthy, innocent pursuit while I had been helpless in the Heated Embrace of another, however much against my will, were as a knife in my heart. To make it worse, he called me his Jolly Old Girl, a
nd asked eagerly after the picture gallery; I was moved almost to tears, and when we went together to the terrace, and found Mrs L.L., I could not but remark that H. paid her no more than the barest civility (and, indeed, there was very little about her to Entice any man, for she appeared quite bedraggled), but was all kindness and attentiveness to me, like the dear best of husbands that he is.

  But what am I to think of Don S.’s conduct? I must try not to judge him too harshly, for he is of such a warm temperament, and given to passionate disclosure of it in every way, that it is not to be wondered at if he is Susceptible to that which he finds attractive. But surely I am not to blame if—through no fault of mine—I have been cast by Kind Nature in a form and feature which the Stronger Sex find pleasing? I console myself with the thought that it is Woman’s Portion, if she is fortunate in her endowments, to be adored, and she has little to reproach herself with so long as she does not Encourage Familiarity, but comports herself with Proper Modesty…[Conceit and humbug! End of extract—G. de R.]

  *Side-whisker.

  *In the know, well-informed.

  There’s no doubt that a good gallop before work is the best training you can have, for that afternoon I bowled the best long spell of my life for Mynn’s Casuals against the All-England XI: five wickets for 12 in eleven overs, with Lillywhite leg before and Marsden clean bowled amongst them. I’d never have done that on cold baths and dumbbells, so you can see that what our present Test match fellows need is some sporting female like Mrs Leo Lade to look after ’em, then we’d have the Australians begging for mercy.

  The only small cloud on my horizon, as we took tea afterwards in the marquee among the fashionable throng, with Elspeth clinging to my arm and Mynn passing round bubbly in the challenge cup we’d won, was whether Solomon had recognised me in the drawing-room that morning, and if so, would he keep his mouth shut? I wasn’t over-concerned, for all he’d had in view was my stalwart back and buttocks heaving away and Mrs Lade’s stupefied face reflected in the mirror—it didn’t matter a three-ha’penny what he said about her, and even if he’d recognised me as t’other coupler, it wasn’t likely that he’d bruit it about; chaps didn’t, in those days. And there wasn’t even a hint of a knowing twinkle in his eye as he came over to congratulate me, all cheery smiles, refilling my glass and exclaiming to Elspeth that her husband was the most tearaway bowler in the country, and ought to be in the All-England side himself, blessed if he shouldn’t. A few of those present cried, “Hear, hear,” and Solomon wagged his head admiringly—the artful, conniving scoundrel.

  “D’ye know,” says he, addressing those nearest, who included many of his house party, as well as Mynn and Felix and Ponsonby-Fane, “I shouldn’t wonder if Harry wasn’t the fastest man in England just now—I don’t say the best, in deference to distinguished company”—and he bowed gracefully towards Mynn—“but certainly the quickest; what d’you think. Mr Felix?”

  Felix blinked and blushed, as he always did at being singled out, and said he wasn’t sure; when he was at the crease, he added gravely, he didn’t consider miles per hour, but any batter who faced Mynn at one end and me at t’other would have something to tell his grandchildren about. Everyone laughed, and Solomon cries, lucky men indeed; wouldn’t tyro cricketers like himself just jump at the chance of facing a few overs from us. Not that they’d last long, to be sure, but the honour would be worth it.

  “I don’t suppose,” he added, fingering his earring and looking impish at me, “you’d consider playing me a single-wicket match, would you?”

  Being cheerful with bubbly and my five for 12, I laughed and said I’d be glad to oblige, but he’d better get himself cover from Lloyd’s, or a suit of armour. “Why,” says I, “d’you fancy your chance?” and he shrugged and said no, not exactly; he knew he mightn’t make much of a show, but he was game to try. “After all,” says he, tongue in cheek, “you ain’t Fuller Pilch as a batter, you know.”

  There are moments, and they have a habit of sticking in memory, when light-hearted, easy fun suddenly becomes dead serious. I can picture that moment now; the marquee with its throng of men in their whites, the ladies in their bright summer confections, the stuffy smell of grass and canvas, the sound of the tent-flap stirring in the warm breeze, the tinkle of plates and glasses, the chatter and the polite laughter. Elspeth smiling eagerly over her strawberries and cream, Mynn’s big red face glistening, and Solomon opposite me—huge and smiling in his bottle-green coat, the emerald pin in his scarf, the brown varnished face with its smiling dark eyes, the carefully-dressed black curls and whiskers, the big, delicately-manicured hand spinning his glass by the stem.

  “Just for fun,” says he. “Give me something to boast about, anyway—play on my lawn at the house. Come on”—and he poked me in the ribs—“I dare you, Harry,” at which they chortled and said he was a game bird, all right.

  I didn’t know, then, that it mattered, although something warned me that there was a hint of humbug about it, but with the champagne working and Elspeth miaowing eagerly I couldn’t see any harm.

  “Very good,” says I, “they’re your ribs, you know. How many a side?”

  “Oh, just the two of us,” says he. “No fieldsmen; bounds, of course, but no byes or overthrows. I’m not built for chasing,” and he patted his guts, smiling. “Couple of hands, what? Double my chance of winning a run or two.”

  “What about stakes?” laughs Mynn. “Can’t have a match like this for just a tizzy*,” winking at me.

  “What you will,” says Solomon easily. “All one to me—fiver, pony, monkey, thou.—don’t matter, since I shan’t be winning it anyway.”

  Now that’s the kind of talk that sends any sensible man diving for his hat and the nearest doorway, usually; otherwise you find yourself an hour later scribbling I.O.U.s and trying to think of a false name. But this was different—after all, I was first-class, and he wasn’t even thought about; no one had seen him play, even. He couldn’t hope for anything against my expresses—and one thing was sure, he didn’t need my money.

  “Hold on, though,” says I. “We ain’t all nabob millionaires, you know. Lieutenant’s half-pay don’t stretch—”

  Elspeth absolutely reached for her reticule, d--n her, whispering that I must afford whatever Don Solomon put up, and while I was trying to hush her, Solomon says:

  “Not a bit of it—I’ll wager the thou., on my side; it’s my proposal, after all, so I must be ready to stand the racket. Harry can put up what he pleases—what d’ye say, old boy?”

  Well, everyone knew he was filthy rich and careless with it, so if he wanted to lose a thousand for the privilege of having me trim him up, I didn’t mind. I couldn’t think what to offer as a wager against his money, though, and said so.

  “Well, make it a pint of ale,” says he, and then snapped his fingers. “Tell you what—I’ll name what your stake’s to be, and I promise you, if you lose and have to stump up, it’s something that won’t cost you a penny.”

  “What’s that?” says I, all leery in a moment.

  “Are you game?” cries he.

  “Tell us my stake first,” says I.

  “Well, you can’t cry off now, anyway,” says he, beaming triumphantly. “It’s this: a thou, on my side, if you win, and if I win—which you’ll admit ain’t likely”—he paused, to keep everyone in suspense—“if I win, you’ll allow Elspeth and her father to come on my voyage.” He beamed round at the company. “What’s fairer than that, I should like to know?”

  The bare-faced sauce of it took my breath away. Here was this fat upstart, with his nigger airs, who had proclaimed his interest in my wife and proposed publicly to take her jaunting while I was left cuckolded at home, had been properly and politely warned off, and was now back on the same tack, but trying to pass it off as a jolly, light-hearted game. My skin burned with fury—had he cooked this up with Elspeth?—but one glance told me she was as astonished as I was. Others were smiling, though, and I saw two ladies whispering behin
d their parasols; Mrs Lade was watching with amusement.

  “Well, well, Don,” says I, deliberately easy. “You don’t give up in a hurry, do you?”

  “Oh, come, Harry,” cries he. “What hope have I? It’s just nonsense, for you’re sure to win. Doesn’t he always win, Mrs Lade?” And he looked at her, smiling, and then at me, and at Elspeth, without a flicker of expression—by G-d, had he recognised my heaving stern in the drawing-room, after all, and was he daring to say: “Accept my wager, give me this chance, or I’ll blow the gaff”? I didn’t know—but it made no odds, for I realised I had to take him on, for my credit’s sake. What—Flashy, the heroic sport, back down against a mere tyro, and thereby proclaim that he was jealous of his wife where this fat swaggerer was concerned? No—I had to play, and look pleasant. He had, as the Duke would say, humbugged me, by G-d.

  But what was he hoping for? A fluke in a million? Single-wicket’s a chancy game, but even so, he couldn’t hope to beat me. And yet, he was so set on having his way, like the spoiled, arrogant pup he was (for all his modest air), that any chance, however slim, he’d snatch at. He’d nothing to lose except a thousand quid, and that was ha’pence to him. Very well, then—I’d not only beat the brute; I’d milk him for the privilege.