Flashmans' Lady fp-6 Read online

  "Not `lady'!" says I. "Slut's the word."

  "It's what the Duke called Mrs Lade, they tell me," says she, and rose gracefully to her feet, picking up her parasol and spreading it. "You mean you haven't heard? You will, though, soon enough."

  "I'll hear it now!" says I, and gripped her arm. "By God, if you or anyone else is spreading slanders about me, you'll answer for it! I've nothing to do with Mrs Lade or the Duke, d'you hear?"

  "No?" She looked me up and down with her crooked smile and suddenly jerked her arm free. "Then Mrs Lade must be a liar - which I dare say she is."

  "What d'you mean? You'll tell me, this instant, or—" "Oh, I wouldn't deny myself the pleasure," says she. "I like to see you wriggle and mouth first, though. Well, then - a little bird from the Duke's hotel tells me that he and Mrs Lade quarrelled violently last night, as I believe they frequently do - his gout, you know. There were raised voices - his, at first, and then hers, and all manner of names called - you know how these things develop, I'm sure. Just a little domestic scene, but I'm afraid Mrs Lade is a stupid woman, because when the talk touched on his grace's … capabilities - how it did, I can't imagine - she was ill-advised enough to mention your name, and make unflattering comparisons." Miss Judy smiled sweetly, and patted her auburn curls affectedly. "She must be singularly easy to please, I think. Not to say foolish, to taunt her admirer so. In any event, his grace was so tender as to be jealous—"

  "It's a damned lie! I've never been near the bitch!"

  "Ah, well, no doubt she is confusing you with someone else. It is probably difficult for her to keep tally. However, I dare say his grace believed her; jealous lovers usually think the worst. Of course, we must hope he will forgive her, but his forgiveness won't include you, I'll be bound, and—"

  "Shut your lying mouth!" cries I. "It's all false - if that slattern has been lying about me, or if you are making up this malicious gossip to discredit me, by God I'll make you both wish you'd never been born—"

  "Again, you're quoting the Duke. A hot-tempered old gentleman, it seems. He spoke - at the top of his voice, according to a guest at the hotel- of setting a prizefighter on to you. It seems he is the backer of some persons called Gaunt and the Great Gun - but I don't know about such things … "

  "Has Elspeth heard this foul slander?" I shouted.

  "If I thought she would believe it, I would tell her myself," says the malicious tart. "The sooner she knows what a hound she has married, the better. But she's stupid enough to worship you - most of the time. Whether she'll still find you so attractive when the duke's pugilists have done with you is another matter." She sighed contentedly and turned away up the path. "Dear me, you're shaking, Harry - and you will need a steady hand, you know, for your match with Don Solomon. Everyone is so looking forward to it … "

  She left me in a fine state of rage and apprehension, as you can imagine. It almost passed belief that the idiot heifer Lade had boasted to her protector of her bout with me, but some women are stupid enough for anything, especially when tempers are flying - and now that doddering, vindictive old pander of a Duke would sick his bullies onto me11 - on top of Tighe's threats of the previous evening it was the wrong side of enough. Couldn't the selfish old lecher realize that his flashtail needed a young mount from time to time, to keep her in running condition? But here I was, under clouds from all directions, still undecided what I should do in my match with Solomon - and at that moment Mynn hove up to bear me away to the pitch for the great encounter. I wasn't feeling like cricket one little bit.

  Our party, and a fair number of local quality riff-raff, were already arranging themselves on chairs and couches set on the gravel before the house - the Duke and Mrs Lade weren't there, thank God: probably still flinging furniture at each other in the hotel - but Elspeth was the centre of attraction, with Judy at her side looking as though she'd just swallowed the last of the cream. Tattling trollop - I gritted my teeth and vowed I'd be even with her yet.

  On the other sides of the lawn was the popular mob, for Solomon had thrown open his grounds for the occasion, and had set up a marquee where free beer and refreshments were being doled out to the thirsty; well, if the damned show-off wanted to let 'em see him being thoroughly beat, that was his business. Oh, Christ, though - was I going to beat him? And to compound my confusion, what should I see among a group of flash coves under the trees but the scarlet weskit and face of Daedalus Tighe, Heskwire, come to oversee his great coup, no doubt; he had some likely-looking hard cases with him, too, all punishing the ale and chortling.

  "Breakfast disagree with you, Flashy?" says Mynn. "You lock a mite peaky - hollo, though, there's your opponent all ready. Come along."

  Solomon was already on the lawn, very business-like in corduroys and pumps, with a straw hat on his black head, smiling at me and shaking hands while the swells clapped politely and the popular crowd shouted and rattled their pots. I stripped off my coat and donned my pumps, and then little Felix spun the bat; I called "blade", and so it was. "Very good," says I to Solomon, "you'll bat first."

  "Capital!" cries he, with a flash of teeth. "Then may the better man win!"

  "He will," says I, and called for the ball, while Solomon, rot his impudence, went across to Elspeth and made great play of having her wish him luck; he even had the gall to ask her for her handkerchief to tie in his belt —"for I must carry the lady's colours, you know," cries he, making a great joke of it.

  Of course she obliged him, and then, catching my glare, fluttered that of course I must carry her colours, too, to show no favouritism. But she hadn't another wipe, so the minx Judy said she must borrow hers to give me - and I finished up with that sly slut's snot-rag in my belt, and she sitting with her acid tongue in her cheek.

  We went out to the wicket together, and Felix gave Solomon guard; he took his time over it, too, patting his block-hole and feeling the pitch before him, very business-like, while I fretted and swung my arm. It was spongy turf, I realized, so I wasn't going to get much play out of it - no doubt Solomon had taken that into account, too. Much good might it do him.

  "Play!" calls Felix, and a hush fell round the lawn, everyone expectant for the first ball. I tightened my belt, while Solomon waited in his turn, and then let him have one of my hardest - I'll swear he went pale as it shot past his shins and went first bounce into the bushes. The mob cheered, and I turned and bowled again.

  The spectators yelled in amazement, and by George, they weren't alone. I flung down my bat, cursing; Solomon stared in disbelief, half-delighted, half-frowning. "I believe you did that on purpose," cries he.

  "Did I -!" says I, furious. I'd meant to hit him into the next county - but ain't it the way, if a task is too easy, we botch it often as not? I could have kicked myself for my carelessness - thinking like a cricketer, you understand. For with 21 runs in it, I might easily lose the match now - the question was: did I want to? There was Tighe's red waistcoat under the trees - on the other hand, there was Elspeth, looking radiant, clapping her gloved hands and crying "Well played!" while Solomon tipped his hat gracefully and I tried to put on a good face. By Jove, though, it was him she was looking at - no doubt picturing herself under a tropic moon already, with inconvenient old Flashy safely left behind - no, by God, to the devil with Tighe, and his threats and blackmail - I was going to win this match, and be damned to everyone.

  We had a sandwich and a glass, while the swells chattered round us, and the Canterbury professional rubbed embrocation on Solomon's knee. "Splendid game, old fellow!" cries the Don, raising his lemonade in my direction. "I'll have some more of my lobs for you directly!" I laughed and said I hoped they weren't such twisters as his first one, for it had had me all at sea, and he absolutely looked pleased, the bloody farmer.

  "It is so exciting!" cries Elspeth. "Oh, who is going to win? I don't think I could bear it for either of them to lose - could you, Judy?"

  "Indeed not," says Judy. "Capital fun. Just think, my dear - you cannot lose, either way, for
you will gain a jolly voyage if the Don wins, or if Harry succeeds, why, he will have two thousand pounds to spend on you."

  "Oh I can't think of it that way!" cries my darling spouse. "It is the game that counts, I'm sure." Damned idiot. "Now then, gentlemen," cries Felix, clapping his hands.

  "We've had more eating and drinking than cricket so far. Your hand, Don," and he led us out for the second innings.

  I had learned my lesson from my first bowling spell, and had a good notion now of where Solomon's strength and weakness lay. He was quick, and sure-footed, and his back game was excellent, but I'd noticed that he wasn't too steady with his forward strokes, so I pitched well up to him, on the leg stump; the wicket was getting the green off it, with being played on, and I'd hopes of perhaps putting a rising ball into his groin, or at least making him hop about. He met my attack pretty well, though, and played a hanging guard, taking the occasional single on the on side. But I pegged away, settling him into place, with the ball going into his legs, and then sent one t'other way; he didn't come within a foot of it, and his off-stump went down flat.

  He'd made ten runs that hand, so I had 32 to get to win - and while it ain't many against a muffin of a bowler, well, you can't afford a single mistake. And I wasn't a batter to trade; however, with care I should be good enough to see Master Solomon away - if I wanted to. For as I took guard, I could see Tighe's red weskit out of the corner of my eye, and felt a tremor of fear up my spine. By George, if I won and sent his stake money down the drain, he'd do his best to ruin me, socially and physically, no error - and what was left the Duke's bruisers would no doubt share between 'em. Was anyone ever in such a cursed fix - but here was Felix calling "Play!" and the Don shuffling up to deliver his donkey-drop.

  It's a strange thing about bad bowling - it can be deuced difficult to play, especially when you know you have only one life to lose, and have to abandon your usual swiping style. In an ordinary game, I'd have hammered Solomon's rubbish all over the pasture, but now I had to stay cautiously back, while he dropped his simple lobs on a length - no twist at all but dead straight - and I was so nervous that I edged some of them, and would have been a goner if there'd been even an old woman fielding at slip. It made him look a deal better than he was, and the crowd cheered every ball, seeing the slogger Flashy pinned to his crease.

  However, I got over my first shakes, tried a drive or two, and had the satisfaction of seeing him tearing about and sweating while I ran a few singles. That was a thing about single wicket; even a good drive might not win you much, for to score one run you had to race to the bowler's end and back, whereas in an ordinary match the same work would have brought you two. And all his careering about the outfield didn't seem to trouble his bowling, which was as bad - but still as straight - as ever. But I hung on, and got to a dozen, and when he sent me a full pitch, I let fly and hit him clean over the house, running eight while he vanished frantically round the building, with the small boys whooping in his wake, and the ladies standing up and squeaking with excitement. I was haring away between the wickets, with the mob chanting each run, and was beginning to think I'd run past his total when he hove in sight again, trailing dung and nettles, and threw the ball across the crease, so that I had to leave off:

  So there I was, with 20 runs, 12 still needed to win, and both of us blowing like whales. And now my great decision could be postponed no longer - was I going to beat him, and take the consequences from Tighe, or let him win and have a year in which to seduce Elspeth on his confounded boat? The thought of him murmuring greasily beside her at the taffrail while she got drunk on moonlight and flattery fairly maddened me, and I banged his next delivery against the front door for another three runs - and as I waited panting for his next ball, there under the trees was the beast Tighe, hat down on his brows and thumbs hooked in his weskit, staring at me, with his cudgel-coves behind him. I swallowed, missed the next ball, and saw it shave my bails by a whisker.

  What the blazes should I do? Tighe was saying a word over his shoulder to one of his thugs - and I swung wildly at the next ball and sent it high over Solomon's head. I was bound to run, and that was another two - seven to get to win. He bowled again, and for once produced a shooter; I poked frantically at it, got the edge, and it went scuttling away in front of the bounds for a single. Six to get, and the spectators were clapping and laughing and egging us on. I leaned on my bat, watching Tighe out of the corner of my eye and conjuring up nameless fears - no, they weren't nameless. I couldn't face the certainty of it being published that I'd taken money from a tout, and having his assassins walk on my face in a Haymarket alley into the bargain. I must lose - and if Solomon rogered Elspeth all over the Orient, well, I'd not be there to see it. I turned to look in her direction, and she stood up and waved to me, ever so pretty, calling encouragement; I looked at Solomon, his black hair wet with perspiration and his eyes glittering as he ran up to bowl - and I roared "No, by God!" and cut him square and hard, clean through a ground-floor window.

  How they cheered, as Solomon thundered through the quality seats, the ladies fluttering to let him by, and the men laughing fit to burst; he hurtled through the front door, and as I completed my second run I turned to see that ominous figure in the red weskit; he and his cronies were the only still, silent members of that whole excited assembly. Damnn Solomon - was he going to take all day finding the bloody ball? I had to run, with my nerve failing again; I lumbered up the pitch, and there was a great howl from the house; Solomon was emerging dishevelled and triumphant as I made the third run - only another three and the match was mine.

  But I couldn't face it; I knew I daren't win - after all, I wasn't any too confident of Elspeth's virtue as it was; one Solomon more or less wasn't going to make all that much difference - better be a cuckold than a disgraced cripple. I had wobbled in intent all through the past half-hour, but now I did my level best to hand Solomon the game. I swiped and missed, but my wicket remained intact; I prodded a catch at him, and it fell short; I played a ball to the off, went for a single that I hadn't a hope of getting - and the great oaf, with nothing to do but throw down my wicket for victory, shied wildly wide in his excitement. I stumbled home, with the mob yelling delightedly; Solomon 31, Flashy 30, and even little Felix was hopping from one leg to the other as he signalled Solomon to bowl on.

  There wasn't a whisper round the field now. I waited at the crease, bowels dissolving, as Solomon stood doubled over, regaining his breath, and then picked up the ball. I was settled in my mind now: I'd wait for a straight one and miss it, and let myself be bowled out.

  Would you believe it, his next three balls were as squint as a Jew's conscience? He was dead beat with running, labouring like a cow in milk, and couldn't keep direction at all. I let 'em go by, while the crowd groaned in disappointment, and when his next one looked like going wide altogether I had to play at it, like it or not; I scrambled across, trying desperately to pull it in his direction, muttering to myself: "If you can't bowl me, for Christ's sake catch me out, you ham-fisted buttock," and in my panic I stumbled, took a frantic swipe - and drove the confounded ball miles over his head, high into the air. He turned and raced to get under it, and there was nothing I could do but leg it for the other end, praying to God he'd catch it. It was still in the air when I reached the bowler's crease and turned, running backwards to watch; he was weaving about beneath it with his mouth open, arms outstretched, while the whole field waited breathless - down it came, down to his waiting hands, he clutched at it, held it, stumbled, fumbled - and to my horror and a great shriek from the mob, it bounced free - he made a despairing grab, measured his length on the turf, and there was the bloody ball rolling across the grass away from him.

  "You - oh, you butter-fingered b d!" I roared, but it was lost in the tumult. I had regained my crease having scored one - but I was bound to try for the second, winning run with Solomon prostrate and the ball ten yards from him. "Run!" they were yelling, "run, Flashy!" and poor despairing Flashy couldn't do anyth
ing else but obey - the match was in my grasp, and with hundreds watching I couldn't be seen deliberately ignoring the chance to win it.

  So I bounded forward again, full of sham eagerness, tripping artistically to give him a chance to reach the ball and run me out; I went down, rolling, and damme, the brute was still grovelling after his dropped catch. I couldn't lie there forever, so I went plunging on, as slowly as possible, like a man exhausted; even so, I had reached the bowler's crease before he'd recovered the ball, and now his only chance was to shy the thing a full thirty yards and hit my wicket as I careered back to the batter's end. I knew he hadn't a hope in hell, at that distance; all I could do was forge ahead to victory - and ruin at the hands of Tighe. The crowd were literally dancing as I bore down on the crease - three more strides would see me home and doomed - and then the ground rose up very gently in front of me, crowd and wicket vanished from view, the noise died away into a soothing murmur, and I was nestling comfortably against the turf, chewing placidly at the grass, thinking, this is just the thing, a nice, peaceful rest, how extremely pleasant …

  I was staring up at the sky, with Felix in between, peering down anxiously, and behind him Mynn's beefy face saying: "Get his head up - give him air. Here, a drink"— and a glass rattling against my teeth and the burning taste of brandy in my mouth. There was the deuce of a pain in the back of my head, and more anxious faces, and I heard Elspeth's voice in distant, shrill inquiry, amidst a babble of chatter.

  "What - what happened?" says I, as they raised me; my legs were like jelly, and Mynn had to hold me up.

  "It's all right!" cries Felix. "He tried to shy down your wicket - and the ball hit you crack on the back of the skull. Why, you went down like a shot rabbit!"

  "He threw down your wicket, too - afterwards," says Mynn. "Damn him."