To Win the Lady (3 page)

Beyond an
extensive stable-block, whose roof was almost immediately below her window,
there were two or three large paddocks in which upwards of thirty horses grazed
and beyond that a few farm fields, in one of which the haymakers were busy with
their scythes. In the other direction, alongside a copse of trees, was a
private gallop, where she could see a couple of stable-lads exercising horses.
She had not realised until today how large her brother’s stud was, nor how much
there was to do in the managing of it, and she was filled with admiration for
her elder niece. Not that it made any difference to her disapproval or her
determination to do something about both girls. It was her duty and Harriet
Bertram had never been one to shirk her duty.

‘I must return
to London as soon as maybe,’ she told the girls over the fish, which was
surprisingly well-cooked, though Harriet found herself wondering how close it
had been to the bran-mash. ‘Your uncle Edward will be home soon and I must make
sure everything is as it should be before he arrives, so I suggest you pack
your bags and we will go tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow! I
cannot possibly leave so soon,’ Georgie said. ‘You had best go without me and I
will follow when the haymaking is done and I am assured Warrior Princess is
doing well.’

No amount of
arguing would budge her and their aunt gave in. Felicity and Mrs Bertram would
post to London, in the lady’s carriage, and Georgie would follow a week later
in Sir Henry’s travelling coach, with a groom driving and Fanny as maid and
chaperon. It was not, in Harriet’s opinion, an ideal solution but it was the
only one Georgiana would agree to, and that young lady was far too self-willed
for her own good. Harriet blamed Henry, who, while acknowledging that he could
not produce a living son - there had been two stillbirths between Georgie and
Felicity, both boys - would not deny himself the pleasure of bringing one up,
and Georgie had been turned into a hoyden as a result. A very capable hoyden,
but a hoyden none the less.

‘I will
undertake to fit you both up with clothes,’ their aunt said. ‘And I’ll give a
ball. The Season is half over so it will have to be at the end, and by then you
will perhaps have made your mark on Society, that is if I can prevail upon Lady
Hereward to invite you to her ball next week and Mrs Sopwithy to include you in
one of her routs. Then there is Almack’s and perhaps, if you are lucky, a
drawing-room. It is fortunate that so many young men are returning from the
Continent for I declare every eligible in town must already have been spoken
for long ago.’

She murmured on
in like vein throughout the remove of mutton and braised sweetmeats and the
fruit flan that followed them, and Georgie, who was made to feel that their
deficiencies were all her fault, was glad to escape and return to the stables,
once more clad in boots and breeches, leaving Felicity to complete the
arrangements with their aunt over the teacups.

Georgie loved
horses with a passion which could only be matched by her father’s and had often
sat up all night with a sick animal or a mare that was foaling. She had watched
stallions at stud and cared for mares in foal right through until the time of
the birth, a fact which horrified her aunt. She could break and train a new
horse and was an excellent rider, liking nothing better than to feel the wind
in her hair as she put a horse through its paces on the gallops. Dawson, the
stable-master, and the other outside staff were used to her and would have died
for her right to continue her father’s work; they cared little for convention
and knew nothing of the ways of London Society. If the Rowan Park stud was sunk
then so were they and none fancied being among the ranks of the unemployed,
swollen by returning soldiers.

Today Georgie
had helped a new filly enter the world and she was as proud as if it had been a
daughter of her own. She acknowledged, with a wry smile, that horses were
likely to be the only children she would have; at twenty-six she was already
firmly on the shelf. No man would look twice at her. For a start, her
complexion lacked the pale fragility that was fashionable and she was too tall,
overtopping her sister by a head. She was also the equal of any male when it
came to horsemanship and there were few who excelled her; it was enough to
deter any man from offering for her.

She sighed as
she knelt to fondle the new filly, drawing a neigh of protest from its mother.
If she could not have a husband and family of her own, then she would make sure
of being a success in her chosen sphere. She would be the best horse-breeder in
England. And she would make sure that Felicity wanted for nothing. A husband
for her sister before the year was out would be her goal.

Felicity
herself did not disagree. She loved Georgie and was no more selfish than any
other young lady who had been cosseted since birth and it never occurred to her
that her sister might not be entirely happy with the way their lives were
shaping, for she never complained. As far as Felicity was concerned, Georgie
preferred horses to people and liked nothing better than mucking out a stable
dressed in breeches. Her sister did not, as far as Felicity knew, hanker for a
husband and a family of her own. Having explained this to her horrified aunt,
she gave herself up to the enjoyment of planning her wardrobe and looking
forward eagerly to all the social occasions Mrs Bertram could devise for her.

‘There are some
exceedingly handsome officers in my husband’s regiment,’ Mrs Bertram told her
as they journeyed towards the capital the following day. ‘Some I am
well-acquainted with, for they have been close to my husband, the colonel;
others I do not know so well but I shall contrive to learn all I can about
them. They will need to be well up in the stirrups, of course; that goes
without saying.’

‘It doesn’t
matter about being rich, Aunt,’ Felicity said. ‘So long as I love him.’

‘Love him!’
exclaimed her aunt. ‘What foolishness is this? We will find someone suitable,
from a good family with an independent income and a title if possible, and if
all goes well and he offers and you accept, then you can think about love. Ten
to one that will not come until after the wedding, so you may set your mind at
rest on that score.’

‘Did you love
Uncle Edward when you married him?’

‘No, of course
not, but he was agreeable and kind and we came to depend on each other. I would
not change him for the world.’

‘And Mama and
Papa?’

‘The same.’

‘Oh. Do you
suppose Georgie knows that?’

‘Of course she
does; your sister is not a ninnyhammer, for all her cork-brained ways.’

‘Could you not
find someone for her too? I should not like to think she was left to be an
ape-leader; she is not like that at all, you know. She pretends to be hard
because she doesn’t like anyone to know how soft she really is, but I have seen
her cry over an injured horse and when old Bucephalus had to be put down she
mourned for weeks.’

‘Horses!’
expostulated Mrs Bertram. ‘Horses are not people.’

Felicity, who
had often been constrained to say the same thing, made no comment on that.
Instead she continued to extol her sister’s virtues. ‘She is very pretty, you
know, when she takes the trouble to dress and arrange her hair.’

‘Then why she
did not make the effort long before this I cannot conceive.’ Mrs Bertram sighed
heavily. ‘I blame my brother-in-law...’

‘I don’t
suppose Papa even noticed how she looked.’

‘No, I do not
suppose he did.’ Mrs Bertram sighed again. ‘If only I had not been out of the
country.

‘Aunt, I doubt
it would have made any difference, Papa did not take kindly to criticism.’

Her aunt
laughed. ‘Of that I am persuaded. Now, let us talk about you...’

Felicity was
only too happy to comply and the remainder of the journey passed pleasantly,
and the following afternoon, after an overnight stay in St Albans, they arrived
at Mrs Bertram’s modest villa in Holles Street.

London was
celebrating the defeat of Napoleon and there were flags and bunting everywhere
and everyone laughing and joyous. Ballad-sellers were doing a roaring trade and
returning troops were clapped on the shoulders and told what valiant men they
were, though the soldiers themselves, deprived of their livelihood, if so
dangerous a calling could be so named, were not so happy. Glad enough to have
returned alive, though many were missing limbs, they had to find civilian jobs
or resort to thieving or begging and already many were on the streets with
their hats in their hands. Most of the officers who had returned had gone back
to their homes to be received into loving families; some might be low in the
stirrups, but they would find other occupations, or service in other theatres
of war. It was different for them.

All the same,
Major the Honourable Richard Baverstock, son of Viscount Dullingham, had not
yet returned home to Cambridgeshire. Before he faced his father, he intended to
have a little fun; in fact he intended to have a lot of fun. And he was doing
it in the company of his friend, Captain John Melford. They had only just
arrived in England, being among the first to return on account of slight
wounds, but already they were amusing themselves sparring at the Fives Court in
Martin Street, mixing with the noisy crowds who frequented the Cockpit Royal
and laying bets on a couple of fighting cocks.

They had been
to Astley’s Amphitheatre to watch a troop of wire-walkers and a dancing bear
and had danced the night away at Ranelagh Gardens where the aristocracy rubbed
shoulders with the proletariat and where they had enjoyed the company of a
couple of delightful bits of muslin. Both handsome and well set up, they had
soon learned how to deport themselves and dress in the latest mode and were, as
a consequence, greatly in demand among mamas organising social occasions for
their daughters. They had been taking full advantage of the fact, flirting with
the young ladies but never losing their hearts.

Sometimes Richard
wondered if he still had a heart to lose. He had seen some gruesome sights in
the eight years he had been a soldier; he had seen good friends killed and
maimed, and priceless treasures looted. He had seen barbarity and compassion,
bravery and cowardice in equal measure and he had watched Maria bleed to death
in his arms and wept for her and his own inadequacy. Determined to put it all
from his mind, he was, a few days after Felicity’s arrival in the capital, out
on Hampstead Heath cheering on his jockey in a private race.

It was a
foolish wager and he would not have made it if John had not bet so heavily on
that card game at Watier’s. His friend had been somewhat disguised at the time
and the more he’d lost, the more reckless he’d become. Richard, who had pulled
out long before, had tried unsuccessfully to ]ever him away, but he would have
none of it. ‘My luck will change,’ he’d kept saying. In the end he’d lost
everything of value on his person and the heap of paper vowels beside Lord
Barber’s elbow had borne witness to the fact that his luck had not changed and if
he continued he would have nothing left at his bank either. He’d been writing
yet another voucher when Lord Barbour had put a hand over it. ‘No more vowels.’

‘I have no more
money or valuables on me,’ the young man said. ‘You must allow me to continue.
These will be honoured.’ He turned to Richard, who stood behind his chair.
‘You’ll vouch for that, won’t you, old friend?’

Richard agreed,
for what else could he do? But it meant that he might be called upon to make up
any deficit.

‘No more
vowels,’ his lordship insisted.

‘My hunter,
then. It’s a prime animal.’

‘That old nag
against this?’ He indicated the heap of money, the rings, pins, fobs and the
scraps of paper and laughed. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’ It was then that he looked
up at Richard. ‘I’ll take your stallion, though.’

It was
Richard’s turn to laugh. ‘Lose the best horse I ever had on a hand of cards?
No, my lord, I am not such a sousecrown.’

‘Then the
captain will be known for a welsher.’

John, suddenly
very sober, looked at him in anguish. ‘Richard, play my hand for me...’

‘No.’ He had
never been very good at cards; horse-riding was another matter. He turned to
Lord Barbour. ‘I’ll race Victor over a measured mile against the best in your
stables, my lord. If I win, my friend’s debts are cancelled. If I lose, you
take the horse.’

Richard had
played the only hand he knew. Lord Barbour’s stables were among the best in the
country except for one thing. They lacked a really great stallion such as
Richard owned. The young man had a vague feeling that his lordship had
manoeuvred the whole situation, but there was nothing he could do about it,
short of abandoning his friend to his fate. As soon as it became known that
John had been unable to pay his gambling debts, every tradesman in town would
be dunning him and he would be left without a feather to fly with.

John tried to
dissuade him and was still trying to do so the next day, when, with a pounding
head and sick to his stomach, he called on Richard to go to Hampstead Heath. ‘I
can’t let you do this,’ he said, mopping his face with a handkerchief soaked in
lavender water. ‘Leave me to my fate...’