"That he should meet a girl like this on the very day he learned of his father’s plans!": Read Chapter 3 from "An Independent Heart"

Chapter 3

 

Our flood's-queen, Thames,

for ships and swans is crowned . . .

Drayton, Idea

 

Nicola’s shriek of delight was carried away by an icy gust whipping across the river as they looked down from Blackfriars Bridge. Clinging to Robert’s arm, she exclaimed how sublime it was, and how sweetly kind of him to take them there.

The embrasure in the parapet provided a fine vantage point. Claire hugged her muff to herself and buried her chin in its fur. The bridge’s gentle curve seemed to stretch endlessly away into a view that was bizarre rather than sublime. In her mind she had pictured a smooth surface of ice, like Duddingston Loch, but what she saw was a crazy landscape of broken floes and jagged slabs heaped one upon another and against the bridge’s pillars.

Beneath the tall white sky, the horizon seemed wide and open, the close­ness of town falling away. Slowly they walked across to the Surrey side. With something of a flourish, Robert disbursed the thruppence the waterman de­manded and ushered Nicola and herself onto the ice.

Strewn ashes marked the path and provided firm footing. Yet for all that Robert pointed out how thick the edges of the piled ice-cliffs were, it was uncanny walking between them, knowing that there was a vast river flowing steadily underneath.

“Don’t be scared, Claire,” Nicola cried. “Our weight can hardly matter, compared to all this.”

It was a full-grown fair. From the bridge it had seemed small, seen from above against the great expanse of sky, river, and town. But within the maze of tents and booths, the bustle and colour were enthralling.

The noise was terrific. What sounded like an enormous rusty gate turned out to be the whooping passengers of a boat-like swing. Fiddles skirled, drums pulsated, boots stomped on the deck of a barge pressed into service as a dance floor. An open fire crackled and roared. Over her shoulder, she saw that a whole sheep was being roasted there, with a large placard advertising Lapland Mutton. Robert gave a wide berth to the entrance of Barley Barge, but drew her attention to a decent-looking place named Father Frost’s Coffee-Tent.

Drawing a deep breath, she said, “It’s a shame you’re not a member of parliament yet, Robert. I think my next letter home will be rather long.”

He grinned. “Enjoying yourself? I’m sure Lord Hawksfield will be happy to frank your letter. But perhaps you’ll find a picture over there, to spare you the trouble of describing it all in words.” With his chin he gestured towards a printing press that became visible when the crowd thinned momen­tarily. “Will we have a look?”

Broadsheets, booklets, brochures, pamphlets – the diversity was incredible, the quality poor in every way: cheap paper, cheap ink, cheap rhymes. A title set in an almost illegible variety of type caught Claire’s eye. “A collection of FROSTIANA, or a History of the River Thames in a Frozen State, with an Account of the Late Severe Frost and the wonderful effects of Frost, Snow, Ice and Cold in England, and in different parts of the world, interspersed with amusing anecdotes, to which is added The Art of Skating, all printed and published on the ICE on the River Thames,” she read, picking up the booklet. “Can you believe it?”

“No,” Robert said succinctly, while Nicola cried, “Does it have pictures?”

“More than that, the captions rhyme. Listen to this:

 

Behold the River Thames is frozen o’er,

Which lately ships of mighty burden bore;

Now different arts and past times you see,

But printing claims the superiority.”

 

“Only mangle the words enough and you can call it poetry.” Robert shook his head. “You’ll not buy it?”

“Of course I will. This is just the thing for the girls.”

Under his quizzical gaze, Claire made a selection of four different works. When she inquired the price, she was directed to the other side of the press where, apparently, the cashier might be found. “I won’t be long,” she told Robert.

“Could you wrap them, please?” Adding another farthing, she handed a few coins across the table, saw her purchases wrapped in rough paper, and tucked the parcel and her purse into her muff.

Her brother and sister-in-law were nowhere to be seen. The crowd was dense, colourful and varied. A ragged child, a dandified shop assistant; that very superior being must be a parlourmaid, those young fellows would be apothecary’s apprentices. At the edge of her vision, a Rifleman’s stovepipe shako moved into ken. Startled, she turned her head.

His handsome dark eyes expressed as much astonish­ment as her own probably did. For a mo­ment, they stared at each other, then he bowed, doffing his battered shako to reveal a mop of black hair. “Excuse me, ma’am.” He extended his hand; he was holding out her purse. “May I restore your property?” His voice was low and husky, as though he were modulating the tone of command to con­versational pitch.

Bereft of speech, she took her purse, half-formed questions jostling in her brain. His gaze held more warmth, his aquiline countenance was thinner, the moustache had gone, and there was a frosting of premature white at his temples, yet the resemblance was striking. And that coat certainly was a Rifle officer’s greatcoat. Could it be possible?

A mischievous grin – uncannily familiar – was dawning on his face, and no wonder, she stood there like a gowk. Compressing her lips, she drew a slow breath. Then she said, “I beg your pardon, Captain, for staring. I thought I had seen you be­fore. How on earth did you get hold of my purse?”

“Picked a pickpocket’s pocket.” He chuckled. “And I believe I was staring, too, although I’m cer­tain that I’ve never seen you before. ‘Blind were mine eyes till they were seen of thine.’”

If she recognized the quotation, it was because the Drayton folio had fallen open at that page when she took it down from its shelf last night.

“May I also restore you to your companions, ma’am?” There was no mischief now in the Rifle­man’s voice, which was both deprecatory and regretful. Mistaking her hesitance, he added, “Not­withstand­ing appearances, I am quite respectable,” and with a sudden grin, “even if I am trying to force an introduction.”

Laughter bubbled up inside her, but she choked it down, replying with barely a tremor in her voice. “Judging by appearances, you are a captain in the Riflemen, and that should vouch for a modicum of respectability. Will you be able to find my brother in this crush?” Taking the arm he offered, she fell into step beside him. His cool assumption that people would make way for their passage turned out to be entirely justified; some even touched their caps. His assurance was agreeable when one happened to be ranged at his side, but possibly extremely galling when one wasn't. “Do you know, I believe I could almost put a name to you, beyond your regiment.”

“We can’t have met before. I would never forget a face like yours.” His voice was so serious that she looked up in surprise.

“Why, what’s wrong with my face?”

“Nothing. That’s what makes it unforgettable.” Matter-of-factly he continued, “But it’s not just your face. You have a great deal of poise, too.”

“I wish it were sufficient to carry me through this conversation! You are as bad as your father.”

“What, is he, too, incurably honest?”

“He, too, indulges in shameless flattery.”

“Then you must have mistaken my identity, after all. Sir,” he accosted Robert. “May I return this lady to your care?”

“I told you we should not have let her go alone!” Nicola drew Claire to her side.

“Nonsense, my dear, Claire is perfectly able to look after herself.” Robert cast a curious glance at her companion. “There has been no unpleasantness, I trust?” What a man of the world Robert was: his question was perfectly non-committal, leaving open whether the Rifleman was to be treated as a rogue or a rescuer.

Claire gave Nicola’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “On the contrary, brother, I have been saved from penury.”

“Have you, by Jove!” Robert bowed. “May we not know to whom my sister is obliged?”

Again the Rifleman doffed his shako, casting Claire an I-told-you-so glance. “Captain Sumners, at your service.”

Claire swallowed a hiccup of laughter. The cap­tain, in turn, showed no such restraint, and laughed out loud when Robert performed the introductions.

 

~  ~  ~

 

If Robert Lyster felt any awkwardness in the situ­ation, he did not show it. He certainly had sufficient aplomb for a politician, and Justin readily took his cue when he suggested a cup of something hot for the ladies.

“My cousin is holding a table over there.” With a nod of his head, Justin indicated Father Frost's Coffee-Tent. “Unless you object to a public place?”

“A coffeehouse should be respectable enough. Be­sides, my wife is pining for adventure.” Lyster smiled down at the fair girl hanging on his arm. “You won’t mind, will you, my dear? With the combined protection of a lawyer and a soldier, I am sure you may dare it.”

“Papa would have a fit,” Mrs Lyster exclaimed, but it was with a very pretty gravity that she re­lin­quished Miss Lammond’s hand. “You have proved yourself worthy enough, Captain Sumners, by re­turn­ing our sister to us. Pray continue your good care of her.”

“Thank you, I will.”

Miss Lammond did not immediately turn to follow her brother. In the wintry blue dusk, her light-grey eyes were translucent, absorbing the ephemeral world around her. For a moment – for a small eternity she stood in the shelter Justin’s body afforded her. An elbow struck him in the back, someone jostled against his side, but he made no move to hurry her, and instead followed her gaze across the icy expanse. Here at least his view was not cut off by walls. During hours of consultation – at Hawksfield House, at the Foreign Office, at the War Office – he had felt trapped in the close, discreet rooms.

The sun had dipped below the horizon. Flam­beaux being lit there and there gave the scene some­thing of an encampment of soldiers at dusk, with campfires glowing yellow against a darkening sky.

 “Captain Sumners . . .” She was no longer look­ing at the scenery but at him. When younger he had often regretted lacking Matthew’s impres­sive height, but now her eyes were only a little below the level of his, her lips well within reach. If he had laughed on hearing who she was, that was the sudden lifting of the regret he had felt only minutes earlier, that he should meet a girl like this on the very day he had learned of his father’s plans. Wouldn’t Lord Hawksfield be surprised to find him suddenly so compliant!

“Miss Lammond?”

“I am afraid Robert was sadly remiss,” she said, hesitating. After a moment she added, very gently, “Please allow me to express our condolences for your recent loss.”

The sudden searing pain abated with the pres­sure of her fingers on his arm. As though she might vanish with the rising of the moon, he tucked her hand more securely in his elbow before he replied. “Recent? I would have thought London had forgot­ten all about my brother by this time.”

“Perhaps London has, but then London has had time to adjust to the knowledge, and you have not. Nor has London lost a brother.” After a slight pause, she added, “I hope you do not think me intrusive.”

“I think you preternaturally perspicacious.”

She shook her head. “I have a brother, and four sisters.” An unexpected smile lit up her features. “Our Percy is fascinated with the Riflemen’s Corps, that is how I know the uniform. Was it you riding past Hawksfield House last night?”

He lifted aside the flap of the tent. “It was you standing in the window? You who left the Drayton folio open on the library table? Was that why you said you had seen me before, because of the portrait there above the mantelpiece?”

“I wasn’t certain.” With a direct look she added, “You have changed, but you have a great deal of your father, too. Thank you.” She walked past him, leaving him intrigued and somewhat shaken.

Comfortable heat emanated from a cast-iron stove set upon the icy ground, which, apart from a safe radius around the fire, was spread with straw. Its scent, combined with the odour of wet sheep exuded by damp woollen coats, gave the place a rural atmosphere that was strangely at odds with the character of a coffeehouse.

At the best table, Matthew was welcoming the Lysters. Between bowing to Miss Lammond and setting a chair for her, he managed to give Justin an inquisitive stare, at the same time keeping up his conversation with Lyster. “It’s quite safe,” he said. “My cousin’s man inspected the staff and kitchen before letting me taste anything. I must say, Justin, you have trained him well.”

 “Pepe didn’t need training; he’s naturally cir­cum­spect.” In Matthew’s ear he added, “You were right, Turtle. I’d happily marry any number of her.” His cousin poked him viciously in the ribs while divesting him of his greatcoat, but before he could do more by way of retribution, Pepe came over from the counter to ask for orders.

“Is he a Spaniard?” Mrs Lyster’s voice rose to an excited chirp. “Does he address you by your Christian name?”

“My batman, Pepe Reyes. I owe him much.” His hand on the lad’s shoulder, he felt him straighten as he faced the strangers. Then he added, “He calls me Don Justín. ‘Don’ is a Spanish honorific, a title of respect, used with one’s Christian name.”

“That’s why we call ’em the dons,” Lyster drawled. “Although not as a mark of respect.”

Pepe bowed with dignity when Miss Lammond gave him a nod and a smile, but he did not omit to inform Justin, in an undertone, that it would not do to introduce his servant. “Don’t be silly, Pepe,” Justin said, lapsing into Spanish once more. “This is the girl I’m going to marry; you have to be introduced to her.”

Pepe’s eyes widened. “Felicidades,” he said. Then he moved away to collect a tray of steaming cups at the counter.

“Is it to him that you owe your proficiency in dealing with pickpockets, too? I never even noticed that my money had gone. Did I thank you at all, in my sur­prise? And how did you know I was with my brother and sister?”

He met her gaze but found no words to reply. Nor was it necessary; the others had plenty to say.

“What’s this about pickpockets?” Mrs Lyster cried. “What happened? Claire, you have had an adventure!”

“It sounds more like a misadventure,” Matthew commented. “Sugar, Mrs Lyster? Miss Lammond?”

In the brief exchange of please and thank you, Justin recovered his wits. “Miss Lammond nearly lost her fortune to a scrawny rascal,” he explained. “But it’s no wonder you did not notice him, Miss Lammond. These children are trained to their trade.”

“But I did!” Her delicate eyebrows sprang to­gether. “I saw a ragged little boy and felt sorry for him. Do you mean to say that he stole my purse?”

“And you saw it, and caught him?” Mrs Lyster leaned forward eagerly.

Lyster had given a great, loud laugh, but now he asked, “Why did you not call the Watch?”

Justin shrugged. “To have that infant trans­ported to Botany Bay? He’ll be lucky to survive the winter as it is. I understand the cost of fuel has risen quite steeply.”

“You are a philanthropist.” Lyster’s inflection was that of a professional confronting an idealist. But if he thought he had got Justin’s measure, he would find himself mistaken; Spain was no breeding ground for idealists.

“Not at all. I’m sure my opinion of mankind is quite as low as yours.” As Lyster drew affronted breath, Justin added peaceably, “But I feel the cold like any man, and like any man appreciate the luxury of flannel and fur.”

“I wonder how many of those who enjoy that luxury consider it a luxury?” Miss Lammond said quietly.

Lyster’s expression softened. “Not a philan­thropist, then, but a philosopher, like my sister.” He turned to Matthew. “Is there anything more dis­arming than the discovery that one’s young relation is cleverer and wiser than one’s self?”

Justin found himself warming to the man as he talked fondly and amusingly about his sister. She, in turn, appeared quite divorced from his discourse, looking around as if to record every detail – for her sisters, perhaps, wherever they might be at this moment. Lord Hawksfield had mentioned an estate somewhere in the north. That was what made her an heiress, too; the land was entirely her own, and indeed, she looked to be very much her own woman.

Suddenly Justin was weary to the bone. The tent was crowded, the air thick with the fumes of people, the red-hot stove. The conversation dissolved into a meaningless babble, the faces all around merged to form a vague, shifting mass. One set of features alone remained clear and distinct, grey eyes under fine black brows, the still centre of this spinning world.

“You are tired.” Her words dropped like three pebbles into his fatigue.

Justin shook his head, not to disagree but to dispel the weary mists. “Forgive me. Why is it so exhausting to sit around and talk? Not here, not with you,” he added with a grin, “I mean this morning. And there will be more later, although they call it dining.”

“How strange all this must seem to you, return­ing from ‘grim-visagèd war’.” A slight movement of her head encompassed their table, the tent, the Frost Fair, all of London, England and human civi­lization. “Or perhaps not so strange, the Frost Fair, contingent as it is on an ephemeral, tran­si­tory state: the ice that will soon melt and wash away.”

There it was again, that uncanny perspicacity. “And now, instead of mounting barbèd steeds, he capers nimbly in a lawyer’s chambers?”

Surprised into laughter, she seemed surprised by her own laughter, too, lifting a hand to her lips as if to hide it. The touch of her lips would be warm and soft. Trying to concentrate on what she had said, Justin continued, “What is most strange is that no one seems aware how strange it is. Here I am, with hardly a change of clothes, and yet everyone acts as though I had never been away at all. You are the exception.”

A quick frown and shake of her head seemed to indicate that she did not consider herself in any way exceptional. “Perhaps that is because they cannot imagine what it is like, being away.” She cast a sidelong glance at her brother, who was still talk­ing expansively. “Never having left this world, they cannot know that entering or re-entering it may not be such a simple matter. They do not doubt its claims.”

Did she know what claims were being made upon him, her, the two of them together? “And you?”

“Oh, I do not belong here,” she said blithely. “I’m only a visitor.”

Then she did not know; he would be allowed to do his own courting. Looking at her, he found the prospect infinitely alluring.

“It is ‘lady’s chamber’, not ‘lawyer’s’, by the way.” There was no trace of archness in her face or voice. She was merely imparting information.

“Is it, now?” The unintended irony made him smile. “You may well be right.”

It was past six o’clock when they left the tent, and night had fallen. As they picked their way along the rough ice, Justin knew rather than felt the steady, cold flow underneath all the frozen beauty. Though fully appreciative of the arctic vista of ice piled up in mighty blocks and slabs shimmering in the moonlight, with St Paul’s looming in the background, he thought he would prefer the live water slapping and gurgling against the quays.

A girl like this: Sir Henry Raeburn,
Miss Eleanor Urquhart (detail), c. 1793, by courtesy of the National Gallery of Art, Washington

 

Enjoyed this? Want more? Read on in Chapter 4!

 Or why not browse around the blog entries relating to Chapter 3, and find out more about the historical background, or listen to the music collected in the Independent Heart soundtrack on YouTube?