Brothers at Arms (20 page)

By contrast, Annie’s mother was a gentle soul. Quiet and dignified, yet terrified of expressing an opinion, for fear of arousing her husband’s ire. She was so fragile that she hid in bed to avoid annoying her husband. Sophie scorned the use of smelling salts, but she was fascinated by the silver vinaigrette boxes Annie’s mother collected. Not for the pungent vapours they contained, but the intricate designs kept in a showcase like snuffboxes.

One visit to her friend’s home was enough to give her a taste for a life of luxury. To achieve this, Sophie knew she would have to adopt a new stratagem. Whilst being naughty alleviated her boredom, she now had to be an exemplary character.

She went back to school feeling bemused by all she had seen, and ready to fill sheets of notepaper, telling Charlie of her adventures, which she had Uncle Tom’s permission to send to Linmore for further dispatch.

Without saying how it came about, she wrote to tell him that Annie’s home was like a palace, with dozens of uniformed servants to attend her every whim – even if she needed anything in the middle of the night. Her bedroom was perfect, as was the dressing room, and the screened, marble tiled alcove with a bath.

The first evening of her visit, she wandered round the room touching the plump downy mattress on the bed, two fluffy pillows and a coverlet of purple silk, and wished Charlie were here to see it. From there, another thought came to mind, which she added to her letter.
I wish you could meet Annie. I am sure you would like her.

Having planted the seed, the idea came to fruition. Of course, Charlie would like Annie, and she, Sophie, would pave the way for them to meet.

If the first weekend visit enthralled her, the second and subsequent ones confirmed it was the best thing that had ever happened in her life. Thank goodness, Uncle Tom gave his consent. Not that he refused her much, even when Aunt Jane was there.

Some nights, curiosity kept her awake. Sophie waited until the last of the servants was asleep, before slipping from her bed to walk through the corridors, clad in her new silk wrapper, and revel in the atmosphere of affluence. A task aided by the plethora of candles in wall sconces, which burned throughout the night; she vowed one day, to have a home where cost was no object.

She had discovered that if the master of the house wished to visit his study, a footman sat on a chair outside, ready to open the door – and there the pretty boy was, exactly where he should be. Each night she approached on tiptoe, and heard the soft purr of a snore, but even if the minion awoke and saw her, he would never betray her, for he had too much to lose.

A sliver of light showed beneath the study door, just as it did the night before, but she could not risk opening it. Seconds later, the ormolu clock in the hallway struck three. Sophie heard the faint scrape of a key in a lock and melted into the shadows, as a shadowy figure came through the outer door at the far end of the corridor.

The servant was on his feet in seconds, ready to reach for the door handle, which confirmed that Annie’s father came home at the same time every night. Most likely he had been to visit his mistress, a woman who would be treated better than his poor dab of a wife. Maybe, with a little encouragement, Sophie could persuade him to shower gifts on her. He could well afford it.

With each visit, there was more of the house to admire, and yet the only part she really wanted to see was a disappointment. When she visited the stables, she found a selection of horses suited to draw the carriages stored in the coach house, but not a single decent horse for riding. What a let down.

It made her restive. Sophie knew if she ever had real money to spend, the minimum requirement for her stables would be a pair of perfectly matched thoroughbreds for a high-perch phaeton, and a big black gelding for hunting.

There were compensations, for Annie, her mother and younger sisters much preferred shopping in the town, and Sophie found herself the proud possessor of new clothes, a hat or pieces of jewellery, the like of which she had never seen. Although Uncle Tom gave her an allowance, while staying with Annie, she did not need to spend it from one month to the next, so she hid it away.

It quite amazed her that everyone in the household gave her presents. Annie’s mother, her twin sisters, Eliza and Amelia, and the younger sister in the nursery, whose name she forgot. It seemed so natural, and yet Sophie sensed her visits were unusual.

“How many of your other friends come from school?” she asked out of curiosity.

“There’s no one else. You are the exception, because Papa does not mix with other parents, or encourage me to have school friends,” Annie said, looking embarrassed. “I’m glad you are at school with me, Sophie. It is not easy, having people say my father was made Chairman of the Board of Governors, because he invested money in the school.”

Being a confidante was a new experience. While Annie’s father was not a popular man in Bredenbridge, she had little doubt he would know exactly who Uncle Tom was. That, she suspected, was why she was accepted.

Sometimes, Annie’s adoration became tedious, but it served Sophie’s purpose.

“Oh, my,” she said, espying a pretty trinket, and reaching out her hand to touch. “May I look at it? It is so pretty.”

She did it to test the response, and it was always the same. Her friend would give her anything, and she quickly learned to handle Annie’s pa, noting his roving eye and wandering hands with the housemaids, and playing to his vanity.

To amuse herself, she insisted his side-whiskers were exactly like those her pa had. They were nothing of the kind, but her words pleased him and he was willing to let her stroke them. After that, whenever she expressed a liking for some expensive little trifle, in his hearing, it became her own – and in thanks, she kissed him on the cheek and declared he was the kindest papa in the world, while his family looked on and smiled.

Although she found living with females a bore, it suited her purpose to stay there, until Charlie returned with Joshua. Once he was home, she would contrive to have him meet Annie and her family. That sorted the first part of her plan, after which, she would consider her next course of action – which involved Joshua.

Early Summer –1799

No sooner did they land in Naples, than Dr Hawley’s carefully laid plans suffered a check – then stuttered and virtually fell apart. The blame for that lay firmly with Bonaparte, for causing conflict between the aristocracy and lower classes. As a result, the King of Naples had moved his Court from Caserta, to the safety of Palermo, in Sicily.

Dr Hawley heard of this when he visited the British Embassy to present Squire Norbery’s letter of introduction to the Ambassador, and learned that Sir William Hamilton was visiting the Bourbon Court. The junior diplomat to whom he spoke advised them to travel further afield, but it was too much to accept.

Before he left Linmore, Dr Hawley had set his heart on three things. To explore the city where Virgil, the Latin poet studied and made his home; meet an acknowledged expert in the study of volcanoes; and visit Pompeii and Herculaneum, the cities overwhelmed by the cataclysmic eruption of Vesuvius, which he heard were now under excavation.

Deprived of two of his three options, Dr Hawley was determined to visit Vesuvius. Mindful of his responsibilities, he considered it a good a way of keeping his pupils occupied, and ensured they would not be seduced in areas of the city where sins of the flesh were notorious – or so he had heard.

Whilst he was not averse to drinking a glass of wine with a meal, or playing a hand of whist with his sister; he did not condone licentious behaviour, and would do his utmost to protect his pupils from temptation. Cerebral occupation was the answer – keep the mind active and the spirit would follow.

Although Dr Hawley did not admit his disappointment, Joshua and Charlie recognised the way his mouth drooped at the edges when he heard the news. Then he sulked, like a child. Virgil was his hero, and he so looked forward to exploring Naples.

Without the ambassador to tell them about volcanoes, they would have to see Vesuvius for themselves. When the tutor pretended he was doing it for them, they accepted his word, knowing he would not admit his plans had gone awry.

They did not mind where they went next. Everywhere was new, and from what they could see of Vesuvius, across the Bay of Naples, the only sign of life in a near-cloudless sky were a few wisps of white around the top, which they hoped was steam – anything to show activity.

At Linmore, they had seen artists’ impressions of volcanic eruptions in books. Vivid images of fire and brimstone. Savage acts of nature, which did untold damage. Now, they would visit the volcano, and two of the towns overwhelmed by lava.

The trouble was, when it came to arranging transport for the journey, Dr Hawley belittled every option Sergeant Percival offered. The man did his best, but there was little choice available, and what he found did not suit the tutor. Undeterred, the guide managed to find a conveyance – of sorts.

Within three days, they were on the move, passing through the city gates soon after sunrise, intent on travelling before the heat became too intense. They showed their identification papers when they left the city, and paid taxes for the surrounding district; a requirement for each border crossed.

Although the journey between Naples and Vesuvius was only five or six miles, it was tediously slow and woefully lacking in comfort. The hired coach belonged to a bygone age, its once plush seats tired and faded. Door hinges creaked and coach wheels suffered from a chronic lack of axle grease, and every jolt in the road jarred their bones. It was a miserable way to travel, and the heat made it worse, especially as the coach was overloaded.

There were five people travelling together, all breathing the same dry air, without permission to open a window, because of Dr Hawley’s morbid fear of draughts. Apart from Joshua, Charlie and their tutor, two menservants occupied the coach – another grievance, for which Dr Hawley blamed Sergeant Percival, who rode alongside the vehicle.

Fortunately, it was only a relatively short distance, and there were compensations. All around, they could see orange and lemon groves covering the hillsides and valley floor, filling the air with the heady scent of citrus.

The sight teased Joshua’s senses, making his mouth water and his memory recall the refreshing taste of Miss Belinda Hawley’s lemonade and delicious citrus biscuits. In the dry, stuffy heat, the thought was bitter sweet – pure nostalgia and torment in equal portions.

When the coach stopped unexpectedly in the next village along the road, the door opened and Sergeant Percival appeared carrying a basket of oranges and lemons, together with a platter of large orange slices cut ready for eating. Sweet and succulent, it was nectar from the gods. Their grumbling discontent melted away in seconds.

The remaining miles passed unnoticed, except when Joshua and Charlie unfolded their long limbs from the cramped interior. Even so, they managed a laugh whilst vowing to walk back to Naples rather than enter the dilapidated vehicle again. After they dined and rested, they viewed the prospect with equanimity.

If nothing else, the view from the ridge of Vesuvius was worth enduring a four-hour ride on a mule and a half-mile trudge to the top. It was spectacular.

Up there, the world was untouched by military conflict. Below them, the Bay of Naples and the city, spread out like a painted picture. A blue haze of sky, far out to the horizon, and ships of the line visible on the sea, but they could not tell if the flags fluttering from the stern of the brigantines were the Red Ensign. In a just world they would be.

It was everything they expected it to be, and the mule ride was bearable in the early morning when they set off, an hour after sunrise. The heat increased, the higher up the slope they rode, and air became drier, which they presumed was due to the effects of volcanic ash and sulphurous fumes. An assumption, Dr Hawley did nothing to discourage.

Confronted with the beasts of burden, Joshua and Charlie decided future soldiers could ride anything, but they were concerned about their tutor’s ability to cope. They need not have worried. The ponderously slow pace the animal moved suited Dr Hawley exactly, and he spent the time reading his copy of Virgil, just as he did at Linmore. At least he was happy, doing what he wanted.

God bless Sergeant Percival for anticipating their need for a bite to eat, when they dismounted and left the mules, half a mile from the top – and the most welcome of drinks – lemonade. Made from freshly picked fruit of the lemon grove – it was delicious. Even Dr Hawley seemed unusually grateful when the former soldier produced two stone flagons, one for their arrival, and a promise of the second before they began the descent.

Suitably refreshed, Joshua and Charlie waited while Dr Hawley fussed around and interrupted Sergeant Percival’s negotiations with the Italian guides. Patience was a virtue at the best of times, but in the dry heat a few hundred yards away from the volcanic ridge, it was in short supply. The end of the path looked so close they could almost touch it.

Half the day was gone already, spent on the back of a mule. Their legs ached with inactivity, and their backsides from sitting on old, worn saddles. Joshua felt it most for his legs were too long for the stirrups.

Oh to be on the move. No sooner the thought than the deed. Claiming a call of nature, they slipped a few feet away beyond the trees that would shelter the horses, each knowing the other’s mind and intention. Both knew it would take an age for their tutor to decide if he was ready, and by then they would be waiting at the ridge. They set off up the path, matching their steps to the other, but before they had gone a dozen yards, Joshua sensed the change and lengthened his stride, knowing that Charlie would try to outpace him. It was madness and yet he felt freer than he had for weeks.

“Gentlemen, stop at once…” Dr Hawley’s voice hung behind them in the haze.

It was easy to pretend not to hear, but Sergeant Percival’s authoritative tone could not be ignored. “Mr Norbery…” he bellowed.