The Spanish Bride (49 page)

‘Oh, Johnny! Oh, George! Oh, my dear friends! To see you again!’

In considerable amazement, Mrs Sargant saw the prim girl of a moment earlier transformed into a creature glowing with animation. Such a babel of Spanish broke out that Mrs Sargant felt stunned. She was startled to see Juana actually embracing the visitors, throwing her arms round their necks and shedding tears down the frogs of their pelisses. ‘Poor little soul! There, there!’ said George, patting her shoulder.

‘Now, Juanita, what would Enrique say if he could see you crying?’ said Kincaid. ‘This won’t do at all! A pretty way to welcome old friends!’

‘Oh, do not heed me! I am so overjoyed!’ Juana said, mopping her eyes. ‘When did you land? How is the regiment? Tell me everything, everything!’

‘Of course we will, but you have a visitor,’ said George, becoming aware of Mrs Sargant. ‘Oh, how I forget my manners!’ Juana turned remorsefully towards her sister-in-law, saying in her broken English: ‘Please forgive! I must present Señor Kincaid, and Señor Simmons, of ours. This is Enrique’s sister, Johnny, Señora—I mean, Mrs Sargant!’ In spite of having been a good deal shocked by the manner of Juana’s reception of her friends. Mrs Sargant shook hands graciously with them, and soon had George sitting beside her on the sofa, conversing most amiably, while Juana plied Kincaid with eager questions. Were all her particular friends well? Was Charlie Beckwith in town? Had the 52nd come home with the Rifles? Was Kincaid heartbroken at leaving behind that French girl he had fallen so desperately in love with, or had he brought her home on his arm? ‘No, no, would you believe it, I was cured upon our last day at Castel Sarrasin? Positively cured, my dear! I overtook her and her sister, strolling by the river’s side, and instantly dismounting, I joined in their walk. My horse was following at the length of his bridle-reins, and while I was doing the polite with the sister, the other dropped behind, and when I looked round, I found her mounted astride upon my horse! And with such a pair of legs, too! It was rather too good: Richard was himself again!”

Juana’s delighted trill of laughter made Mrs Sargant break off in the middle of what she was saying to George, to interpolate: ‘It must be most gratifying to my sister to receive a visit from old friends. To see her suddenly so lively makes me realize how much she must feel her separation from the regiment.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ George answered, in his honest way. ‘She don’t really care a button for anyone but dear Harry. I must say, I don’t know how she contrives to go on without him. But then, she is equal to anything!’

She perceived that he knew a Juana other than the shy girl who had received her; watching the sparkle in the large eyes fixed on Kincaid’s face, the fluttering movements of Juana’s hands, she saw why Harry had fallen in love with her. She wondered whether Juana’s reserved manner with her arose from pride. One heard such tales of the Spaniards! Harry had mentioned, in one of his letters, hidalgo blood; and had written, in his vile scrawl, a name so long that one could not but suppose the child to be oppressively well-born. Did her reluctance to visit her husband’s family signify a grand lady’s contempt for a country surgeon? Mrs Sargant hoped that there might be no such nonsensical notions in that little curly head, and decided, as she rose to take her leave, that judgement must, for the present, be suspended. She got a shy kiss from her sister-in-law, a stammered apology for being able to speak only a few words of English, and went away reflecting that when the child smiled she was really enchantingly pretty.

‘Now we can be cosy!’ said Juana, when the door had shut behind Mrs Sargant. 3

Both George and Kincaid were going home on leave, Kincaid to shoot partridges in Scotland, George to renew his acquaintance with all his numerous brothers and sisters; but before they left London they were determined to form a pleasure-party to Vauxhall, in Juana’s honour. ‘Only we must have another female,’ said George. ‘Oh, Johnny will find one easily!” said Juana. ‘He always does!’

‘No, no, that won’t do at all!’ replied George. ‘You do say such things, Juanita! It must be a respectable female, of course.’

‘But you don’t know any!’ objected Juana.

It seemed for a time as though the Vauxhall plan would come to nothing, but fortunately Juana had the happy notion of inviting Madame Dupont to join the party. Madame professed herself charmed with the idea and two days later they all four sallied forth to spend a delightful evening across the river, watching a grand firework display, and sitting down in a box to a cosy supper of ham-shavings and arrack-punch. Never having seen fireworks before, Juana was so excited by the bursting rockets, and clapped her hands so hard at the set-pieces, that, as George confided to Kincaid, it made one happy just to watch her pleasure.

When these two faithful friends left town, Juana felt dreadfully sad at parting with them, but was soon diverted by the arrival of Charlie Beckwith on her doorstep. Beckwith was such a close friend of Harry that she was even more delighted to see him. They enjoyed some long discussions on the probable progress of the Royal Oak across the Atlantic, Charlie asserting stoutly that she might soon expect to receive tidings of Harry. Not to be outdone by her first visitors, Beckwith took Juana to Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre, to see a Grand Romantic Spectacle of the Cataract of the Ganges, supported by a Double Tight-Rope performance, and various feats of equestrianism; so that Juana began to think that if only Harry were with her, London would not seem such a big, dull city after all. The home station of the 95th was in Kent, and it was expected that the regiment, all but the few companies with Graham in Holland, would winter in Dover. But meanwhile there were always one or two officers to be found at the London barracks, besides those who were undergoing medical treatment for wounds.

London was beginning to be very thin of company, even to Juana’s inexperienced eye. When she took Vitty for walks in Hyde Park, there were hardly any perch-phaetons to be seen bowling along, no barouches, no sporting curricles driven by noted whips. Even the promenaders seemed to come from a different class of society. The Upper Ten Thousand, beginning as early in the year as June to drift away from town to Brighton, or Worthing, or Cromer, had by the end of July quite disappeared from London.

The Princess of Wales disappeared too, much to the relief of the Regent. She had decided to travel abroad for a space, and embarked from Worthing on the 8th August. The Regent hoped that by the exercise of a little ingenuity it might be found possible to prevent her ever returning to England. You could hardly blame him, for what with her peculiar personal habits, the questionable nature of her ménage at Kensington, the subversive influence she exercised over the Princess Charlotte, and the deplorable way she had fallen into of appearing in the opposite box to his at the theatre, her continued presence in England had become a serious embarrassment. The Prince Regent was certainly not a model husband, but when the British public, moved by the spectacle of a deserted wife, took Caroline to its great throbbing heart, and actually hissed him when he made a public appearance, he felt that injustice could go no farther. If report were to be believed, Caroline had taken to favouring the interested with a scandalous description of their wedding-night; while she made no bones at all at bastardizing her daughter by announcing that she had always considered Mrs Fitzherbert to have been his only wife.

Madame Dupont, who, from being able to remember how handsome the Regent had been before he grew so fat, was inclined to sentimentalize over him, and Juana grew quite tired of having items of Court news read to her from the Gazette. She was more interested to hear that Lord Fitzroy Somerset had lately been married to one of the Duke’s lovely nieces, the Lady Emily Wellesley Pole, but the only news that could be really welcome to her was news from America, and of that there was none.

She did not see Mrs Sargant again, because her sister-in-law had gone away to Cromer for the month of August. London had become insufferably hot and dusty; the flies were as numerous as in Portugal; and the meaner streets were so malodorous from the rubbish accumulating in the kennels that everyone longed for a day of heavy rain to wash away the filth. There did not seem to be anything for a foreigner to do in London but to wander about the hot streets, looking in at shop-windows; to stroll in the Park; to visit the Bayswater Tea Gardens; or the Botanical Gardens; and these were amusements which soon palled. Juana thought how much more enjoyable it was to spend the summer campaigning under scorching Spanish skies, and wondered drearily how many years it would be before she saw Harry again. Madame Dupont pooh-poohed such melancholy notions, but Juana knew that it was now more than five years since Harry had set foot in England. If the war with America dragged on, five more years might lag by without a sight of him. I shall be twenty-one years old, Juana thought, seeing middle-age creeping upon her. September came without bringing a letter from Harry. He was receding into a past that was beginning to seem dream-like. Only the periodic visits of their friends still made the Peninsular years real to Juana. They noticed that she no longer recalled the old days; she explained simply that she was silly, and found that talking about the past made her cry. But Harry came swiftly back into the present when a packet arrived in Panton Square from Whittlesey. It was addressed in his father-in-law’s hand, but when Juana opened it, out tumbled a letter from Harry.

It had been sent off in August, from Bermuda, where the Royal Oak had been delayed through having had her mizzen-top blown away in a terrific gale. Harry was well, but he missed his queridissima muger every moment of the day, through all his dreams at night. His scrawl covered pages of thin, crackling paper, which soon grew limp through being kept in Juana’s bosom, and constantly drawn out for rereading.

He was enjoying a capital passage; Admiral Malcolm was the best fellow in the world; one of the lieutenants, called Holmes, was his particular friend: Juana must picture him pacing up and down the deck, talking of her to Holmes—always so sympathetic! Ross was very affable and fatherly, but Harry could not say that he inspired him with the opinion that he was the officer Colborne regarded him as being. He was very cautious in responsibility—awfully so! Harry thought he would be found to lack that dashing enterprise so essential in a soldier. He was organizing his force into three brigades, and Harry had been put in orders as Deputy-Adjutant-General. Admiral Cochrane, commanding one hundred and seventy pennons of all descriptions on the coast of America, had proposed a rendezvous in Chesapeake Bay as soon as possible. Prices were very high in Bermuda: what did Juana think of fifteen Spanish dollars for one miserable turkey?

There was no word in all this of a possible return to England. Indeed, how should there be, when Harry had not yet arrived in America?

Tears watered the thin sheets, and had to be carefully wiped away. Vitty jumped up on to Juana’s lap, licking her hands, and begging her with flattened ears and wagging tail not to cry.

‘Yes, yes, Vitty, a letter from Master! Oh, my little perrilla, when shall we see Master again?’ 4

During the afternoon of the 20th September, the Iphigenia anchored off Spithead, and pretty soon the rumour that there were three officers aboard her, bringing home dispatches from the Chesapeake, began to circulate through Portsmouth. A Naval Captain, and two military Staff-officers, one of them apparently a sick man, came ashore in the Captain’s gig, and went to the George Inn. The news reached the ears of one Mr Meyers, general agent, tailor, and outfit-merchant to the army: that gentleman meditatively bit the tip of one finger, announced mysteriously to the wife of his bosom that there might be a little profit in the news, and sallied forth to nose out the names of the officers at the George. He found that they had already bespoken a chaise-and-four to carry them to London. ‘I wonder who they are?’ he said invitingly.

The landlord knew exactly who they were. ‘Captain Wainwright of the Tonnant; Captain Smith, attached to General Ross; and Captain Falls of the 20th,’ he replied. ‘Ah!’ said Mr Meyers, brightening. ‘If it is Captain Harry Smith of the 95th, I know him. I will step into the coffee-room.’

He did so. Captain Wainwright was not there, but one military gentleman was standing by the window, holding an unmistakable box under one arm, while the other sat in a chair, wrapped in his cloak.

‘Good afternoon, sir!’ said Mr Meyers politely. ‘I am very glad to see you safely in England again. Dear me, sir, I do believe I have not laid eyes on you since I had the honour of supplying you with some necessaries to take to South America! A long time! It quite makes one think!’ Harry turned. He had a very good memory, and after frowning for a moment at Mr Meyers, his brow cleared, and he said: ‘Meyers! That’s who you are!’

‘Always at your service, sir,’ bowed Mr Meyers. ‘Hearing that you had landed from the Iphigenia—from the Chesapeake, I apprehend?—I took the liberty of coming to pay my respects.’

‘Devilish civil of you!’ said Harry, alert with suspicion.

He encountered an absurdly roguish look. ‘That little box under your arm contains, I see, dispatches,’ suggested Mr Meyers.

‘Well?’ said Harry. ‘What of that?’

“If,’ said Mr Meyers coaxingly, ‘you will tell me their general import, whether good news or bad, I will make it worth your while. Your refit, now! An expensive business, sir, as I well know.’

‘I’ll see you damned first!” exclaimed Harry, controlling a strong desire to knock his visitor down. ‘Of what use, pray, would such general information be to you?’ “I could get a man on horseback to London two hours before you,’ replied Mr Meyers, in a persuasive tone. ‘Good news or bad on ’Change is my object. Now do you understand, sir?’