The Victory (10 page)

Lucy searched in vain for a dry portion of her handkerchief
on which to blow her nose, and Weston pulled his out auto
matically and pushed it at her.

‘
Of course not, only everybody knows he and I never see each other, so nobody would have believed it was his.' She blew her nose forcefully, and then, seeing Weston's expres
sion, her eyes filled irresistibly with tears again. 'Oh, Weston,
don't mind it! I'm not romantic like you — you've always
known that. And I ought to behave properly by Chetwyn. But
I do — I do care for you!' The tears welled over again, and
she buried her face in his handkerchief. 'I'm sorry,' she
sobbed unevenly. 'I don't know why I'm like this. It must be
my con-condition!’

Weston took her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder
until his coat was wet and warm. He was worn out with
emotion, sick with frustration and helplessness. He felt as
though he were in a trap; and twist and turn as he might, he
could see no way out but to do what Aylesbury told him,
which injured his pride as well as going against his wishes.

He remembered so clearly the moment he had first seen
Lucy, coming into the Keppel's Head, her face pale from her
long journey, her hair raggedly cropped, masquerading as a
boy in her burning desire to be a doctor. He had been intrigued
by her insane courage, her ferocious determination, her
straightforward, childlike frankness; but when he had met
her again later as Lady Aylesbury and seen those same quali
ties struggling for expression through the muffling folds of
womanhood, he had loved her as naturally as a bird flies to its
nest.

He understood why people talked of
falling in
love: it was
as sudden, and as irrevocable. It was as if his heart had left
him to live in her. His life, his breath, his blood, were in her,
and if he went away from her and never saw her again, those
things would not return to him: he could not part from her
and live. She was his companion, as close to him as his
thoughts, and though it would have been so much easier if
they had never met, there was nothing to be done about that
now.

Oh, but the child, the child! Not just the one she now
nurtured in her belly, but the one she had borne him before without his knowledge. To him, a child of their bodies was something miraculous and precious, the product, the proof,
which would live on after they were dust, that once, some
where in time, he and she had loved. But she did not see it
like that. It was a hard thing to acknowledge, that though she loved him, it was not as he loved. 'I'm not romantic like you,'
she would say, dear Lucy, hay-haired, freckle-nosed Lucy,
who would brave the entire world for him, and yet could not
say 'I love you'.

She had stopped crying, and he thought she might have
fallen asleep, but after a while she sat up, wiped the smears
from her face, and contemplated him thoughtfully. Her fears
and anxieties in the preceding days had stemmed from uncertainty; but now that the uncertainties were resolved, she was
her old practical self again. Now she knew what had to be
coped with, she could accept it and get on with it: there was
no point in repining. Weston saw all that in her expression.
She was not one to fling everything away in a romantic
gesture; but she had said to him that she would not want him any different, and God forbid that he should be less generous
in his love.

‘
I'm all right now,' she said. 'I won't do that again. Now,
Weston, we must be practical. There are your trunks to be got
ready, the cabin stores to buy, and we have to decide where
I'm to spend the summer. That's difficult, until we know
where you are bound. But if you are for the Channel Fleet, it
had better be Portsmouth or Plymouth, so that I can see you
if you come ashore. I don't want to waste a moment we can be together. When will you get your orders?'

‘
Oh Lucy!' he said with an unwilling laugh. Her eyes were
still pink, and her eyelashes wet and spiky, but she looked
ready for anything. Tenderness welled up in him. There were
so many painful things that would have to be faced, but he
could not think about them yet; not just yet. 'I don't think we
need to start packing this instant. Perhaps you'd better take
off your gown, so that it doesn't get crumpled.'

‘
My gown?' she said in surprise, and then a slow smile
curved her lips, and she stood up. 'Yes, of course,' she said,
stepping into his arms and leaning her whole body against
him. 'At least now it can't possibly do any harm, can it?’

*

At the end of the first week of May, Edward made one of his rare visits to London, taking the opportunity of travelling up
with his childhood friend John Anstey. They called first at
Ryder Street, where they found Lord Aylesbury, in a very
splendid Chinese dressing-gown of scarlet silk and a Turkish
cap with a tassel, taking a late breakfast of coffee and rolls.

‘
What London hours you keep, Chetwyn!' Edward cried by
way of greeting. 'Still breakfasting at eleven? John and
I
were
up at five this morning, to get on the road!’

The earl started up and crossed the room
in
two strides to fold him in a fierce embrace which rather took Ned's breath
away. When he was released, he was surprised to see that
there were tears in his friend's eyes. 'You look as though
you've been ill. Is everything all right?' he enquired anxiously.

‘
I'm well enough, well enough,' Chetwyn said, turning to
shake John Anstey's hand cordially. 'Anstey, my good fellow,
it's a pleasure to see you. Will you take something? A
nuncheon? Your breakfast must
be
a distant memory by now.
Benton! Bring fresh covers, and that sirloin, and fruit! Ned,
can you drink coffee? Ale for Mr Morland, Benton! Draw up a
chair, Anstey. What brings you both to London?'

‘
The war, of course, what else?' John Anstey said, bringing
a chair
to
the round walnut table in the window where the
earl took such meals as he ate at home. It was laid with a lace cloth, and there was a silver vase of white roses in the centre,
whose scent expanded on the sun-warmed air. 'Glorious
roses,' he commented. 'Early, too. Ours at home have taken
such a knock this year with all the gales.'

‘
I get them from Chelmsford House,' Chetwyn answered
with a smile. 'The garden's so sheltered, they always bloom
early. My new man, Benton, used to be a footman there, and
he's remained on friendly terms with the Chelmsford butler.'

‘
What, old Hawkins? Is he still going strong?' Edward put
in.

‘
Strong as ever. I think he feels living in lodgings is rather
beneath me, but
he's
told Benton to help himself to flowers
from the garden for me at any time. I'm looking forward to
August, if
I
can persuade Benton to a liberal interpretation of
the word 'flowers'. The Chelmsford House cherries are
famous!’

Benton came back with a laden tray and set places for the
visitors, and when he had gone, Edward began carving thin
slices from the handsome sirloin in front of him, and said,
'What's the latest news, then, Chet?
Is
this war ever to come
about?'

‘
Word was yesterday that Whitworth is still in Paris,' said
Chetwyn.

‘
But surely the seven-day ultimatum is past?' Anstey said.
'Why hasn't he withdrawn?'

‘
It seems that just as he was about to leave, Buonaparte
took care to put about a rumour that he was willing to deal,
and Whitworth's orders are such that he dare not take it upon
himself to be the aggressor. As long as there's a chance of
negotiating over Malta and the Low Countries, Addington's anxious to avoid declaring war. Boney's got to be put in the
wrong if the anti-war party are to be persuaded to swallow
the pill.'

‘
He'll be forced to in the end,' Anstey said angrily. 'Damn
it, all this shilly-shallying is simply playing into French hands,
giving them time to complete their plans.'

‘
You know that, and I know that, and I'm sure Buonaparte knows that,' Chetwyn said with a wry smile. 'It's just getting
it across to Addington that's the problem. But the situation
can't last much longer.'

‘
It had better not, or some of us are going to start making
serious demands,' Anstey said sternly.

‘
It's an uneasy time,' Chetwyn said. 'The financiers don't
like it, and 'Change is damned nervous. There've been huge
dealings in the Funds, and Lloyds are in a twitter about their
premiums. Allowing for the time it takes to communicate, I'd
say another week or ten days is all it can last. If you have any relatives amongst the pleasure-seekers in France, Anstey, you
had better get them out. I don't like to think what's going to happen to them when war is finally declared. Boney's quite
capable of arresting them all.’

Edward had been eating his way steadily through the beef
while the others talked, and Chetwyn now turned his atten
tion to him. 'Is everything well at Morland Place?'

‘
Oh, we go on much as usual,' Edward said. 'You are
coming up for race-week, aren't you, Chet? I've a couple of
very promising young 'uns for you to put your purse on.'

‘
I wouldn't miss it,' Chetwyn answered. 'But how can they
spare you, old fellow? You haven't yet told me why you're
here.’

Edward told him of his idea for a contract for supplying
corn to the navy. 'I suppose the Commissioner of Portsmouth
would be the most direct man to approach, but I'm all for
trying interest first. That's why I've come up with John.
Addington needs every vote in the House he can get, and John
proposes to offer to support him, if he will speak to the
Comptroller on my behalf. It's of no use his asking St Vincent
— he doesn't hold with jobbery, except where dashing young
sea-officers are concerned. But in any case, from what I hear,
the Comptroller's got more influence than the Naval Lord
and the First Lord put together.'

‘
But I seem to have missed a step somewhere,' Chetwyn
said solemnly. 'What does Anstey gain from this?’

Edward grinned. 'Oh, you spotted that, did you? That's
partly why we're here, Chet — we want to use the Aylesbury influence on John's behalf.'

‘
My eldest boy, you see,' John Anstey explained, 'is mad for
the navy, wants to make it his career. Well, I don't mind it —
I've other sons to follow me in business, and Louisa is all for
it. It runs in her blood, you know — father, grandfather and
brother.'