But Hildersham was not quite that. Grant was in the Park again the next day, still half-hoping to see her, and still not sure what he would do. He walked down to the edge of the Row, and there he met Captain Curry, who for once was walking also. They recognized each other and stopped for a word.
‘Ha!’ said Curry. ‘Same as me, perhaps? Walking it off?’
’Walking what off?’
‘Dear fellah!’ It sounded like a protest. ‘Dinner last night. Mess. Three in the morning. Guests under table. Wonderful’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Why else should a man walk, damme? Well, well! Seen the Anstey?’
‘Er--no. Not since---’
‘Oh, you don’t say---’
‘How is she?’
‘Marvellous. Blooming. Teach Venus. Dined with us the other night. All hearts at feet.’ ‘Lucky man.’
‘That’s Hildersham, by God. Envy of Town, and don’t think I blame her. He can give her everything. Damned lucky fellah, too. Lucky to be alive.’
‘Why?’
‘Boney.’ For a moment Curry paused, and then for once spoke simply. ‘Waterloo. Aide-de-camp. Ride here, ride there, orders, messages. Shot at all day. Three-quarters of ‘em killed. Hildersham wasn’t. Two horses killed, though. Bullet through his flask, another through his hat. Not a scratch on him.’
‘The devil!’ Grant spoke slowly as he tried to take this in. ‘I’ve been lucky at times myself.’
‘Bullet spilt his brandy, though. Damned thirsty. Ha!’
He was suddenly waving his hat to a lady he had seen, and a moment later he was ambling across to join her. Grant watched him go, and then resumed his solitary walk, trying to adjust his picture of Hildersham. He had thought the man a trifler in expensive clothes. And Curry, too, with the affected voice. He was in the Blues, so he must have been in the thick of it himself. It was something the Navy had been spared. The Mediterranean had been a peaceful lake that Sunday morning, and
Amphion
had backed her topsails while Grant read divine service on the quarterdeck. He could remember his own voice, the soft lap of water against the side, the gleam of polished brass, the shadow of the ensign dancing on the sunlit deck. Then he had given sherry to his officers before they went to dinner. It had been a pleasant Sunday morning, with a blue sky, a calm sea, and the tompions in the guns. It had been raining at Waterloo.
The thought worried him. He must change his estimate of Hildersham; of Curry, too, and of some others in this fashionable throng. He had been inclined to set all of them down as triflers, fit to lounge at the opera and show their horses in the Row, and it was no doubt true of most of them.
There had been plenty of these in England, with the Prince Regent to set the example; but there were others too, the Hildershams and Currys, and there seemed no way of picking them out. It was all very difficult.
There were the women, too. They seemed all of a pattern, expensive and confident, arrogantly sure of themselves. They were everywhere in the Row, driving their gigs and phaetons, or being driven by a husband--or somebody else’s. One here and there was sitting a horse, and giving a display of skill that matched the men’s. They matched them in elegance too, and almost outdid them in confidence, and Grant had a worried little frown as he watched. No one expected women to be concerned in a war, but these looked as if they had never given a thought to it, or even known that it existed. It was their own affair, no doubt, but it was a frame of mind that would not attract them to a sea officer who felt lost and strange, and could not even speak their language. It was even more difficult.
He turned away, out of humour now with the whole of this parade, and he began to walk slowly back to the gate of the Park, thinking that he could better take his exercise somewhere else. He would do better still, perhaps, out of London altogether. Somewhere in the country there would be people who were not like this, who had simpler ways and were content with a simpler life. There must be, but he did not know where to find them. He had no roots in the country now, no home he could go to since his parents died, and he could hardly roam the country at large in search of he knew not what. It was still difficult.
Then he saw her. He had already noticed, through his thoughts, the barouche-and-four that had turned into the Park and was coming down the road towards him. He had even noticed that it had a man and a woman on the box, and, since a woman would hardly sit with a coachman, he had supposed that here was some wealthy buck with the current taste for driving four-in-hand. But now it was closer, the high-stepping blacks coming at a spanking trot, and it was plainly Miss Anstey on the box. She was in ivory-white now, with a little gypsy hat of primrose straw, tied under her chin with lavender ribbon, but even her way of sitting seemed to say who she was. Nor could there be much doubt about her escort. It was Hildersham, broad-shouldered and erect, looking as confident as ever, and Grant stepped to the side of the road, far from pleased at the sight, to let the barouche go past.
But it did not. He, too, had been recognized, and a hand lifted suddenly in a wave of greeting. She seemed friendly, and she was near enough now for him to see the quick smile that had come to her, and the lift of the eyebrows that gave a look of mock surprise. He saw her speak quickly to Hildersham, who at once pulled back the reins. The barouche stopped, and Grant was standing stiffly as he raised his hat.
‘Well met!’ Miss Anstey was the first to speak, and no one could have called her shy. ‘I’ve been wondering if you’d forgotten me.’
‘By no means, ma’am.’
‘A bit stiff, aren’t you?’ The eyebrows lifted for a moment. ‘Nobody calls me that. It isn’t friendly.’
‘I’m sorry if----’
‘I’m just Anice Anstey. Or, rather, I’m just Anice to most of them.’ The blue eyes seemed to twinkle with delight. ‘And I don’t know your name at all. You never told us.’
‘Did I not?’ Almost against his will he could feel the stiffness oozing out of him. ‘I’m Richard Grant.’
‘Richard it is. And don’t call me anything but Anice again. I won’t have it.’ There was a quick pout of her lips to drive that home, and then another thought seemed to strike her. ‘By the way--you do know Hildersham?’
She was utterly informal about it, and Hildersham showed no displeasure. He was the first to respond, and he was looking both pleased and possessive.
‘Glad to meet you again, sir.’
‘Er--thank you.’
Something of the stiffness had returned, and he knew that a touch of jealousy was in it. He looked again at the shining barouche, resplendent in dark iron-grey with milk-white wheels, at the empty seats in dark-grey leather, the impassive grooms behind, the team of matching blacks, already pawing with impatience, and he wondered how many hundred guineas it had cost. It was the finest product of a London coachbuilder, in every detail a nobleman’s equipage. Then the man himself, erect on the box with the reins looped through his fingers, strong and handsome and sure of himself; he had been at Waterloo, and now he was ‘protecting’ Anice. The two thoughts came together, one to be liked and one not, and they jostled for mastery. Grant found himself looking hard at the man, looking for something to dislike, and he could hardly find it; except, perhaps, that he wore trousers. He was in the latest mode; a black tall hat, tapering to the crown, a blue single-breasted frock, and then the thin tight trousers of white cotton jean, and it was to these that Grant took exception. He did not like trousers for gentlemen. They belonged to seamen, he thought, and a gentleman should wear breeches, or his own tight-fitting pantaloons. But that was a detail, and he knew he must stop cavilling at trifles. Hildersham had been friendly and courteous, with no hint of condescension, and he must at least be given courtesy in return.
‘Thank you.’ He said it again, and then tried to do better. ‘I’m glad, also, to meet again. I was a shade confused the other day.’
‘After the dance she led us? I don’t wonder.’ Hildersham laughed suddenly. ‘You’re a navy man, aren’t you? Now
I’m
the one who should have thought of cutting across country. So should Murphy and Curry, and you beat the lot of us. Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Not at all. I mean it.’ Again the laugh came, pleasant and genuine. ‘Well, I hope to meet you again, sir. Where do you stay in Town?’
‘Thomas’s--Berkeley Square.’
‘Ah, yes. Well, my town house is quite close--in Hertford Street--so if you’d care to call on me---’
‘I’d be honoured, my lord.’
Again it was a little stiff, as if he had no intention of doing it, and at once Anice pushed herself into the talk again. She sounded as if she were not used to being left out of it.
‘It’s all big and grand,’ she said, ‘and it frightens
me.
At least, it would if I went there, but I don’t.’
‘Quite right.’ He was remembering quickly that there was a Countess of Hildersham.
‘Of course it’s right. I don’t make trouble for anybody. But you know where I live and it isn’t grand at all, so you can come and see me there. I want to hear about ships. I like the Navy. What sort of a ship had you?’
‘A frigate lately--
Amphion.’
‘Come and tell me about it. You’re not frightened of
me,
are you?’ ‘I hope not.’
‘So do I. I’ll ask Hildersham, too, if you want him.’ An eyebrow twitched for a moment as the blue eyes looked at his. ‘Mind you, I’m better by myself. More fun.’
‘Steady,’ said Hildersham.
‘Well,
you
ought to know.’ She flashed him an impudent smile and then came back to Grant. ‘So come and see me some time.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Hildersham.
‘It isn’t. I want to know about ships.’ She pouted at him and then turned her eyes on Grant once more. ‘He doesn’t live with me, you know. He only comes to see me, and so----’
‘You’re going away,’ said Hildersham.
‘Oh--so we are.’ She managed to sound dismayed for a moment. Yes, we’re going to Paris tomorrow. But it’s only for a few weeks, and you’ll know when we’re back. Someone will tell you.’
‘Very likely,’ said Hildersham darkly.
‘Well, you know how people talk.’
‘From the way you behave, miss, it’s not surprising.’
‘Poor little me! Now you’re to come and see me when we’re back, and don’t forget it. I want you.’
‘Thank you. I---’ Grant found himself laughing, and distinctly pleased at the annoyance he could sense in Hildersham. ‘I ought to say I’m honoured.’
‘Of course you should. Quite right.’ There was a distinct pout of her lips, and then her eyes seemed brighter than before. ‘Do you remember that rose?’
‘I’m afraid it’s fading.’
‘You still have it?’ she asked quickly, laughing with delight. ‘Fading doesn’t matter, if you don’t let the memory fade too.’
‘It won’t.’
‘Is that a promise? Now I’ll tell you something.’
‘Time we were going,’ said Hildersham.
‘Just a minute.’ She tapped him imperiously on the shoulder, and then she leaned down from the box of the barouche to bring her whole force to bear. ‘I’ll tell you something. You’re different, and that’s rather nice.’
‘I don’t quite---’
‘No, you look as if you don’t. But it’s true, all the same, and don’t you forget it, if someone starts smiling at you. They will, you know, some of them--little hussies! Now Jehu---’ She sat suddenly erect, head back, shoulders braced, smiling eyes turned to Hildersham. ‘Forward the horses!’
‘About time too.’ He spoke firmly, as if he had certainly had enough of this. But then, good manners unbroken, he spoke pleasantly to Grant. ‘Whenever I’m back in Town, sir, I’ll be delighted to see you.’
‘Thank you. I---’
‘Au revoir.
Happy hunting while I’m away.’ The long reins flicked, and the restless blacks were away in the instant. The harness jingled, the white wheels crunched in the road, and Grant stepped quickly back as the barouche went bowling away with a swirl of dust behind it. Anice turned for a moment on the box, and he saw the smile and the little gloved hand that waved so jauntily at him. He swept his hat in answer, and he saw her turn away. Then he felt utterly alone. She was driving away, and she would not come back. It was not to be expected, whatever she had said. She was driving with Hildersham, who had rank and title and thirty thousand a year, and she was not likely to forget it. He had better do the forgetting himself. Yet he could
not
forget her, and perhaps he never would. He had been too long at sea, fifteen years of it with scarcely a sight of a woman, and perhaps it was hard that the first to look into his eyes should be this one. She had been friendly too, and the deep yearnings of years were rousing in him. Perhaps she had known how to rouse them, but she was going with Hildersham, and the world seemed grey and lonely.
He went through the Park gate, and just for a moment he looked back, looked at the distant crowd, the horsemen and the gigs and phaetons, the elegant lookers-on. They all seemed very free from care, all intent upon themselves, but it might be different soon. The war was over but the aftermath was not, and no one knew what the post-war world would be--except that it would be different, and already there were tales of falling prices, of unemployment, of manufacturers in ruin as contracts ended. Even the terms of peace were not yet known. Wellington was in Paris discussing those, surrounded by a cloud of pleasure-seekers, and Hildersham would be among them soon; and somewhere in the tropics a ship was sailing south, endlessly in the ocean silence. She would be across the Line by now, close-hauled in the southeast trades, and he wondered how long she would take on passage. Four thousand miles to St. Helena, and
Northumberland
had no turn of speed.
He shook himself, telling himself he was turning silly and had better get a grasp on things. The afternoon was ending, and it was time for dinner. But something else had ended too,
and all he had left was the petals of a rose, pressed between the leaves of his prayer book--and that was silly too. But he could not help it. She had been a dream of what he had never known; and less and less did he know what he now should do.