The Fortune Hunter Page 5

  The Earl opened his bulbous light blue eyes wide. ‘Can’t be done, I’m afraid, Ma’am. Not even Queen Victoria herself could ride out on the Sabbath.’

  Nopsca noted with alarm the perfect stillness of the Empress’s head. How foolish he had been to stand behind her instead of in the Empress’s eyeline. His mistress was not used to having her wishes denied, and he feared for the consequences. Silently he prayed that the Empress would remember that she was a guest in this country and that she could not expect everything to be arranged exactly to her satisfaction as it would be at home. His job was, above all, to save the Empress and the Crown from any embarrassment, and he knew that he would no longer be in employment if he failed to prevent the Empress from breaking the law. Why did the English lord have to be so blunt? Nopsca knew that the way to handle his mistress at these moments was to distract her; an outright refusal would only provoke her.

  He held his breath as the Empress replied, ‘But I thought Victoria was head of the Church in this country!’ She paused. ‘But it is not my place to break your funny English laws. I shall have to contain myself till Monday…’ and she laughed. It wasn’t a very warm laugh but the relief of it made Nopsca exhale sharply. To his horror the Empress turned round and looked at him. She saw the relief in his face and this time she laughed properly.

  ‘You worry too much, Nopsca.’

  Earl Spencer cleared his throat. ‘Your Majesty will need a pilot on Monday. Someone to guide you through the field. Twenty years ago I would have taken on the job myself but I am not the man I was. May I suggest a former equerry of mine, a Captain Middleton. One of the best riders in England and knows the country round here like the back of his hand. Better, if anything.’

  Elizabeth tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowed. ‘Someone to lead me through the field? But I will not be riding out alone; Prince Liechtenstein and Count Esterhazy have come with me from Vienna. They are both excellent horsemen. I believe they will provide me with all the “guidance” I need.’

  The Earl looked down at his boots as if looking for his reflection in the polished leather. He seemed to take comfort from what he saw there because he came back strongly, ‘With respect, Ma’am, they may be capital riders but they have not hunted with the Pytchley. They don’t know how things are done here. My purpose in suggesting Captain Middleton was to spare you any of the minor embarrassments that might arise from unfamiliarity with the terrain, or with some of our customs in the field. Middleton knows every ditch and fence between here and Towcester. I suggested him because I feel sure that Your Majesty will want to be at the head of the pack.’

  Elizabeth considered this. ‘And is he discreet, this captain? Would you send him out riding with your queen?’

  ‘Indeed, Ma’am. He is not absolutely from the first rank of society, but he is a superb rider. And it would put my mind at rest to know that he was at your side. Your presence here is a great honour, Ma’am. But as Master of the Pytchley, your safety is my responsibility.’

  Elizabeth smiled. She suspected that this Captain Middleton’s real duty would be to report on her activities. But if he could ride as well as Earl Spencer said, he could at least be useful while he spied on her.

  ‘Well, I should hate you to worry, Lord Spencer, so I will accept your pilot. But he should know that I am not some porcelain doll to be protected. I am here because I want to ride out with the famous Pytchley hunt. I hope I won’t be disappointed.’

  The Earl picked up his hat and gloves from the chair beside him.

  ‘No danger of that, Ma’am.’

  Elizabeth held out her hand, and this time the Earl bent over to kiss it, his bushy moustache prickling against her skin. She was surprised to see him turn and walk out of the room. Surely he must know that it was disrespectful to turn your back on a monarch? She heard Nopsca behind her make a noise. She guessed he was thinking the same thing. In Vienna such an act would be inconceivable; a courtier would sooner cut his throat than commit such a grievous act of lèse-majesté. But, Elizabeth thought, with a sudden rush of exhilaration, she was not in Vienna now. She had escaped for a moment, from all the layers of custom and faux servility, from the courtiers who were obsequious in public and vicious the moment she turned her back.

  ‘I think we shall have to get used to English manners, Nopsca,’ she said.

  Clementine

  That evening, Lady Crewe hesitated for a moment before announcing who would take Charlotte into dinner.

  The Baird girl was a funny little creature – always fiddling with that camera – but she would be family when Augusta married Fred. Lady Crewe had once hoped for a more glittering marriage for her only daughter, but now she was simply relieved that she was to have a son-in-law at all. The Bairds were a respectable family, not perhaps the smartest, but Augusta at twenty-four could no longer afford to be choosy. Edith Crewe looked at Charlotte, who was standing next to Augusta. She really was no beauty but the fortune, of course, made her attractive enough. It seemed unfair that all poor Dora Lennox’s money should have gone to the daughter; Fred was comfortably off, but the Lennox fortune would have made all the difference to Augusta’s future position. Fred would gain some benefit from the money now, but when Charlotte married, that would all change. She could see that both of Fred’s friends were interested. Hartopp was the more suitable – there was no gossip linking him to married women – but feeling the injustice of Augusta’s four fruitless seasons in search of a husband with a shrug almost of irritation, she beckoned to Captain Middleton.

  As Lady Crewe announced her decision, Bay heard something like a sigh somewhere over his left ear. Chicken Hartopp was not happy. But Bay could see from the smile on Charlotte’s face that he had been her choice.

  He offered her his arm.

  ‘My print has come out well, Captain Middleton,’ she said.

  ‘I would expect nothing less, Miss Baird. You strike me as a most competent person.’

  She looked up at him, surprised. ‘Competent is not a word often applied to young ladies; we are usually called accomplished.’

  ‘But accomplished suggests something rather fanciful and ornamental. You seemed so practical with your cameras and your chemicals, your hobby is hardly that of a young lady,’ Bay said.

  ‘Actually, Captain Middleton, some of the finest photographers are ladies. My godmother Lady Dunwoody has had her work exhibited at the Royal Photographic Society.’

  ‘Don’t be cross. I was trying to pay you a compliment. I would much rather be competent than accomplished.’

  Charlotte paused, uncertain as to the extent of her crossness. A footman pulled out her chair and she sat down. She was about to reply to Captain Middleton when she heard Fred call across to her.

  ‘I say, Mitten, do you remember who the painting of the pheasants in the library at Kevill is by? It’s the spitting image of that one in the corner.’

  Charlotte tried not to flinch at his use of her nickname. ‘Greuze, I believe. Father bought it in Italy.’

  Bay leant towards her and said, ‘Mitten? Why does Fred call you that?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ Charlotte said, ‘I hate it.’ She glared at her brother, who was trying to impress his future father-in-law with the quality of his picture collection.

  ‘Pity. I rather like my nickname. Much more interesting than John. I was called Bay after the Grand National winner. We have the same colouring, apparently. Sadly the resemblance ends there.’

  ‘Sadly?’

  ‘I haven’t won the Grand National, Miss Baird.’ Bay bowed his head.

  ‘Oh, is that what you want?’ Charlotte was surprised that he had such a definite ambition. He hadn’t struck her as a man who made efforts.

  ‘Of course.’ He turned to look at her.

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘I hope so. I might have a shot this year. It’s all about the horse, and Tipsy is a contender.’

  ‘Ah yes, the famous Tipsy.’

  ‘I hope you are not mocking m
e, Miss Baird.’ He looked at her with uncharacteristic seriousness. ‘You don’t ride, of course, so I can’t blame you for your ignorance, but believe me when I tell you that horses are remarkable creatures. If you find the right one, as I have in Tipsy, it is like finding the other half of your soul. She understands me better than any woman has ever done. And she will never desert me.’ He picked up his wine glass and drained it.

  Charlotte said, ‘Perhaps you haven’t found the right woman, Captain Middleton,’ and then, realising how forward that sounded, she blushed and added, ‘I believe there are some examples of my sex who may be as sympathetic to your feelings as a horse, even if they aren’t much use in the hunting field.’

  Bay smiled. ‘I shall take your word for it. Perhaps I am better at choosing horses than women. You know what you are getting with a horse, whereas with a woman all you can see is what’s on the outside. You can feel a horse’s soul the moment you ride out together, but with a woman – well, I don’t think I have ever met a woman who says what she means.’

  ‘But Captain Middleton,’ Charlotte said, ‘let’s not forget that horses, even remarkable ones like your Tipsy, cannot actually speak. Who knows what white lies or polite half truths your favourite mare might utter if she could. Or perhaps you would prefer a woman who did not speak at all, but gazed at you in mute adoration, ready to obey your orders instantly. I think you are in the wrong country. I think if you were to go to Constantinople you might find the kind of woman you want in the sultan’s harem.’

  ‘I would go like a shot if I thought you were right, but I suspect that even the sultan has difficulty in finding a woman who means what she says.’

  ‘I’m afraid that you are a misogynist, Captain, and that nothing I say will make any difference.’

  ‘Possibly, Miss Baird, but please don’t stop trying. I am enjoying your efforts.’

  The footman took away the soup plates and Charlotte turned to talk to Augusta’s younger brother on her other side. He was round-eyed and earnest and he was soon telling her about his studies at Keble College, where he was an ardent supporter of the Oxford movement. As the soufflé was replaced by the turbot, Charlotte turned again to her right but she saw that Bay was listening to the conversation across the table. He was sitting very still, and Charlotte thought this was the first time she had ever seen him motionless.

  Lady Crewe was talking to Fred.

  ‘I am always amazed at the names that perfectly sensible people choose to give their children. Do you remember when everyone was calling their daughters Aurora, on account of Mrs Browning’s Aurora Leigh? And now I had a letter this morning from Stella Airlie to say that Blanche Hozier has called her new baby Clementine. I mean, what kind of name is that? It sounds like a medicine. You must promise me, Fred, that you and Augusta will choose decent English names that people can pronounce. Nothing worse than a foreign sounding name.’

  Fred was nodding enthusiastically, his face flushed. Charlotte could see that he was nervous. Fred’s mother’s name had been Leonie.

  She was about to tell Captain Middleton this – she sensed that he would be more than happy to help her tease her brother – but he was holding himself so rigidly that she felt if she touched him he might shatter. The only thing moving was a muscle that twitched in his eyelid.

  For a moment she sat silently, but then, feeling her aunt’s eye upon her, she knew she must say something. Her aunt was always scolding her for her lack of conversation, saying, ‘A man wants to be soothed by feminine conversation, you don’t want to make him work too hard. Your job is to make it easy for him to talk to you.’ Charlotte had been surprised at this advice, as in her experience most men were more than happy with the sound of their own voice. But she leant towards Captain Middleton and said, ‘What do you think, Captain Middleton? I think Clementine is rather a pretty name.’

  Rather to her surprise, Chicken Hartopp, who was sitting opposite them, picked up her remark.

  ‘Yes, what do you think, Middleton?’ he said, so loudly that the table went quiet.

  Bay paused for a moment and then he smiled.

  ‘It’s not a name I would have chosen, but then the only thing I am competent to judge is horseflesh.’ He turned to Charlotte.

  ‘What do you say, Miss Baird?’ She sensed that Chicken Hartopp, her aunt and Lady Crewe were all listening, and she saw that Middleton was labouring to keep his mouth stretched into a smile.

  She took a breath and then she said, ‘I suppose the question is whether one’s name is a self-fulfilling prophecy? My real name is ordinary enough, but I feel quite belittled if Fred calls me Mitten. Perhaps you feel the same, Captain Hartopp, when people call you Chicken?’ She saw that Bay’s smile had lost its tight rigidity and, encouraged by this, although a little ashamed to have teased Captain Hartopp, she continued.

  ‘When you are at the races, do you bet as confidently on a horse called Treacle as one called Pegasus? How confident would you feel about the diagnosis of a Dr Pain?’

  Captain Hartopp was about to answer when Lady Crewe said, ‘We have an undertaker here in the village whose name is Coffin. I wonder if he ever contemplated another profession. I must ask him.’ The conversation drifted off into maids called Polish, judges called Gallows and a surgeon called Saw. Charlotte felt that the moment, whatever it had been, had passed.

  She turned to Middleton, who had slumped back against his chair.

  ‘I hear that there is royalty hunting with the Pytchley this year.’

  Middleton laughed. ‘If you mean the Queen of Naples, she is ex-royalty. The Italians chucked her out.’

  ‘Still, I should like a picture. My album has nothing grander than an earl. A queen, even a deposed one, would be a coup. Will you help me, Captain Middleton?’

  He looked across the table as he replied, his eyes resting for a moment on Chicken Hartopp’s red face. ‘For you, Miss Baird, I would do anything, even make myself agreeable to one of the vainest woman in Europe.’

  ‘Is she really so bad? I thought she was generally considered rather handsome.’

  Chicken Hartopp leant over. ‘The Queen of Naples has rather a weakness for Middleton. Wanted him to be her pilot. Not a job I would have turned down, but I suppose you are spoilt for choice, eh Middleton?’

  Charlotte felt a tiny brush of saliva on her cheek as Hartopp leant towards her. She sat back involuntarily.

  ‘I didn’t fancy being at the beck and call of a woman, even if she is a queen. There are other things I want to do.’ Middleton laughed. ‘I realise that makes me sound very ungallant.’

  ‘A little, Captain Middleton.’ Charlotte was about to say that at least he was honest when Hartopp leant forward again. ‘Time was, Middleton, when you liked nothing better than to be at the beck and call of a woman.’ This remark hit a pause in the table’s hum of conversation.

  Lady Crewe clucked audibly, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing you mention the Queen of Naples, Captain Middleton. Did you know that her sister the Empress of Austria has taken Easton Neston from Lord Hesketh for the season? She is to hunt with the Pytchley. I hear she is coming over with ten horses.’

  Lady Lisle spoke. ‘Not only horses. Lady Spencer told me that she travels everywhere with a pet monkey, a dairy cow and a pack of wolfhounds. They have had to make all sorts of alterations to Easton Neston. Apparently one of the bedrooms is to be turned into a gymnasium.’

  ‘A gymnasium? What on earth can she want with such a thing?’ Lady Crewe was astonished.

  ‘The Empress is so proud of her figure that she does calisthenics every single day,’ Augusta said. ‘I read in the Illustrated London News that she has taken lessons from a circus performer and can make her horses jump through hoops of fire.’

  ‘Honestly, Augusta, how can you be so credulous?’ said her mother. ‘Empresses don’t do circus tricks, even foreign ones. People will say anything to sell a newspaper. But I must say I am looking forward to seeing her. They say she is the most beautiful woman in Eu
rope. ‘

  Lady Crewe rose to her feet and beckoned to the other ladies to follow her.

  As Middleton got up to pull out Charlotte’s chair, his hand brushed across her bare shoulder. She felt its heat and looked up at him, startled.

  ‘Oh how clumsy of me, Miss Baird, I am sorry,’ but Charlotte thought that he didn’t look sorry at all. He was staring at her and she stared back, feeling that to look away would be cowardly somehow. At last he laughed. ‘Look at me. I have the manners of a stable hand. Will you allow me to escort you to the door, Miss Baird?’ He extended his arm with exaggerated deference. Charlotte laid the tips of her fingers on it and they walked in silence to the door. As she walked up the stairs to the drawing room she still felt the touch of his hand on her shoulder, her collarbone to be exact.

  Hair Brushing

  The brush stopped, arrested by a knot. So much hair, it came down to below the Empress’s knees; the imperial hairdresser had to bend almost double to brush its entire length. To wash it took a dozen eggs and a bottle of brandy. And it was so heavy the hairdresser could see the relief on her mistress’s face when she took out the pins at the end of the day. It was like carrying a baby on the back of your head. Sometimes it felt so heavy that the Empress would lie in bed with her hair tied to the ceiling with ribbons to relieve the weight.

  The hairdresser stood back, the hair in front of her pacified and smooth at last.

  ‘Shall I tie it up, Majesty?’

  Elizabeth put her head on one side and smiled at her in the mirror, ‘No, I need it tonight to keep me warm.’

  She stood up and shook the hair around her like a cloak. The hairdresser made her deepest curtsey, saying as she always did, ‘I lay myself at Your Majesty’s feet.’

  ‘Thank you. You may leave us.’ The imperial hairdresser walked, as custom dictated, out of the room backwards, hesitating a little as the route was as yet unfamiliar to her.

  Elizabeth sat down in front of the mirror. She thought there was a new line underneath her left eye. It was what her mother would call a laughter line: ‘Never forget that every smile leaves a crease on your face, girls.’ Every time she said that, Elizabeth and her sisters would wipe their faces smooth as china for a minute and then one of them inevitably would start giggling and their mother would sigh and say, ‘But your faces are your future, you know.’ Her mother had been right, of course. It was Elizabeth’s fifteen-year-old face that had changed everything that day in Bad Ischl. She had gone as an afterthought: to be a companion to Helena, her eldest sister and the one who had been chosen by their aunt to marry her son the Emperor. But Franz had seen Sisi, as Elizabeth was known to the family, and after that he was blind to anyone else. For the first and last time in his life, he had acted on impulse. He chose her, Sisi the shy one, not the suitable Helena who was so good at saying the right thing. Helena, who always looked regal, even when she was asleep.