Jealousy was not one of George Markham’s faults, but he felt a strong flash of it then. The beautiful creature before him, with the wisps of corn-coloured hair trailing from her turban had, when he’d first encountered her in Toulon, been Miss Gordon. More than that: although he’d not underrated the difficulties, he had contemplated a serious attempt at seduction. The reasons, quite apart from mere physical attraction, were still there now. That slightly knowing and superior smile, mixed with a reserve that stated quite clearly that no man should contemplate trifling with her affections unless he was considering matrimony. The thought of that now redundant word made him laugh, which brought to her forehead, just above her nose, the twin lines of anger he remembered so well.
‘You find something amusing?’
‘No.’
The lines deepened. ‘Yet you laugh?’
‘Such a reaction can be caused by despair as well, ma’am.’
‘Despair, Lieutenant?’ The word clearly confused her, the puzzled look staying on her face as the voice barked at her: ‘Elizabeth!’
She spun round to look at her new husband. His face was puce with anger, which threw the ragged scar, behind which no blood ran, into sharp relief.
‘Sir,’ she responded.
Hanger glared at Markham, then took her arm, and with scant gentility pulled her away. Even though he was whispering, Markham was close enough to hear his terse outburst.
‘You will oblige me in future, madam, by refraining from any contact with that scoundrel. Quite apart from my own dislike of the knave, there is my reputation to consider.’
‘As you wish, sir,’ Lizzie replied, in a louder voice than that of her husband, and moreover one that showed no trace of apprehension. ‘Though I will not forget the necessity of proper social grace.’
All attempt at control went from Hanger’s voice then. ‘Grace be damned, madam. That rake is out of bounds, and if I see you talking to him again, then damn me, rest assured, you will feel the consequences.’
‘Husband!’
‘That is what I am. And I will exercise rights other than those which come to me conjugally, if you dare to disobey me.’
Lizzie had pluck, even if she also had a quaver in her voice. ‘Be so kind as to keep your voice down, sir.’
Hanger, suddenly realising that people had turned to stare, jerked at his new bride’s arm to lead her away from them. Behind him, Markham was glaring at his back, as much for his mere existence as for the way he was treating his wife. He knew enough about the man to suspect he had a predilection for the whip. Augustus Hanger was a bully, a gruff, ill-mannered brute who lorded it over the weak and defenceless, while toadying to those in power. Lizzie Gordon might be a trifle snobbish in her ways, and demand attentions without surrendering anything as compensation, but she was far too good for a lout like him.
‘Money,’ Markham said to himself. ‘Just remember, boyo, the creature is stinking rich.’
‘Now just who would that be?’
Markham turned to find Major Lanester standing beside him, glass in hand, white waistcoat stretched to the limit, his plump face already flushed with drink, his eyebrows raised as though he was in ignorance of who was being referred to. Yet Markham knew he wasn’t confused but amused, a fact betrayed by his inability to stop his lips from twitching.
‘No one.’
‘Well it certainly ain’t me, son. If I was rich I’d buy myself a colonelcy, take a young and feisty woman for a wife, and bribe some government official to give me a profitable and peaceable posting.’
‘No hankering after glory, Major?’
‘No thanks, boy,’ Lanester growled. ‘I’ve seen too many folks like that in my years, and they are a damned nuisance to a man. Your Papa had the right notion. Get your soldiering over when you’re young, then settle down in a nice lucrative billet.’
Markham wasn’t sure whether to be angry with Lanester or grateful. Few people even referred to his parentage, unless intent on undermining him. And no one ever alluded to venality in his father’s behaviour while maintaining a warm smile. Yet this Virginian talked as if no stain was apparent in either case, with an ease that sounded too friendly to be condescending.
‘I doubt Corsica will provide you with what you seek. According to one of my Lobsters, even Seneca found it barren.’
‘I know it will be barren for me, Lieutenant,’ Lanester replied, looking after Hanger and Lizzie. ‘And for the sake of the peace, I hope the gods deny you what you’re after as well.’
As a warning to watch his step, it was as subtle as Lanester could be. Markham wondered if he could see inside his head, could detect the way his blood was racing through his veins, understand the thoughts that exhilarated him. Lizzie Gordon would have been a hard nut to crack as a single woman, requiring time and patience. But now she was Mrs Elizabeth Hanger, even if, in his head, he could not bring himself to style her so. And that, given any lack of finer feelings in her spouse, might make her an easier prospect. And then there was the delicious thrill in the notion; that as well as introducing her to a degree of pleasure he was certain she could not have experienced, he might actually cuckold Hanger.
‘So what did you deduce from your earlier interview?’ Lanester said, changing the subject.
‘That there is as much love lost as honour shared amongst our seniors. Hood didn’t show him my letter, did he?’
The round, red face creased with frustration. ‘I should have known Dundas would blab.’
‘I got the impression he didn’t tell everyone.’
‘You’re right. But he dropped enough hints for the ignorant to get the rumour mills working overtime. They cleared the cabin after you left. It was just Dundas and Hood, goin’ at it, hammer and tongs.’
‘I can guess what about, though not the details.’
‘Ships are hell for eavesdropping, boy,’ the major replied. ‘All that thick oak.’
‘Is d’Aubent right? Do they need the presence of General Paoli? And if they do, can they get him?’
Lanester shrugged. ‘Plates will fly if he does respond. Pasquale Paoli might be revered as a saint by the rank and file, but there are those with braid on their cuff, Corsican and English, who reckon him an interfering old pest. Truth is, they’re both right.’
‘You sound as if you know him.’
‘I do, Lieutenant.’
Markham opened his mouth to pursue that, Paoli being a very famous hero whose exploits had formed the basis of childhood adventures.
‘Dinner, ladies and gentlemen.’ The shout from Hood’s steward killed every conversation, not just theirs. Those on the maindeck began to file through the double doors on either side of the ship that led to the great cabin. Serocold was just inside, and as soon as he spotted Markham he gestured to him.
‘The admiral wants you close to both him and his Corsican guests, but on the opposite side of the high table from General Dundas.’
‘What about precedence?’
‘I quote,’ Serocold replied. ‘“Precedence be damned, and if anyone sees fit to mention Markham’s elevation, let them know it is by my express invitation.”’
Judging by the looks he received, many of them extremely baleful, there were quite a number of people who wished to question his place. In a situation that demanded seating according to rank and importance, the placing of a mere marine lieutenant so close to the host was a case for raised eyebrows, none more elevated than those of Captain Richard de Lisle. But he was above others too, senior officers of both services, many of whom clearly felt slighted.
Markham found himself some five places to the right of Hood, seated next to one of the Corsican officers, a General of Brigade called Grimaldi, who patently had reservations about eating aboard ship, even one securely moored in harbour. Regardless of his swarthy skin, he showed a trace of pallid flesh, particularly between ears and chin, that led his fellow diner to conclude the man was a martyr to seasickness. This was an affliction which few at the table had managed to avoid during the service life, though not one of them could be brought to consider it as anything other than unmanly. But, despite his inner disquiet, Grimaldi spoke French with fluency, and so did George Markham, so they conversed easily.
Well travelled, the Corsican general was nevertheless rather parochial in outlook, able to reduce any subject to the effect it would have on his native island. Small and wiry, with a fine black moustache, he had the dark Italian eyes of his race, a very prominent nose and a craggy quality to the remainder of his features. The excitability which seemed habitual obviously had to be kept in check at such a formal gathering, which gave his conversation a breathless air, as he tried to contain his enthusiasms.
All of these revolved around the nature of Corsican society, the beauty and probity of the womenfolk, the outstanding bravery of the men, who had tamed a landscape so alien to human habitation it was a wonder of the world, while retaining standards of honour that were unsurpassed. Sanpiero Corso was mentioned with breathless awe, a low-born islander who’d risen to become a French general in the sixteenth century, aided by his patron Catherine de Medici. (Grimaldi failed to add that Sanpiero fell to an assassin’s knife, as a result of a vendetta caused by his own murder of a wife thirty-five years his junior.) Markham learned that no Corsican would bow the knee to a tyrant, permit another man even to kiss his wife’s hand, let alone her cheeks, and kill anyone who attempted to steal his sheep. At the peak of this paragon society stood the puissant figure of General Pasquale Paoli, the Great Liberator.
Even though the events Grimaldi seemed keen for him to remember had happened a long time ago, before his listener had reached the age of ten, the name had a resonance for Markham. Pasquale Paoli was world-famous, a philosopher soldier who seemed to embody the ideas of Voltaire and Rousseau, a true figure of the Age of Enlightenment. Celibate, deeply religious and learned, he was rightly credited with uniting one of the most fractious races on earth, then imbuing them with a common purpose so profound that they’d ejected their Genoese overlords from the island after an occupation of several hundred years.
Fighting a corrupt and ailing city state was one thing, taking on the power of the King of France quite another. Paoli had fought long and hard, and had inflicted several stunning defeats on a succession of French generals. But eventually, fearing that the British had designs on the Corsican harbours, the French brought from the mainland enough men and material to complete the conquest of the island. Even then, it had taken bribes to make any headway, gold that detached people from their allegiance to the nationalist cause.
Paoli was finally defeated at the battle of Ponte Nuovo, and chose to flee to England rather than face capture and either death or incarceration. In London he’d been lionised as a standard-bearer against tyranny, granted a pension by the King, and had lived in comfort for twenty years, until the advent of the French Revolution had allowed him to return home in triumph to his native soil.
Delivered with brio, the tale was suffocating in its intensity. But Grimaldi was so engrossed he barely noticed that his fellow diner had given up listening. Most of Markham’s attention was directed to the opposite table, where Lizzie Gordon sat, several places away from her husband. One of the few women present, she had no difficulty in monopolising the guests on either side. But she would not have had a problem regardless of competition. A beauty before, her face had filled out just enough to remove any trace of pinched ill-humour. She knew he was watching her, it was plain from the occasional flick of an eye in his direction. Her reluctance to insist that he stop, which only required one steady glare, was encouraging.
‘General Grimaldi,’ said Dundas, calling across from the far side of the table, some half-dozen places away. ‘What opinion do you have regarding General Paoli?’
Markham could almost feel the man stiffen beside him. ‘In what way do you mean?’
Dundas indicated Grimaldi’s two superiors, fellow generals seated either side of the admiral, neither of whom looked entirely happy. It was Hood who spoke, his face as bland as his tone.
‘General Dundas proposed that it would be a boost to your troops’ morale if he were to come and join the army.’
‘Indeed it would, sir,’ replied Grimaldi, so heartily that it seemed to increase his compatriots’ gloom. ‘Why, his mere presence would be worth ten regiments!’
‘Truly, an army with faith in its leaders can achieve wonders.’
Hood said this with an air of mock gravity, following it with what he imagined was a look of pure innocence aimed at Dundas. Close to the top table, their fellow diners kept up the appearance of conversation. But it was a sham. Every ear, Army and Navy, was engaged in listening, breath held. Dundas had reddened even more, taking it for what it was, a barely-disguised insult. But he responded with seeming equanimity, aiming his words at Hood’s guests, rather than to the admiral himself.
‘That is to undermine the quality of the troops themselves, something I cannot subscribe to. It requires a combination of soldiers and leaders to achieve success.’
‘Hear him,’ said several officers lower down the board, men who’d forgotten they were not supposed to be listening.
‘Then, of course, there is luck,’ added Dundas. There was a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, though he’d introduced a harder tone into his voice. ‘It was damned bad luck that the troops we expected were not there to meet us when we landed at Fornali.’
Grimaldi responded on behalf of all the Corsican officers, who nodded sagely as he spoke. ‘That was most unfortunate, General Dundas. We did all in our power to get there on time. But good intentions are often a victim of war.’
‘And Lacombe was lucky to get clear, was he not?’ hissed Dundas, suddenly like a man whose patience was being sorely tried. ‘But perhaps it wasn’t all dependent on fortune. The fellow on your right has an opinion on that!’
Grimaldi turned to look at Markham, a degree of confusion on his face, as Dundas continued, ‘Has Lieutenant Markham told you who he is?’
The Corsican was slightly taken aback. Hood had gone as stiff as a board, and was looking straight down the centre of the cabin, jaw tightly clenched. Markham raised his eyes to look over the General’s shoulder, praying that he would say no more.
‘Yes, General, he has,’ nodded Grimaldi.
‘I don’t mean his name and rank, sir. Perhaps you wondered why he was placed above the salt. The fact is that he was the officer who spotted that the French were abandoning Fornali. Pure luck, as we were just discussing. He fired off the flares and raised the alarm. Ain’t that true, Markham?’
‘Sir!’
It was the only reply he could give, since to try and elaborate would only make matters worse. Hood obviously felt the same, since he too said nothing. In terms of subtlety, Dundas’s words, particularly his way of pointing up the seating arrangements, equated to dropping a cannonball into a plate of soup. Markham, determined to stare straight ahead, only saw Grimaldi out of the corner of his eye. But he reacted like the other Corsican officers in the cabin. Apart from the two generals either side of Hood, they’d been relaxed, smiling and conversational. Now they stiffened perceptibly, and the way they avoided looking at the object of Dundas’s remark was only another indication of their acute discomfort.
‘The luck didn’t extend to catching hold of one,’ added Dundas, showing great interest in the food on his plate. ‘Unfortunate, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Very,’ replied General Buttafuco, small and portly, who sat two places away on Hood’s left, a remark which produced little more than a grunt from the Corsican commander, General Francisco Arena, who sat on Hood’s right as the guest of honour. He was taller than his companions, but not by a great deal, and much paler of skin, his face pock-marked with the ravages of early smallpox.
Dundas turned to Arena, his voice still hearty and amused, as though he was discussing the pursuit of some game. ‘Still, I daresay he has an inkling of whom to blame. Might like to arrange for the marines to take revenge. Long memories, they have, in my experience, isn’t that right, Admiral?’
‘Hurrump,’ was the sole reply, as Hood hid his face, as well as his embarrassment, in his glass.
Markham fought to avoid eye-contact with his fellow diners, all of whom were now staring at him. It was Arena who saved him any further discomfort, by suddenly raising his glass.
‘Then I propose a toast that Lieutenant Markham will find very acceptable,’ he exclaimed. ‘Death to the French!’
That was a sentiment both host and guests were obliged to endorse. Even Markham found himself murmuring the incantation, while at the same time wondering if Arena’s injunction was genuine or contrived. When conversation started again it was stilted and full of surreptitious looks, in his direction as well as at the Corsican generals. Grimaldi had turned to his left, to engage in conversation one of Hood’s flag captains. Was he eager to regale him with tales of Corsican pluck, or reluctant to look Markham in the eye? Buttafuco was likewise engaged with his neighbour, while Arena had embroiled Admiral Hood in a discussion regarding future operations, leaving Dundas to his food.
Markham was left free to look around the table, since the diner on his left, a lieutenant-colonel of the Foot Guards, had shifted his seat, so that his back was mostly to Markham, making it perfectly plain that he had no intention of engaging such a pariah in any kind of discourse. So the rest of Markham’s meal passed in almost total silence, as he considered the kind of devious mind that could make him so easily a scapegoat, as well as the possible outcome.
Had the Corsicans played right into Dundas’s hands by not asking if Markham had seen anything, surely the obvious question of anyone free from guilt? Yet Arena’s way of killing off the speculation could be genuine, the act of an experienced officer who knew that picking over the dead bones of closed campaigns would help no one. Against that, neither Buttafuco nor Grimaldi had looked very comfortable raising their glasses. So, the subject had been killed. But there was no way of knowing if the method of its termination provided any hint as to what had happened.
But, reluctant as Markham was to make the admission, it underlined the point that Hanger had touched on, which was this; that if one of the senior officers had taken enemy gold, the rest must at least suspect it had happened, even if they could not be sure enough to accuse. The French should never have got through to Bastia, and would not have done so had the Corsican army been prepared. The absence of their generals should have made no difference. If it did, not to alert their British allies to this fact, nor apologise, openly and sincerely, rendered them all suspect.
Slowly, as the conversation became more animated, Markham could return, uninterrupted, to his previous study. He applied as much attention to Lizzie Gordon’s mannerisms as he did to a piece of battleground terrain. Each gesture was noted, every flick of an eye and finger registered. It was, to the student, a pleasant task. He had a high regard for women, especially but not exclusively the beautiful members of that sex. The dinner wound its way through the various courses, wine flowed, and finally, just before the port came round, Lizzie stood up with the few other ladies, and with a bow to acknowledge the complimentary words of the admiral, left the room. It was easy, once he passed the port to Grimaldi, to leave his place, and since no one inquired his reasons, he offered none.
He found her on the quarterdeck, wrapped in a cloak, staring out over the now crowded anchorage. The early evening air was crisp and chilly, with the sun too low in the west to give off any heat. Stars were just visible over the eastern mountains, and where the snow still lay it picked up the pink glow of the sunset. Markham stood behind her for what seemed like an age, willing her to turn round, wondering if such a message, his deep attraction, could be transmitted through the air.
She half turned to lift up the hood of her cloak, and he wasn’t sure if the shudder, when she saw him, was genuine or false.
‘The hood suits you,’ he said, smiling, ‘especially the way it frames your face.’
‘You must not pay me compliments, Lieutenant. My husband has forbidden it.’
‘Neither God nor the Devil could not stop me doing that.’
‘I’m sure you are right,’ she snapped. ‘Just as I am told that you’re fairly free with their distribution.’
Markham moved slightly closer, but stopped when he saw her shoulders go rigid with apprehension. ‘I cannot deny that I have complimented other women. Beautiful as you are, madam, you do not have a monopoly on such sentiments.’
‘It didn’t feel that way over dinner, Lieutenant Markham.’
‘Would you care to tell me what it did feel like?’
‘No sir, I would not,’ she replied sharply. ‘Now be so good as to leave this deck. Should my husband come up from below, and find us conversing, he would be exceedingly vexed.’
‘He is jealous?’
‘I rather think his attitude to you personally is more telling than the commonplace of jealousy.’
‘I’m curious.’
‘Regarding what?’ she responded suspiciously.
‘How do you find the married estate?’
She smiled then, a hard, fixed look. ‘Blissful.’
‘Do you refer to the emotional or the conjugal part?’
That made her angry again. ‘If I was inclined to discuss such things, which I am not, sir, you would be the last person I would confide in.’
‘The very last?’ he inquired, his voice full of mock disappointment.
‘Yes!’
‘How reassured that makes me feel.’ She span round to glare at him, even more annoyed by the smile on his lips. ‘There is nothing worse than to be invisible to a woman you find attractive. Even outright hate is better than indifference.’
‘You mistake your position, sir. Indifference, as far as you are concerned, is my overriding emotion.’
‘I had you down as a more accomplished liar.’
‘How dare you?’
Markham moved closer still, hemming her in so that she would have to use physical force to dislodge him. ‘You have no notion of what I would dare, madam. There are no walls built that I wouldn’t scale to be alone with you.’
‘Lieutenant!’
‘You have married a man for his wealth, for which I cannot fault you. But you must know there is more to a full life than mere comfort. I don’t profess to know you well, but I am sure of this: you cannot truly love a man like Hanger.’
The slight pant in her voice robbed her words of the force she intended. ‘You seem very certain.’
Markham took two paces backwards, which surprised her, a feeling which was enhanced by his next words. ‘I must apologise.’
‘Apologise,’ she responded, aware, judging by the blush that tinged her cheeks, that such a reply was foolish.
‘If I were to say that I was overcome with your beauty, that I have acted impetuously and rudely because of it, you would scoff at me.’
‘I most certainly would,’ she said, her voice regaining some confidence.
‘Yet it is true, ma’am. And I must warn you the sensation is not fleeting. Had circumstances permitted in Toulon …’
She interrupted abruptly, the twin furrows of anger back on her forehead. ‘I seem to remember that you were otherwise engaged in Toulon, Lieutenant.’
Markham continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘And now we are here in Corsica. I have no idea of where my duty will take me. But if I stay in close proximity to you, I will not desist from bringing myself to your notice, at every turn, regardless of what Colonel Hanger thinks.’
‘And who, sir, do you think will pay the price for that?’
‘Perhaps you will. I have known your husband longer than you, madam, and I have no doubt that his love of a horsewhip is as great now as it ever was. He took it to me with relish, then followed it with the butt of a musket. Had he not been drunk, I might have died from his endeavours.’
‘You must not speak of this.’
‘If I cannot engage your attention any other way, then I must choose the path of showing you what a monster you have wed. And believe me, ma’am, that is what you have done.’
Markham was gone before she could reply, heading down the companionway, and back towards the warmth and fume-filled air of the admiral’s cabin. Lanester was outside it, pacing to and fro, smoking an evil-smelling cheroot. He stopped when he saw Markham, and looked at him in a singular way. All he got for that was a smile and a nod as the marine slid past him, entered the cabin and retook his seat. Dundas was halfway down the table, talking to Hanger. Grimaldi, who had moved close to talk to Nelson, Buttafuco and Arena, detached himself, and came back to his original place, now beaming, his small bright eyes fixed on Markham.
‘Lieutenant.’
‘I must apologise, sir, for General Dundas’s previous remarks.’
‘Admiral Hood has done enough of that, Lieutenant, never fear, and gone to the trouble of explaining why they were made. But that is past. Now that we have a chance to talk, you must allow me to congratulate you. Had we not been alerted by your prompt action, the French might have got clear without the need to fire a shot. Tell me what it was that engaged your attention, and made you so suspicious?’
Markham explained about the French torches, plus the lack of any noises of damage repair after a long and effective bombardment.
‘And forward piquets, General, rarely make any sound, even to let their friends to their rear know they are safe. There was just enough noise to induce curiosity.’
‘Curiosity! And that caused you to fire off some flares?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when they went off, you must have seen something?’
Grimaldi wasn’t looking at him, but over his shoulder, as if the answer to that question was academic. Behind him, the buzz of conversation had diminished. He had no idea how many people were listening, half suspecting that it numbered nearly everyone in the cabin. If Hood had apologised, then he would have implied that Dundas was exaggerating, no doubt hinting at the general’s motives. Whatever, his duty was plain.
‘A few indistinct figures who ran as soon as they saw the trail of the rocket.’
The eyes were on him now, black and intense, and there was just a trace of strain in Grimaldi’s voice. ‘Indistinct?’
‘Mere silhouettes, General.’ Markham held the stare, wondering if he’d been believed, aware of the increase in noise as people reanimated their exchanges. Grimaldi smiled suddenly, though as was fitting it had a grim quality.
‘What a pity. A few moments earlier and you might have confounded the whole plan.’
‘For the men who died in their foxholes, sir, it was more than a pity. Rather a tragedy, I think.’