Although she knew it was a foolish thing to do, and she could ill afford the time, Nan went down to the Chelsea barracks on Friday to watch the Light Dragoons ride out of town. It was a miserable morning, chill and dank and trailing white mist, but she walked up from Cheyne Row glowing with an absurd hope, sustained by the fantasy that he would see her as he passed, that he would realize how much he was going to miss her, that he would lean down from his horse to promise to write to her and pledge that he would see her again as soon as the regiment returned. She’d even put a visiting card in her pocket, ready to give it to him, when he asked for her address, as he surely must. It had been an almost constant day-dream for the last forty-eight hours. And like all fantasies it was soon dissolved by reality.
The moment the first troop clattered out through the barrack gates, it was plain, even to her, that the regiment was there to be looked at, and not to look. They rode in splendid order, heads held artificially high, gazing down their noses at the space between their horses’ ears, knowing themselves admired, their breeches dramatically white against brown horseflesh and sheepskin saddle, black boots gleaming, white-sashed and red-belted, their red and blue mirleton caps topped by high red and white plumes, their gold frogging bold as sunshine against those fine blue jackets.
The handsome Mr Leigh’s was the third troop out of the gate. And there he was, on a great chestnut horse, riding magnificently, but looking straight ahead, deliberately impervious to stares and admiration. The sight of him lifted her into a state of such heightened sensation it was as if someone had switched on the sun a few inches away from her eyes. She was acutely and painfully aware of everything around her, the chill of the air and the warmth of the troop, the ammoniac smell of horse flesh, the meaty reek of warm leather, the rattle and clank of accoutrements and the scrape of hooves on cobbles, people in the crowd chewing and spitting and coughing, his breath streaming from those aristocratic nostrils like white smoke, his gloved hands holding the reins, lightly, oh so lightly, those long muscular legs gripping the chestnut flanks, his face so dear and near and far away. And she knew she was yearning for him, her innards lifting as though they were being pulled upwards by invisible strings.
And then the troop had passed and she couldn’t see him anymore. And the strings dropped and sagged and the daylight was cold and the town deserted, and the cobbles were sharp and dank and piled with horse-dung, because he hadn’t seen her, and he didn’t care for her, and he’d promised to write to Sophie Fuseli.
Come now, she scolded herself, that en’t the way to go on, mooning about like some love-sick girl, and you a businesswoman with a great firm to run and a daughter old enough to be at work. For Annie was ten now. You should be ashamed of yourself, so you should. The lieutenant is gone, so you’d best get on with your work and be sensible and forget un. Even if he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen and quite the most desirable.
She drove all her employees extremely hard that day, but when the evening came she was still full of restless energy, so she decided to take her children to the theatre, choosing a farcical comedy called Pierre’s Retreat, because she thought it would do them all good to laugh. It was the first time they’d ever been allowed such a treat and all three were thrilled by it, although, as their mother observed, each in a different way.
Billy laughed uproariously at every joke and every chase and every stage-fall, and when the villain got his long nose stuck in the knot-hole of the hero’s front door he jumped to his feet and clapped with pure delight along with half the others in the audience. But Johnnie sat quietly throughout.
He smiled at the jokes and nodded agreement when evil got its come-uppance and clapped with enthusiasm at the end, but his enjoyment was private, as though he were imbibing this pleasure secretly and digesting it within himself. Watching him, Nan was surprised yet again by how different he was from his brother and sister.
Annie was excited just to be in a theatre and spent the overture looking about her at all the other members of the audience and admiring the fine clothes of the ton who were eating their supper in the boxes, but when Pierre took his first tumble, backwards out of an apple tree, she jumped visibly and then clenched her fists before her mouth with concern.
‘’Tis make-believe,’ Nan whispered, patting her arm. ‘He en’t hurt.’
‘It looks uncommon real, Mama,’ Annie whispered back, but she was already recovering and relaxing.
What a tenderheart she is, Nan thought affectionately. And how like her father. And she felt more fond of her than ever.
It was an uncommon pleasant evening and she prolonged it for as long as she could after they’d driven home, sitting in the drawing-room with her three excited children, drinking hot possetts and re-living the play. But eventually Billy began to yawn and it was plainly high time they were all in bed.
Now she thought, as she kissed them goodnight, we shall all sleep sound.
But she was wrong. Once she was alone in her wide bed in her quiet bedroom, her mind sprang open to memory, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it. The handsome lieutenant held her about the waist, smiling that slow smile, and she danced and danced, longing to be kissed, breathing in the lovely clean smell of his skin, gazing into those beautiful honey-coloured eyes, knowing that she had fallen in love with him. Waking thought merged into erotic dream, and now she was kissed and kissed again, and held so close as she danced she could barely catch her breath, and turned to be tumbled on mattress and straw, and climbed Pierre’s cardboard apple tree to fall and fall into the lieutenant’s arms.
She woke bewildered and yearning as the sky above the Chelsea fields grew green with dawn. And she remembered Mary Woolstonecraft saying, ‘If you love him he will haunt your thoughts by night and day,’ and in that quiet, chill daybreak she began to suspect that her old friend had been right. But what could be done about it? It was true that he’d treated her courteously and had seemed to be interested in what she had to say. But in the sober light of early morning she realized that this was more like to be a passing interest than love and in any case she couldn’t even hope that they would meet again. She didn’t even know where the regiment had gone.
But Sophie Fuseli did.
That autumn, when Mr Fuseli had left for one of his trips, ‘only a week or two, my dear, but ’tis enough’, she came to take tea with Nan, bubbling with the news that ‘our three friends from the Duke of Clarence’s’ had come to visit her.
‘Here to buy horses, I believe, or saddles or somesuch,’ she said carelessly. ‘We rode in Hyde Park, my dear. I must say, Mr Leigh has a fine way with horses.’
‘Which you would expect in a cavalry officer, surely,’ Nan said, endeavouring to speak calmly because she was shaken with jealousy.
‘’Tis a charming creature,’ Sophie mused pattingg her curls, ‘that cannot be denied.’ But sshe had no idea when the charming creature would be in London again. ‘They come and go,’ she said vaguely.
‘Did you not ask him? I’m suree I should have done.’
‘Indeed I did not,’ Sophie said, registering shock at the suggestion. ‘A man such as he would be aggrieved to be asked for such particulars. And rightly so. ’Twould be most improper.’
‘But you know where they are stationed, I daresay?’ Nan asked, hoping she didn’t sound too eager.
‘In Dorset, my dear, and a most uncivilized place by all accounts. But they are to have a better posting in April.’
‘How so?’ Oh do tell me! Where is he going? I must at least have a hope of seeing him again.
‘Well, as to that,’ Sophie said, ‘they are to mount guard upon the King when he visits Weymouth, as he does every summer, war or no war.’
‘Aye, I know it. ’Tis reporrted in The Times.’
‘’Tis a great honour, so they tell me,’ Sophie said. ‘Personally I should find it an exceeding bore, but there is no accounting for the taste of the soldiery. Could I beg another dish of your excellent tea?’
Now that she knew where he would be in the spring, Nan was impatient for autumn and winter to pass. But this year the autumn days seemed longer than any she’d ever known even in the height of summer. It was a long time before the first of the winter gales brought an end to the threat of a French invasion for another year and it was nearly November before the King returned to the capital and the delights of the Season.
Nan did her best to enjoy the Season, taking her children to the play and organizing supper parties and joining Sophie in excursions to Vauxhall and the Ranelagh gardens, for this was a special season and there was much to celebrate. In a few weeks time the eighteeentth century would be over, and such an historical event could hardly be allowed to pass without commemoration.
In December grand preparations began for the Ball of the New Century which was to be held at the Vauxhall Gardens preceded by ‘fireworks and masques and all such deleectable entertainments’.
‘I shall buy tickets for us all,’ Nan told Annie and the boys. ‘We shall start the new century in style. How say ’ee to that?’
‘Fireworks!’ Billy said, thrilled at the idea. ‘I can’t think of a better way to start a century than fireworks.’
And very spectacular they were. Dramatic enough to tease Nan’s mind away from thoughts of Mr Leigh for nearly thirty minutes. But when the last sparks fizzled away into the black sky, she missed him more than ever and remembered him more clearly. Oh, she thought, gazing at the white stars, I must see him again. I must.
‘Now for the masque,’ Billy said. ‘Come on Annie, race you to the tent.’
In Europe, the brand-new nineteenth century began with fireworks of another kind, which were a considerable shock to the inhabitants of London. Napoleon Bonaparte, having contrived to be elected one of three consuls back in November had now, somehow or other, inched his two fellow consuls out of office, and been declared the one and only, undisputed leader of the French. It was very bad news indeed and very good for trade, but it cast a gloom over Mr Walter’s customary New Year party.
‘’Tis a portent,’ that gentleman said. ‘He will do as he pleases now, Heaven help us all!’
‘He has always done that, Father,’ his son John said calmly, helping himself to the port.
‘Howsomever that may be, now there is no power to prevent him,’ Mr Thrale worried. He had been a brewer for so many years now that he could hardly remember the days when he had simply been a newsman, but he still came to Mr Walter’s annual supper party, for old time’s sake.
They were a very select company indeed these days, their numbers diminished to a paltry six, the two Walters, Nan, Mr Jasperson, the publisher, Mr Thrale and old Mr Vernon, whose tenacious hold on the Bedford Estate walk was all that stood between Nan and total control of all the newspaper sales in London.
‘Ah,’ Mr Vernon mourned, ‘I had hoped that this new century would bring some changes for us. But no. Mr Bonaparte pursues his ambition without surcease. ’Tis a wicked world. You may take my word for it, mankind has more to fear from an ambitious man – or an ambitious woman – yes, indeed, or a woman – than it has from many an acknowledged sinner.’
‘As to that, Mr Vernon,’ Nan said, stung by his sly reference to ambitious women, ‘’tis folly to imagine that the calendar will change matters. If you want things to change, sir, you must change ’em yourself.’
‘Amen to that,’ John Walter said.
And as he spoke, Nan knew that she had solved her own problem. If she wanted to see the handsome lieutenant again she would have to do something about it herself. ‘I intend to make changes,’ she told the company. ‘’Tis high time I extended my trade to the provinces. There en’t a deal more for me to do in London, you’ll allow.’
‘What shall you do?’ Mr Walter asked, pleased that she was lifting them from their gloom.
‘I shall open more reading-rooms.’
‘Where do you have in mind?’ John Walter said.
‘Weymouth,’ she said casually. ‘With the King and his family in residence there all through the summer, there should be plenty of trade.’
‘’Twould be uncommon costly,’ Mr Vernon said sourly. ‘A risky undertaking, I should say.’
‘Save your warning, Mr Vernon,’ John Walter said. ‘Mrs Easter thrives on risky undertakings.’
‘I shall go there in May,’ she said, ‘and see what may be done.’
The week before her journey, she went to see Mr Tewson in Lothbury. ‘I intend to travel to Weymouth,’ she told him, ‘to open a reading-room. There should be plenty of trade with the King and his family in residence.’
Mr Tewson thought it a capital idea and gave her the address of the nearest Tewson’s banking-house, in Dorchester. ‘You will pass through the town of your journey,’ he said. ‘’Tis but a short ride from Weymouth and a busy town, I’m told. You might well find trade there too.’
‘I might at that,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Oh there is no knowing what I might accomplish now I’ve started.’
She was glowing with excitement, as the banker observed. What an extraordinary woman, he thought, to be so carried away by the thought of extending her trade. The feminine temperament, indubitably. A man would take matters more calmly.
It was a very long journey and a very dirty one, for the roads were thick with dust so that they trundled along inside their own choking cloud, and neither of the inns at which they stayed overnight were more than indifferently cleaned. At Basingstoke the supper was cold and at Salisbury it was unappetizing, but, luckily for the cooks, Nan was too excited by now to do more than pick at her food.
On the afternoon of the third day, she arrived in Dorchester, where it was market day and the streets had been so well watered and so well trodden by bewildered sheep and cattle that they were squelchy with mud. But Weymouth was a mere seven miles away and the sun was shining. She hired a horse and cart, agreed a price after some determined haggling, and set off to find her love.
Because he was her love. She had to admit it. She dreamed of him every night, of lying in his arms, of being kissed, held, caressed – ah, such dreams! And she was jealous of Sophie, who had been her kindest friend for so many years. If I see him again, she thought, and ’tis plain he has no interest in me, then I must needs forget him. But if I see him again and he is glad of it, why then, who knows how things may fadge?
It was pleasant sitting out in the open air in the little, creaking cart as the dappled mare went ambling through the hilly countryside towards the sea. The afternoon sun was quite warm on her cheek and the air was wondrously fresh. She’d been working in the smoke of London for such a long time she’d forgotten how sweet-tasting fresh air could be. Oh, there was no doubt now that her life was changing, and changing for the better.
And how elegant and delightful Weymouth was. Her first view of it as they reached the top of the last hill was a charming revelation. There it lay below her, a small fishing town huddled about a low harbour wall in a muddle of tiled roofs, and crowded waterways, masts, spars and rigging, and a little to the left, a fine curved bay, an ancient crescent of blue sea and light brown sand, faced by a modern crescent of fine houses, and all contained by the green and lilac folds of the low hills, which curved round the bay like a protective arm and ended in a dramatic white headland well out to sea. The sight of it lifted her spirits even further. It was such a splendidly compact place. Oh, she would find him here, there was no doubt of it.
The carter set her down beside the harbour wall with the huddle of the old town behind her and the fine prospect of that crescent-shaped bay before her.
It was the most enticing prospect she’d ever seen and the mildest sea, blue as the sky above it, shimmering in the sunlight and so calm that its waves were no more than ruffles of foam dissolving at the water’s edge. There were several elegant people taking a promenade on the pale sands, or strolling along the pebbled path beside the new houses, and quite a few horsemen, quietly ambling, although they were too far away for her to see their faces. Yet. But there was an ease and gentleness about the place. It was a marked contrast to the rush she was used to in London. A compact place, she thought, a calm place, an orderly place, a place where she could find whatever she wanted.
‘Tha’s the ol’ king’s house yonder,’ the carter volunteered, pointing to a very ordinary red-brick villa which stood a little apart from the others in its own green gardens. ‘A comes tonight, so they do say.’
‘I could find lodgings in those terraces?’ she asked.
‘Bound to, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Bein’ they’m all bran’ new.’
It was a little more difficult than she’d imagined, for the terraces were already full of visitors, but eventually she found two rooms in a new lodging-house on the northern end of the promenade, not far away from a huge, rather forbidding building that her landlady said was the Burdon barracks. Then she set off to find the offices of the local paper, which the landlady also knew about. ‘’Tis called the Sherbourne and Dorchester Gazette. Printed in Dorchester, I do believe, ma’am,’ she said. ‘Mr Elsworthy is the agent hereabouts.’
Mr Elsworthy was very surprised by her visit, but he agreed that opening a reading-room would be a very good idea. ‘I wonder they en’t done such a thing before,’ he said.
‘Possibly because they didn’t think of it,’ she told him happily. ‘And I did. Now, Mr Elsworthy, I shall need to advertise for an assistant to run this room.’
‘My cousin …’ he offered, tentatively.
The cousin, who was sent for immediately, turned out to be another rather younger Elsworthy with a weather-beaten face and hair exactly the same colour as the sand. She explained his duties to him, pointing out that all monies would be paid into Tewson’s bank in Dorchester, and that his wage, which the bank would be empowered to pay him weekly, would rise and fall according to the number of subscribers he could obtain.
He considered this stolidly before agreeing to her terms, with an open smile that she found very encouraging. And then it was merely a matter of finding the right room for her trade.
‘Well now, Mrs Easter, ma’am,’ the younger Mr Elsworthy said, ‘as to that, there’s a fine chamber vacant this very minute in Charlotte Row just above Thomas’s lending library.’
It was the easiest business she’d ever transacted. Within an hour, she was strolling back along the promenade towards her rooms and the only thing left for her to do was to inform the bank and write to Thiss to order the papers.
Down on the sands a string of amiable-looking horses was taking exercise. Or was it exercise? She stopped to watch as the first three plodded to a halt and their riders dismounted. Then as two young ladies came hesitantly forward to replace them, purse in hand, she realized that this was a seaside riding school, and the realization gave her an idea. For the first time in years she had time and money to spend entirely on herself. I shall learn to ride, she thought, why not? ’Tis just the time for it. And she went striding off across the shingle, straight-backed and determined.
The riding instructor chose a gentle gelding for her and helped her to mount and told her how to arrange her long legs within a side saddle that he swore was ‘uncommon comfortable once you’re accustomed’ but which she found uncommon awkward. And then the string set off again, with a little breeze blowing off the sea to flick the ribbons of her bonnet into a tangle.
She was surprised by how far away the ground seemed, but the rocking rhythm of the gelding’s steady amble was pleasant enough in all conscience and although her spine was rather stressed and her legs felt useless swung to one side like that, she was pleased to be keeping her balance. And then the gelding suddenly pricked up his ears and began to trot, which she wasn’t expecting at all. The change of rhythm was so unexpected she couldn’t adapt to it, but she was too proud to call for help. She clung to the reins, trying to pull the poor beast back, but he snorted disdainfully and seemed to be picking up more speed.
Then everything happened at once. She could hear the instructor thundering along the sand behind her, calling ‘Hold on, ma’am!’, and the gelding made an abrupt turn, took two steps backwards and broke into a gallop, and Nan lost her balance, clawed at the tumbling mane, struggled to disentangle her legs and finally slid from the saddle to land ignominiously on her back on the damp sand. The gelding jumped neatly across her body and headed for the sea.
She was very annoyed.
‘Are you hurt, ma’am?’ the instructor said anxiously, as she sat up and dusted the sand from her skirts with quick, cross hands.
‘I tell you what,’ she said scowling at him, ‘that’s an uncommon foolish way for anyone to ride, man or woman, with your legs a-going one way and your spine another. You fetch me a horse with a proper saddle and I warrant I shan’t fall.’
‘A gentleman’s saddle do ye mean, ma’am?’ he said, plainly shocked at the suggestion.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said briskly. ‘Hasten you up, do. A proper saddle if you please.’
She was so firm about it, he did as he was told, although he grumbled about it all the time, saying it wasn’t at all the style, especially with the King coming an’ all, and he didn’t know what the world was coming to, that he didn’t.
But she took no notice of him. When she couldn’t sit astride her new mount because her skirt impeded her, she simply lifted it up until it was above her knees. When her bonnet blocked her vision, she simply took it off and threw it on the sand. Then with her new horse held firmly between her thighs, she kicked him into motion with her heels the way Thiss always did, and off she went.
It was a marvellous improvement. This time she really felt she could control the animal, using her knees and her heels as well as her hands. This time she could share the rhythm of the ride. She was so happily engrossed, she didn’t notice the other horseman until he was trotting beside her, and the movement of his body bowing towards her caught her attention. And she looked across, straight into the smile of the handsome lieutenant. Even though it was the very thing she’d come to Weymouth for, it was so sudden and unexpected it made her heart leap as though it was trying to jump into her throat.
‘Why, Mistress Easter,’ he said, ‘what brings you to Weymouth?’
Surprise and excitement and gratification, all at once, shaking her, but she kept her balance and managed to answer him calmly enough. ‘I have business here,’ she said, rescued by pride and the need to concentrate. ‘In three days there will be a reading-room in this place, and ’twill be all my doing.’
‘Ah!’ he said, smiling at her, ‘I see how it is. London is grown too small to contain your energy.’ He could have said ambition, but he thought better of it. ‘I wish you well in your endeavours. And in the meantime, you ride I see.’
‘I learn, sir.’
‘And deuced well.’
Has he been watching me? she wondered. Did he see me fall? And she felt herself blushing at the thought and rushed to change the subject. ‘You have a fine horse, sir.’
He noticed the blush as he’d noticed the fall, and her quick recovery and the spirited ride that followed. ‘The best,’ he said. ‘Ain’t you, Jericho?’ And he leaned forward to address the words straight at the animal’s head.
She was touched by the pride and affection in his voice. If this was the attention he gave his horse, how well he would treat a woman!
‘Stay there!’ he ordered abruptly. ‘I will put him through his paces and you shall see how fine he is.’ And he turned the horse’s head and cantered off along the beach, scattering strollers to right and left.
She reined in her own horse and watched as Jericho turned and wheeled, side-stepping as deftly as any dancer, dropped to his knees without any warning, and finally galloped at full tilt towards her, coming to such an abrupt halt that he reared up on his hind legs pawing the air. It was a breath-taking display and she admired the horse almost as much as she admired the rider.
‘Well, what think ’ee?’ the lieutenant said. ‘Ain’t he the best?’ His skin was glowing with exertion and he looked more handsome than ever.
‘Magnificent,’ Nan said, and found she had another question she could ask. ‘Are you stationed nearby?’
‘At the Burdon.’
Oh, what good fortune! Hadn’t she hoped he would be there? Quick, quick, think of something witty to say that will keep him talking. But her mind was still spinning with the sheer joy of seeing him again, of being so close she could have put out her hand and touched him, just as she was touching the warm flesh of her horse’s neck. The thought made her shiver and she gazed at Jericho’s nose to calm herself again.
He was watching her, thoughtfully, and her instincts knew it and the knowledge encouraged her. She sat quite still, caressing that velvety neck, listening to the suction of hooves on sand and a seagull mewing above their heads, and for the first time in her life, she was waiting for somebody else to make the first move.
And he watched her. A mettlesome woman, he was thinking, and pretty enough. A good bosom and clean breath. She might be worth the conquest. That fire of hers could presage passion even if she wasn’t an heiress. And who else was there in this benighted town? A few days dalliance with a new love was just what he needed, in all conscience. ‘Do you have good lodgings?’ he asked.
‘I am assured so,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I have taken rooms in the new Royal Terrace. I cannot answer for the food, but the place is clean and the landlady seems obliging.’
‘Which is more than may be said for most hereabouts,’ he told her. ‘An uncommon tricky breed, landladies, and prone to add extras if you so much as blink.’ And he gave a mocking imitation. ‘But my dear Lieutenant, you had a plate on which to eat your breakfast. Plates is extra, my dear Lieutenant.’
‘I should break it over her head if she tried such tricks with me,’ Nan said.
‘Aye,’ he laughed, ‘I believe you would.’ That fierce face was really quite attractive. Dammit, he thought, making up his mind. ’Twould be a game worth the candle. ‘I have a pair of tickets for tonight’s ball at the Assembly Rooms,’ he offered. He hadn’t, but he felt pretty sure he could get them. ‘I should be honoured were you to agree to be my guest.’
‘I call that uncommon civil,’ she said, as the blood rushed into her throat, ‘but if I accept your invitation, sir, you must agree to dine with me tomorrow.’
‘An admirable arrangement, thank ’ee kindly,’ he said, this time approving the blush. ‘I will call for ’ee tonight at eight of the clock.’
‘At eight ’tshall be.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he said as he rode away.
But not half as eagerly as she did. There were so many preparations to make, to say nothing of a supper to eat, as well as she could. What a blessing she’d brought that low-necked gown. ’Twas just the thing for a ball and it showed her bosom to advantage. But what should she wear with it, and how should she dress her hair? Oh, if only I were a beauty, she thought, studying her dark face in the honest glass of the dressing-table mirror.
But it was no use, she was dark of eye and heavy of feature, no matter how she arranged her curls. He will not love me, she thought. Not after Sophie Fuseli. I do not compare. And she was cast down by the sight of her inadequacies, and wished she’d had the sense to buy rouge and orris powder to enhance her colouring.
But it was too late, he was knocking at the door.
‘Such beauty!’ he said taking her gloved hand and kissing it. ‘You will dazzle the company, ma’am. My life upon it.’ And he sounded as though he meant it.
She arranged her shawl about her shoulders, touched the ostrich feathers in her hair, rather apprehensively, found her fan and picked up her reticule from the table where it lay ready packed with handkerchief and cachous and spare hairpins.
‘Yes,’ she said, taking his proferred arm and thinking, as ready as I shall ever be.
It was a marvellous evening, despite her misgivings. For a start there were so many people in the Assembly Rooms she knew, and most of them seemed pleased and not at all surprised to see her. London society had taken to the seaside en masse, bringing the latest dances with them, and a band that could play them properly. In fact the second dance that the lieutenant had marked on her card was one of the new shocking waltzes, the dance that required the men to hold their partners firmly round the waist all the time, and was causing such annoyance among the older members of society. What could be better?
She stepped out onto the floor in a dream and was soon in a delicious trance, with her feet spinning almost as wildly as her head, breathing in his lovely well-laundered scent, with his hand firm in the small of her back, and her body swaying against his at every turn. Bliss!
At the first interval they drank punch with three of her customers and made polite conversation and were rather circumspect, but at the second, when they had both danced until they were breathless, he suggested that they should take a turn in the air.
‘’Tis a warm night,’ he said. ‘’Twill do no harm, I warrant you.’
She would have gone with him if an icy wind had been blowing. But he was right, it was a warm night and a magical one. The dark beach was full of cooling couples, strolling along the sands or ambling at the water’s edge, silvered by moonlight. They could smell the sea although they couldn’t see it, since it was as black as ebony except for its little white fringe of tumbling waves and a huge shimmering pathway that glittered across the darkness towards a full moon like a huge silver platter. The night sky was a velvety dark blue, pointed with bright white stars, which seemed to Nan more distant here beside the sea than they had ever been in London.
‘True,’ he said, when she commented upon it. ‘’Tis the quality of the air. Smoky air makes it difficult to judge distance, as any gunner would tell you.’
That was something she had never considered. ‘A battle must be a fearsome thing,’ she said, thinking how very brave soldiers must be to withstand it.
‘No,’ he said, and how noble he looked as he spoke. ‘There is no time for fear once a battle begins. You are too hot and things happen too quickly. You act by instinct, which,’ changing his tone and giving her the benefit of his most tender glance, ‘to my way of thinking is the very best way to act.’
‘At all times?’ she asked, made eager by the sensuous tone of his voice. He spoke as though he was stroking her with words.
‘Oh yes, my dearest. Instinct and love being kith and kin, the one will speak as true as the other, don’t ’ee think so?’
He was holding her right hand in both his, and slowly unbuttoning her glove, stroking her wrist with his fingers.
‘Does love never lie?’ she asked tremulously, for he was easing the glove from her hand softly and gradually, gazing into her eyes all the time, and the combination of amorous look and gentle movement was making her shiver.
He lifted her hand and kissed her palm, lingeringly, his lips tantalizingly warm. ‘Do your senses lie, my dearest one?’ he said softly and now his mouth was within inches of hers, and they both knew how very much she wanted to be kissed.
‘I think not,’ she whispered, caught in the double spell of moonlight and strong sensation.
‘And now?’ he whispered, before he kissed her. Oh, such sensations, her breast lifting towards him, her body opening and aching as he kissed and kissed and kissed again.
‘Now, now, now,’ she said, hardly knowing what she was saying, but telling him everything he needed to know by the eager pressure of her lips.
He stopped kissing her, and lifted his head to look down at her, holding her about the waist, close and warm and exciting. ‘Ah, if only …’ he sighed.
‘If only what?’
‘If only I were not in barracks, my love. ’Tis a torment not to continue. You must know it. You tempt me beyond restraint, you beautiful, beautiful creature. If I only had rooms …’
‘I have rooms,’ she said.
‘Do you mean it?’
‘Yes, oh yes.’
‘You do not fear scandal?’
‘Oh, what of that?’ she said tempestuously. ‘I could dare any scandal to be loved so.’
‘Should we return to the ball, think ’ee?’ It was an unfair question because he was kissing her neck and stroking her thighs.
So they went back to the Royal Terrace, and although the landlady gave them a knowing leer, neither of them took any notice of her. There were other things to think of.
They didn’t bother to light candles either, for the moon provided all the light they needed, and the place all the privacy. They were alone and unbridled and could kiss and caress as they pleased. Her shawl and ostrich feathers and his fine jacket were cast aside like rags, and somehow or other he had unlaced her gown while they were kissing. She had enough wit left to admire the skill of it even though her senses were swirling with the powerful sensations he was arousing. But when he lifted her clothes, gown and chemise and all, sliding his hands in a long caress up and up over her thighs and her belly and her breasts until the folds of cloth had been thrown away behind her head, she was lost to the moment, unable to think, abandoned to feelings so strong they were making her tremble. He held her face between his hands and kissed her deeply, and she answered him with a passion that surprised them both.
‘Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,’ he crooned, stroking and kissing. ‘My beautiful love, now I must love you. I must, must.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she said as they tumbled into the covers.
She had opened for him again. She wanted him, wanted him. ‘Yes, yes, oh yes.’
And his member was an arrow piercing her with pleasure, strong and demanding and warm as fire, driving her up and up until the pleasure exploded into ecstasy, sweeter and more overwhelming than anything she’d ever known.
She must have fallen asleep and slept for some little time, for she awoke with a start to the sound of church bells ringing riotously and for a few minutes as she swam luxuriously back to consciousness she thought they were ringing for her, and wondered who had told the ringers of her triumph. Then she realized what time it was and wondered why church bells were being rung in the middle of the night? And cannon being fired, too. Surely that low boom was a cannon.
The room was bright with moonlight and the lieutenant was standing beside the window looking out. He had put on his trousers and draped his jacket about his shoulders like a Hussar, but his chest and his right arm were still beautifully naked, the dark flesh edged with shimmering whiteness.
‘What is it?’ she said sleepily.
‘They are going out to meet the King,’ he said, still gazing down onto the promenade. And now she could hear footsteps on the pebbles below them and the murmur of greetings.
She got up and wrapped her nightgown about her, and went to stand beside him to see for herself. The sky was lightening with the approach of dawn.
‘He was expected at three or thereabouts,’ he said. ‘He keeps good time.’
Lamps were being lit all along the promenade and the crowds below them increased by the minute. The night air struck cold on her heated flesh so that she gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Take my jacket,’ he said, wrapping the thick coat about her shoulders, and she was warmed by the cloth and his consideration.
‘Will he be long, think ’ee?’
‘They have sounded the cannon, so he must have passed the ridge.’
They stood side by side on the balcony, calm and beautiful with satisfied passion. ‘I do not know your Christian name, Mr Leigh,’ she said, feeling uncommon daring to be suggesting that he should tell her.
He seemed to approve of the new style for he smiled. ‘Nor I yours.’
‘I am called Nan.’
‘And I am Calverley,’ giving her a little bow, ‘your most obedient …’
At the far end of the promenade people were cheering. ‘There they are,’ he said, as four dusty, old leather coaches came trundling along the road, creaking and rattling. They passed directly underneath the balcony, and a white hand waved lethargically from the second one and then they were gone and the excitement was over. It was a decided anticlimax.
‘I would have thought the King would be more grand,’ she said as they walked back into the sitting-room.
‘In Weymouth,’ he said, putting on his shirt, ‘he is old farmer George on holiday.’ He was reaching for his stockings.
‘You have to leave?’ Even the thought of seeing him go was making her feel miserable.
‘I fear so, sweetheart. I am on duty at six. I will return so soon as ever I may, depend upon it.’ Over in the old town the church clocks were striking four.
He looked very handsome in his uniform. ‘I love you so much,’ she said.
‘Then kiss me goodbye and sleep again,’ he said, brisk and businesslike, as if clothes had put formality between them.
‘You will return?’
‘I promise.’
‘I could not bear to be cast aside,’ she warned as they walked to the door. ‘Not now.’
He kissed her again, lightly. ‘Never fear,’ he said. And was gone.