An Infamous Army (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 4)

May had worn itself out; and looking back over four weeks of pleasure seeking, Judith could not feel that there had been unalloyed gaiety. She was aware of tension; she had herself been carried into the swirl. No one could foretell what the future held; but everyone knew that these weeks might be the last of happiness. Except when news crept through of movement on the frontier, war was not much talked of. Talking of it could not stop its coming; it was better to put the thought of it behind one, and to be merry while the sun still shone.

But Judith had good sense to guide her, nor was she any longer a single beauty with scores of admirers clamouring for her favours. If she grew tired, she could rest; but Barbara, it seemed, could not rest,

and appeared not to wish even to draw breath. She was beginning to look a little haggard; that she took laudanum was an open secret. What caprice it was that drove her on Judith could not imagine. The very fact of her being betrothed to Charles should have made it possible for her to have lived more quietly; she ought not to want to be for ever at parties. When he could he accompanied her, but he had very little leisure for picnics, or for spending days at the races. Often he came off duty looking so tired that it put his sister-in-law out of all patience to find him bent on attending some ball or reception. He denied that he felt tired, and the harassed little frown between his eyes would vanish as he laughed at her solicitude. She was not deceived; she could have shaken Barbara for her selfishness.

But Charles, keeping pace with his betrothed, never allowed a hint of languor to appear in his face or manner. Once Barbara said to him: ‘Is it wrong of me not to give up the parties and all the fun? I love it so! And when I am married I shall have to be so sober!’

‘No, no, never think that!’ he said quickly.

‘Gussie says it must be so.’

‘It shall not be so! Don’t listen to Augusta, I beg of you! Do you think I have not known from the start how little she likes our engagement?’

‘Gussie!’ she said scornfully. ‘I never listened to her in my life!’

But even though she scoffed at Augusta she did listen to her, with an unconscious ear.

‘Make the most of your freedom, my dear,’ said Augusta. ‘You won’t have the chance when you’ve married your staff officer. Will you miss your court, do you think? Shall you mind not being crowded round at every ball you go to? And oh, Bab, do you mean to wear a matronly cap, and bear your Charles a quiverful of stout children? How I shall laugh to see you!’

No, one did not set any store by what Gussie said, but nevertheless those barbs found their mark. Gallant young gentlemen, too, would cry imploringly: ‘Oh, don’t turn into a sober matron, Bab! Only conceive of a world without Bad Bab to set everyone by the ears!’

They all drew the same picture of her, grown grave, and thinking not of her conquests but of her household; perhaps being obliged to languish in some dull garrison town, with nothing to do but visit other officers’ wives, and be civil to Charles.

She would see herself like that, and would thrust the picture behind her, and hurry away to be gay while she could. When Charles was with her, the picture faded, for Charles swore he wanted no such wife. Yet some sobriety Charles did want. There had been an incident in May which he had not laughed at. Some of the officers of Lord Edward Somerset’s brigade had given one of the moonlight picnics of which the old-fashioned people so much disapproved. Lord George had been at the root of it; he had engaged Miss Devenish to go to it with his sister, laying his careless command upon Barbara to bring the chit with her. The wonder was that Miss Devenish had liked to go, but she did go, and had managed to get lost with Lord George in a coppice for over an hour. It was no concern of Barbara’s. ‘Good God, Charles, if a chaperon had been wanted I was not the one to choose for the part! Everyone contrived to lose themselves. Why, I had the most absurd half hour myself, with an engaging child from George’s regiment on one side of me and Captain Clayton of the Blues on the other.’

‘It sounds safe and rather stupid,’ he said. ‘But Miss Devenish’s prolonged absence with George has caused a little talk. I can’t but blame you, Bab. You should not have allowed it.’

‘My dear Charles, I suppose her to know her own business. The truth is that you are like your sister, and disapprove of moonlight picnics.’

He was silent. She thought he looked displeased, and said with a light laugh: ‘Do you wish me to give up such frivolous amusements?’

‘I shan’t ask you to give them up, Bab.’

‘Do you think I would not?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘I only know that if you did so at my request it would be against your will. If you did not care to go without me, well that would be different.’

Her eyes danced; she looked half roguish, half rueful, and murmured coaxingly: ‘Oh, confound you, Charles, you make me seem the veriest wretch! Don’t look so gravely at me! I swear I would rather stay at home with you than go to the most romantic of picnics. But when you can’t be with me, what the devil am I to do?’

She peeped at him under her lashes; he was obliged to laugh, even though there was very little laughter in his heart.

Judith, when she heard of the famous picnic, was aghast. She could not understand how Mrs Fisher could have permitted her niece to take part in such an expedition. The reason was not far to seek: Mrs Fisher was dreaming of bridals. Young people, she said, often behaved foolishly, and indeed she had scolded Lucy for her thoughtlessness, but she dared say there was no harm done, after all.

Judith blamed Barbara for the whole, and wondered how long Charles would bear with her capriciousness.

‘I have always felt a little sorry for Bab Alastair,’ said the Duchess of Richmond once, in her quiet way. ‘Her mama died when Harry was born, and that is a very sad thing for a girl, you know. I am afraid the late Lord Vidal was rather dissolute, and Bab grew up without that refining influence which her mama must have exercised. She has never been in the way of being checked, and was unfortunate in being made a pet of by her papa.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Judith. ‘Could that have done harm to a daughter’s character?’

‘The melancholy truth was, my dear, that Lord Vidal’s principles were not high, and he did not scruple to instil into Bab his own cynical notions. You will not repeat it, but Lord Vidal’s household was apt to include females of whose very existence young girls should be unaware.’

‘But her grandparents!’

‘Oh yes, but, you see, Lord Vidal was not always upon terms with his father,’ said her Grace. ‘And the Duchess was not of an age to dance attendance upon a flighty granddaughter. She was most distressed at that wretched marriage, I know. There can never have been a more shocking business! Childe was a man whose reputation, whose whole manner of life—but I am talking of the dead, and indeed have said too much already.’

‘I am glad you have told me as much; it may help me to be patient. I own, I cannot like Barbara.’

‘I am sorry for it. Yet she is not heartless, as so many people say. I could tell you of a hundred generous actions. She is accounted perfectly selfish, but I have been a good deal touched by her kindness to my boy during his long, painful convalescence. I believe no one is aware how often she has forgone some pleasure party merely to sit with poor William for a little while, quite taking him out of himself.’