An Infamous Army (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 4)

‘Ah, that was kind indeed! You are right: it warms one’s heart towards her to hear of such conduct. How does poor William go on? He has not left his room?’

‘Oh no! It must be weeks yet before he will be able to stand upon his feet. It was a dreadful accident—he was thrown in such a way! But I don’t care to think of it, and can only thank God he has been spared to me.’

Nothing more was said of Barbara, but the conversation remained in Judith’s memory. She was able to meet Barbara with more cordiality, and even to pardon some of her wildness; and for a little while could almost hope that she might make Charles happy.

The incident of the moonlight picnic, however, brought back all the old disgust; she could hardly forgive Barbara for having lent herself to what she believed to have been nothing less than a trap laid for Lucy Devenish.

Lucy’s own distress was evident. She looked so pale and wretched that Judith began to fear that her affections had been seriously engaged. Lord George was as brazen as might have been expected. He had made Lucy the subject of the latest scandal, but when taxed with it by his elder brother, would do nothing but laugh.

‘I wish you will consider me!’ complained Vidal.

‘Consider you? Why the devil should I?’ demanded George.

‘It is no very pleasant thing for me, I can tell you, to have my brother pointed out as a rake and a libertine on the one hand, and my sister on the other as—’

‘Keep your damned tongue off Bab, unless you want your teeth knocked down your throat, Vidal!’ said George, looking ugly.

‘Pray do not bring your ringside manners into my drawing-room, George,’ said Augusta sharply. ‘I find your championing of Bab more than a little absurd, let me tell you!’

He turned, looking down at her from his great height with an expression of mocking indifference. ‘You do, do you? And what the devil do you think I care for your opinion?’

‘Thank you, I am well aware of your habit of disregarding everyone’s opinion but your own. However, Bab’s conduct has nothing to do with your folly in entangling yourself with that Devenish chit. Depend upon it, her uncle is merely awaiting his opportunity to force you into marrying her. I know what men of his stamp are like, if you do not.’

‘Oho, do you really, Gussie? Where did you come by your knowledge, I should like to know?’

She replied coldly: ‘Laugh, if you choose, but do not look to me for help when you find yourself trapped. I suppose you have thought how you will break the news to your grandfather. I don’t envy you that task!’

He flushed, seemed about to retort, and then turned on his heel and walked away.

Whatever Mr Fisher’s plans might be, Mi

ss Devenish at least did not appear to be desirous of encouraging George’s attentions. Judith was a witness of a decided rebuff to his lordship, and could only be glad of it, although she felt sorry for the pain it seemed to cause Lucy. Lucy’s wan looks began to make Judith feel anxious, and she even cast about in her mind for some eligible young man to take Lord George’s place in the girl’s affections.

At the review of the cavalry, she thought she had found a gentleman, who might answer the purpose, but before she could put into execution her amiable plan of inviting him and Lucy to dine one evening her anxieties were diverted in quite another direction.

Sir Peregrine, either from a slight feeling of guilt or from mere thoughtlessness, did not inform his Harriet of his assignation in the suburbs. Upon his return to Brussels he had found Harriet far from well, and quite in the dumps. He bounced in, ready to recount all the day’s happenings, but she had the headache, was sipping hartshorn and water, and announced her intention of going to bed and having her dinner sent up to her on a tray.

‘Well, I am sorry you have the headache, Harry. Shall you mind if I dine from home? If you would like me to stay with you—’

‘Oh no! I shall be better tomorrow, I daresay, but my head aches too much to make me pleasant company tonight. Go out, by all means. I am only sorry to be such a stupid creature!’

So Peregrine had sailed forth to call for Barbara, and had spent an entertaining evening with her in one of the cafés beyond the ramparts.

Had Colonel Audley been able to see them he must have acquitted Barbara of any desire to flirt, but he could scarcely have been pleased with the result of her sisterly behaviour. When she chose to treat a man en camarade, she was at her most enchanting. She had not the smallest intention of captivating Peregrine, but her candid way of looking at him, her rippling laugh, her boyish speech, and her sense of fun charmed him irresistibly. He was not in love with her, but he had never in his life encountered so dazzling a creature.

Barbara said frankly at the outset: ‘This is capital! I shall pretend you are my young brother. I, if you please, am your elder sister—though I fear I am not quite like Lady Worth.’

Peregrine did not think that she was in the least like Judith, except in being able to talk sensibly of horses. He soon found himself describing his yacht to her; discovered that she also was fond of sailing; and from that moment became her slave. Sailing, riding, cocking, prizefighting: they talked of them all. No squeamish nonsense about Lady Bab! Why, it was like talking to a man, only much more exciting.

It was all quite innocent, but as ill-luck would have it they were seen by some people who were driving back to Brussels from Nivelles, and in less time than might have been thought possible the news that Sir Peregrine was Bab’s latest victim was not only current but had reached Harriet’s ears.

She was thunderstruck, and, in her nervous condition, easily convinced that the woman whom she had detested ever since the fatal expedition to Hougoumont was stealing from her Peregrine’s affections. No doubt he was tired of such a dull, ailing wife: she did not blame him—or, at any rate, not very much—but no words were bad enough to describe Barbara’s wicked malice.

She carried the story to Judith, casting herself upon her bosom and sobbing out her woes. Judith heard her with incredulity. She insisted upon her calming herself, obliged her to drink a glass of wine, and to sit down on the sofa, and said with brisk good sense: ‘I don’t believe a word of it! What has Perry to say for himself?’

Oh, Harriet might be a fool, but she was not such a fool as to attack Perry with his infidelity!

‘Infidelity!’ said Judith. ‘Stuff and nonsense! What a piece of work about nothing! I daresay he may admire Barbara: who does not? But as for the rest of it—why, Harriet, it is the merest irritation of nerves! If you take my advice you’ll think no more of it!’