The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ all she had done was go riding with Watney – why, she hadn’t even known who he was when I warned her against him that morning. And she was the most scatterbrained thing in petticoats; besides, she wasn’t of the mettle that trollops are made of. Too meek and gentle and submissive by half – she wouldn’t have dared. The mere thought of what I’d do would have terrified … what would I do? Disown her? Divorce her? Throw her out? By God, I couldn’t! I didn’t have the means; my father was right!

      For a moment I was appalled. If Elspeth was making a mistress for Watney, or anyone else, there was nothing I could do about it. I could cut her to ribbons, oh, aye, and what then? Take to the streets? I couldn’t stay in the army, or in town, even, without means …

      Oh, but to the devil with this. It was pure moonshine, aye, and deliberately put into my mind to make me jealous by that brown-headed slut of my father’s. This was her making mischief to get her own back for the hammering I’d given her three years ago. That was it. Why, I didn’t have the least reason to think ill of Elspeth; everything about her denied Judy’s imputations – and, by God, I’d pay that cow out for her lies and sneers. I’d find a way, all right, and God help her when I did.

      With my thoughts back in more genial channels, I remembered the news I’d been coming home to tell Elspeth – well, she would have to wait for it until after I’d been to the Palace. Serve her right for going out with Watney, damn him. In the meantime, I spent the next hour looking out my best clothes, arranging my hair, which was grown pretty long and romantic, and cursing Oswald as he helped me with my cravat – I’d have been happier in uniform, but I didn’t have a decent one to my name, having spent my time in mufti since I came home. I was so excited that I didn’t bother to lunch, but dandied myself up to the nines, and then hurried off to meet His Nose-ship.

      There was a brougham at his door when I arrived, and I didn’t have to wait two minutes before he came down, all dressed and damning the secretary and valet who were stalking along behind him.

      “There probably isn’t a damned warming-pan in the place,” he was barking. “And it is necessary that everything should be in the finest order. Find out if Her Majesty takes her own bed-linen when she travels. I imagine she does, but don’t for God’s sake go inquiring indiscreetly. Ask Arbuthnot; he’ll know. You may be sure that something will be amiss, in the end, but it can’t be helped. Ah, Flashman,” and he ran his eye over me like a drill sergeant. “Come along, then.”

      There was a little knot of urchins and people to raise a cheer as he came out, and some shouted: “There’s the Flash cove! Hurrah!” by which they meant me. There was a little wait after we got in, because the coachman had some trouble with his reins, and a little crowd gathered while the Duke fretted and swore.

      “Dammit, Johnson,” growls he, “hurry up or we shall have all London here.”

      The crowd cheered and we rolled off in the pleasant autumn sunshine, with the guttersnipes running behind whooping and people turning on the pavements to lift their hats as the Great Duke passed by.

      “If I knew how news travelled I’d be a wiser man,” says he. “Can you imagine it? I’ll lay odds they know in Dover by this time that I am taking you to Her Majesty. You’ve never had any dealings with royalty, I take it?”

      “Only in Afghanistan, my lord,” says I, and he barked a little short laugh.

“They probably have less ceremonial than we do,” he says. “It is a most confounded bore. Let me tell you, sir, never become a field-marshal and commander-in-chief. It is very fine, but it means your sovereign will honour you by coming to stay, and not a bed in the place worth a damn. I have more anxiety over the furnishing of Walmer, Mr Flashman, than I did over the works at Torres Vedras.”²⁷

      “If you are as successful this time as you were then, my lord,” says I, buttering him, “you have no cause for alarm.”

      “Huh!” says he, and gave me a sharp look. But he was silent for a minute or two and then asked me if I felt nervous.

      “There is no need why you should be,” says he. “Her Majesty is most gracious, although it is never as easy, of course, as it was with her predecessors. King William was very easy, very kind, and made people entirely at home. It is altogether more formal now, and pretty stiff, but if you stay by me and keep your mouth shut, you’ll do.”

      I ventured to say that I’d felt happier at the prospect of charging into a band of Ghazis than I did at going to the palace, which was rubbish, of course, but I thought was probably the thing to say.

      “Damned nonsense,” says he, sharply. “You wouldn’t rather anything of the sort. But I know that the feeling is much the same, for I’ve experienced both myself. The important thing is never to show it, as I am never tired of telling young men. Now tell me about these Ghazis, who I understand are the best soldiers the Afghans can show.”

      He was on my home ground there, and I told him about the Ghazis and Gilzais and Pathans and Douranis, to which he listened very carefully until I realised that we were rolling through the palace gates, and there were the Guards presenting arms, and a flunkey running to hold the door and set the steps, and officers clicking to attention, and a swarm of people about us.

      “Come on,” says the Duke, and led the way through a small doorway, and I have a hazy recollection of stairs and liveried footmen, and long carpeted corridors, and great chandeliers, and soft-footed officials escorting us – but my chief memory is of the slight, grey-coated figure in front of me, striding along and people getting out of his way.

      We brought up outside two great double doors with a flunkey in a wig at either side, and a small fat man in a black tail coat bobbed in front of us, and darted forward muttering to twitch at my collar and smooth my lapel.

      “Apologies,” he twittered. “A brush here.” And he snapped his fingers. A brush appeared and he flicked at my coat, very deftly, and shot a glance in the Duke’s direction.

      “Take that damned thing away,” says the Duke, “and stop fussing. We know how to dress without your assistance.”

      The little fat man looked reproachful and stood aside, motioning to the flunkeys. They opened the door, and with my heart thumping against my ribs I heard a rich, strong voice announce:

      “His Grace the Duke of Wellington. Mr Flashman.”

      It was a large, magnificently furnished drawing-room, with a carpet stretching away between mirrored walls and a huge chandelier overhead. There were a few people at the other end, two men standing near the fireplace, a girl sitting on a couch with an older woman standing behind, and I think another man and a couple of women near by. We walked forward towards them, the Duke a little in advance, and he stopped short of the couch and bowed.

      “Your Majesty,” says he, “may I have the honour to present Mr Flashman.”

      And only then did I realise who the girl was. We are accustomed to think of her as the old queen, but she was just a child then, rather plump, and pretty enough beneath the neck. Her eyes were large and popped a little, and her teeth stuck out too much, but she smiled and murmured in reply – by this time I was bowing my backside off, naturally.

      When I straightened up she was looking at me, and Wellington was reciting briskly about Kabul and Jallalabad – “distinguished defence”, “Mr Flashman’s notable behaviour” are the only phrases that stay in my mind. When he stopped she inclined her head at him, and then said to me:

      “You are the first we have СКАЧАТЬ