Flashman’s Lady. George Fraser MacDonald

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      ‘D’ye know,’ says he, addressing those nearest, who included many of his house party, as well as Mynn and Felix and Ponsonby-Fane, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if Harry wasn’t the fastest man in England just now – I don’t say the best, in deference to distinguished company’ – and he bowed gracefully towards Mynn – ‘but certainly the quickest; what d’you think, Mr Felix?’

      Felix blinked and blushed, as he always did at being singled out, and said he wasn’t sure; when he was at the crease, he added gravely, he didn’t consider miles per hour, but any batter who faced Mynn at one end and me at t’other would have something to tell his grandchildren about. Everyone laughed, and Solomon cries, lucky men indeed; wouldn’t tyro cricketers like himself just jump at the chance of facing a few overs from us. Not that they’d last long, to be sure, but the honour would be worth it.

      ‘I don’t suppose,’ he added, fingering his earring and looking impish at me, ‘you’d consider playing me a single-wicket match, would you?’

      Being cheerful with bubbly and my five for 12, I laughed and said I’d be glad to oblige, but he’d better get himself cover from Lloyd’s, or a suit of armour. ‘Why,’ says I, ‘d’you fancy your chance?’ and he shrugged and said no, not exactly; he knew he mightn’t make much of a show, but he was game to try. ‘After all,’ says he, tongue in cheek, ‘you ain’t Fuller Pilch as a batter, you know.’

      There are moments, and they have a habit of sticking in memory, when light-hearted, easy fun suddenly becomes dead serious. I can picture that moment now; the marquee with its throng of men in their whites, the ladies in their bright summer confections, the stuffy smell of grass and canvas, the sound of the tent-flap stirring in the warm breeze, the tinkle of plates and glasses, the chatter and the polite laughter, Elspth smiling eagerly over her strawberries and cream, Mynn’s big red face glistening, and Solomon opposite me – huge and smiling in his bottle-green coat, the emerald pin in his scarf, the brown varnished face with its smiling dark eyes, the carefully dressed black curls and whiskers, the big, delicately manicured hand spinning his glass by the stem.

      ‘Just for fun,’ says he. ‘Give me something to boast about, anyway – play on my lawn at the house. Come on’ – and he poked me in the ribs – ‘I dare you, Harry,’ at which they chortled and said he was a game bird, all right.

      I didn’t know, then, that it mattered, although something warned me that there was a hint of humbug about it, but with the champagne working and Elspeth miaowing eagerly I couldn’t see any harm.

      ‘Very good,’ says I, ‘they’re your ribs, you know. How many a side?’

      ‘Oh, just the two of us,’ says he. ‘No fieldsmen; bounds, of course, but no byes or overthrows. I’m not built for chasing,’ and he patted his guts, smiling. ‘Couple of hands, what? Double my chance of winning a run or two.’

      ‘What about stakes?’ laughs Mynn. ‘Can’t have a match like this for just a tizzy,’^fn1 winking at me.

      ‘What you will,’ says Solomon easily. ‘All one to me – fiver, pony, monkey, thou. – don’t matter, since I shan’t be winning it anyway.’

      Now that’s the kind of talk that sends any sensible man diving for his hat and the nearest doorway, usually; otherwise you find yourself an hour later scribbling IOUs and trying to think of a false name. But this was different – after all, I was first-class, and he wasn’t even thought about; no one had seen him play, even. He couldn’t hope for anything against my expresses – and one thing was sure, he didn’t need my money.

      ‘Hold on, though,’ says I. ‘We ain’t all nabob millionaires, you know. Lieutenant’s half-pay don’t stretch—’

      Elspeth absolutely reached for her reticule, d--n her, whispering that I must afford whatever Don Solomon put up, and while I was trying to hush her, Solomon says:

      ‘Not a bit of it – I’ll wager the thou., on my side; it’s my proposal, after all, so I must be ready to stand the racket. Harry can put up what he pleases – what d’ye say, old boy?’

      Well, everyone knew he was filthy rich and careless with it, so if he wanted to lose a thousand for the privilege of having me trim him up, I didn’t mind. I couldn’t think what to offer as a wager against his money, though, and said so.

      ‘Well, make it a pint of ale,’ says he, and then snapped his fingers. ‘Tell you what – I’ll name what your stake’s to be, and I promise you, if you lose and have to stump up, it’s something that won’t cost you a penny.’

      ‘What’s that?’ says I, all leery in a moment.

      ‘Are you game?’ cries he.

      ‘Tell us my stake first,’ says I.

      ‘Well, you can’t cry off now, anyway,’ says he, beaming triumphantly. ‘It’s this: a thou. on my side, if you win, and if I win – which you’ll admit ain’t likely’ – he paused, to keep everyone in suspense – ‘if I win, you’ll allow Elspeth and her father to come on my voyage.’ He beamed round at the company. ‘What’s fairer than that, I should like to know?’

      The bare-faced sauce of it took my breath away. Here was this fat upstart, with his nigger airs, who had proclaimed his interest in my wife and proposed publicly to take her jaunting while I was left cuckolded at home, had been properly and politely warned off, and was now back on the same tack, but trying to pass it off as a jolly, light-hearted game. My skin burned with fury – had he cooked this up with Elspeth? – but one glance told me she was as astonished as I was. Others were smiling, though, and I saw two ladies whispering behind their parasols; Mrs Lade was watching with amusement.

      ‘Well, well, Don,’ says I, deliberately easy. ‘You don’t give up in a hurry, do you?’

      ‘Oh, come, Harry,’ cries he. ‘What hope have I? It’s just nonsense, for you’re sure to win. Doesn’t he always win, Mrs Lade?’ And he looked at her, smiling, and then at me, and at Elspeth, without a flicker of expression – by G-d, had he recognised my heaving stern in the drawing-room, after all, and was he daring to say: ‘Accept my wager, give me this chance, or I’ll blow the gaff’? I didn’t know – but it made no odds, for I realised I had to take him on, for my credit’s sake. What – Flashy, the heroic sport, back down against a mere tyro, and thereby proclaim that he was jealous of his wife where this fat swaggerer was concerned? No – I had to play, and look pleasant. He had, as the Duke would say, humbugged me, by G-d.

      But what was he hoping for? A fluke in a million? Single-wicket’s a chancy game, but even so, he couldn’t hope to beat me. And yet, he was so set on having his way, like the spoiled, arrogant pup he was (for all his modest air), that any chance, however slim, he’d snatch at. He’d nothing to lose except a thousand quid, and that was ha’pence to him. Very well, then – I’d not only beat the brute; I’d milk him for the privilege.

      ‘Done, then,’ says I, cheerfully, ‘but since you’ve set my stake, I’ll set yours. If you lose, it’ll cost you two thousand – not one. Suit you?’

      Of course he had to agree, laughing and saying I drove such a hard bargain I must give him the tie as well – which meant that if the scores finished even, I would forfeit my stake. I had to win to collect – but it was a trivial thing, since I was bound to drub him handsomely. Just to be sure, though, I asked Felix then and there if he’d stand umpire; I wasn’t having some creature СКАЧАТЬ