Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

Unlike all the others around him, Hatch was not exulting. He did not look afraid, or reluctant in any way, but he did not look to be champing at the bit, either. He had a half smile on his lips as he surveyed the pandemonium around him, and in his eyes there was a serious, even faraway expression. It was almost as if he could see their destination, and perhaps their fate, in his mind's eye, and Sinclair's own spirits suddenly grew more sober. Still, he said, “It's a great day, Sergeant Hatch, is it not?” and Hatch nodded, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You'll never forget this day,” he said, in a tone more solemn than it was jubilant.

“Bri-tons,” Frenchie and his chorus were singing out, “never, never, never will be slaves!”

Another hand seized Sinclair by the elbow, and when he turned it was Rutherford, his muttonchops fairly bristling with the news. His face was red with shouting, and he could only shake Sinclair with delight.

“By God,” he sputtered at last. “By God we'll show ‘em a thing or two!”

And Sinclair immediately fell in with his mood. He turned away from Sergeant Hatch and threw himself again into the happy madness. He deliberately led Ajax off, holding tight to his reins; he wanted to slag off any doubts or hesitation. This was a time for celebration, for camaraderie, and he wanted no part of warnings or admonitions. Hatch had reminded him of a poem, by that fellow Coleridge, the one where the wedding guest is stopped by an ancient mariner, who insists on telling him a dire tale. Sinclair wanted no dire tales that day-he wanted the promise of glory and the opportunity of valor. And finally, it appeared, he would most certainly have them!

But the tenth of August was only two days away, and there would be a great deal to do in the time remaining. No doubt all their uniforms and weapons and tack would have to be organized, polished, cleaned, and inspected; their mounts would have to be readied for the long voyage aboard the navy frigates-or would the army commandeer a fleet of the new steamers, to make the trip in much less time? — and affairs in London, of any nature, would have to be wound up, too.

Which meant he must consider how to break the news to Eleanor. Indeed, he was due at her boardinghouse that afternoon. He had promised to take her to Hyde Park, where the Crystal Palace had so recently stood. He had hoped to make a day of it, having a stroll under the stately elms that filled the park, but unless he was sorely mistaken, his entire brigade would be confined to the barracks until their departure. He would have to make his exit right away and hope to be back again before he was missed in all the commotion.

He took Ajax to the stables and once he was in his stall, made sure to give him a double ration of oats and hay. Running his hand down the white blaze on his muzzle, he said, “Shall we cover ourselves in glory?” Ajax lowered his chestnut head as if assenting. Sinclair patted him down with a cloth to wipe away the sweat from his strong, well-muscled neck, then left the stables by the rear gate, where he had less chance of being seen.

He'd have liked to change his shirt, or at least wash up a bit, but the risk of being forestalled was too great. He hurried to the Savoy Hotel, where he knew he'd find a hansom cab or two waiting; he hired the first one he spotted, and called out his destination while leaping into the seat. The coachman flicked his whip and the carriage took off through the busy, dirty streets at a brisk pace, while Sinclair caught the first deep breath he'd had since hearing the news and debated how he would relay it all to Eleanor. He'd hardly had time, for that matter, to digest it himself.

His father, the earl, would probably be pleased; it would place Sinclair out of reach of the gambling dens and music halls and other expensive amusements of London, and, if he didn't get his head blown off, return him to England with a reputation as a soldier instead of a wastrel. But ah, if only the earl knew where Sinclair was headed at present-to the humble quarters shared by a pair of impecunious nurses, on the top floor of a dilapidated boarding-house. It would make the old man shudder, that much Sinclair knew, and if he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he derived a certain enjoyment from that fact. The earl had been forever parading one plain aristocratic lady after another past him, hoping that Sinclair would find one of them sufficiently enticing, but Sinclair was a man who had always known what he wanted, instantly, and what he wanted was Eleanor Ames. He'd known it the moment he saw her closing the hospital shutters.

When the cab arrived on Eleanor's street, Sinclair directed the driver to the boardinghouse, then tossed him some coins while stepping down. “If you wait, you'll have the fare back again!” he cried.

The front steps were cracked, and the vestibule door had no lock. As Sinclair entered, he could hear a dog forlornly barking behind one flimsy door and a man bellowing about something at the end of the front hall. There was a musty smell on the stairs, which grew worse as he ascended, and as there was only one small window on each landing, it also grew darker. His boots made the floorboards creak, and as he approached Eleanor and Moira's door, he saw some feeble sunlight spill into the narrow hall. Moira was holding the door open a few inches, waiting to see who it was, but once she had ascertained that it was Sinclair, she seemed to crane her neck to look behind him.

“Good afternoon,” she said, the disappointment evident in her voice. “You've come all on your own, then?”

She must have been hoping he'd bring Captain Rutherford along; Sinclair knew that they had seen each other on several occasions, though he also knew that Moira set greater store by those meetings than did Rutherford.

“Eleanor's in the parlor.”

From previous occasions, Sinclair knew that the parlor simply referred to the tiny portion of the room that faced the street, and which was separated from the remainder of the room by a modesty curtain concealing the bed that Eleanor and Moira had to share. Eleanor was standing by the window-had she been looking down, waiting to see him arrive? — in the new pale yellow frock that he had, after some cajoling, persuaded her to accept. Each time they'd met, she'd worn the same simple forest-green dress, and though it was becoming on her, he longed to see her in something more gay and stylish. Though he knew nothing of ladies’ fashion, he did know that the bodice of the new dress was more generously cut, allowing for a glimpse of neck and shoulder, and the sleeves were not so puffed out as to obscure the line of her slender arms. He had been walking with Eleanor down Marylebone Street one afternoon, and he had seen her eye linger on the dress in the store window. He sent a messenger the next day to purchase it and deliver it to her at the hospital.

She turned toward him, blushing but pleased to let him see her in her new finery, and even in the sooty light of the London afternoon, she looked radiant. “I don't know how you knew,” she said, gesturing at the dress. A border of white lace lay like new-fallen snow across her bosom.

“And we only had to take it in by an inch or two,” Moira said, bustling about behind the curtain. “She's a regular dressmaker's form, this ‘un.” She reappeared, gathering a shawl around her ample shoulders and carrying a mesh sack. “I'm off to the market,” she said, “and shan't be back for at least the half hour.” She all but winked at them before closing the door behind her.

Sinclair and Eleanor stood alone, still somewhat awkwardly. Sinclair wanted to take her in his arms, and beautiful as the dress was, divest her of it as quickly as possible… but he would not do that. Despite the inequality of their positions in society, he treated her as he would any of the wellborn young ladies that he met at the country-house balls or formal dinners in the city. For his more base appetites, there was always the Salon d'Aphrodite.