Blood and Ice

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

July 6, 1854, evening

WHEN THE BROUGHAM RUMBLED across Trafalgar Square and into the refined precincts of Pall Mall, where the finest gentleman's clubs had all come to roost, Sinclair had the coachman stop at the corner of St. James's, rather than in front of the main entrance to the Longchamps. It was there that the side entrance was located, and it was only through the more humble door that any woman was ever allowed to pass.

The coachman stepped down smartly unfolded the carriage steps, and helped the ladies to disembark. The gas lamps that lined the street (Pall Mall had been the first such district in London to be so graced, in 1807) were just flickering on against the encroaching dark.

Inside the marble vestibule, a liveried servant-Bentley if Sinclair recalled his name correctly-awaited, but when he saw Sinclair an uncertain look crossed his face.

“Evening, Bentley,” Sinclair crowed, in his most affable manner. “We've had a winning day at Ascot!”

“I'm pleased to hear it, sir,” Bentley replied, casting his eye over the assemblage.

“And what we need now is refreshment.”

“Indeed, sir,” Bentley replied, without volunteering anything more.

Now Sinclair knew that something was awry. His debts, he suspected, had risen to the point where the board of governors had posted his name as being in arrears, and his club privileges had been suspended.

While the ladies were no doubt blissfully unaware of any problem-too busy marveling at the way the evening light came through the stained-glass oriel window-Sinclair knew that Rutherford and Frenchie must have guessed at the problem already. Rutherford looked ready to escort them all back to his coach, and on to the Athenaeum, where he belonged.

“Bentley, may I have a word?” Sinclair said, drawing the nervous servant aside. Once they were out of earshot, Sinclair said, “Have I been posted? Is that it?” and Bentley nodded.

“A bookkeeping mistake,” Sinclair said, regretfully shaking his head, “nothing more. I'll straighten it out in the morning.”

“But sir, until then, I have been instructed-”

Sinclair put up a hand and Bentley immediately fell silent. Reaching into his pocket, Sinclair extracted a wad of bills, peeled off several, and handed them to Bentley. “Give this to Mr. Wither-spoon in the morning, and have him put it toward my account. Will you do that?”

Bentley, without counting or even looking at the money, said, “I will, sir, of course.”

“Good man. For now, what my companions and I require is a cold supper and colder champagne. Can you have something served up in the stranger's coffee-room?” Though hardly the most appealing room in the massive old club, it was the only place where women were permitted at all. Bentley said that he could arrange it, and Sinclair returned to his guests.

“Right this way,” he said, showing the ladies down a short corridor and into what was in fact an annex that the club had built to accommodate its growing membership. The room was untenanted at present, though a servant quickly appeared to draw the long, red velvet curtains and light the wall sconces. There was a vast, rough-hewn stone hearth at one end, surmounted by a stuffed elk's head, and an array of worn leather seats, sofas, and oaken tables.

The ladies seated themselves in a small conversational grouping beneath the main chandelier, their tired feet resting on a faded Oriental rug.

“Shall we have a fire?” Sinclair asked his guests, but everyone declined.

“Good Lord, haven't you sweltered enough today?” Rutherford said, taking the seat closest to Moira, who was still fanning her throat and shoulders with the Ascot program. “I'm praying for rain.”

A storm had been threatening the whole way back from the racecourse, but it had not yet broken. Sinclair, too, appreciated the cool of the room after the long, hot ride in the carriage.

A pair of servants bustled in, and soon one of the round tables was set for six, with yellow damask napery glittering crystal, and a gleaming silver candelabrum. When everything was ready, Bentley nodded toward Sinclair, who seated Eleanor directly to his right, and Moira on his left. Frenchie and Dolly, who had at last removed her garden hat to reveal a cascade of black ringlets, completed the circle. She was a pretty girl, no more than twenty or twenty-one, but wore a rather heavy layer of makeup to conceal what appeared to be smallpox scars.

Once the champagne had been poured, Sinclair raised his fluted glass and declared, “To Nightingale's Song-our noble steed and generous benefactor!”

“Why do you only share your losing hunches with me?” Frenchie said, winking at the memory of the pit-bull match, and Sinclair laughed.

“Perhaps my luck has changed,” he said, turning ever so slightly toward Eleanor.

“To luck, then,” Rutherford said, weary of all the words, and draining his glass all at once.

Eleanor had had champagne just once before in her life, when the town's mayor had celebrated his election with the farmers and tradesmen, but she was sure that it was meant to be drunk slowly. She lifted the glass, and the cold froth of the bubbles almost made her sneeze. Even the glass was cold, and the wine, when she tasted it on her tongue, was sweet and surprising. She took only a sip, then gazed at the glass, with its bubbles rising, and it reminded her of the bubbles one would sometimes see under the thin ice that covered a stream. There was something very nearly mesmerizing about it, and when she took her eyes away, she saw that Sinclair was amused at her concentration.

“It's for drinking,” he said, “not contemplation.”

“Hear, hear,” Rutherford said, commandeering the bottle to refill his own glass, and then Moira's. He leaned very far over her as he poured, and Moira obligingly leaned back in her chair to afford him more room, and a better view.

Eleanor, who had often wondered what the interior of such impressive clubs might be like, was somewhat let down by the reality. She had imagined far more sumptuous surroundings, rich with gilding and ornamentation and fine French furniture beautifully upholstered in silks and satin. The room, large though it was and with a high, beamed ceiling, felt much more like a comfortably appointed hunting lodge than a palace.

Under Bentley's close supervision, a series of cold dishes-veal tongue, mutton with mint jelly, duck in aspic-were brought out, and the men regaled their companions with stories of the brigade and its exploits. All three were members of the 17th Duke of Cambridge's Own Lancers, first formed in 1759, and as Rutherford proudly declared while holding a scrap of duck aloft on his fork, “Never far from the cannon fire since!”

“In the thick of it more often that not,” Le Maitre added.

“And soon to be so again,” Sinclair said, and once more, Eleanor felt an unexpected pang. The situation in the east was worsening-Russia, under the pretext of a religious conflict in the ancient city of Jerusalem, had declared war on the Turkish Ottoman Empire, and defeated the Turkish fleet in the Black Sea. It was feared, as Rutherford explained to the ladies, that “if we don't stop the Russian bear on the land, he will soon be swimming in the Mediterranean Sea.” Any such challenge to the British command of the seas, it was universally understood, had to be nipped in the bud.

Eleanor grasped only some of this, her knowledge of foreign affairs-and even geography-being slight; her education had been limited to a few years at a local academy for girls, where the emphasis was on etiquette and deportment rather than more intellectual matters. But still, she could see the eagerness and the enthusiasm with which her male company were looking forward to the prospect of battle, and she marveled at their bravery. Frenchie had removed from his pocket a silver cigarette case, on which was emblazoned the emblem of the 17th Light Brigade. It was a Death's Head, and beneath the crossed bones were unfurled the words, “Or Glory.” It was passed from hand to hand, and when Eleanor received it, she instinctively recoiled and gave it quickly on to Sinclair.

A platter of cheeses, then sweets, were served, along with what was surely the third-or was it the fourth?-bottle of champagne. Eleanor just remembered hearing the popping of several corks over the course of the meal, and when Sinclair offered to fill her glass again, she placed a hand over it.

“No, thank you. I'm afraid it's already gone to my head.”

“Perhaps you'd like to take some air?”

“Yes,” she said, “that would probably be well advised.”

But when they excused themselves and stepped to the portico door, they could see that the rain had finally arrived. The pavement was wet and shining in the light of the gas lamps, and as Eleanor looked on, a pair of gentlemen in top hats and black capes bolted from a hansom cab and up the steps of the equally grand clubhouse across the street.

“These houses are quite beautiful,” she said, craning her neck to see the facade of the Longchamps. There were great rounded columns, made of a cream-colored limestone, and an exquisitely carved bas-relief of a Greek god, or perhaps an emperor, above the imposing double doors.

“I suppose you're right,” Sinclair said, affecting nonchalance. “I'm so accustomed to it, I hardly see it anymore.”

“But others do.”

He lighted a cigarette and gazed out at the rain. A weary dray horse, drawing a wagon of beer kegs, slowly clip-clopped by, the wheels rumbling over the wet cobblestones. He blew out a puff of smoke, then, struck by inspiration, said, “Would you like to see more?”

Eleanor wasn't sure what he was proposing. “I didn't bring an umbrella, but if you-”

“No, I meant more of the clubhouse.”

But Eleanor knew it wasn't allowed.

“There's a quite marvelous tapestry, a Gobelins, in the main hall, and the billiards room is the best in Pall Mall.”

Seeing her uncertainty, he said, leaning close with a mischievous smile, “Oh, yes, I see your natural reluctance, and it is quite forbidden. But that's why it will be such fun.”

Would it? All day long Eleanor had felt like she'd passed through the looking glass and was moving in a realm she didn't fully understand, and this was just one more instance of it.

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand like a child inviting another to play. “I know a way.”

Before she knew it, they had reentered the club, passed back down the corridor from the stranger's coffee-room, then crept up a back stairs that she suspected only the servants were to use. Sinclair inched a door open, then put a finger to his lips as two men in white tie, holding brandy snifters, ambled by.

“Not even if the Admiralty ordered you to?” one asked, and the other said, “Particularly if the Admiralty ordered it,” and they both chuckled.

Once they'd gone, Sinclair opened the door wider and escorted Eleanor through. She was standing at one end of a narrow mezzanine, overlooking a vast entry hall with alternating white and black marble tiles. A dual staircase swept up on either side, and at its apex hung a huge antique tapestry, depicting a stag hunt. It was faded, but must have once been done in brilliant purples and blues; a ragged gold fringe lined its edges.

“It's Belgian,” Sinclair whispered, “and quite old.”

Still clutching her hand-no one had ever held it so long, or so possessively, and she still did not know how she should have responded to such conduct-he drew her on, offering her a glimpse of a cardroom, where several men were so focused on their game that none so much as looked up at the opening of the door; a sumptuous library with satinwood bookcases standing twelve feet high, all lined with leather-bound books; a trophy room with various silver plates and cups and a veritable menagerie of stuffed animal heads staring off, glassy-eyed, into eternity. Three or four times they had to duck into alcoves or behind closed doors to avoid being seen by a passing servant or member of the club, and on one such occasion Sinclair whispered to her, “That buffoon with the belly is called Fitzroy I've thrashed him once, but I fear I shall have to do it again.”

When Fitzroy had passed, stifling a belch with the back of his hand, Sinclair drew her out of hiding again. “This way,” he said. “Just one more.”

They were on the third story, and she could hear a hard but unfamiliar clacking sound, as Sinclair led her up a narrow, carpeted stair, and into a velvet-curtained recess. He held his finger to his lips again, then, finally releasing her hand, parted the curtains a few inches.

They were standing on a tiny balcony, with an elaborately scrolled black iron rail; below them there were half a dozen billiards tables, spread like a deep green lawn across the wainscoted gallery. Just two of the tables were in play, and the men at one were only in their shirtsleeves, their suspenders hanging down; Eleanor blushed at the sight. One of the players stroked a white ball and it rolled smoothly across the table, striking a red ball, before gently nestling against the bumper.

“Well played,” his opponent said.

“If only life were a billiards table,” the first one replied, pausing to rub something on the end of the stick.

“Ah, but it is. Weren't you told?”

“Must have been on furlough that day.”

“Like most,” the first one said with a laugh.

Was this how men talked, Eleanor thought? Was this how they conducted themselves in private? She was both fascinated and embarrassed; she wasn't supposed to be there, she wasn't meant to see, or hear, any of this. Though she didn't dare speak, for fear of being overheard, she looked at Sinclair. He turned toward her, and in the confines of the balcony, concealed behind the barely parted curtains, she could feel the intensity of his gaze. She lowered her own eyes-why had she allowed herself to drink that second glass of champagne; her head still felt light from it-but then she felt his finger touching her chin, raising it, and she allowed her face to rise. He was bending toward her; she was aware chiefly of his pale moustache. And then, though she was sure she had given him no improper encouragement, his lips were touching hers… and she did not resist. Her own eyes closed, she could not have said why, and for several seconds time seemed to stop altogether-everything seemed to stop-and it was only when a victorious whoop went up from one of the billiards players below-”That's the game, Reynolds!”-that she took a half step back, her lips tingling, her face on fire, to look again at the young lieutenant.