Under false colours

forget her, for had not the newspapers made much of the fire at the Austrian Ambassador's grand ball? Held by Prince Schwarzenberg in honour of the Imperial wedding, the festivities had been ruined by a disastrous fire in which the prince had lost his sister-in-law and others had been killed or maimed.

He found himself unable to shake off the conviction that Hortense had had some part to play in the dreadful event.

He was rudely recalled to the present by the viols and the cello screeching and groaning at one another as the orchestra tuned up. Then the general muttering swelled and heads turned as the groom and best man marched in. A satisfied murmur greeted Quilhampton and Frey who were resplendent in the blue, white and gold of full dress and strode in step, the muted click of sword hangings accompanying their progress to the chancel. The left cuff of Quilhampton's dress coat was stitched across his breast. He exchanged glances with his mother, Louise, who sniffled worthily into a cambric handkerchief. Drinkwater thought of tying a white handkerchief to a ramrod and waving it above his head.

The rector made his appearance and slowly the noise from the congregation subsided as they waited for the bride.

Quilhampton looked back towards the porch and Drinkwater marked the pallor of his face. He still bore the marks of his ordeal and appeared as drawn as he had during his court martial. Mercifully, it had been a brief affair held aboard the Royal William at Portsmouth. Drinkwater had occupied his time on Helgoland in securing sworn statements about the handling of His Majesty's brig Tracker and had drawn up a defence for the judge-advocate to read to the court. He had prevailed too, upon Lord Dungarth, to minute the Admiralty to note on the court's papers that the brig had been employed upon a 'special service'.

Quilhampton's surrendered sword had been returned to him with the court's warmest approbation, but James's smile of relief had been wan, as though other matters weighed more heavily upon his mind. Perhaps it was the verdict of his bride he most dreaded, Drinkwater thought, watching him turn anxiously towards the porch.

Catriona MacEwan entered on the arm of her uncle. She was a tall, striking young woman with a mane of red-gold hair piled under her flat bonnet and a dusting of not unbecoming freckles over her nose. The necks of the congregation craned as one, and the sigh of satisfaction was audible as she caught sight of the thin, awkward man at the far end of the aisle and smiled.

The orchestra sawed its way into sudden life, joined by the congregation. 'Rejoice, the Lord is King ...' they boomed, 'Your Lord and King adore ...!'

'Dearly beloved,' the rector intoned, 'we are gathered together in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony ...'

'I hope they will be happy.'

'Yes.'

'They deserve it, after so long a time.'

'Yes.'

'It has been a long time for us too, my dear, far too long.'

'I know ... I ...' Drinkwater faltered, looking at Elizabeth as she sat on her side of the bed. She waited for him to finish his sentence, but he shook his head. He had been home a week but they were finding great difficulty in renewing their intimacy; both of them were guarded and uncertain, wrapped in their own diverse worlds and avoiding each other by pleading the unspoken excuse of preparations for Quilhampton's wedding. There was so much to say that Drinkwater felt the task quite beyond him.

'I keep thinking we are different people now.' she whispered, holding out her hand to him and drawing him down beside her.

'Yes, I know. So do I ...'

Perhaps that was a starting point; they had that much in common ...

He had to tell her, had to tell her everything; about all that had happened in the forests of Borneo; of his dark forebodings and the impossibility of seeing her when he had returned from the Indies; about the pathetic eagerness with which he had embraced Dungarth's secret mission and how it had misfired; how the Tracker was surrendered and Quilhampton lost his arm; of the whore Zenobia and the Jews, Liepmann and Solomon. He wanted to tell her of the meeting with Davout and the execution of Johannes; but most of all he wanted to tell her about Hortense ...

Long after they had found each other again he lay awake while Elizabeth slept beside him. He knew he could never share all of these things, that they were his own soul's burden and that he must bear them silently until his death.

Listening to his wife's gentle breathing, he thought perhaps it did not greatly matter. In time, providence balanced all accounts.

Tomorrow he could share with her what he knew would please her. It struck him as perversely ridiculous that he had delayed telling her, but the moment had never seemed right. Besides, it had taken him some time to grasp the significance of the contents of Isaac Solomon's document, the paper passed to him after dinner the night he and the Jewish merchant had dined with Lord Dungarth.

It was an outrageous quirk of fortune that the gold should have realized so much. Sold and shrewdly invested by Solomon in a mysterious speculation, it had realized almost three thousand pounds. He had become, if not a rich man, a person of some independence.

The strange parcel arrived by the hand of an Admiralty messenger. Drinkwater thought at first it was a chart and, for fear of upsetting Elizabeth with so early a receipt of orders, took it aside and opened it privately. The oiled wrapping peeled back to reveal a familiar roll of canvas, the edges of which were frayed. He recognized it instantly. With a beating heart he unrolled it. The paint crackled and flakes lifted from its abused surface.

Its appearance shocked him from a far greater disfigurement than mere neglect: down the side of the painted cheek, from ear to chin, the beautiful face was ruined by a deliberately applied brown stain.

With a shaking hand Drinkwater picked up a small sheet of paper that fell from the centre of the roll. It was in Lord Dungarth's hand and was undated.

My Dear Nathaniel,

The Enclosed comes from Paris via Fagan. It seems the Lady was Disfigured in the Fire at the Austrian Ambassador's Rout. He was Asked to Ensure you Received it.

Dungarth

Drinkwater stared at the smeared mark. It was dried blood.

'God's bones,' he whispered, placing the roll of canvas in the grate. Fetching flint and steel he lit a candle and, squatting down, applied the flame to the corner of the portrait. The oil locked in the paint ignited and crackled with a volley of tiny explosions as the flames licked up the frayed strands, laying a smear of soot over the poor, ruined face. Standing, Drinkwater watched it burn until only a charred heap of ash lay at his feet.

Author's Note

The years 1809-1811 mark the turning point in what, until 1914, was called the Great War. Trafalgar and Austerlitz matched the sea power of Great Britain against the land power of the Napoleonic French Empire. With Russia allied to France and the Continental System in place, Napoleon was in a commanding position. By 1809 Britain had begun the long slog of the Peninsular War in support of the Spanish insurrection and was also attempting to liberate Antwerp whose occupation by the French had been the cause of war in 1793. The resulting