my own lechery and vanity and the shockingest turn of ill luck. Apart from anything else, I missed the Derby.
We left Elspeth at home, working contentedly at her Berlins,4 and took the train for Bristol, Morrison and I. He was the damndest travelling companion you ever saw, for apart from being a thundering bore he carped at everything, from the literature at the station book stalls, which he pronounced trash, to the new practice of having to pay a bob 'attendance money' to railway servants.5 I was glad to get to Devizes, I can tell you, whence we drove to Seend, a pretty little place where our host lived in a fairish establishment called Cleeve House.
He was the kind of friend you'd expect Morrison to have — a middle-aged moneybags of a banker called Locke, with reach-me-down whiskers and a face like a three-day corpse. He was warm enough, evidently, but as soon as I saw the females sitting about in chairs on the gravel with their bonnets on, reading improving books, I could see this was the kind of house-party that wasn't Flashy's style at all. I was used to hunting weeks where you dined any old how, with lots of brandy and singing, and chaps p g in the corner and keeping all hours, and no females except the local bareback riders, as old Jack Mitton used to call them. But by '48 they were going out, you see, and it was as much as you dare do, at some of the houses, to produce the cards before midnight after the ladies had retired. I remember Speed telling me, round about this time, of one place he'd been to where they got him up at eight for morning prayers, and gave him a book of sermons to read after luncheon.
Cleeve House wasn't quite as raw as that, but it would have been damned dreary going if one of the girls present hadn't been quite out of the ordinary run. I fixed on her from the start — a willowy blonde piece with a swinging hip and a knowing eye. Strange, I met her at Cleeve, and didn't see her again till I came on her cooking breakfast for a picket of Campbell's Highianders outside Balaclava six years later, the very morning of Cardigan's charge. Fanny Locke her name was;6 she was the young sister of our host, a damned handsome eighteen with the shape of a well-developed matron. Like so many young girls whose body outgrows their years, she didn't know what to do with it — well, I could give her guidance there. As soon as I saw her swaying down the staircase at Cleeve, ho-ho, thinks I, hark forrard. You may be sure I was soon in attendance, and when I found she was a friendly little thing, and a keen horsewoman, I laid my plans accordingly, and engaged to go riding with her next day, when she would show me the local Country — it was the long grass I had in mind, of course.
In the meantime, the first evening at Cleeve was quite as much fun as a Methodist service. Of course, all Tory gatherings are the same, and Locke had assembled as choice a collection of know-all prigs as you could look for. Bentinck I didn't mind, because he had some game in him and knew more about the turf than anyone I ever met, but he had in tow the cocky little sheeny D'Israeli, whom I never could stomach. He was pathetic, really, trying to behave like the Young Idea when he was well into greasy middle age, with his lovelock and fancy vest, like a Punjabi whoremaster. They were saying then that he had spent longer 'arriving' at Westminster than a one-legged Irish peer with the gout; well, he 'arrived' in the end, as we know, and if I'd been able to read the future I might have toadied him a good deal more, I dare say.7
Locke, our host, introduced us as we were going in to dinner, and I made political small talk, as old Morrison had told me I should.
'Bad work for your lot in the Lords, hey?' says I, and he lowered his lids at me in that smart-affected way he had. 'You know,' says I, 'the Jewish Bill getting thrown out. Bellows to mend in Whitechapel, what? Bad luck all round,' I went on, 'what with Shylock rumning second at Epsom, too. I had twenty quid on him myself,'8
I heard Locke mutter 'Good God', but friend Codlingsby just put back his head and looked at me thoughtfully. 'Indeed,' says he. 'How remarkable. And you aspire to politics, Mr Flashman?'
'That's my ticket,' says I.
'Truly remarkable,' says he. 'Do you know, I shall watch your career with bated breath.' And then Locke mumbled him away, and I pounced on Miss Fanny and took her in to dinner.
Of course, it was all politics at table, but I was too engaged with Fanny to pay much heed. When the ladies had gone and we'd all moved up, I heard more, but it didn't stick. I remember they were berating Russell's idleness, and the government's extravagance, on which D'Israeli made one of those sallies which you could see had been well polished beforehand.
'Lord John must not be underestimated,' says he. 'He understands the first principle, that the great strength of the British Constitution lies in the money it costs us. Make government cheap and you make it contemptible.'
Everyone laughed except old Morrison, who glared over his glass. 'That'll look well in one o' your nov-elles, sir, I don't doubt. But let me tell you, running a country is like running a mill, and waste'll ruin the baith o' them.'
D'Israeli, being smart, affected to misunderstand. 'I know nothing of running
You may judge from this the kind of rare wit to be found at political gatherings; I was out of all patience after an hour of it, and by the time we joined the ladies Miss Fanny, to my disgust, had gone to bed.
Next day, however, she and I were off on our expedition soon after breakfast, with sandwiches and a bottle in my saddlebag, for we intended to ride as far as Roundway Down, a place which she was sure must interest me, since there had been a battle fought there long ago. On the way she showed me the house where she had once lived, and then we cantered on across the excellent riding country that lies north of Salisbury Plain. It was the jolliest day, with a blue sky, fleecy clouds, and a gentle breeze, and Fanny was in excellent trim. She looked mighty fetching in a plumcoloured habit with a tricorne hat and feather, and little black boots, and I never saw a female better in the saddle. She could keep up with me at a gallop, her fair hair flying and her pretty little lips parted as she scudded along, so to impress her I had to show her some of the riding tricks I'd picked up in Afghanistan, like running alongside my beast full tilt, with a hand on the mane, and swinging over the rump to land and run on t'other side. D––d showy stuff, and she clapped her hands and cried bravo, while the bumpkins we passed along the way hallooed and waved their hats.
All this put me in capital form, of course, and by the time we got to Roundway I was nicely primed to lure Miss Fanny into a thicket and get down to business. She was such a jolly little thing, with such easy chatter and a saucy glint in her blue eye, that I anticipated no difficulty. We dismounted near the hill, and we led our beasts while she told me about the battle, in which it seemed the Cavaliers had thoroughly chased the Roundheads.
'The people hereabouts call it Runaway Down,' says she, laughing, 'because the Roundheads fled so fast.'
It was the best thing I'd ever heard about Cromwell's fellows; gave me a fellow-feeling for 'em, and I made some light remark to this effect.
'Oh, you may say so,' says she. 'You who have never run away.' She gave me an odd little look. 'Sometimes I wish I were a man, with the strength to be brave, like you.'
Flashy knows a cue when he hears it. 'I'm not always brave, Fanny,' says I, pretty solemn, and stepping close. 'Sometimes — I'm the veriest coward.' By G-d, I never spoke a truer word.
'I can't believe —' says she, and got no further, for I kissed her hard on the lips; for a moment she bore it, and then to my delight she began teasing me with her tongue, but before I could press home my advantage she suddenly slipped away, laughing.
'No, no,' cries she, very merry, 'this is Runaway Down, remember,' and like a fool I didn't pursue on the instant. If I had done, I don't doubt she'd have yielded, but I was content to play her game for the moment, and so we walked on, chatting and laughing.
You may think this trivial; the point is that if I'd mounted Miss Fanny that day I daresay I'd have lost interest in her — at all events I'd have been less concerned to please her later, and would have avoided a great deal of sorrow, and being chased and bullyragged halfway round the world.
As it was, it was the most d—-ably bothersome day I remember. Half a dozen times I got to grips with her — over the luncheon sandwiches, during our walk down from the hill, even in the Saddle on the way home — and each time she kissed like a novice French whore and then broke off, teasing. And either because we met people on the way, or because she was as nimble as a flyweight, I never had a chance to go to work properly. Of course, I'd known chits like this before, and experience told me it would come all right on the night, as the theatricals say, but by the time we were cantering up to Cleeve again I was as horny as the town bull, and not liking it overmuch.
And there was a nasty shock waiting, in the shape of two chaps who came out of the front door, both in
