was not unlike a riding hat, with a high crown and very slightly curled brim, and it was swathed with silk. It was extraordinarily becoming. She noticed with satisfaction that she drew the interest of several of those passing by in the lighter carriages customary at this hour, uncertain who she was, or if they should bow to her.
The Spanish ambassador and his wife were walking in the opposite direction. He touched his hat and smiled, sure he must know her, or if he did not, then he ought to.
She smiled back, amused.
Other vehicles passed by, tilburies, pony chaises, four-in-hands; small, light and elegant. Every one was exquisitely turned out, leather cleaned and polished, brasses gleaming, horses groomed to perfection. And of course the passengers and drivers were immaculate, servants in full livery, if indeed there were servants present. Many gentlemen cared to drive themselves, taking great pride in their handling of the “ribbons.” Several she knew, in one way or another. But then Society was so small almost everyone had some degree of acquaintance.
She saw a European prince she had known rather better some thirty years ago, and as he strolled past they exchanged glances. He hesitated, a flash of memory in his eyes, a momentary laughter and warmth. But he was with the princess, and her peremptory hand on his arm prevailed. And perhaps the past was better left in its own cocoon of happiness, undisturbed by present realities. He passed on his way, leaving Vespasia smiling to herself, the sunlight gentle on her face.
It was nearly three quarters of an hour, spent agreeably enough, but not usefully, before she at last saw Bertie Canning. He was strolling alone, not unusually, since his wife did not care to leave the house except by carriage and he still preferred to walk. Or at least that was what he claimed. He said it was necessary for his health. Vespasia knew perfectly well he treasured the freedom it gave him, and he would still have done so had he needed two sticks to prop himself up.
She thought she might be obliged to approach him, and if so she would have done it with grace, but fortunately it was not necessary. When he saw her she smiled with more than the civility good manners required, and he seized the opportunity and came over to where she was sitting. He was a handsome man in a smooth, hearty way, and she had been fond of him in the past. It was no difficulty to appear pleased to see him.
“Good morning, Bertie. You look very well.”
He was in fact nearly ten years younger than she, but time had been less generous to him. He was undeniably growing portly, and his face was ruddier than it had been in his prime.
“My dear Vespasia. How delightful to see you! You haven’t changed in the least. How your contemporaries must loathe you! If there is anything a beautiful woman cannot abide, it is another beautiful woman who bears her years far better.”
“As always, you know how to wrap a compliment a little differently,” she said with a smile, at the same time moving a trifle to one side in the smallest of invitations for him to join her.
He accepted it instantly, not only for her company, but very possibly also to rest his feet. They spoke of trivia and mutual acquaintances for a few moments. She enjoyed it quite genuinely. For that little time the passage of years had no meaning. It could have been thirty years ago. The dresses were wrong-the skirts too narrow, no crinolines, no hoops; there were far too many fashionable demimondaines about, too many women altogether-but the mood was the same, the bustle, the beauty of the horses, the excitement, the May sunshine, the scent of the earth and the great trees overhead. London Society was parading and admiring itself with self-absorbed delight.
But Nobby Gunne was not twenty-five and paddling up the Congo River in a canoe; she was fifty-five, and here in London, far too vulnerable, and falling in love with a man about whom Vespasia knew very little, and feared too much.
“Bertie …”
“Yes, my dear?”
“You know everyone who has anything to do with Africa….”
“I used to. But there are so remarkably many people now.” He shrugged. “They appear out of nowhere, all kinds of people, a great many of them I would rather not know. Adventurers of the least attractive kind. Why? Have you someone in mind?”
She did not prevaricate. There was no time, and he would not expect it.
“Peter Kreisler.”
A middle-aged financial magnate drove past in a four-in-hand, his wife and daughters beside him. Neither Vespasia nor Bertie Canning took any notice. An ambitious young man on a bay horse doffed his hat and received a smile of encouragement.
A young man and woman rode by together.
“Engaged at last,” Bertie muttered.
Vespasia knew what he meant. The girl would not have ridden out with him were they not.
“Peter Kreisler?” she jogged his memory.
“Ah, yes. His mother was one of the Aberdeenshire Calders, I believe. Odd girl, very odd. Married a German, as I recall, and went to live there for a while. Came back eventually, I think. Then died, poor soul.”
Vespasia felt a jar of sudden coldness. In other circumstances to be half German would be irrelevant. The royal family was more than half German. But with the present concern over East Africa high on her mind, and acutely relevant to the issue, it was a different matter.
“I see. What did his father do?”
A popular actor rode by, handsome profile lifted high. Vespasia thought very briefly of Charlotte’s mother, Caroline, and her recent marriage to an actor seventeen years her junior. He was less handsome than this man, and a great deal more attractive. It was a scandalous thing to have done, and Vespasia heartily wished her happiness.
“No idea,” Bertie confessed. “But he was a personal friend of the old chancellor, I know that.”
“Bismarck?” Vespasia said with surprise and increasing unhappiness.
Bertie looked at her sideways. “Of course, Bismarck! Why are you concerned, Vespasia? You cannot know the fellow. He spends all his time in Africa. Although I suppose he could have come home. He’s quarreled with Cecil Rhodes-not hard to do-and with the missionaries, who tried to put trousers on everybody and make Christians out of them … much more difficult.”
“The trousers or the Christianity?”
“The quarrel.”
“I should find it very easy to quarrel with someone who wants to put trousers on people,” Vespasia replied. “Or make Christians out of them if they don’t want it.”
“Then you will undoubtedly like Kreisler.” Bertie pulled a face.
A radical member of Parliament passed them, in deep conversation with a successful author.
“Ass,” Bertie said contemptuously. “Fellow should stick to his last.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Politician who wants to write a book and a writer who wants to sit in Parliament,” Bertie replied.
“Have you read his book?” Vespasia asked.
Bertie’s eyebrows rose. “No. Why?”
“Terrible. And John Dacre would do less harm if he gave up his seat and wrote novels. Altogether I think it would be an excellent idea. Don’t discourage them.”
He stared at her with concern for a moment, then started to laugh.
“He quarreled with MacKinnon as well,” he said after a moment or two.
“Dacre?” she asked.
“No, no, your fellow Kreisler. MacKinnon the money fellow. Quarreled over East Africa, of course, and what should be done there. Hasn’t quarreled with Standish yet but that’s probably due to his relationship with Chancellor.’ Bertie frowned thoughtfully. “Not that there isn’t something in what he says, dammit! Bit questionable, this chap Rhodes. Smooth tongue, but a shifty eye. Too much appetite for power, for my taste. All done in a hurry. Too fast. Too fast, altogether. Did you know Arthur Desmond, pool devil? Sound fellow. Decent. Sorry he’s gone.”
“And Kreisler?” She rose to her feet as she said it. It was growing a little chilly and she preferred to walk a space.
He stood and offered her his arm.
“Not sure, I’m afraid. Bit of a question mark in my mind. Not certain of his motives, if you understand?”
