Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 1: Flashman, Royal Flash, Flashman’s Lady. George Fraser MacDonald
her in, and I thought what a beautiful fool she was. Oddly enough, I felt a sudden affection for her in that moment, such as I hadn’t felt for any of my other women – even though some of them had been better tumbles than she. It had nothing to do with rolling her in the grass; looking at the gold hair that had fallen loose on her cheek, and seeing the happy smile in her eyes, I felt a great desire to keep her, not only for bed, but to have her near me. I wanted to watch her face, and the way she pushed her hair into place, and the steady, serene look that she turned on me. Hullo, Flashy, I remember thinking; careful, old son. But it stayed with me, that queer empty feeling in my inside, and of all the recollections of my life there isn’t one that is clearer than of that warm evening by the Clyde, with Elspeth smiling at me beneath the trees.
Almost equally distinct, however, but less pleasant, is my memory of Morrison, a few days later, shaking his fist in my face and scarlet with rage as he shouted:
“Ye damned blackguard! Ye thieving, licentious, raping devil! I’ll have ye hanged for this, as Goad’s my witness! My ain daughter, in my ain hoose! Jesus Lord! Ye come sneaking here, like the damned viper that ye are …”
And much more of the same, until I thought he would have apoplexy. Miss Elspeth had almost lived up to my expectation – only it had not been Mama she had told, but Agnes. The result was the same, of course, and the house was in uproar. The only calm person was Elspeth herself, which was no help. For of course I denied old Morrison’s accusation, but when he dragged her in to confront me with my infamy, as he called it, she said quite matter-of-fact, yes, it had happened by the river on the way to Glasgow. I wondered, was she simple? It is a point on which I have never made up my mind.
At that, I couldn’t deny it any longer. So I took the other course and damned Morrison’s eyes, asking him what did he expect if he left a handsome daughter within a man’s reach? I told him we were not monks in the army, and he fairly screamed with rage and threw an inkstand at me, which fortunately missed. By this time others were on the scene, and his daughters had the vapours – except Elspeth – and Mrs Morrison came at me with such murder in her face that I turned tail and ran for dear life.
I decamped without even having time to collect my effects – which were not sent on to me, by the way – and decided that I had best set up my base in Glasgow. Paisley was likely to be fairly hot, and I resolved to have a word with the local commandant and explain, as between gentlemen, that it might be best if other duties were found for me that would not take me back there. It would be somewhat embarrassing, of course, for he was another of these damned Presbyterians, so I put off seeing him for a day or two. As a result I never called on him at all. Instead I had a caller myself.
He was a stiff-shouldered, brisk-mannered fellow of about fifty; rather dapper in an almost military way, with a brown face and hard grey eyes. He looked as though he might be a sporting sort, but when he came to see me he was all business.
“Mr Flashman, I believe?” says he. “My name is Abercrombie.”
“Good luck to you, then,” says I. “I’m not buying anything today, so close the door as you leave.”
He looked at me sharp, head on one side. “Good,” says he. “This makes it easier. I had thought you might be a smooth one but I see that you’re what they call a plunger.”
I asked him what the devil he meant.
“Quite simple,” says he, taking a seat as cool as you please. “We have a mutual acquaintance. Mrs Morrison of Renfrew is my sister. Elspeth Morrison is my niece.”
This was an uneasy piece of news, for I didn’t like the look of him. He was too sure of himself by half. But I gave him a stare and told him he had a damned handsome niece.
“I’m relieved that you think so,” said he. “I’d be distressed to think that the Hussars were not discriminating.”
He sat looking at me, so I took a turn round the room.
“The point is,” he said, “that we have to make arrangements for the wedding. You’ll not want to lose time.”
I had picked up a bottle and glass, but I set them down sharp at this. He had taken my breath away.
“What the hell d’ye mean?” says I. Then I laughed. “You don’t think I’ll marry her, do you? Good God, you must be a lunatic.”
“And why?” says he.
“Because I’m not such a fool,” I told him. Suddenly I was angry, at this damned little snip, and his tone with me. “If every girl who’s ready to play in the hay was to get married, we’d have damned few spinsters left, wouldn’t we? And d’you suppose I’d be pushed into a wedding over a trifle like this?”
“My niece’s honour.”
“Your niece’s honour! A mill-owner’s daughter’s honour! Oh, I see the game! You see an excellent chance of a match, eh? A chance to marry your niece to a gentleman? You smell a fortune, do you? Well, let me tell you—”
“As to the excellence of the match,” said he, “I’d sooner see her marry a Barbary ape. I take it, however, that you decline the honour of my niece’s hand?”
“Damn your impudence! You take it right. Now, get out!”
“Excellent,” says he, very bright-eyed. “It’s what I hoped for.” And he stood up, straightening his coat.
“What’s that meant to mean, curse you?”
He smiled at me. “I’ll send a friend to talk to you. He will arrange matters. I don’t approve of meetings, myself, but I’ll be delighted, in this case, to put either a bullet or a blade into you.” He clapped his hat on his head. “You know, I don’t suppose there has been a duel in Glasgow these fifty years or more. It will cause quite a stir.”
I gaped at the man, but gathered my wits soon enough. “Lord,” says I, with a sneer, “you don’t suppose I would fight you?”
“No?”
“Gentlemen fight gentlemen,” I told him, and ran a scornful eye over him. “They don’t fight shop-keepers.”
“Wrong again,” says he, cheerily. “I’m a lawyer.”
“Then stick to your law. We don’t fight lawyers, either.”
“Not if you can help it, I imagine. But you’ll be hard put to it to refuse a brother officer, Mr Flashman. You see, although I’ve no more than a militia commission now, I was formerly of the 93rd Foot – you have heard of the Sutherlands, I take it? – and had the honour to hold the rank of captain. I even achieved some little service in the field.” He was smiling almost benignly now. “If you doubt my bona fides may I refer you to my former chief, Colonel Colin Campbell?8 Good day, Mr Flashman.”
He was at the door before I found my voice.
“To hell with you, and him! I’ll not fight you!”
He turned. “Then I’ll enjoy taking a whip to you in the street. I really shall. Your own chief – my Lord Cardigan, isn’t it? – will find that happy reading in The Times, I don’t doubt.”
He had me in a cleft stick, as I saw at once. It would mean professional ruin – and at the hands of a damned provincial infantryman, and a retired one at that. I stood there, overcome with rage and panic, damning the day I ever set eyes on his infernal niece, with my wits working for a way out. I tried another tack.
“You may not realise who you’re dealing with,” I told him, and asked if he had not heard of the Bernier affair: it seemed to me that it must be known about, even in the wilds of Glasgow, and I said so.
“I think I recollect a paragraph,” says he. “Dear me, Mr Flashman, should I be overcome? Should I quail? I’ll just have to hold my pistol steady, won’t I?”
“Damn you,” I shouted, “wait a moment.”
He stood attentive, watching