The Shocking Miss Anstey Read Online Free

table. Wonderful’
    ‘Oh, I see.’
    ‘Why else should a man walk, damme? Well, well! Seen the Anstey?’
    ‘Er--no. Not since---’
    ‘Oh, you don’t say---’
    ‘How is she?’
    ‘Marvellous. Blooming. Teach Venus. Dined with us the other night. All hearts at feet.’ ‘Lucky man.’
    ‘That’s Hildersham, by God. Envy of Town, and don’t think I blame her. He can give her everything. Damned lucky fellah, too. Lucky to be alive.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Boney.’ For a moment Curry paused, and then for once spoke simply. ‘Waterloo. Aide-de-camp. Ride here, ride there, orders, messages. Shot at all day. Three-quarters of ‘em killed. Hildersham wasn’t. Two horses killed, though. Bullet through his flask, another through his hat. Not a scratch on him.’
    ‘The devil!’ Grant spoke slowly as he tried to take this in. ‘I’ve been lucky at times myself.’
    ‘Bullet spilt his brandy, though. Damned thirsty. Ha!’
    He was suddenly waving his hat to a lady he had seen, and a moment later he was ambling across to join her. Grant watched him go, and then resumed his solitary walk, trying to adjust his picture of Hildersham. He had thought the man a trifler in expensive clothes. And Curry, too, with the affected voice. He was in the Blues, so he must have been in the thick of it himself. It was something the Navy had been spared. The Mediterranean had been a peaceful lake that Sunday morning, and Amphion had backed her topsails while Grant read divine service on the quarterdeck. He could remember his own voice, the soft lap of water against the side, the gleam of polished brass, the shadow of the ensign dancing on the sunlit deck. Then he had given sherry to his officers before they went to dinner. It had been a pleasant Sunday morning, with a blue sky, a calm sea, and the tompions in the guns. It had been raining at Waterloo.
    The thought worried him. He must change his estimate of Hildersham; of Curry, too, and of some others in this fashionable throng. He had been inclined to set all of them down as triflers, fit to lounge at the opera and show their horses in the Row, and it was no doubt true of most of them.
    There had been plenty of these in England, with the Prince Regent to set the example; but there were others too, the Hildershams and Currys, and there seemed no way of picking them out. It was all very difficult.
    There were the women, too. They seemed all of a pattern, expensive and confident, arrogantly sure of themselves. They were everywhere in the Row, driving their gigs and phaetons, or being driven by a husband--or somebody else’s. One here and there was sitting a horse, and giving a display of skill that matched the men’s. They matched them in elegance too, and almost outdid them in confidence, and Grant had a worried little frown as he watched. No one expected women to be concerned in a war, but these looked as if they had never given a thought to it, or even known that it existed. It was their own affair, no doubt, but it was a frame of mind that would not attract them to a sea officer who felt lost and strange, and could not even speak their language. It was even more difficult.
    He turned away, out of humour now with the whole of this parade, and he began to walk slowly back to the gate of the Park, thinking that he could better take his exercise somewhere else. He would do better still, perhaps, out of London altogether. Somewhere in the country there would be people who were not like this, who had simpler ways and were content with a simpler life. There must be, but he did not know where to find them. He had no roots in the country now, no home he could go to since his parents died, and he could hardly roam the country at large in search of he knew not what. It was still difficult.
    Then he saw her. He had already noticed, through his thoughts, the barouche-and-four that had turned into the Park and was coming down the road towards him. He had even noticed that it had a man and a woman on