Jane explained that she had been sent to London by her mother, there to meet her father, but he had not been on the Portsmouth stage and she feared he might not now come until the next day. She had money, she explained, and wished no charity, but merely to be directed to a clean, safe place where she might sleep.
The Reverend and Mrs Octavius Godolphin were staying in Tothill Street, at Mrs Paul’s Lodgings, a most respectable house that ministered to the visiting clergy, and the Reverend and Mrs Godolphin, whose children were grown and gone from home, were delighted to offer their sheltering wings to Miss Gibbons. A cab was summoned, Mrs Paul was introduced, and nothing would suffice but that Miss Gibbons should accompany them to evensong and then share a shoulder of lamb for which they would not dream of taking payment. She went safe to bed, secured from an evil world by the multiplicity of bolts and bars on Mrs Paul’s front door, and the Reverend Godolphin reminded her to say her prayers for her father’s safe journey on the morrow. It all seemed, to Jane, like a great adventure.
The next morning, Saturday morning, when prayers had been said around Mrs Paul’s great table, Jane persuaded the Reverend and Mrs Godolphin that she had no need of their company to wait at Charing Cross. The persuasion was hard, but she achieved it and, leaving her luggage and Rascal under the watchful eye of Mrs Paul, she took a cab to her uncle’s house.
She watched the house from the street corner, half hidden by plane trees, and after a half-hour she saw her uncle leave in his open carriage. Her heart was thumping as she walked down Devonshire Terrace and as she pulled the shiny knob that rang a bell deep in the house. She saw soldiers marching at the end of the street, going towards the Queen’s Gate of the park, then the door behind her opened. ‘Miss Jane!’
‘Good morning.’ She smiled at Cross, her uncle’s London butler. ‘My uncle sent me to fetch some books for him.’
‘This is a surprise!’ Cross, a timid man, smiled as he beckoned her inside. ‘He did not mention that you were in London.’
‘We’re with Mrs Grey’s sister. Isn’t the weather lovely?’
‘It won’t last, Miss Jane. Some books, you said?’
‘Big red account books. I expect they’re in the study, Cross.’
‘Leather books?’
‘Yes. The ones he brings to Paglesham every month.’
‘But I distinctly remember the master took them with him. Just now!’
She stared at him, feeling all her hopes crumble. She had so wanted to do this thing for Major Sharpe, a man who had given her hope and pleasure if only because of her uncle’s enmity towards him. ‘He took them?’ Her voice was faint.
‘Indeed, Miss Jane!’
‘Cross!’ A voice barked. ‘My boots, Cross! Where the devil are my boots?’ Lieutenant Colonel Bartholomew Girdwood opened the parlour door and stared into the hall. His eyes widened. ‘Jane?’
But she had gone. She snatched open the heavy door, threw herself down the steps, and ran as if every pimp in London chased her.
‘Jane!’ Girdwood shouted from the top step, but she had gone. Far away, from the park, he heard the music which reminded him that he was late for the Review. Damned strange, he thought, but he had never truly understood women. Women, dogs and the Irish. All unnecessary things that got in the way. ‘God-damn it, where are my boots? Is the cab coming?’
‘It’s been sent for, Colonel, it’s been sent for.’ Cross brought the boots and helped the Colonel dress for the great celebration of the battle of Vitoria which, this fine day, would grace the Royal park.
The massed bands played the inevitable “Rule Britannia” as the French trophies were paraded about Hyde Park. Enemy guns, a mere fraction of the artillery that Wellington had captured, led the procession that was bright with the flags and guidons that were the lesser standards of the French. The flags were serried in colourful abundance, but it was the eight Eagles, brightly polished and held erect in gaudy chariots, that fetched the warmest applause.