Sweet Adventure

Chapter One ~ 1739-2

“A Jacobite!” Lord Lynke ejaculated.

This, of course, accounted for it. The man would have been one of the followers of the Old Pretender, one of the many Scots who were exiled eighteen years ago after the attempted rebellion of 1719, when the Spanish ships landed three hundred soldiers near Kintail in Ross-shire. He remembered hearing about it when he was a boy and people still talked of how the Spaniards had brought arms for two thousand and captured Doran Castle.

This child’s father would have been just about the right age to have taken part in that ill-fated attempt to put James Stuart on the Throne of Britain.

“You say your father is dead?” he said aloud.

“Yes, sir. He died three years ago.”

“Your mother?”

“She is also dead. Six months ago she was knocked down by a coach and died from the injuries she received.”

The deep blue eyes clouded and just for a moment there was a suspicion of tears in them. Then with an effort, as if the boy told himself that he must be a man and not show his emotion, his chin went up and he added,

“Now they are together in Heaven.”

“Let us hope so,” Lord Lynke said solemnly. “And what are you doing?”

“I am looking after myself,” the boy replied.

“Not very successfully it seems,” Lord Lynke remarked. He glanced down the road where the Spaniard had disappeared from sight. “If you take my advice, you will look for another job.”

“I shall do that, sir,” the boy replied.

“Well, the best of luck to you,” Lord Lynke smiled.

He felt in his waistcoat pocket for a gold piece. It was the least he could do, he thought, for the son of a countryman. And even as he took it from his pocket a sudden thought came to him.

It was such an outrageous idea that for a moment he could hardly bring himself to put it into words. Yet the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

Here was a boy who could speak both Spanish and English. His Spanish was certainly better than that of poor Roderick Lane, lying aboard The Sea Hawk, while his English, and doubtless his manners, would be inferior. Yet the result was about equal and the most important thing was that he was in need of a page.

He put the gold piece back in his pocket.

“Listen,” he said. “I believe I could offer you a job. Would you come with me to Madrid?”

“What as?”

The question was asked coolly and contemplatively with none of the excitement or enthusiasm that Lord Lynke had expected from such a suggestion.

Deliberately he pretended to be in doubt and made a little gesture with his hand.

“I have no idea,” he said. “Perhaps as scullion to my chef, when I engage one, perhaps as a stable boy. Would either of those situations appeal to you?”

There was irony in his voice, thinking, as he spoke, that there was something amusing in the fact that he should be offering a position to this ragged urchin and that the boy apparently wished it clearly defined before he accepted.

There was a little bow from the dark head, then Venturo’s chin went up even higher than before.

“I thank you, sir, for your kind suggestion, but I do not wait on servants.”

It was said with so much pride and so much dignity that instinctively, but with difficulty, Lord Lynke repressed the laughter that rose to his lips.

“I understand,” he said courteously. “And I regret I made such a mistake. The position I am offering you is that of my page.”

Even as he said it he thought that he must be mad. And yet quickly came the thought to his mind that if the boy was hopeless he could sack him long before he reached Madrid.

“Your personal page?”

The small insistent voice intruded on his thoughts.

“My personal page,” he repeated.

“In which case, sir, I am delighted to accept your kind offer.”

Lord Lynke stared down at the child and then he said abruptly,

“Your duties commence immediately. Show me the way to the best inn. There is one I suppose?”

“El Gallo de Oro is the best, sir, and you will find it just at the end of the street. Before I come to you, will you permit me to make my farewells to my friends and to – tidy myself?”

“‘Clean’ is the right word,” Lord Lynke corrected him.

“I know, sir. The man I worked for insisted that I should scrape out his furnaces every morning. It was dirty work, but, although you may not believe it, I did what he told me.”

“You certainly look as if you tried,” Lord Lynke said. “Very well. Go along and make your farewells. You can meet me at the inn in an hour’s time.”

He turned to go, but again he was delayed.

“I regret to trouble you, sir. But there are two things I must say. First, as your page I shall need suitable clothes. Secondly, may I know your name?”

Lord Lynke smiled.

“Intensely practical I see. We should deal well together. With regard to clothes, you can instruct the best tailor in the town to attend me at the inn at the same time as you yourself meet me there. But so that you shall not be ashamed, buy yourself something to wear until he can fit you up.”

Two gold coins passed from hand to hand.

“And now, as regards my name,” he went on. “It is Lynke – Lord Lynke of Hatharton Castle in Sussex.”

The boy bowed.

“I thank you, my Lord. I will attend you in an hour’s time.”

There was a flash as if a piece of quicksilver sped across the street and then Lord Lynke found himself alone except for the curious eyes of passers-by and those who were eternally watching from behind their windowpanes.

He stood for a moment irresolute and then shrugged his shoulders.

‘Either I have lost a couple of the best,’ he said to himself, ‘or I have found myself a new page.’

The boy was obviously of gentle birth. He would undoubtedly be in need of training, but what an opportunity to find out skills which otherwise would remain secret!

If he was clever enough to act the part of an English boy and to conceal from everyone the fact that he could speak Spanish, there was so much that might be learned and so much that might be discovered.

At the same time there was always the chance that, having received two gold pieces, he would never be seen again.

Yet somehow Lord Lynke believed that he would keep his word.

“My father was a gentleman.”

There had been both pride and a kind of arrogance in his voice as he had said it, and in his “I do not wait on servants”. What cheek! And yet somehow he liked the little devil for having the guts to say it.

It was hard to be choosy when one was hungry and Lord Lynke was quite certain that Venturo had been very hungry on many occasions. He had seen that particular look before and there was no mistaking it.

It was not far to El Gallo de Oro and Lord Lynke entered to find that if it was not luxurious, but it was at least clean and welcoming.

A private room was put at his disposal and the landlord undertook at once to send porters to the ship to tell the sailors where to bring his lordship’s trunks. The stables at the back of the inn were quite passable and, although Lord Lynke knew that his coachman would look at them askance, he anticipated that his horses would experience worse accommodation before they reached Madrid.

He ordered dinner and then commanded that a bottle of wine should be sent to his sitting room immediately.

“Pronto, Excellency! Pronto!” the proprietor said, bowing and scraping and well pleased with the thought that such a distinguished guest with well-lined pockets should patronise his inn.

“A boy will be asking for me in an hour’s time,” Lord Lynke said. “See that he is shown in here.”

“Si, si, Excellency!”

“He may also be accompanied by a tailor and I wish to see him as well.”

“Si, si, Excellency!”

If the landlord was surprised, he did not show it. He was used to the vagaries and peculiarities of the aristocracy. He hurried away with suggestions for the chef and to fetch the key of the cellars, which lay deep beneath the building.

Lord Lynke stretched his legs out in front of the log fire. How boring this was, he thought. He was already filled with foreboding of how uncomfortable and how incredibly dull the journey to Madrid was to be. And even when he reached the Capital there was not much to look forward to.

He muttered a sudden oath and then told himself it was no use kicking against the pricks.

He had brought it on his own head, although that was poor consolation.

*

He could see his uncle now, the Duke of Newcastle, Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, saying in his prim precise voice,

“I am ashamed of you, Hugo.”

“I cannot see why,” he had answered, wondering as he spoke how much the old boy knew and having a nasty uneasy foreboding of what was to come.

“I am both ashamed and distressed,” the Duke repeated.

“Perhaps you will enlighten me as to the reason for such disturbance, my Lord.”

“I think you know the reason as well as I do,” the Duke had replied. “I sent for you immediately after an interview with Lord Rustington.”

The blow had fallen! Lord Lynke knew that he had expected it. He had hoped, however, that he did not betray by even a flicker of an eyelid what the name meant to him.

“Lord Rustington,” the Duke went on impressively, “has discovered all.”

“I hope not!”

The reply was irrepressible and it had the effect of making the Duke look even more pious and even more precise.

“Hugo! You are the son of my favourite sister. I have done my best for you. I have endeavoured, since your poor father’s death, to guide and help you. I have failed lamentably. That is obvious both by your way of living and by the shocking, indeed, horrifying, revelations that Lord Rustington made this day.”

“I am grieved if my behaviour distresses you,” Lord Lynke said. “But I would remind you, Uncle, that I am no longer a boy. In fact I am very nearly a middle-aged man and as such I consider that I am entitled to behave as I wish.”

The Duke of Newcastle sighed.

“At twenty-nine years of age, my dear Hugo, you are making the same mistake that many other foolish people have made. We are none of us permitted to do as we wish. We have our responsibilities not only to other people but also to our country.”

“Our country, sir?”

“Yes, Hugo, our country. A scandal at this moment would do a great deal of harm to the Monarchy.”

“I had not thought of that,” Lord Lynke said involuntarily.

“That is what I imagined,” the Duke said drily. “But unfortunately Lady Rustington is a Lady of the Bedchamber to Her Majesty. It was in that consideration and for that reason only that Lord Rustington came to see me rather than settling the matter himself either by a duel or by divorce.”

“Divorce!”

Lord Lynke looked startled.

“Yes, divorce. It would require an Act of Parliament, but a man whose wife behaved as Lady Rustington has done might well consider that such an irrevocable action was essential.”

“Poor Charlotte,” Lord Lynke murmured. “But I would, of course, stand by her.”

The Duke of Newcastle looked slightly incredulous.

“You will perhaps forgive me if I remind you, my dear Hugo, that you have not stood by the other ladies whom you involved in similar and most distasteful scandals. There was, if I remember right, Lady Winslow, that pretty Mrs. Fitzgerald, Lady Margaret – ”

Lord Lynke held out his hand.

“All right, Uncle. Spare me, I beg of you, the list of my indiscretions. But Lady Rustington is different. I-I love her.”

The Duke permitted himself a pained smile.

“Love is a word that has many meanings. I have always been quite convinced, Hugo, that you love nobody except yourself. I would also remind you that Lady Rustington is ten years older than you and, what is more, she is not, as you appear confidently to expect, anxious to spend the rest of her life in your company. She has, in fact, begged her husband on her knees to forgive her.”