Chapter 21 #2
The regular troops were to train at some neighbouring fields just outside of Preston, some two and a half miles away.
Preston expected less pomp and ceremony, and far fewer observers, but the training there was much more serious, as the men were soon to be sent to regiments around the world to fight for Britain.
From time to time, members of the militia transferred to the regular forces, and this was a good opportunity for such to happen, since the groups were so physically proximate.
This was Richard’s destination, and he soon departed Brighton to make his way there.
He was greeted as he rode into the camp and was quickly shown to his room in the barracks.
With his few belongings suitably stored therein, he sought his immediate subordinates to apprise them of his arrival and the situation in London.
The troops themselves and the lower ranks of officers were busy at their training for the day.
“Fellow came around, asking after you,” his secretary informed him. “I told him you were not here, and were not expected in. I hope that was the proper answer.”
This was not unusual, but equally not expected.
“Did he give a name?” Who was asking after him? It was little secret that he would be here for the summer training, but Richard could not think who might be so eager to see him without writing first.
“Lieutenant in the militia he was. Name was Wickham. He seemed relieved to hear you were needed in London.”
Wickham! What was that blighter doing looking for him?
Was he up to no good? Of course he was. Wickham had never had a disinterested thought in his life.
Richard determined to put out a word to Wickham’s commanding officer, warning him to keep an eye on the lieutenant.
And perhaps he ought to write to Darcy to inform him of this development as well, as minor as it was.
Satisfied with this decision, he settled into his room and set about his duties.
Over the following three days, the troops were introduced to their new units, and the transfer of command was completed.
Richard’s own duties were all but over by the second afternoon, and he did take advantage of the time to see to his own enjoyment.
At the suggestion of the proprietor of the local pub, he located a suitable beach and enjoyed an afternoon in the waves as the hot sun caressed his bare back.
These were the times he most enjoyed, when he was not a soldier, not a colonel, not an earl’s son, but simply Richard, a man out in nature with nobody to perform to or impress.
He savoured the rare chance to satisfy nobody but himself, and was somewhat disheartened, as he was contemplating leaving the water, to hear a voice call out from the beach.
“What, I dare say, Fitzwilliam!” the voice cried.
Richard looked up to see a familiar and not entirely unwelcome face.
“Ackley. What brings you here? Tired of the pomp already?”
Ackley was stripping down to his undergarments as he replied.
“I tolerate the rank and file well enough. It is the officers I tire of all too quickly. And yes, the endless pomp. I need to work off some agitation. Is the water fine?” He edged forward until the waves lapped his toes and then continued until the sea reached his thighs.
“Fancy a tussle on the shore?” Ackley asked after a moment. “This water is far too soothing.”
“No, not I.” Richard had gone hand-to-hand with his old friend before, and most often left the bout as the loser. “I was thinking of heading back, anyway.”
Ackley followed him as he waded to shallower water.
“Growing soft, Fitzwilliam? First an easy post in the north, then an idyll on a balmy piece of paradise, and now a spot close enough to enjoy Mummy’s fine chef every time you tire of the camp’s kitchens?” Ackley pushed ahead to round on Richard, facing him in the lapping waves.
“Lay off, Ackers. You will have to find your sport elsewhere. I would gladly be in the theatre of real conflict, rather than nursing a group of green boys, but I have no wish to scrabble today. Furthermore, it has been more than too long since we wrestled at university. I doubt I recall the moves or rules.”
“Who mentioned rules?”
With those words, Ackley launched himself forward, grabbing at Richard’s knees, taking him down into the wet sand.
At that first sodden impact, the last months of anger and frustration surged to the fore, and rather than rolling away and chiding Ackley, Richard threw himself into the battle.
It was a friendly match with no intent to injure the other party, but it was no gentle or playful romp in the sand.
All those old memories of wrestling at school asserted themselves, and Richard’s muscles and reflexes responded far beyond what he imagined his brain could conjure.
If this were Weekes rather than Ackley, the man might well suffer greatly at Richard’s hands.
The fight, after all, felt good!
They struggled together for a while, one claiming a moment’s supremacy until the other reclaimed control, until both were exhausted. Richard found himself, at last, in possession of one final burst of fury-fuelled energy, and flipped Ackley onto his stomach on the wet sand, then roared in victory.
“There! I have bested you, perhaps for the first time ever. You can buy me an ale for your trouble.”
Ackley laughed. “You surprise me, Fitzwilliam. I did not believe you still had it in you. Very good, old friend. Let me go, and the ale is yours.”
Richard eased off Ackley’s back and was rewarded with a face full of grit and sand, followed by another assault by his so-called friend.
“Hah! Never say I let you win!” Ackley smirked.
“Flinging sand is not cricket,” Richard growled, but his erstwhile foe merely chuckled.
“No rules. Remember? I shall buy you your pint, regardless. I needed that.”
And, Richard had to admit, he had as well.
Covered now in sweat and sand, the two men—friends once more—rinsed themselves in the salty waves and dressed quickly before finding their mounts and riding back to the camp.
Their route took them through the town of Brighton itself, near to the drilling fields.
Hot and thirsty, and with no real need to be back at the Preston barracks, they settled on a suitable-looking tavern to satisfy themselves with the promised ale and a plate of cheese and bread.
It was not an elegant place, but neither was it desperately poor or unsavoury.
The tables looked clean enough, and the floor was not sticky from spilled beer, but the windows were grimy with blackened soot and the curtains that covered them seemed not to have been cleaned in many a year.
Since it was still daylight outside no candles or lamps had been kindled, and the space was dim.
It was more than suitable for their current condition: filthy and tired.
Richard caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror near the stairs to the rooms above.
With his hair dried strangely from the salty sea water, his unfashionable but comfortable clothing, and his face red and stained with sand and mud, he looked nothing like the elegant gentleman his mother wished him to be.
The two men found a table in the far corner in the shadows so they might sit in peace and observe the crowds as they ordered food and drink.
The serving girl cast a glance at their unfetching appearance but did not offer comment.
Light conversation ensued about the progress of the drills and common acquaintances, and in time, Ackley announced he needed to return to his camp for a meeting.
Richard, still contemplating the faceful of sand, declined to join him on the ride.
He would stay for one more pint, he decided.
Ackley bid him goodbye and departed, leaving Richard sitting in the dim corner of the tavern, gazing distractedly over the comings and goings of other patrons.
The tavern, by now, was a hive of activity, much in the way of soldiers of various ranks freed from their day of training.
Richard was relieved to be all but invisible in his corner, as well as in mufti, so as not to occasion awkward salutes and greetings from soldiers who wished simply to be at ease.
A steady stream of men flowed in and out of a doorway through the far wall; there must be a gaming room off to one side, Richard considered.
His jaw tightened at the thought of the gaming, and more so in memory of his confrontation with the gamblers in Bermuda, but this was not his battle to fight.
Not these men, and not here. Instead, he sat in silence, counting those who entered and those who exited and tried to keep account of when he had seen any given man do both so he could guess how long it had taken him to lose his purse.
The serving girl returned with his beer and he drank deeply, allowing the cold yeasty liquid to coat his dry mouth and throat, for the salt of the sea still worked its drying magic.
“Back with more bread in a moment, darlin’,” she drawled and walked off, swinging her hips.
Richard watched her distractedly. He knew what she was selling, and he was not interested. She had nothing on those dreams.
A familiar sound wrested his attention from the wench. He knew that voice! Richard slunk back further in his chair and pulled up his collar, the better to take in the room as surreptitiously as possible. Could it possibly be? Surely not, and yet it made a certain amount of sense as well.
Yes, it was so. There at the table by the window sat none other than George Wickham, who had tormented Darcy so much as a child and who had come to haunt him all the more as an adult.
Wickham sat in a chair facing him, but angled enough to the side, and his attention seemingly on something outside the window, that he did not notice Richard in the shadow.
Indeed, he had no reason to expect to see Richard here at all, since he was still believed to be in London.
Richard brushed some rebellious strands of hair over his eyes and pulled up the collar of his plain shirt even more to hide behind as much as possible.
Then he raised his glass to his lips and observed.
In a moment he saw what—or who—had caught Wickham’s attention outside. Another man entered and spotted the blackguard at once, ambling over to the table at the window. He took the seat opposite Wickham, facing away from Richard, but Richard knew at once who this was.
Weekes!
He now understood why Lyons had been unable to find him in Bedfordshire or in London, either by name or by description.
From the friendly banter between the men, he and Wickham knew each other well, far better than a few days in Brighton could occasion.
He must have been in Hertfordshire, where Richard knew Wickham had been with the militia.
Furthermore, Weekes was in disguise. Gone was the blond hair, so lately glowing golden in the sun.
Now that hair was a dull muddy brown, as unremarkable as the clothing he wore, and a pair of spectacles obscured his blue eyes.
Plain glass, surely, but it was enough for a casual masquerade.
Richard strained to hear what the men were discussing as they took their ale, but such was the noise in the room that he was unable.
Soon enough they finished their drinks and disappeared through the doorway to where the cards must be played.
He would not see them again anytime soon, he knew.
He finished his own drink and plate of food and set enough coin on the table for them before seeking out his horse to return to the barracks.
Tomorrow he would ride back to London with all due haste.
And tomorrow he would pay another visit to Mr Lyons with the new information he had discovered!