"They're Whigs," says I. "I've an idea your papa will expect me to be a Tory."
"It doesn't signify in the least," says she. "The Tories are a better class of people altogether, I believe. Why, the Duke is a Tory, is he not?"
"So the rumour runs," says I. "But political secrets of that kind must be kept quiet, you know."
"Oh, it is all quite wonderful," says she, paying me no heed at all. "You will be famous again, Harry — you are so clever, you are sure to be a success, and I — I will need at least four page boys with buttons, and footmen in proper uniform." She clapped her hands, her eyes sparkling, and pirouetted. "Why, Harry! We shall need a new house! I must have clothes — oh, but papa will see to it, he is so kind!"
It occurred to me that papa might decide he had bitten off more than he could chew, listening to her, although personally I thought her ideas were excellent. She was in tremendous spirits, and I took the opportunity to make another assault on her; she was so excited that I had her half out of her dress before she realised what I was about, and then the wicked little b—-h teased me along until I was thoroughly randified, only to stop me in the very act of boarding her, because of her concern for dear little Harry Albert Victor, blast his impudence.
"To think," says she, "that he will have a great statesman for a father!" She had me in the Cabinet already, you see. "Oh, Harry, how proud we shall be!"
Which was small consolation to me just then, having to button myself up and restrain my carnal appetites. To be sure I eased them considerably in the next week or two, for I looked out some of the Haymarket tarts of my acquaintance, and although they were a poor substitute for Elspeth they helped me to settle in again to London life and regular whoring. So I was soon enjoying myself, speculating pleasantly about the future, taking my ease with the boys about the town, forgetting the recent horrors of Jotunberg and Rudi Starnberg's gang of assassins, and waiting for old Morrison to start the wheels of my political career turning.
He was helped, of course, by my own celebrity and the fact that my father — who was now happily settled down with his delirium tremens at a place in the country — had been an M.P. in his time, and a damned fine hand at the hustings; he had got in on a popular majority after horse-whipping his opponent on the eve of the poll and offering to fight bare-knuckle with any man the Whigs could put up, from Brougham down. He had a good deal more bottom than I, but they did for him at Reform, and if I didn't have his ardour I was certain I had a greater talent for survival, political and otherwise.
Anyway, it was some weeks before Morrison announced that I was to meet some "men in the know" as he called them, and that we were to go down to Wiltshire for a few days, to the house of a local big-wig, where some politicos would be among the guests. It sounded damned dull, and no doubt would have been, had it not been for my own lechery and vanity and the shockingest turn of ill luck. Apart from anything else, I missed the Derby.
We left Elspeth at home, working contentedly at her Berlins,4 and took the train for Bristol, Morrison and I. He was the damndest travelling companion you ever saw, for apart from being a thundering bore he carped at everything, from the literature at the station book stalls, which he pronounced trash, to the new practice of having to pay a bob "attendance money" to railway servants.5 I was glad to get to Devizes, I can tell you, whence we drove to Seend, a pretty little place where our host lived in a fairish establishment called Cleeve House.
He was the kind of friend you'd expect Morrison to have — a middle-aged moneybags of a banker called Locke, with reach-me-down whiskers and a face like a three-day corpse. He was warm enough, evidently, but as soon as I saw the females sitting about in chairs on the gravel with their bonnets on, reading improving books, I could see this was the kind of house-party that wasn't Flashy's style at all. I was used to hunting weeks where you dined any old how, with lots of brandy and singing, and chaps p g in the corner and keeping all hours, and no females except the local bareback riders, as old Jack Mitton used to call them. But by '48 they were going out, you see, and it was as much as you dare do, at some of the houses, to produce the cards before midnight after the ladies had retired. I remember Speed telling me, round about this time, of one place he'd been to where they got him up at eight for morning prayers, and gave him a book of sermons to read after luncheon.
Cleeve House wasn't quite as raw as that, but it would have been damned dreary going if one of the girls present hadn't been quite out of the ordinary run. I fixed on her from the start — a willowy blonde piece with a swinging hip and a knowing eye. Strange, I met her at Cleeve, and didn't see her again till I came on her cooking breakfast for a picket of Campbell's Highianders outside Balaclava six years later, the very morning of Cardigan's charge. Fanny Locke her name was;6 she was the young sister of our host, a damned handsome eighteen with the shape of a well-developed matron. Like so many young girls whose body outgrows their years, she didn't know what to do with it — well, I could give her guidance there. As soon as I saw her swaying down the staircase at Cleeve, ho-ho, thinks I, hark forrard. You may be sure I was soon in attendance, and when I found she was a friendly little thing, and a keen horsewoman, I laid my plans accordingly, and engaged to go riding with her next day, when she would show me the local Country — it was the long grass I had in mind, of course.
In the meantime, the first evening at Cleeve was quite as much fun as a Methodist service. Of course, all Tory gatherings are the same, and Locke had assembled as choice a collection of know-all prigs as you could look for. Bentinck I didn't mind, because he had some game in him and knew more about the turf than anyone I ever met, but he had in tow the cocky little sheeny D'Israeli, whom I never could stomach. He was pathetic, really, trying to behave like the Young Idea when he was well into greasy middle age, with his lovelock and fancy vest, like a Punjabi whoremaster. They were saying then that he had spent longer "arriving" at Westminster than a one-legged Irish peer with the gout; well, he "arrived" in the end, as we know, and if I'd been able to read the future I might have toadied him a good deal more, I dare say.7
Locke, our host, introduced us as we were going in to dinner, and I made political small talk, as old Morrison had told me I should.
"Bad work for your lot in the Lords, hey?" says I, and he lowered his lids at me in that smart-affected way he had. "You know," says I, "the Jewish Bill getting thrown out. Bellows to mend in Whitechapel, what? Bad luck all round," I went on, "what with Shylock rumning second at Epsom, too. I had twenty quid on him myself,"8
I heard Locke mutter "Good God", but friend Codlingsby just put back his head and looked at me thoughtfully. "Indeed," says he. "How remarkable. And you aspire to politics, Mr Flashman?"
"That's my ticket," says I.
"Truly remarkable," says he. "Do you know, I shall watch your career with bated breath." And then Locke mumbled him away, and I pounced on Miss Fanny and took her in to dinner.
Of course, it was all politics at table, but I was too engaged with Fanny to pay much heed. When the ladies had gone and we'd all moved up, I heard more, but it didn't stick. I remember they were berating Russell's idleness, and the government's extravagance, on which D'Israeli made one of those sallies which you could see had been well polished beforehand.
"Lord John must not be underestimated," says he. "He understands the first principle, that the great strength of the British Constitution lies in the money it costs us. Make government cheap and you make it contemptible."