58. An interval of Masculinity

For the last few weeks Rogeringham House had been like a military headquarters. Footmen came and went like equerries and aides-de-camp. My mother moved between meetings with the house staff about Hermione's wedding, and the next ball, and the one after that, and the one after that, and so on. My involvement in most of these discussions was minimal, and I ended up at a bit of a loose end.

I thought about taking Naiad around the park, but instead settled for going to see Sir George Bradley. The general had invited me to call on him, so I called for the landau, and made my way to Horseguards.

Sir George greeted me as I entered and we sat and we chatted.

This made me smile. The British army is an unusual place, even though it has a rank structure, titles and the like mean that the official organisation is more of a guide than a hard and fast rule. On the other hand, captains and generals do not usually chat, but a general is a law unto himself, if he chooses to, he can do whatever he wants.

"But you are no longer just a captain, Your Grace." Sir George reminded me, as if reading my thoughts.

"Still," I said, "I am curious, why did you invite me, Sir George?"

General Bradley explained that originally, he had wanted to know my mind about Wellesley, but he went on, that original purpose had been pushed aside firstly by my leaving London, and then later on by Wellesley leaving Portugal and heading into Spain for the summer where he was running Boney's marechals ragged. Where it was hoped I could provide some insight to his mind set, Wellesley had set out his stall and was doing business, and answering his critics in the process.

"So, you see, Your Grace, this really is just a social call." He stood up.

"I intend to dine at my club. There is so much 'femininity' going on at my house, I thought that the change would be refreshing. Would you care to join me?"

He told me where it was and I set off to join him there.

The gentleman's club in question - The Alacrity Club - is just off Pall Mall, and is typical of such places. There are lounges, reading rooms, dining areas, and of course private rooms. Members can sleep there if they wish, and several members, apparently live there exclusively when they are in London. Women are banned from entering the club, even as staff, hence its status as a refuge from the demands of family life, especially at the height of the Season.

Sir George treated me to a very nice meal of beef-steak seared over charcoal upon an open grill. This was topped with a pepper corn sauce which caused angels to dance on my tongue. Over dinner we discussed the transition to civilian life, the army, and we commiserated with each other over 'femininity'.

It was very pleasant and very civilised. I realised that I missed male company after so much time with my mother and sisters. Not overly, I did not pine for it, but it was good to catch up on people I had served with. Major Thomas Raine of the 45th Foot, whose command I had been under in Jamaica, had moved to the Peninsular and transferred to the 27th as a Lt. Colonel. I was greatly dismayed to hear that he had died in an engagement with the French, but in the process he had covered himself in glory by defending the regimental colours with his life, which prevented them from being captured by the enemy. We drank a toast to Thomas Raine, a villain and a rogue by his own words but a damned fine soldier, and a man who made good soldiers better.

After the meal I went with Sir George into the member's lounge, where I was introduced about the place. Many of the members knew my father, either through his commercial connections or just socially. He hadn't been a member of this club, but he was well known. We talked about many things and it was suggested that I should be put up for membership. One doesn't just apply to join a club like The Alacrity, one has to be proposed.

I wasn't opposed to this; I appreciated the opportunities it offered, but I resolved I would never make it more than an occasional treat.

I ended up having a very nice cognac, with Sir George. French brandy via the coast of Dorset is a bit of a rarity, technically such trade with the French is under a strict embargo, but where there is a will ... perhaps, if I became a member, I would ask for the name of the supplier.

Sir George suggested that we might move on to another place that he knew - one where women were definitely allowed in. These would be whores of course, but women of the very best calibre and guaranteed to take very good care of you. But I found that I no longer had the taste for such casual dalliances, and made my excuses, and returned home.