The Soldier's Song Read online

  The band finished their tune with a decisive double note and the dancing couples came to rest, breaking apart and applauding. The sudden stop brought Stephen to his senses. He saw Mary again, clapping madly, and then her father appeared behind her, bending to whisper something in her ear. Impeccably dressed and plump as a pigeon, he had the smooth well-fed look of enormous wealth. A self-made man, by all accounts. A barrow-boy who’d managed to become the biggest bonded merchant in the city. But there was something faintly reptilian about him, something that made the flesh crawl. Maybe Joe wasn’t far off the mark: D’Arcy would buy and sell anybody to get what he wanted. But Stephen put that from his mind. It could be he was looking at his future over there. He would graduate next year and then he would need a job – and Richard D’Arcy might be the man to give him one. Actuarial work, he thought, and his heart sank. He’d be a glorified bookkeeper. He saw a small office with grimy windows and endless rows of figures stretching away into despair and middle age. It didn’t appeal to him in the least, but what choice did he have?

  ‘You are not keeping your end up, Stephen,’ Billy broke in, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘What’s the matter? Are you off your hay?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Oh? Well, it’s your loss, because this grub’s lovely. What are you staring at? Well, well, if it isn’t the Belle of the Ball herself? Thinking of asking her for a dance, were we?’

  ‘No fear,’ Stephen said, without taking his eyes off her, and Billy nodded slowly to himself. Although he’d never said anything, he knew Stephen had once had notions about Mary D’Arcy. Foolish notions, to be sure, but perhaps all the more vulnerable for that.

  ‘Just as well, because she’s already spoken for. She is – what’s that word? Affianced. Yes, that’s it. The dear girl is soon to be married.’ He said this knowing full well it would get Stephen’s attention, and smiled complacently at the look of wide-eyed disbelief. ‘What? Don’t tell me you didn’t see the engagement notice in today’s Times?’

  Too late, Stephen tried to mask his surprise. ‘I don’t have time to read the engagement notices,’ he said gruffly. ‘Some of us have better things to be doing.’

  ‘Well, I’m surprised you missed it. It was practically on the front page. Mr and Mrs Richard D’Arcy, of New Money and lots of it, are delighted to announce the engagement of their daughter, Mary, to Mr Alfred Devereux, of Old Money . . .’

  ‘Alfred Devereux?’ Stephen grimaced, ‘The man’s an ass!’

  ‘Yes, he is. And she’s a vapid little vixen, so it’s a match made in heaven if you ask me. But don’t tell me you’re surprised – the pair of them have been knocking around together for years. Besides, his family owns half of Waterford, not to mention all those newspapers, and everybody knows Daddy D’Arcy is a very shrewd businessman. You didn’t think he’d let his only daughter marry the first young chap with a twinkle in his eye, did you? Oh, and speak of the Devil, there’s Devereux himself, trotting after his future father-in-law like a good little lapdog.’

  This brought a smile to Stephen’s face as he spotted Devereux, bending down to snatch a kiss from his fiancée. Lapdog? Bulldog was more like it. He wasn’t very tall, but he was broad-shouldered and so powerfully built he looked as if he could crush her in his fist. Handsome too, Stephen had to admit; dark and deep-voiced, and exuding an air of barely contained energy. He was captain of the rugby team, platoon leader in the Officer Training Corps, and the heir to a fortune. Billy was right: he shouldn’t have been surprised. If ever there was a husband for Mary D’Arcy, it was Alfred Devereux.

  ‘It’s been quite a week for him, between one thing and another,’ Billy went on. ‘Apparently he’s taken a commission in the army as well. The way things are going, it looks like he’ll soon be off to bash the Hun for King and Country.’

  ‘No surprise there,’ Stephen observed. ‘His uncle’s a general or something on the Imperial Staff. I’ve often heard him bragging about him.’

  ‘Haven’t we all? God help us, Stephen, the chap’s already a world-class bore. Can you imagine what he’ll be like if he joins the army? If he doesn’t get killed he’ll come home laden with medals and tales of derring-do. Just when you thought he couldn’t be any more unbearable, eh?’

  Billy chuckled to himself and shoved his glasses up on the bridge of his nose as he scanned the room for more targets. His eye fell on a tall girl in a black dress who stood alone near the far end of the buffet table. He nudged Stephen with his elbow.

  ‘Now there’s someone who’s much more up your street.’

  Stephen followed his look and frowned. ‘Lillian Bryce?’ he murmured in surprise, ‘She’s the last person I expected to see here.’

  Even more surprising was the transformation. Billy had once mockingly described her as a Protestant nun and, like most of Billy’s little barbs, there was truth at the heart of it. With her short hair and thick glasses, and always dressed in black from head to toe, she had an aura of austerity that didn’t invite a second look. But not tonight. She still had the glasses, and her dress was still black, but it showed off her slim figure and long limbs and was set off perfectly by the emerald pendant around her slender neck. Quite the revelation, Stephen mused, looking at her. He felt he was seeing her at last as she really was. She might not have had the doll’s face and pert figure of Mary D’Arcy, but there was something else about her, something that intrigued him.

  As he watched, she turned her head towards him. Their eyes met for an instant, but they both looked away quickly. He smiled to himself, embarrassed, but thrilled. She’s just as bad as I am.

  ‘Why don’t you go and try your charms on her?’ Billy suggested, as the band struck into another tune and the whole floor began to move. ‘Come to think of it, you’d be a perfect match. Two mathematicians! The pair of you could jaw on about logarithms and theorems until you’re blue in the face.’

  Stephen threw Billy a sharp glance. That was a bit close to the mark.

  ‘Since when did you go into business as a matchmaker?’

  ‘Ooh! Have I touched a nerve?’

  ‘No.’

  Liar. He risked another glance in her direction. Strange that he’d hardly paid her any attention before. Of course, he’d noticed her, but thought it was kinder to ignore her. She got enough attention from the old-fashioned element – the diehards who still thought women shouldn’t be admitted to college. They were the ones who jeered her into every lecture, knuckles and books drumming on the desks until she sat down. Small wonder she usually came in early, took a seat in a quiet corner and left as soon as the lecture was finished. He had to admire her for that. It took strength to put up with it, day in, day out. He wouldn’t have done it.

  Billy looked him up and down, amused. ‘Dear me! Don’t tell me you’re still smarting after that drubbing she gave you last term?’

  Stephen turned his head and glared at Billy.

  ‘That was not a drubbing,’ he said primly. ‘She pointed out a flaw in my paper and we worked out a solution between us. It was more in the way of a debate.’

  ‘A debate, was it? I heard she cut you off at the knees. And whatever you want to call it, it can’t have been pleasant having the wind taken out of your sails by the only girl in the class.’

  ‘The only girl in the class happens to be an exceptional mathematician.’

  He could say that now without reservation. But how had he not seen it before? He’d thought her interests lay closer to astronomy than pure mathematics. Apparently, she had written a paper on Professor Einstein’s special theory of relativity that Professor Barrett had rated as very good, but a shade too radical for his taste. He knew she was able – probably more able than the men who booed and heckled her – but he’d not suspected such deep insight, such penetration.

  But then again, he’d grown too complacent. After all, he was Professor Barrett’s golden boy, and not prone to errors. Every year was the same: another prize, more accolades. But this year he’d sli
pped, and slipped in a way that was so subtle, so barely out of line, that nobody noticed. Not him, not Professor Barrett, not the rest of the class. They had listened to his paper with polite attention, and applauded when he was finished. Delighted and embarrassed all at the same time, he’d hardly noticed this tall girl standing up at the back of the room.

  ‘Exceptional, indeed?’ Billy gave him a sidelong look and smothered a laugh. ‘So, you had just presented this paper of yours – what was it called again?’

  ‘On Lucas numbers and Mersenne primes.’

  ‘And fascinating I’m sure it was. But in any case, she stood up and said it was a load of rubbish . . .’

  ‘She didn’t say it was rubbish. As I said, she pointed out a f—’

  ‘I rest my case.’

  Stephen rolled his eyes. Billy was studying law; training to win the debate at all costs. The concept of refining a proof through argument was alien to him. Still, he wasn’t far out in one respect: Lillian had caused such a stir when she stood up that she might as well have said he was talking rubbish. As the applause died away, he’d heard a polite cough, and then, ‘Excuse me?’

  The lecture hall fell into a deep hush, and Professor Barrett turned around in his seat to examine her over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

  ‘You have something you wish to add, Miss Bryce?’

  ‘I believe Mr Ryan has made a mistake, sir.’

  ‘I even heard old Barrett sent someone to round up the fresh-men – so they could see a genuine mathematical prize fight,’ Billy added.

  ‘Well, that was later on.’

  Barrett had continued to stare at her for several seconds. Stephen looked from him to her and back again, while Lillian stood her ground, her eyes fixed on the blackboard where Stephen had written his proof. At last Barrett gave a puzzled grunt, and gestured towards the blackboard.

  ‘Then I suppose you had better explain your contention, Miss Bryce.’

  There was no jeering or booing as she came down to the board. This was so unprecedented that he could hear the creaking of chairs as everybody leaned forward in anticipation. Stephen handed her the chalk, wondering if this was some sort of elaborate stunt – was she trying to make a fool of him? But her eyes were fixed on the board. She considered it for a moment and then, in three short sentences – punctuated by swift, sure strokes of the chalk – drove a stake through the heart of his proof.

  The first thing he realized was that she was absolutely right. Once she’d turned on the light, it was blinding. One look at Professor Barrett confirmed it. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and his look was a mixture of shock and amusement. This was indeed unprecedented.

  ‘Mr Ryan, can you find fault with any of those statements?’

  Even though he already knew the answer, he made himself study the blackboard for almost a minute, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, trying his best to appear nonchalant, unperturbed. But his mind was racing. The moment he’d seen what she was driving at, he had started working, building a solution; moving the pieces, rearranging things, patching his proof. Two of the problems were easily fixed and as he studied the board he thought he saw a glimmer of hope for the third. It was enough. He turned around.

  ‘No, sir, Miss Bryce is quite correct in her assertions. However, if you will permit me, I believe I can modify my proof in order to satisfy all conditions.’

  ‘I should bloody well hope so,’ Professor Barrett muttered under his breath. Then, in a louder voice, he added, ‘Very well, Mr Ryan. Let’s see it. Miss Bryce, please remain where you are. We shall rely on you to make sure our friend doesn’t stray any further from the truth.’

  She turned and handed him the chalk, looking at him steadily with her grey-blue eyes, a faint smile playing about her lips. She was enjoying this.

  He could feel her eyes on him as he wrote out the first rebuttal, and knowing before he had even finished where it was weak. She knew it too, she knew it very well – that much was obvious. But instead of attacking again, she proposed an alternative, and he countered it, and so it went – the best hour’s work he’d ever done. It was feverish, the two of them working at the blackboard, completely absorbed, completely unaware of the crowd that was filling the lecture hall. When it was done, Stephen’s original proof had expanded to fill two blackboards and taken on a beautiful life of its own. It was much more complex, but it was also elegant and perfect. The lecture hall stood completely silent for almost a minute, and then Professor Barrett was on his feet, leading the applause.

  A gentle nudge from Billy’s elbow brought him back to the present. ‘Aren’t you going to ask her to dance? She won’t stay there all night.’

  Stephen’s stomach turned over. ‘Dance?’ he stammered, seized by doubt. ‘No. Why would I ask her to dance?’

  ‘Oh my God. I’ve come out with a wallflower.’

  ‘But she’s a suffragette. She probably doesn’t like to dance.’

  ‘Dear Stephen, let us forget for the moment that I’m probably the last person you should be asking about women . . .’

  ‘But I didn’t ask you.’

  ‘Yes, well, not in so many words, perhaps,’ Billy puffed up his chest and brushed a few crumbs from the front of his jacket. He often liked to imagine himself in a courtroom, ‘But let us examine the facts of this case in a cool and rational fashion. First of all, the girl is a suffragette – she gets it from her mother, I understand, but that’s beside the point. She is an advocate of women’s rights, not a flaming nun! Second, this is a ballroom, a place of dancing, and she is standing in it. Ergo, of course she flaming well wants to dance. Furthermore, she is a woman, and convention dictates that she cannot dance unless invited to do so by a man. You are a man, are you not, Stephen? You can help her out of her predicament.’

  ‘I can’t dance,’ Stephen said, shaking his head.

  ‘Are you afraid of her, Stephen?’ Billy asked earnestly.

  ‘Me? No, of course not.’

  ‘Then what the bloody hell are you waiting for?’

  ‘I don’t think she likes me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such an ass. Of course she likes you. She’s been making eyes at you for half the evening.’

  ‘No she hasn’t.’ Stephen felt his cheeks beginning to redden, ‘She’s probably looking for her sister.’

  ‘Oh, balls, Stephen,’ Billy laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a terrible liar. You are afraid of her, aren’t you? Go on, admit it.’

  This was more than he could bear, and Stephen set his glass down and straightened his tie. ‘All right,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll ask her to dance.’ His mouth was dry but his mind was set. How hard could it be? Just go up to her, smile, say good evening, and take it from there. It couldn’t be easier.

  ‘Not that I’d blame you if you were. Those votes-for-women gals can be a bit fierce. Did you know her mother was arrested for breaking the windows of one of the Devereux newspapers? Apparently, they printed an editorial that more or less said women should stick to needlepoint and having babies, so Mrs B dashed off a stinker of a letter to the editor. They refused to print it, so she took the train down to Wicklow and marched around to demand an explanation. The editor wouldn’t even give her the time of day, never mind print her letter, so she went back outside, wrapped the letter around a brick and heaved it through the window. Hell hath no fury, and so forth. But Bryce filia has a bit more charm, don’t you think? I see her as a Spartan woman: fierce, warlike, but loyal . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Billy.’

  ‘That’s not to say she won’t bite, however.’

  ‘I said, I’m going to ask her.’

  But his timing couldn’t have been worse. The music died away once more, and the bandleader announced a short break. In moments, the buffet table was crowded with hungry dancers. A solid wedge of young men came in at a rush, and he recognized a coterie of Devereux’s friends from the rugby team. Devereux himself was in the lead, rubbing his hands and grinning wolfishly.
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  ‘Come on, boys, we’ll be at war soon, and then it’ll be bully beef and cold tea. Let’s make hay while the sun shines!’

  He snatched up an éclair and devoured it in one bite, smearing his lips with crumbs and cream and chomping it down with his eyes bulging. Following his lead, his friends set upon the food like wild dogs.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Billy muttered, watching them with some distaste. ‘It’s like a Roman orgy.’

  Then they heard Devereux exclaim in a loud, drunken voice:

  ‘Good God. It’s the Bryce girl. I didn’t think they’d let her sort in.’

  ‘Votes for women!’ One of his gang called out, in a high falsetto, followed by a snort of laughter.

  Lillian looked away, ignoring him, but Devereux wasn’t to be put off. He swaggered up to her, laughing. ‘You’d better behave yourself tonight, Bryce. We’ll have none of your suffragette tricks here. This is a civilized occasion.’

  She didn’t answer, but only gave him a stony look as he closed in and started to circle her. He looked her up and down like a farmer might assay a head of beef, but she refused to play his game. She turned with him, watching him silently, warily.

  ‘Well, at least you’ve cleaned yourself up a bit. You know, you don’t look too bad when you make an effort. Still a bit mannish, if you ask me, but I suppose that’s the intention with you suffs, eh?’

  ‘I can’t watch this,’ whispered Stephen, ‘he’s making a show of her!’ He made to push his way through the throng that cut him off from the grubby scene, but Billy stopped him with a hand on his arm.

  ‘Steady on, old man,’ he murmured, nodding at the broad backs of the rugby team. ‘Don’t forget you’re in the lion’s den. Besides, I don’t think she needs your help. She is a Spartan woman, remember? And she has the look of a cornered she-cat. Have no fear, she’s well able for him.’