LITMIR.BIZ

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leave.’

      He looked at me sharp, head on one side. ‘Good,’ says he. ‘This makes it easier. I had thought you might be a smooth one but I see that you’re what they call a plunger.’

      I asked him what the devil he meant.

      ‘Quite simple,’ says he, taking a seat as cool as you please. ‘We have a mutual acquaintance. Mrs Morrison of Renfrew is my sister. Elspeth Morrison is my niece.’

      This was an uneasy piece of news, for I didn’t like the look of him. He was too sure of himself by half. But I gave him a stare and told him he had a damned handsome niece.

      ‘I’m relieved that you think so,’ said he. ‘I’d be distressed to think that the Hussars were not discriminating.’

      He sat looking at me, so I took a turn round the room.

      ‘The point is,’ he said, ‘that we have to make arrangements for the wedding. You’ll not want to lose time.’

      I had picked up a bottle and glass, but I set them down sharp at this. He had taken my breath away.

      ‘What the hell d’ye mean?’ says I. Then I laughed. ‘You don’t think I’ll marry her, do you? Good God, you must be a lunatic.’

      ‘And why?’ says he.

      ‘Because I’m not such a fool,’ I told him. Suddenly I was angry, at this damned little snip, and his tone with me. ‘If every girl who’s ready to play in the hay was to get married, we’d have damned few spinsters left, wouldn’t we? And d’you suppose I’d be pushed into a wedding over a trifle like this?’

      ‘My niece’s honour.’

      ‘Your niece’s honour! A mill-owner’s daughter’s honour! Oh, I see the game! You see an excellent chance of a match, eh? A chance to marry your niece to a gentleman? You smell a fortune, do you? Well, let me tell you—’

      ‘As to the excellence of the match,’ said he, ‘I’d sooner see her marry a Barbary ape. I take it, however, that you decline the honour of my niece’s hand?’

      ‘Damn your impudence! You take it right. Now, get out!’

      ‘Excellent,’ says he, very bright-eyed. ‘It’s what I hoped for.’ And he stood up, straightening his coat.

      ‘What’s that meant to mean, curse you?’

      He smiled at me. ‘I’ll send a friend to talk to you. He will arrange matters. I don’t approve of meetings, myself, but I’ll be delighted, in this case, to put either a bullet or a blade into you.’ He clapped his hat on his head. ‘You know, I don’t suppose there has been a duel in Glasgow these fifty years or more. It will cause quite a stir.’

      I gaped at the man, but gathered my wits soon enough. ‘Lord,’ says I, with a sneer, ‘you don’t suppose I would fight you?’

      ‘No?’

      ‘Gentlemen fight gentlemen,’ I told him, and ran a scornful eye over him. ‘They don’t fight shop-keepers.’

      ‘Wrong again,’ says he, cheerily. ‘I’m a lawyer.’

      ‘Then stick to your law. We don’t fight lawyers, either.’

      ‘Not if you can help it, I imagine. But you’ll be hard put to it to refuse a brother officer, Mr Flashman. You see, although I’ve no more than a militia commission now, I was formerly of the 93rd Foot – you have heard of the Sutherlands, I take it? – and had the honour to hold the rank of captain. I even achieved some little service in the field.’ He was smiling almost benignly now. ‘If you doubt my bona fides may I refer you to my former chief, Colonel Colin Campbell?⁸ Good day, Mr Flashman.’

      He was at the door before I found my voice.

      ‘To hell with you, and him! I’ll not fight you!’

      He turned. ‘Then I’ll enjoy taking a whip to you in the street. I really shall. Your own chief – my Lord Cardigan, isn’t it? – will find that happy reading in The Times, I don’t doubt.’

      He had me in a cleft stick, as I saw at once. It would mean professional ruin – and at the hands of a damned provincial infantryman, and a retired one at that. I stood there, overcome with rage and panic, damning the day I ever set eyes on his infernal niece, with my wits working for a way out. I tried another tack.

      ‘You may not realise who you’re dealing with,’ I told him, and asked if he had not heard of the Bernier affair: it seemed to me that it must be known about, even in the wilds of Glasgow, and I said so.

      ‘I think I recollect a paragraph,’ says he. ‘Dear me, Mr Flashman, should I be overcome? Should I quail? I’ll just have to hold my pistol steady, won’t I?’

      ‘Damn you,’ I shouted, ‘wait a moment.’

      He stood attentive, watching me.

      ‘All right, blast you,’ I said. ‘How much do you want?’

      ‘I thought it might come to that,’ he said. ‘Your kind of rat generally reaches for its purse when cornered. You’re wasting time, Flashman. I’ll take your promise to marry Elspeth – or your life. I’d prefer the latter. But it’s one or the other. Make up your mind.’

      And from that I could not budge him. I pleaded and swore and promised any kind of reparation short of marriage; I was almost in tears, but I might as well have tried to move a rock. Marry or die – that was what it amounted to, for I’d no doubt he would be damnably efficient with the barkers. There was nothing for it: in the end I had to give in and say I would marry the girl.

      ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t rather fight?’ says he, regretfully. ‘A great pity. I fear the conventions are going to burden Elspeth with a rotten man, but there.’ And he passed on to discussion of the wedding arrangements – he had it all pat.

      When at last I was rid of him I applied myself to the brandy, and things seemed less bleak. At least I could think of no one I would rather be wedded and bedded with, and if you have money a wife need be no great encumbrance. And presently we should be out of Scotland, so I need not see her damnable family. But it was an infernal nuisance, all the same – what was I to tell my father? I couldn’t for the life of me think how he would take it – he wouldn’t cut me off, but he might be damned uncivil about it.

      I didn’t write to him until after the business was over. It took place in the Abbey at Paisley, which was appropriately gloomy, and the sight of the pious long faces of my bride’s relations would have turned your stomach. The Morrisons had begun speaking to me again, and were very civil in public – it was represented as being a sudden love-match, of course, between the dashing hussar and the beautiful provincial, so they had to pretend I was their beau ideal of a son-in-law. But the brute Abercrombie was never far away, to see I came up to scratch, and all in all it was an unpleasant business.

      When it was done, and the guests had begun to drink themselves blind, as is the Scottish custom, Elspeth and I were seen off in a carriage by her parents. Old Morrison was crying drunk, and made a disgusting spectacle.

      ‘My wee lamb!’ he kept snuffling. ‘My bonny wee lamb!’

      His wee lamb, I may say, looked entrancing, and no more moved than if she had just been out choosing a pair of gloves, rather than getting a husband – she had taken the whole thing without a murmur, neither happy nor sorry, apparently, which piqued me a little.

      Anyway, her father slobbered over her, but when he turned to me he just let out a great hollow groan, and gave place to his wife. At that I whipped up the horses, and away we went.

      For the life of me I cannot remember where the honeymoon was spent – at some rented cottage on the coast, I remember, but the name has gone – and it was lively enough. Elspeth knew nothing, but it seemed that the only thing that brought her out of her usual serene lethargy was a man in bed with her. She was a more than willing playmate,

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