“Hear, hear,” Rutherford said, commandeering the bottle to refill his own glass, and then Moira’s. He leaned very far over her as he poured, and Moira obligingly leaned back in her chair to afford him more room, and a better view.
Eleanor, who had often wondered what the interior of such impressive clubs might be like, was somewhat let down by the reality. She had imagined far more sumptuous surroundings, rich with gilding and ornamentation and fine French furniture beautifully upholstered in silks and satin. The room, large though it was and with a high, beamed ceiling, felt much more like a comfortably appointed hunting lodge than a palace.
Under Bentley’s close supervision, a series of cold dishes—veal tongue, mutton with mint jelly, duck in aspic—were brought out, and the men regaled their companions with stories of the brigade and its exploits. All three were members of the 17th Duke of Cambridge’s Own Lancers, first formed in 1759, and as Rutherford proudly declared while holding a scrap of duck aloft on his fork, “Never far from the cannon fire since!”
“In the thick of it more often that not,” Le Maitre added.
“And soon to be so again,” Sinclair said, and once more, Eleanor felt an unexpected pang. The situation in the east was worsening—Russia, under the pretext of a religious conflict in the ancient city of Jerusalem, had declared war on the Turkish Ottoman Empire, and defeated the Turkish fleet in the Black Sea. It was feared, as Rutherford explained to the ladies, that “if we don’t stop the Russian bear on the land, he will soon be swimming in the Mediterranean Sea.” Any such challenge to the British command of the seas, it was universally understood, had to be nipped in the bud.
Eleanor grasped only some of this, her knowledge of foreign affairs—and even geography—being slight; her education had been limited to a few years at a local academy for girls, where the emphasis was on etiquette and deportment rather than more intellectual matters. But still, she could see the eagerness and the enthusiasm with which her male company were looking forward to the prospect of battle, and she marveled at their bravery. Frenchie had removed from his pocket a silver cigarette case, on which was emblazoned the emblem of the 17th Light Brigade. It was a Death’s Head, and beneath the crossed bones were unfurled the words, “Or Glory.” It was passed from hand to hand, and when Eleanor received it, she instinctively recoiled and gave it quickly on to Sinclair.
A platter of cheeses, then sweets, were served, along with what was surely the third—or was it the fourth?—bottle of champagne. Eleanor just remembered hearing the popping of several corks over the course of the meal, and when Sinclair offered to fill her glass again, she placed a hand over it.
“No, thank you. I’m afraid it’s already gone to my head.”
“Perhaps you’d like to take some air?”
“Yes,” she said, “that would probably be well advised.”
But when they excused themselves and stepped to the portico door, they could see that the rain had finally arrived. The pavement was wet and shining in the light of the gas lamps, and as Eleanor looked on, a pair of gentlemen in top hats and black capes bolted from a hansom cab and up the steps of the equally grand clubhouse across the street.
“These houses are quite beautiful,” she said, craning her neck to see the fa?ade of the Longchamps. There were great rounded columns, made of a cream-colored limestone, and an exquisitely carved bas-relief of a Greek god, or perhaps an emperor, above the imposing double doors.
“I suppose you’re right,” Sinclair said, affecting nonchalance. “I’m so accustomed to it, I hardly see it anymore.”
“But others do.”
He lighted a cigarette and gazed out at the rain. A weary dray horse, drawing a wagon of beer kegs, slowly clip-clopped by, the wheels rumbling over the wet cobblestones. He blew out a puff of smoke, then, struck by inspiration, said, “Would you like to see more?”
Eleanor wasn’t sure what he was proposing. “I didn’t bring an umbrella, but if you—”
“No, I meant more of the clubhouse.”
But Eleanor knew it wasn’t allowed.
“There’s a quite marvelous tapestry, a Gobelins, in the main hall, and the billiards room is the best in Pall Mall.”
Seeing her uncertainty, he said, leaning close with a mischievous smile, “Oh, yes, I see your natural reluctance, and it is quite forbidden. But that’s why it will be such fun.”
Would it? All day long Eleanor had felt like she’d passed through the looking glass and was moving in a realm she didn’t fully understand, and this was just one more instance of it.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand like a child inviting another to play. “I know a way.”