Flashman And The Tiger

And she’d done it all for a mere word: coward (a true word, if she’d only known it). Aye … and for the love of Harry. Well, I ain’t the most sentimental chap, as you know, but as I thought about that, and considered her while she dried her tears … dammit, I was touched. Not many husbands are given such proof of loyalty, and fidelity, and devotion carried to the point of insanity—not that I’m saying she’s mad, mind, but … well, you’re bound to agree there’s something loose up yonder. Still, barmy or not, the little darling deserved every comfort I could give her, and I was about to embrace her with cries of reassurance … when a thought crossed my mind.

She was watching me with pink-nosed anxiety. "Oh, Harry, can you forgive me? Oh, why do you look so stern? Do you despise me?"

"Eh? Oh, lord, no! What, despise you? Good God, girl, I’m proud of you!" And I hugged her, slightly preoccupied.

"Are you sure? Oh, my darling, when I see you frown … and I know that what I did was ignoble and … and unladylike, and not at all the thing, and how could you be proud of me—oh, I fear that you disdain me! Please, dear one, tell me it’s not so!" She put her hands either side of my face, imploring at point-blank, which ain’t helpful when you’re trying to think. I forced myself to sound sincere and hearty.

"Of course I don’t disdain you, you little goose! What, for snookering Gordon-Cumming so cleverly? I should say not! It was the smartest stunt since Tones Vedras, and—"

"Tones who?"

"—and nothing ignoble about it, so don’t fret your bonny head. He’s well served." Damned right; nothing’s too bad for the man who tells truth about Flashy. But that was by the way …

"Oh, Harry!" She was all over me, arms round my neck, fairly squeaking with joy. "Then you are not angry, and I’m truly for-given? Oh, you are the best, the kindest of husbands …" She kissed me for all she was worth. "And all is truly well?"

"Absolutely! Couldn’t be better. So you mustn’t cry any more—make your pretty nose red if you do. Now, what about that tea you were going to ring for?"

She kissed me again and fled from the room, calling for Jane, but in fact to make repairs to her appearance—as I’d known she would when I mentioned her nose. I wanted a moment to reflect.

Cumming was down the drain: excellent. Elspeth was none the worse for her idiotic behaviour; indeed, she’d done me proud in her misguided way, championing my "honour", as she conceived it: excellent again. She’s solved the Tranby mystery, too, albeit her explanation was as staggering as it was undoubtedly true. On only one little point had she been reticent, and it was exercising me rather.

The whole world knew I was one of the few who’d escaped the Isan’lwana massacre in ’79, but that was no disgrace since there were no living witnesses to my terrified flight, and if Cumming chose to make the worst out of it, much good it would do him, with my heroic reputation. But that was by the way, since I’d gathered that he’d confided his opinion to Elspeth alone: the point was, when precisely had he done so, and in what circumstances? I didn’t doubt he’d called me a coward, you understand, but it ain’t the kind of thing a fellow says by way of social chat over the tea-cups, is it? "Ah, Lady Flashman, delightful weather, is it not? And did you enjoy The Gondoliers? Such jolly tunes! No, I fear the dear Bishop’s health is not what it was … by the by, did I never tell you, your husband’s a bloody poltroon who ran screaming from Isan’lwana? Oh, you hadn’t heard … ?" No, hardly.