Free The Gallant by William Stuart Long Page B

typical city dweller, she thought wryly, venturing forth on social occasions more often by chaise or carriage than astride a William Stuart Long
    horse. And no doubt in India it would be the same, since the climate precluded the indulgence by women-white women-in strenuous exercise, or prolonged exposure to the monsoon rains or, during the hot weather months, the fierce glare of the sun. Officers’ ladies, William had told her, remained for the most part in their cool, well-staffed bungalows, where they entertained in lavish style and occupied their spare time in such gentle pursuits as needlework, knitting for charity, and meeting each other over afternoon tea or at exclusively female luncheon parties.
    Visits and calls were made in covered chairs, known as
    doolies,
    borne on the shoulders of native servants, or, if the occasion called for formality and the weather permitted it, by carriage, again with numerous native servants in attendance … and always in the cool of evening.
    Looking out over Sydney’s beautiful, sunlit harbor as they neared her father’s house in Elizabeth Bay, Jenny repeated her sigh. There was a ship, evidently newly arrived from overseas, making for Circular Quay under head and topsails, with one of the port’s steam tugboats preparing to take her in tow. She was a three-master with white-painted ports, broad of beam and with an elaborate gilded figurehead, a crimson house flag fluttering from her lofty masthead, and a number of passengers crowding her upper deck.
    William stifled an exclamation, studied her in pensive silence for several minutes, and then, with a jerk of his bridle-hand, he drew Jenny’s attention to the vessel, a slow, pleased smile spreading across his face.
    “I fancy that is our ship, my love-La Hogue,
    from Calcutta, unless I’m much
    mistaken. If it is, she’s made port ahead of time … which means that we shall not have much longer here, so we had best start making our farewells.”
    He sounded so pleased and eager that Jenny could find no words to answer him. Her throat tight, she nodded, and then, fearful that she might betray herself, she kicked her tired horse into a trot and hurried ahead of him, down the hill to her father’s house.
    Unbidden, the memory of her dream returned and tears stung her eyes, but when her father came from the house to meet her, she resolutely blinked them back, and as William
    THE GALLANT57
    drew rein beside her, she managed a smile and slipped from her saddle and into Justin Broome’s warm and comforting embrace. If William was right, she told herself, and if the newly arrived vessel was indeed

La Hogue
    from Calcutta, then there would be no time for tears. .
    . .
    “I wonder,” Kitty Cadogan observed thoughtfully, leaning back against the cushioned seat of the carriage and smoothing the folds of her shimmering taffeta skirt demurely about her
    knees, “what he is like, this Crimean hero.
    Does he, do you suppose, Pat, have the arrogant redcoat mentality we’ve always hated and rebelled against?”
    “I presume you are referring to Colonel William De Lancey?” her brother Patrick responded. He settled himself beside her and nodded to the coachman to move off, a slim hand tugging irritably at his immaculate white tie.
    “Infernally uncomfortable form of dress, this! I’d no idea that colonials went in for such formality.”
    Kitty ignored the digression. “Yes, of course,” she confirmed, in answer to his question. “According to the invitation from Their Excellencies Sir William and Lady Denison, is it not to bid farewell to Colonel De Lancey and his wife, on their departure for India, that we are privileged to attend a soiree at Government House?” She added, her tone faintly derisive, “If Michael were here, would Their Excellencies have invited

him
    to join in the farewells, do you imagine?”
    “You would be wise to temper your rebel notions with discretion,” Patrick warned her wryly.
    “And to keep a guard on