“Show us these bloody Rooshians, mate,” called one to men he thought were navvies. “We’ll soon put a shot in their backsides.”
“Get one of us to show you how to hold your gun, sonny” was the reply from one of the infantry veterans, “or you might end up never being a father.” His villainous-looking companions joined in the raucous laughter. They had no sympathy for cocky recruits who had had several weeks of drill as training and thought they were crack troops. The backbone of England was buried beneath the mud here; these were merely gristle!
Having made the voyage without a maid, Victoria was accustomed to managing for herself, although she missed Zarina’s talent for putting up hair with swift skilled fingers. She was engaged in this difficult task the next morning when Charles quietly entered the cabin and closed the door behind him. He said nothing, just stood looking at her as she waited for some kind of greeting. He had aged. The cold sharp light showed lines of strain on his face and a hollowness in his cheeks that pulled his mouth down into a curved line of resignation. The blue of his eyes was dulled by a film of hardship, yet their stare gave him an attraction that almost brought a shiver from her. He wore a sheepskin coat over his faded threadbare jacket and boots that would seem to have been fashioned, by anyone but a cobbler, from some kind of greasy felt. With his features honed down by hunger, Victoria thought that, but for his coloring, he could have been a wild nomad from the desert regions.
“You received Major Prescott’s message?” she asked eventually.
“I should not have come otherwise. I hardly expected you to be on the ship.”
She looked away and began pinning her hair into place. “I promised I would be.”
It was not exactly a laugh, more a sharp outward breath. “I cannot imagine why you kept it. If you have tired of him it is of no use to run to me.”
Victoria tightened her hold on the pins and lowered her arms, leaving a swath of hair across her shoulder. Dryness in her throat made her swallow. Please let me remain dignified, she prayed.
“You have been with him, have you not?” He said with arrogant contempt.
“I am surprised that you even concern yourself over the fact that Hugo is not dead,” she said.
“That does not answer my question.”
“Yes, I have done what I could for him. When you arrived here and heard he was on his way to Scutari, you must have known I would see him among those brought ashore.”
“Naturally. I also realized why you were so determined to stay.”
It took her breath away. “That is ridiculous! How could I possibly have known he was alive?”
“Through your searching conversations with those who had come down previously. How nobly you spoke to me of serving your country when all the time you dragged your petticoats on the beach like a camp follower for the purpose of hearing word of him. Have you no pride, Victoria?”
“I suppose I have not,” she said steadily, “for I most certainly would have inquired of every man coherent enough had I not truly believed Hugo dead after the battle. He was, in fact, almost interred that night but for the sharpness of a soldier who noticed his warmth.”
Normally quite contained in anger, Charles today appeared mastered by it. His hands shook and his jaw was working visibly.
“I see. You found time to visit him in hospital, it seems.”
Knowing Byron Porchester might have told the whole story to Charles, thinking it would please him to know one of his officers had been pulled from the grave by the two ladies, she decided to tell the truth from the start.
“Hugo was barely alive when he arrived in Scutari. If he had entered the Barrack Hospital he would have died — a doctor confirmed the fact and gave his permission for me to take him to Constantinople. Hugo stayed in the hotel, where a French doctor attended him. When I left he was on the road to recovery.” Swiftly she added, “You have heard of poor Jack Markham? It was such a blow to us all.”
He ignored that. “Why have you come back?”
“I gave my promise that I would.”
“Had you created such a stir that you were obliged to leave Constantinople? It does not surprise me. A married lady taking in a young officer to her hotel, setting the staff on its ears over special diets and leaving her friend to go out alone while she remains on the upper floor all day long! It does not take much imagination on the part of the guests to know that an intrigue is taking place.” He moved angrily about the cabin. “You wonder how I know about this? Musgrave, of the Engineers, received letters from his wife, who is wintering in Constantinople. He naturally assumed I knew of all this and rode across to express his pleasure at my brother’s recovery. He has, of course, written back to inform his gossip-loving lady that Captain Esterly is entitled to consideration from Mrs. Stanford…but no one will believe such complete and utter devotion are necessary to someone with no blood bond with my family.”
Victoria clutched the hairpins even tighter. “Charles, I do not care what Mrs. Musgrave believes — nor anyone else, for that matter. It is a pity such people have not more awareness of what else is going on around them, or I should have had a large band of assistants on that beach, and a few more might have been saved.”
He swung around with uncharacteristic violence. “They, ma’am, have some sense of their station in life. One does not expect a lady to scramble all over a beach in search of her lover, nor parade her amours before society.”
“Unless you lower your voice, sir, you will be acquainting the entire ship’s crew of your opinions,” she told him icily. “I should like an apology for that. You know quite well I searched for no one on that beach. When you left Constantinople, do you not think you would have read the fact in my whole demeanor if I had known Hugo was still alive?”
He leaned forward, resting one hand on the table before which she sat. “Do you deny you turned the hotel upside down for his sake?”
“Hardly that. I used harsh words on the proprietor to persuade him to oblige some requests that were not in the least abnormal. I believe they inconvenienced no one.”
“And you spent the greater part of each day with him?”
She took a deep breath. “Can you not even bring yourself to speak his name? Yes, I spent a great deal of time with Hugo…in company with Letty Markham. After Jack died, she benefitted as much from the company as Hugo.”
“Do you expect me to believe you were never alone in his room — that you did not become lovers?”
She was starting to tremble. “No, Charles, because it is quite plain you will believe anything that will give you justification for continuing your campaign of hatred against Hugo. You will have guessed I told him the truth about the child, so now you must charge him with something new.”
“Oh no, ma’am, this is not new,” he said through his teeth. “On a previous occasion you both contrived to meet behind my back — with tragic results.”
It was impossible to remain seated where he could tower so aggressively over her. Even standing she had to look up at him, but it gave her a greater sense of dignity to be on her feet. “I think you cannot conceive of a relationship that can survive without any kind of physical contact, Charles. But, even so, you would know how ridiculous your suspicions are if you could have seen him covered in blood, unable to speak and dressed in filthy rags.”
“And you took him with you to a select hotel?” It was said with scandalized derision.
She looked steadily at his face. “Do you wish I had let him die?”
Halted at last, he stretched to his full height and took a grip on himself. “I wish he had been man enough to stand a little suffering without indulging in the pampering of a female. It is hardly the example to set. He has always been weak and unstable. It was plain from the outset he would not last out the campaign.”
“That is not true. He intends returning as soon as he is fit.”
Immediately Charles had fresh fuel for his fire. “So I have my answer at last,” he said slowly, flicking his
eyes over her body. “You will not continue your relationship here. I swear you will not! I have a hut in the camp that is relatively protected from the cold and bitter weather. You will live with me there and see to my comfort. You will give me all the care and consideration you lavished upon him. You will keep up a semblance of propriety that will persuade everyone that the gossip from Constantinople is false.” He gripped the table. “When he returns you will have no contact with him whatsoever. If I so much as catch him…by God, I swear I shall make him pay for what he has done.”
“He has done nothing,” she cried.
“Does he also hide behind your skirt while you defend him?” he asked with searing contempt. “You should be coddling our son, not a grown man, Victoria.”
She returned his contempt in her own look. “I think it might be as well that I cannot give you one, for I fear the poor child would never live up to your demands for perfection.” Resuming her seat at the table, she finished pinning her hair with fingers that shook.
*
Within a few days Victoria had settled into her new routine and found several old friends at Kadikoi, who greeted her with such genuine pleasure it brought a lump to her throat. Lord Dovedale gave her an outrageously exaggerated account of how he had disposed of a dozen or more Russians during the charge and emerged with no more than a lance thrust in his upper arm, but Victoria detected a desperation in his lightheartedness that was to be found in all who had spent the entire winter in the Crimea. Colonel Rayne looked ill and worried. It was not an enviable task to command a regiment of fifteen old soldiers and two hundred new recruits who hardly knew one end of a horse from another and had no chance of learning because there were no animals to ride. The fifteen troopers who had ridden in the charge were ridiculously emotional at the sight of their second-in-command’s wife back again with them — several had tears in their bloodshot eyes when she stopped to speak to them. So, despite all else, Victoria had a wonderful feeling of homecoming when she found herself surrounded by Hussar uniforms once more.
The hut was hardly spacious, but it kept out the cold more effectively than flapping canvas, especially since Charles had stuck newspapers over the cracks in the walls. There was chopped straw on the floor to bind the mud, but once she set foot outside, Victoria found it necessary to lift her skirts high as she struggled through slush and snow to reach her destination. There was no horse for her, but any time she wanted to ride one of the officers willingly lent his own. In no time she had a host of new friends. They lost their hearts to her, but she was wise enough to know it was more what she represented than her own self they found fascinating. In this world of hardship, mud and constant bombardment, a reminder of heady pleasures, a soft voice and sweet perfume were a breath of spring and civilization to young men far from home.
She grew used to hearing the rumble of guns from Sebastopol and the thunder of their own artillery that went on day and night as both sides gradually slaughtered each other a few at a time. It was commonplace for the cavalry to be turned out at a moment’s notice because of a sudden alarm that proved false. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind, however, that the war was not going to end for a long time yet. Old campaigners grew resigned; new recruits fretted at doing nothing but drill. They had come out to finish it off, hadn’t they — not tramp back and forth in the bloody mud being bawled at by the sergeant?
Major Prescott had been entertained to dinner and had no reason to be as surprised as Victoria when Charles appeared to approve the idea of his wife working in the hospital hut of which the major was head. On reflection, Victoria believed it must have been to allay gossip by being seen to tend other wounded men but was glad of the outcome, whatever Charles’s reason. She lost no time in starting and found immense satisfaction and comfort in what she was doing, knowing that this time she had the approval and professional teaching of the doctor.
It was almost ten days before an opportunity presented itself to ride across to the artillery camp, but Victoria borrowed Major Prescott’s spare pony late one afternoon and rode, with the doctor, to visit Lieutenant Marshall, as promised. A severe frost had made the ground iron-hard and easier to negotiate, but the two-mile ride left her numb with cold. The adjutant, a bearded, shabbily dressed man of indeterminate age, with cheery manners, invited them into his tent for a drink of half-roasted coffee when they inquired after the young subaltern.
“Marshall, you say?” he asked as he took the tin can from his portable stove and poured the hot concoction into two mugs. “We have no Lieutenant Marshall here, ma’am. There is a Captain Martin…or Ensign Carshalton.”
“He traveled up with us on the Sirocco on the tenth,” said Major Prescott helpfully. “Fair-haired…cousin of the Duke of Cumbria, or some such person.”
“Ah, Marshall,” said the adjutant, recollection coming to him. “Yes, of course.” His dark eyes examined them curiously. “A particular friend of yours, was he?”
“Was?” repeated Victoria softly.
“His first day at the gun was his last, I fear. That is why I did not immediately recognize his name.”
“Oh, how sad,” she breathed with genuine sorrow. “Did he suffer?”
“I believe not. He had been five minutes at the front when a shot took him in the head, killing him instantly.”
They rode back, touched by the poignant incident, yet it was not of the fair-haired young man Victoria thought but of a dear face scarred forever by a sword. Once he arrived back here she could lose him as brutally, as instantly, as Rupert Marshall.
It was growing dark very rapidly and the cavalry camp was still distant when a galloper dashed past shouting that Russian cavalry had been seen crossing the plain ahead, and they would be advised to go around by the French camps. It added a mile or two to their journey, but they turned and headed that way without hesitation; squadrons of Cossacks liked to roam at twilight in the hope of catching piquets off their guard.
Young Marshall forgotten in this new excitement, Victoria was not immediately aware of her surroundings, except to nod her head to those Frenchmen who greeted her with cheers and flamboyant salutes as she rode along the outskirts of their camps. However, in the half-light her eye was caught by the sight of a girl, one of the cantinières who served with the French regiments and were so admired by the soldiers. This one was attached to the Algerian Rifles and wore a dashing uniform of trousers, beneath a full skirt, and jacket to match those worn by the regiment.
Victoria had admired them since her days at Varna for their courage and their service to the soldiers, which extended far beyond provisioning the men. They thought nothing of galloping over the battlefield with a cask slung around their necks, to give drinks to the wounded lying helpless there. In the main, they were vivaciously attractive and somehow managed to retain their feminine dash even under such terrible conditions and so contrasted strongly with the drab slatterns who traveled with the British Army. The cantinières were the darlings of the regiments, from colonels down to the newest recruit, and this one was very obviously entertaining an officer at her wagon at the moment.
A seductive laugh rang out at what he had just whispered in her ear, and Victoria was about to look away when the man by the wagon turned his head slightly. Dressed in the uniform of the Crimea — forage cap, shaggy sheepskin coat and high boots — he looked like any other officer in the Anglo-French force, but his jacket beneath the sheepskin was Hussar-blue and the upward tilt up his chin held all the Stanford arrogance of which he was capable.
A quick glance at Major Prescott told Victoria he had also recognized Charles. Her cheeks flamed, and her entire body flushed.
Chapter Fifteen
Spring arrived early, carpeting the area before Sebastopol with crocuses, hyacinths and yellow iris, even snowdrops to remind the British soldiers of the countryside of their home villages. The valley that had witnessed the death of the Light Brigade was blue with larkspur and forget-me-nots that rooted around the skeletons, shot and shell that rem
ained there still.
Blue skies allowed a warming sun to come through, to put new life into stiff limbs and raise the spirits of men with heads sunk too far into their shoulders. The mud began to harden; walking and riding became a pleasure again. Supplies flooded in from official and charitable sources in England, where William Russell’s reports printed in The Times had aroused public outrage at the treatment of British soldiers in the Crimea. With temperatures going into the eighties once more, the men were inundated with thick socks, flannel drawers, scarves, sturdy boots and greatcoats — all the things they had lacked throughout the winter.
Huts went up in all the camps and new, stronger tents blossomed like mushrooms along the hillsides. Supplies of horses arrived to mount the cavalry that was now reinforced by two splendid regiments straight from India, both nearly seven hundred strong, each regiment containing more than the entire brigade on the day of the charge.
Despite the daily bombardment of the front-line trenches, the gentlemen officers felt the breath of spring in their bloodstreams, and it meant only one thing to them — racing! The spring meetings began in April and drew great crowds of spectators to cheer in their favorite as he thundered across the turf or cleared the jumps in true counties style. If the officers were more reckless than usual, who could not understand it? The younger and madder of the gentlemen indulged in dog hunts, in which the poor quarry was one or more of the half-wild dogs that roamed the bills and valleys. The hunt would return filthy and exhausted, but the war had been forgotten for a while.
For the rank-and-file there were foot races and competitions to liven the dullness and theatricals performed in store huts, large marquees, even in an amputating room of the hospital. All the parts were taken by soldiers, the Guards showing marked thespian talent, extending even to providing damsels of quite spectacular grace for their six feet three inches. Band concerts became very popular — those given by the Rifle Brigade being the favorites — and an influx of provisions of every description, sent by private philanthropists, meant that officers were able to give dinner parties once more.
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