Scarlet Shadows

by Elizabeth Darrell

  He climbed the Jacob’s ladder that evening with more pleasurable anticipation that he had felt for months. His letter to his father after learning of his mother’s death had gone unanswered — at least, a reply had never reached him — and he could not wait to read the words Lord Blythe had entrusted to Charity. Now he knew he was not responsible for the tragedy of the child, he was entitled to face his family with a clear conscience. Was that what his father had written to him?

  A member of the ship’s crew welcomed them aboard and conducted them to the saloon where they were to be received. After the darkness outside, the bright glow of lamps and a civilized evening party dazzled Hugo for a few moments until he spotted Charity with several ladies in the far corner.

  Everything about her was pale and fragile. The white shoulders rising from a shimmering fondant-green dress drew his eyes immediately, and the soft gleam of spun-gold around a perfect face reminded him so vividly of evenings at Wychbourne that his surroundings fell away and he was lost in the past. It was only when he was halfway across the saloon that he realized she had gone deathly white and was staring at him in shock. His steps slowed. She was looking for the first time at a familiar face scarred and hardened by battle.

  She left the group and came toward him, her hand at her throat. His bow was brief. “It is good to see you again. In such a place I had not expected such a pleasure.” She was still overcome, so he put his hand beneath her elbow. “This cabin is very stuffy. Let us take a little fresh air.”

  Out on the deck she put her hand on his arm and let him support her as they walked, the sound of the sea faintly audible above the chatter from the saloon. Her scent of lavender reminded him of days in Buckinghamshire, and the quiet swish of satin skirts was infinitely nostalgic.

  She stopped and turned to face him. “Forgive me. After so long… I did not know.”

  Her voice was soft and sweet. He had forgotten her coolness and her clean, delicate lavender scent; the serene quality of her beauty that typified English ladies of wealth and breeding; the paleness of a complexion that had never been exposed to sleet and burning sun. In that moment he felt an overwhelming urge for the release he had not had for well over a year. In that moment she filled him with the excitement of physical desire aroused by fragile, submissive femininity. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips.

  “It is I who should ask forgiveness for not informing you of everything that happened, but I was quite ill for some time. When one is here, in the midst of war, it is easy to forget that those in England cannot imagine the difficulties of exchanging letters.”

  She turned her face away to mask her distress. “I believed you were dead…as did your papa.” Her small hand moved in his. “The minute the news arrived to contradict our sorrow, I resolved to come here. There was so little information on your situation. I could not rest until I had seen you.” The round blue eyes ventured to meet his again, and he caught his breath as she added, “Can you imagine my feelings as I waited for you tonight?”

  “You made this journey purely on my account?” His voice was husky with emotion that was almost mastering him. “I cannot believe it is really you. Out of all this —” his hand waved in the direction of the shore — “you appear, looking exactly as if we were in the drawing room at Wychbourne.” He was not good with words. She brought the freshness of Wychbourne’s meadows, the quiet of summer twilights and the warmth of England and home so very near, yet he was unable to tell her so. “You do not know how it feels to see you so unexpectedly.”

  Her eyes grew rounder and more luminous. “I wrote to inform you of my arrival.”

  “The letter did not reach me. I have had no news of home for some months.” He drew closer. Her nearness was heady, and his pulse began to pound.

  The hand held in his tried to escape. “Hugo, I think we should return to the saloon. Our absence will have been remarked, and Lady Cullingham, who so kindly invited me to travel with her, will be looking everywhere for us.”

  “Then she will eventually find us,” he said softly. “We are standing in sight of the saloon.”

  “Have you no thought for propriety?” she begged breathlessly.

  “I have no thought for anything but the pleasure of this moment,” he told her impulsively. “Let us hope Lady Cullingham searches the entire ship before she comes on deck.”

  “I beg you to collect yourself.” Her reply was arch. “We have been but ten minutes together, and I am to be here for three weeks. The June evening has plainly made away with your senses.”

  Her very proper concern for being alone in the moonlight with a gentleman, plus the soft surrender in her eyes, incited him further.

  “My senses have indeed flown…but it is not the June evening I hold to blame for the fact.”

  She stepped back from his advance. “Please…the other guests,” she whispered. “We must return to them.” Moving away along the deck, Hugo followed, completely dazzled by the prize she held just beyond his reach.

  The evening was intoxicating in every way. Wine flowed freely throughout a meal such as he had forgotten could be produced. The atmosphere was cultured and civilized. The ladies were all inclined to flirtation, the gentlemen flatteringly complimentary. The officer guests were feted and treated like heroes. With each glass of wine, Charity appeared to Hugo even more desirable, yet more elusive. She talked to him of his home and family, gave him letters from his father and Aunt Sophy, assured him Lady Blythe had suffered no pain before she died. She gave him news of his dogs and horses who were thriving in the country air. She spoke of riding across old familiar haunts and of country matters concerning people he had known since childhood.

  He said nothing to her of pain, mud, fever and hatred. It was all forgotten under the spell she cast around him. When the small boat pulled alongside to take the guests ashore he bade her good night with some ardor and finished by offering to conduct her around the camp at Kadikoi the following day. At eleven-thirty he would ride down to Balaclava with his spare horse for her. He watched until she was a pale, distant figure in the moonlight who had returned him to the happiness of the past.

  The present overtook him the minute he arrived at the cavalry camp. Although half asleep and hazy with wine, he sensed immediately that something was afoot. Tents were open and vacated; the horse lines were empty. Quickly sobering, he spurred his horse to a gallop and thudded through the neat lines of tents until he reached the open plain beyond. There he found the several thousand men in their saddles in battle order, silent and watchful in the moonlight.

  Searching out his regiment, he saw Lieutenant Yates-Fawcett at the head of No. 1 Squadron and rode up to him.

  “What is it, Desmond?” he asked in low voice.

  The subaltern looked relieved. “By George, am I glad to see you! There is a rumor afoot that we are to end it at last. We turned out two hours ago. The assault on Sebastopol is set for tomorrow, but, suddenly, the piquets reported movements of enemy cavalry, and we thought we had a fight on our hands. Skirmishers went out but saw nothing of them. They must have turned away.”

  Hugo felt elated. “Sebastopol to be taken tomorrow? How true is it, do you think?”

  “True enough. Chiltern says the Guards have orders to move down at dawn, as have the Highlanders.”

  “After so long, it is hard to believe it will be finished within the week.”

  The young man made a face. “Sorry, old fellow, but I have to say that you are very likely to be finished very shortly. Colonel Stanford flew into one of his rages when he knew you were not here.”

  “I left word where I could be found.”

  “On a pleasure steamer outside Balaclava harbor? Hugo, the battle could have been over by the time a message reached you.”

  Hugo had the following two hours during which to reflect upon the coming confrontation with Charles and knew it would be fatal to lose his temper this time. In a purely military matter, Charles was his senior officer and must receive respect and obedi
ence. Anything else would amount to insubordination, and his brother would use his rank without hesitation.

  Just before dawn the cavalrymen were told to stand down, except No. 1 squadron of the Hussars. They remained in their saddles while their commander was called to receive orders from their acting colonel, who had returned to his hut. Hugo rode through the camp, his blood fired with wine, trying to fight down his anger at being made to face Charles in his living quarters. His brother was using uncharacteristic misjudgment in trying to break him, for it only increased Hugo’s determination to complete the campaign. When Sebastopol fell tomorrow the war would be virtually won. Just one more day. After so much, he must hold out for one more day!

  With that thought he went into the hut where Charles was sitting at a table. The sleeping quarters were separated only by a blanket nailed to the roof and dangling to within a foot of the floor. Behind that blanket Victoria would be lying wide-eyed, he felt sure.

  “Where were you at midnight?” Charles asked, opening the contest.

  “I left word with the adjutant of my whereabouts.”

  Charles leaned back. “I asked where you were.”

  “Aboard the steamer Norvic anchored outside Balaclava harbor.”

  “You did not apply for permission to put yourself so far beyond reach of orders.”

  “I sent to Colonel Rayne, who saw no reason why I should not go,” he replied, trying not to sound smug.

  He knew he had not succeeded when Charles narrowed his eyes. “The colonel is ill and should not be worried with trivia. It so happened that you were needed. You must be aware of growing tension in the situation here. It is hardly the time to abandon your responsibilities for pleasure.”

  “I did not choose the time. Miss Verewood is visiting the Crimea and sent to tell me she had some letters from my family.”

  Charles flushed dark red. “Do you tell me you deserted camp merely to collect letters? If I did not know you, I would say you were simply irresponsible, but, of course, I might have guessed there was a female tied up in this. It used to be milkmaids until you turned to other men’s wives. Tired of that, I suppose you think to use Miss Verewood for your ends.”

  Hugo wanted one thing straight before he went any further. “Is this a private matter between two men or a regimental interview? If it is the first, I shall leave now; if the second, I have every right to protest at my private life being slandered when I have no chance of redress.”

  Charles hesitated, then said, “In future, you will apply to me whenever you wish to leave camp. Meanwhile, you will take your squadron on reconnaissance patrol until sundown. The storming of Sebastopol will begin at dawn tomorrow, and the commander-in-chief wants accurate information on the position of the enemy outside the fortress. You had better be certain your report is accurate. Men’s lives will depend on your word.”

  It was Hugo’s turn to flush. “If you feel I cannot be relied upon, you had best send another of your commanders.”

  “They have been through a winter up here — a winter you spent in luxury at a Constantinople hotel. I think it is only fair you take your share of the duties for once. If I recall correctly, you were unable to stand on your feet during the storm at sea when so many horses were lost; you surrendered your troop to McKay for several weeks through sickness at Varna and left Yates-Fawcett in command of an entire squadron last night. Hardly an impressive record of devoted service.”

  “Is that all, sir?” asked Hugo with difficulty.

  “Yes. The adjutant will give you details of the area to be covered by the reconnaissance. Just one more thing,” he added when Hugo was at the door. “You will not use troopers to deliver your letters to my wife at the hospital.”

  He swung around. “McPhaden was going that way. He took a letter from Mrs. Markham, that is all.”

  “Really?”

  It was said with such insulting incredulity that Hugo took a step back into the hut. “You know there has never been any justification for your accusations — and I know it now. You cannot hurt someone with nothing on his conscience. Take a grip on yourself, Charles, or it will be you who does not last out this campaign.”

  “Get out!” Charles brought his fist down on the table.

  *

  Victoria wiped her cheeks quickly before Charles pushed aside the blanket and went to sit on his bed.

  “Sebastopol will be ours by tomorrow night,” he mused, more to himself than to her. “The Army can expect to be back in England by Christmas.”

  She made no comment. These days he made no demands on her other than to run the tiny wooden hut to his satisfaction and to entertain guests he chose to invite. For sexual satisfaction he had the French girl, and fellow officers provided the conversation. His complete disinterest in her hospital work kept Victoria silent in his company, but he spoke his thoughts aloud to her as she had to Glencoe, so very long ago.

  She was the recipient of all his sudden outbursts against the inefficiency of the commissariat, the ever-lasting delay of the assault on the besieged town that had held out far longer than anyone had dreamed possible and the bizarre fact that the besiegers were in worse straits than the besieged. He would sit gazing into space for long minutes sunk in gloom, then recite his doubts they would ever storm the fortresses. On occasion he lost his temper in uncharacteristic style with his servant or over foolishness on the part of one of his officers. When he had been to the French lines or after an evening in company with friends who had complimented Victoria, he fell to baiting her. Once, when she had refused to be drawn, he had gripped her arm and said, “Damn you, if you think so highly of him, why do you not leap to his defense and protect him, as you did in Constantinople?” Her continued silence closed the subject.

  Now, lying in her bed, wakeful with the pain of Hugo’s admission of being with Charity until well after midnight, she could think only of the approaching end to the war. The battle tomorrow could take him from her forever, yet, if he lived, what would her future in England be without him?

  All that day the regiments moved up to the front. The roads were full of troops marching with a swing in their steps and a smile on their faces. They knew what lay ahead, but they were there to fight, not sit around looking foolish while the Russians jeered at them from the walls of the town. Every man of them would rather die fighting than rot away month after month in his tent.

  The air of excitement spread throughout the British and French lines, and the big guns intensified their bombardment until there was no pause in the shattering salvos that left a pall of smoke over the area between the Allied trenches and the fortifications before the town.

  For Victoria, nervous and tightly strung after the interview between Charles and Hugo, the pre-battle clamor and activity were almost unbearable. Hugo was out on patrol — always dangerous in these hills where bodies of cavalry could come face to face over a slight rise — and after a sleepless night his reactions would be slowed. The sudden crashes of gunfire made her jump, and Major Prescott soon noticed the state she was in.

  “My dear Mrs. Stanford, why not take a rest from this today?” he suggested. “You look very tired. It will be no help to make yourself ill.”

  She shook her head. “You need me most particularly today. One would think I should be immune to the sound of guns after all this time, but they never seem to cease.”

  They were preparing for new casualties by returning to his tent any man who could leave the hospital without risk to his health. They would need all their beds and space, they were certain.

  June 18 dawned amid the din of a bombardment that shook the very hills. Victoria offered up prayers for those who were taking part in the storming of the defenses and thanked God the Light Cavalry was only providing a cordon around the outskirts in order to keep civilians away from the battle. The horsemen themselves were disgusted at being given such an undignified duty, while the infantry earned the glory of bringing the enemy to its knees.

  One lady not to be found among the
throng who had gathered on surrounding hills with picnic baskets and parasols to keep the sun’s injurious rays from delicate complexions was a petite dark-haired girl in a plain cotton gown. Victoria had seen something so terrible that day in October, nothing would induce her again to watch tiny figures stumble and fall beneath puffs of smoke, as if it were a game with toy soldiers. Her concern was with the reality of pain.

  The first casualties began to come in by midday and spoke of walking through a solid wall of fire that took down entire ranks of men without leaving one alive. They were all shocked and shaken. Redcoats were lying upon the ground before the great earthworks, so thickly that others were walking over them as they lay screaming in agony.

  Soon the hut was full, and orderlies began laying the wounded outside in rows beneath the broiling sun, where flies descended in droves, crawling in the open wounds to torment the men. Hardened to the sight of gaping wounds and unrelieved suffering, Victoria kept on her feet until it began to grow dark, when an uncontrollable shivering overcame her. The dish she was holding dropped to the floor with a clatter, and a nearby orderly reached for her as she felt the sky descending.

  Major Prescott, sweating and exhausted, detailed a young ensign with a mere broken wrist to escort Victoria back to Kadikoi, and she mounted her mare wearily. All along the road they passed a dragging trail of mule carts piled with wounded and shell-torn soldiers making their tortured way back to their lines on foot. Every face was gray and haunted.

  Victoria was as silent as her escort. There were so many! They filled the roads and beyond. They were blackened with smoke and glaze-eyed. They were in tattered uniforms, and many were hatless. They were separate — each man lost in his own world. They were all coming away from Sebastopol.

  The cavalry camp was empty. Victoria absently thanked the ensign and assured him she would be all right before going into the silent hut. She sat motionless in a chair without lighting the lamp and was still there when the Hussars returned, hoofs clattering on the dust-dry ground and voices floating on the still air. Charles entered and walked slowly past her to push aside the blanket screen. She heard the creak as he sat on his bed.