A Distant Hero

  His sister glanced up at her husband. ‘I think we should go to the nursery for a while. It is Christmas Eve and the children must not be neglected completely. The carol singers will also be up from the village soon and there are the gifts to be distributed. Will you help me?’

  ‘Of course.’ John looked across to Vere. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Deputize for me, if you will.’

  ‘I can hardly do that,’ John protested.

  Vere wearily tilted his head against the wing of the chair and closed his eyes. ‘Your wife has done so for the past few years. Do it for her, man!’

  The door clicked shut as they left, and Vere felt a sense of relief. He needed to be alone. Kitty had been his for a mere twelve months, yet he knew life would be empty and meaningless without her. He had expected to die young. It would be too cruel if she were to do so instead. He would have to leave Knightshill once more and wander in search of something this time he would not find. Surely that was not his destiny.

  The lamps burned low. In a state of half-awareness he heard young voices singing carols. Memories of youth stirred momentarily then drifted away. His mind was burdened by numbing fear. It could not hold any thought for long. The coals in the grate shifted noisily bringing him fully to his senses. A glance at the clock showed him it was nearing midnight. He had grown too cold and moved stiffly to add fuel to the dying fire. As he did so he heard faint cries from the bedroom. They continued without a pause, adding to his fear until he could take no more. Dropping the coal tongs with a clatter in the hearth, he headed for the bedroom like a man possessed.

  The sound of wailing chilled his blood as he flung open the door. The scene represented purgatory at first glance. Bloodsoaked sheets, two men with gory arms, the smell of sickness, lamplight yellowing pale faces, the midwife with a bloody apron holding a child’s corpse by the feet and beating it, steam hovering over bowls of reddened water. In the bed Kitty lay still and ashen. Brought to a halt by a sense of horror, Vere was accosted by one of the doctors who handed him a rolled sheet.

  ‘Take this, man. We still have work to do.’

  The sheet was warm and moving. Vere held it in a continuation of the nightmare, until he saw a small red face amidst the folds. The tiny mouth was open to let forth surprisingly strident shrieks. Awareness dawned. It was over and this baby was very much alive. Next moment, the shrieks doubled and another rolled sheet was handed to him, warm and moving. The midwife’s damp, shiny face beamed at him in the yellow glare.

  ‘Two little girls born each side of midnight, Mr Ashleigh. What a wonderful Christmas gift.’

  For a moment Vere’s attention was centred on the double miracle that was the outcome of love expressed in the most intimate way. Then he was distracted by activity around the bed, and fear returned.

  ‘My wife!’ he cried moving forward, his gaze on the still figure lying with a mass of damp red hair spread across the pillow.

  The man with spectacles barred his way, then took his elbow to lead him from the room. ‘We have saved her and both infants. God must have been with us, Mr Ashleigh. Your wife is exhausted. Alderton and the midwife will clean up and make her comfortable. Then you may go and sit with her. She will sleep for a long while, but you should be there when she awakens to tell her the situation.’

  Bemused and still clutching his twin daughters, who had fallen asleep, Vere halted. ‘The situation?’

  Dr Barker removed his spectacles to rub his eyes with his knuckles. ‘It has been a long day. Mrs Ashleigh was hardly aware of the arrival of her infants. She will wish to hear the good news from you. Then you must tell her something else.’

  ‘Something else?’ echoed Vere once more, his brain dulled by anxiety and the lateness of the hour.

  Putting the spectacles back on, the man said heavily, ‘Bearing these twins so damaged your wife she will be unable to have more children. I’m extremely sorry, Mr Ashleigh.’

  A sense of relief invaded Vere. ‘You must not be. I had no intention of risking my wife’s life in this manner a second time. I thank God she is safe. Here are two healthy infants in my arms. I could not ask for more.’

  Dark eyes regarded him shrewdly. ‘A son, perhaps?’

  As Vere studied the red puckered faces of his daughters he saw a vision of a beautiful, blue-eyed half-Egyptian lad, who, but for the lack of a marriage certificate, was heir to Knightshill as Vorne’s child. Then he thought of his own artistic personality, and of a boy determined to join the cavalry instead of the West Wiltshire Regiment. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘A man can think so little of a son he can abandon him in a foreign country and never return, or he can be so disappointed in one who does not live up to expectations, he drives the boy away. These girls will grow to be as lovely, talented and courageous as their mother. They will be surrounded by love, valued as the people they choose to be, and never be made to feel they have failed.’

  *

  Although news of the birth was immediately relayed by Stoner to Clunes, as promised, no message of congratulation arrived that night or on the following morning. In fact, two weeks passed without any word from Sir Gilliard. Vere was too concerned with Kitty’s slow recovery and delight in his two daughters to care about this snub from his grandfather. He spent almost all his time with his wife, leaving John to run the estate and Charlotte to deal with callers and the many gifts which arrived from all parts of the country. His sister and her husband were sympathetic over the circumstance that made Val indisputable heir to Knightshill on Vere’s death. Kitty was initially distressed by the news that she could never give her husband the son he should have, but Vere quickly dispelled her mood by convincing her that he asked no more of her than her continuing love and their twin daughters.

  Once able to leave her bed, Kitty determined on confronting Sir Gilliard and resolving the ridiculous situation that had arisen. ‘We cannot leave things as they are,’ she reasoned, despite Vere’s stubborn inclination to let the old man sulk, if he wished. ‘Holly and Victoria are his great-granddaughters. He must recognize them. I’ll not allow him to do otherwise.’

  Vere stood beside the two cradles looking at the tiny babes with Kitty. ‘How do you propose to get your way?’

  She glanced across at him and he was struck by the new fragility of her face and body. Yet her inner strength remained. ‘I shall request him to wait on me so that I may tell him something of immense importance to the perpetuation of the Ashleigh line. He will be unable to resist such a message, Vere.’

  He took her in his arms with great gentleness. ‘You will deal him a bad blow.’

  ‘No worse a blow than he has dealt you in his time,’ she replied firmly. ‘We all of us have some dreams cruelly broken and have to recover from bitter disappointment. He must do the same. There is Val to pin his hopes on. Somehow, we must change his unreasonable attitude towards a young man bursting to become an impossible hero, who is being treated with unjustifiable scorn.’

  ‘Let me go to him,’ he urged. ‘You’re still weak, in no condition to withstand his relentless tongue.’

  ‘No, Vere, it is because of me that you’re denied a son. I want him to be quite clear on that point.’

  ‘I am responsible for causing you to be damaged by the birth of our girls,’ he insisted. ‘I would prefer you not to do this.’

  ‘I know you would, but my mind is made up. Will you send Stoner with the note, or must I tell Louise to deliver it?’

  Knowing her well enough by now, Vere scribbled the request for his valet to deliver then waited, half expecting a written refusal. However, at four o’clock Sir Gilliard arrived dressed in his tweeds. Vere walked across to greet him with a smile, as if the two-week silence had never occurred.

  ‘It’s good of you to come, sir. Will you have tea, or a glass of something more warming?’

  ‘I shall enjoy that at dinner-time, and Clunes is preparing my tea, as usual.’ Sir Gilliard bowed stiffly in Kitty’s direction.
‘You have something important to convey to me, I understand, ma’am.’

  ‘I have,’ she agreed in tones that were pleasant, despite the lack of a smile. ‘I should first of all like you to go with me to the nursery to see your great-grandchildren, Holly and Victoria Ashleigh.’

  Kitty rose from her sewing-chair and began walking towards him, but he soon halted her. ‘I shall go with you when there is a boy child, not before.’

  Kitty stopped before him, a very slender woman in an afternoon gown of bronze silk, whose appearance belied the strength of her character. ‘Then you will be obliged to wait until young Val marries and fathers one, for the doctors have informed me that my child-bearing days are at an end. I cannot provide my husband with an heir. That is the information I wished to tell you, sir.’

  Disbelief was chased from that proud face by an expression of deep contempt as Sir Gilliard turned to Vere. ‘You have consistently failed to live up to my expectations, and have failed yet again. The blame for this lies with you. Your wife produced a boy sired by another man of evident greater physical and moral fibre, yet all you can beget are creatures as weak and sensitive as yourself. If you imagine I am about to retire from life and hand you Knightshill to treat with the disregard I have seen you use towards all I value, you are mistaken. I shall remain as master here until I have found a worthy heir to succeed me when you abandon this and go off again with your confounded paint brushes.’

  He almost spat the last two words, and had turned to go when Kitty intervened with plain words. ‘Those paint brushes have made the name Vere Ashleigh highly respected in both military and art circles. Your expectations must be unique, sir, for my husband has exceeded those of everyone else who has been fortunate enough to know him. The time has come to put an end to your unforgivable persecution of an heir many men would be proud to own.’ She stepped round to confront him head on. ‘Not so you. He ran away to almost certain death because your condemnation, added to that of a very shallow young woman, persuaded him he was worthless. Fate took a kinder view.’

  As Sir Gilliard made to pass her, Kitty stepped into his path. ‘I have not finished. Have you sufficient courage and good manners to hear me out?’

  Vere went to her to signify that she was wasting her efforts on someone so steeped in his inflexible attitudes, but his grandfather stood his ground unable to force a way past a woman set on detaining him.

  ‘Vere fought bravely at Atbara and Omdurman, earning the respect of his fellows. He also exceeded average Ashleigh distinction by additionally recording the campaign with brushes and colour so that the rest of the world would appreciate the suffering and endeavour of those who had taken part. In South Africa he exhibited great courage in helping to bring in, under heavy fire, a wagon laden with ammunition. This, mark you, when he was no longer in uniform and under orders. Are your expectations of any man you know greater than that?’ Well into her stride, Kitty continued with passion in her voice. ‘I vainly hoped you would give your congratulations on the birth of twin children; the first occasion in the history of the Ashleigh family, I believe. But you see nothing commendable in the fact. If they had been twin boys the news would have been shouted from the rooftops. If two girls had been fathered by Vorne Ashleigh, possessor of every virtue, he would have been lauded for such a feat, but the proud father is someone who has consistently failed, according to you. He’s once more vilified; his accomplishments ridiculed.

  ‘As for my husband treating with disregard all you value, I must point out that he is the first heir to this great estate who has not abandoned it for a life in the army. He has already done more for Knightshill than you have in ninety years. The manner in which you have valued it, sir, is to spend forty or more years away from it and the rest sunk in your military manuals and memories while John Morgan did the job for you.’

  Vere put his hands on her shoulders to persuade her to stop, but she caught at one of them and held it lovingly while she added what she could not hold back.

  ‘That none of your grandchildren has said this to you is not due to lack of courage, but because they owe you some gratitude and have a kind of respectful affection for you, although how any of them can still feel the latter I cannot imagine. You have forbidden Margaret her home because she copied your wife in running away to find happiness rather than face a lonely, loveless life. You banished Val and robbed him of a name he’s immensely proud of merely because he longed to be an officer in another regiment quite as distinguished as the one you served. Charlotte has been treated as no more than a housekeeper and you now refuse to acknowledge her husband. Vere has been shamefully insulted whatever he has done. He cannot please you whether he is on a battlefield, receiving public acclaim for his artistic gift, or wholeheartedly tending the acres you claim to value so highly. Would you approve of your family if they all wore the uniform of the West Wilts and saluted you each time they passed? I doubt it. You are a man without a drop of warmth in your blood. The only reason Vorne Ashleigh is revered by you is because you can make of him what you wish; endow him with impossible virtues no living heir could sustain.’

  Kitty’s voice began to break and Vere would not allow the interview to go on any longer. Ignoring his grandfather, he coaxed Kitty across to their dressing-room leading to the bedroom where she could recover in private. Even so, she looked over her shoulder to add final impassioned words.

  ‘I pity you. You have barricaded yourself inside your stronghold and rejected four people who could have given you the love you have denied yourself for over half a century. Make amends before it’s too late.’

  Vere kicked the bedroom door shut then took Kitty to the bed and settled her on it with care. She sank back upon the pillow to gaze at him intently as he covered her with the counterpane.

  ‘Why the tears?’ she asked softly.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand, deeply moved. ‘I love you beyond life. Nothing else matters to me. Nothing else in the world. Please believe that.’

  ‘I do, my dearest. I am now looking through your rosy glass and everything I see is warmed by your love.’

  13

  VAL HAD BEEN in South Africa long enough to appreciate the freshness of a glorious blue and gold mid-winter day. The sky was clear and vivid, the land burnt ochre by sunshine which had now lost its blazing ferocity. As he rode his grey stallion, Nimbus, bought with the generous allowance Vere gave him, Val was filled with the usual longings. Youth bubbled within his strong, healthy body, but it was beset by frustrations of various kinds.

  July 1901. Queen Victoria was dead and the war not yet won. The sieges of Ladysmith, Kimberley and Mafeking had been lifted last year, Pretoria had fallen into British hands banishing Paul Kruger’s Boer government, and General Roberts had returned to England as the heroic victor of an unpopular clash of arms. Although called upon to accept defeat, thousands of Boers determinedly continued the fight. The character of the war had changed significantly. Battles between hundreds of thousands on open plains were horrors of the past. New tactics comprised sudden swoops on British camps by small parties of the enemy who seized guns, horses and cattle before riding off with their plunder to be swallowed up by the vastness of the land. Although casualties no longer numbered thousands, many men died or were wounded in raids which were invariably successful due to total surprise.

  Smaller outposts were often completely overrun, the Boers then taking everything they wanted almost without opposition. Prisoners were an unwanted encumbrance for roaming commandos, so any British troops not killed in the initial attack were stripped and chased on to the veld to fend for themselves. Thick khaki uniforms were welcome replacements for clothes wearing thin, but the more fanatical burghers soon saw the greatest advantage of this booty. Wearing the stolen tunics and breeches complete with badges and insignia of rank, they could approach outposts or patrols quite openly in daylight then fire at almost point-blank range. This practice was considered by the British, and many Boers, to be against the rules
of warfare and attitudes hardened further.

  In a bid to bring to an end this demoralizing harassment by the Boers, Kitchener had ordered blockhouses to be built across the veld with barbed wire stretched between them to snare an enemy which mostly travelled at night. Each blockhouse was manned by six or seven men whose duty it was to fire on those attempting to break through the wire. The tactic was no more than moderately successful, since the distance between blockhouses was too great for the few guardians to control. All too often they, instead, became the victims.

  An additional measure taken to hamper the roaming Boers was to deprive them of food and shelter by burning the farms of sympathizers and confiscating livestock. This practice was abhorred by some British troops; others relished it. It led to a further debatable move. The women and children made homeless were taken to hastily prepared camps which served a dual purpose. Besides preventing the women from further assisting their menfolk, the wire-enclosed camps were intended to protect them from falling victim to vengeful black servants and ensuring that they did not starve. Unfortunately, the makeshift camps housed many more than anticipated and scarcity of sanitary arrangements bred disease on a large scale. The deaths of a great many from epidemics inflamed the Boers, who felt any means of retaliation was acceptable. Chivalry became a virtue of the past in this war the Boers could never win, but which the British seemed incapable of rapidly concluding.

  Val’s sense of impotency was as great as that of his fellows. It was humiliating for crack troops to be unable to pin down the elusive enemy and claim victory. His pride in his regiment was deeply bruised by its many failures on endless patrols. This was not as they knew it, it was deadly hide and seek in a country which favoured the men who roamed and understood it.

  In addition to the professional frustration, Val suffered personal disappointment. Although he had sent Charlotte a photograph of himself in the impressive uniform of an officer of the 57th, and had reasonably modestly, he hoped, mentioned the award for his part in the encounter on the farm, his sister’s reply had mentioned only that the arrival of the picture had released Kate from her months of silence. Val was naturally pleased at that news, but remained hollow hearted over the absence of signs that Sir Gilliard had been told of his commission granted on the strength of his bold action against the enemy. Vere made no direct mention of their grandfather showing interest in the career of Martin Havelock, but frequently referred to Sir Gilliard’s continuing inflexible attitudes and his grudging acceptance of Kitty’s condition which made Val the next in line to inherit Knightshill.