To an ardent young man yearning for the chance to win honours so close to Vorne’s that no one could fail to acknowledge them, letters filled with domestic trivia were of no interest. He had last seen Knightshill over three years ago and life since then had been vastly different from that of the schoolboy dreaming of a golden future, who had been seduced by an experienced woman’s promise of obtaining it. News of marriages and babies — Charlotte was expecting one in October, and Margaret in November — spoke of a life so far removed from his that Val found it all unreal. His sister could be excused for being excited about a baby, but Vere had known war, had been here and lived with the army. How could he dismiss it all and fill page after page with details of cattle sales and crops?
Val paid little heed to the fact of being the next heir. Vere was apparently in good health now and was not yet thirty. In any event, how could a man named Martin Havelock inherit the Ashleigh estate? The question of succession mattered little against the quest to gain Sir Gilliard’s recognition of his worth.
As Val rode in the hills on that exhilarating day, his thoughts eventually reached the minor pricks suffered daily in his life as an officer. Although one or two of the more hidebound members of the Mess openly showed their disapproval of those commissioned from the rank and file, Val had been welcomed by the rest with varying amounts of warmth according to how they viewed Colonel Beecham’s championship of a former trooper who had shown himself to be of officer class from the start.
Although he was now where he should always have been, Val found life among equals more difficult than with the more rough and ready rankers. He had constantly to hold himself in check for fear of betraying his true identity, and the stress of maintaining the lie he had lived for almost three years was beginning to tell. For that reason he had made no real friend in his new environment. He missed Toby and the fellowship of other sergeants, who had accepted him at face value. On the few occasions that he sought Toby’s company, he found their relationship irrevocably changed. It was not possible to meet openly due to protocol of rank. Toby seemed to watch his tongue to the point of becoming almost a stranger, and Val’s obligation of loyalty to his fellow officers forbade him to speak as freely as he had done in the past. After one conversation during which Val had impulsively reiterated his vow to break Audley Pickering, only to be countered by Toby’s snapped reply that, having got what he had always wanted, he should grow up and drop this ridiculous vendetta, they both knew the friendship had run its course. Whenever Toby saluted as he passed, Val knew a pang of regret for days now gone.
Gaining what he had coveted for so long had its penalties. Always on guard against revealing facts about his background, Val remained aloof from men in whose company he should have felt supremely at ease. Pickering constantly goaded him, sensing that he could not, or would not, defend himself. When Felix Wheeler or some of the more amenable subalterns spoke up for him, Val was further piqued because Pickering sneered at a man who needed others to protect him from a little harmless baiting.
In addition to his arch enemy, there was the problem of someone who was anything but. Vivienne Beecham was embarrassingly open in her determination to show her affection. With no further barriers to their close friendship Val was hard put to repudiate her frank hints that he was hers for the taking. Mrs Beecham smiled fondly on her headstrong daughter and the newly commissioned young man of evident distinction. Val was certain neither the girl nor her mother were aware of who he was — his colonel had sworn never to reveal the truth — but was alarmed at approbation of an obvious link between a girl of just twenty and a subaltern of merely twenty-two. He did not understand Mrs Beecham’s leniency, which made it difficult for him to fend off her daughter’s advances. It never occurred to him that where she saw a normal healthy friendship between two very young, rather lonely people, he saw Vivienne as a younger version of her cousin, Julia, set on seducing and humiliating him. That experience had burned deeply into his pride and would not easily be cast aside.
In truth, Val was lonelier than he had ever been. At school, as a trooper, and as a sergeant he had never been short of friendly companions. His personality was such that he was at ease in all masculine company; his enthusiasm for active pursuits and those things dear to men made him popular with his fellows. Not so now. He no longer even enjoyed the respect and fond loyalty of the troopers amongst whom he had started his career. Protocol demanded that he must command those who could not take advantage of his former lowly rank, so Second-Lieutenant Havelock was now with S Troop of Lockheart Squadron. Felix Wheeler had finally lost the thorn in his side, and Val no longer had the courageous giant, Deadman, to call upon in a tight spot.
John Fielding, the man who had once seen Val at Knightshill but failed to put a name to a face when they met up again as trooper and captain, no longer commanded the squadron. He had been killed en route to Kimberley, as had many others. The regiment had a number of replacements so new faces abounded. S Troop were a mixed body of hardened old soldiers and green youngsters from home. Val was happy enough with them, and they with him. Captain Marley was another matter. On transfer from another lancer regiment, and fresh out of England, Thorn Marley was experienced in Indian campaigns against tribesmen. He likened the guerrilla tactics of the Boers to those he had faced in the vast, savage areas of that other jewel of the Empire. As a soldier he was assured, ruthless and respected. In the man assurance became arrogance, his ruthlessness remained, and respect for him was clouded by personal dislike of his overbearing manner towards anyone weaker or less fortunate than himself. He did not relish having among his subalterns one promoted from the ranks, whom everyone in the Mess agreed had almost certainly committed a crime against society for which his family had disowned him. A family of minor landowners, or tradesmen, most probably, or he would never have stayed the course as a trooper. Anyone of true breeding could not have endured such conditions, much less earned the loyal friendship of his fellows, Marley concluded.
Although he could not find fault with Val professionally, the troop captain would barely acknowledge him socially. It was something of a relief for Val. The man was an inveterate name-dropper who apparently was intimate with several families known to the Ashleighs. He had once boasted of meeting Sir Gilliard and the heroic Vorne, adding that the latter’s death on the sands outside Khartoum had smitten him deeply. On that occasion Val had longed to challenge him, but was silenced by the eye of Max Beecham. In a strange way, his colonel appeared his sole ally now Val had gained that for which he had sacrificed honour and family name during his ill-judged passion for Julia Grieves.
The sun was lowering in the sky when Val reluctantly turned Nimbus to retrace his path. Little fear of marksmen in these low hills. The regiment was resting from weeks of exhausting pursuit of phantom commandos; phantom because they could vanish before one’s tired eyes as if they had never existed. Six weeks in the large tented camp outside Pretoria brought the chance to relax from constant stand by, and to indulge in pleasant social pastimes. For Val there were enjoyable polo and cricket matches during which he could become his true self for a while. He could also ride out alone with Val Ashleigh to escape the strain of being Martin Havelock to everyone around him. Where some took out guns to bag animal trophies, he preferred to leave the creatures in peace. There was enough taking of life among the people roaming this land.
Most men welcomed the opportunity to enjoy female company denied them at outlying camps. Balls and dinner parties were arranged for the officers and their ladies, while the troops pursued servants and shopgirls. Val hoped to avoid all but compulsory events of a social nature. He soon discovered, however, that an officer was duty bound to uphold his regiment’s honour in salons and ballrooms as well as on the battlefield. Such evenings were purgatory to someone around whom young women swarmed, shameless in their determination to dance and flirt with him. Perversely, the cooler and more discouraging he grew, the more ardent they became. He thought longingly of his days in the ran
ks when he was only expected to serve the 57th in a martial capacity. If only he were still a sergeant spending happy, companionable evenings with Toby and a few tankards of ale. That brown brew was also denied him in the Mess, yet he could not find the same quenching satisfaction in fine wines or champagne. The latter gave him curious nausea; the former made him drunk faster than ale ever did. By choice he would forego alcohol, but it would be regarded as a sign of weakness by men whose unofficial motto was: Ride hard, eat hearty and chase any petticoat that is not on another man’s wife.
Wending his way over the uneven brown grass towards a clump of rocks marking the start of the track leading down to the great spread of white tents now visible, Val prayed the remaining two weeks would fly past. The dangers of being picked off on patrol, or being overrun and killed by Boers in British uniforms, was infinitely preferable to the grimness of social availability in Pretoria … and he still had to seize the chance to perform a deed of heroism ‘above and beyond the call of duty’. He would not do that by warding off females set on making a fool of him, and themselves. Another year had passed. Sir Gilliard was almost ninety-one. Time was fast running out. If the old man died, or if the war suddenly ended … Val could not pursue those painful suppositions.
Rounding the clump of rocks, brief alarm ran through him at the sight of a horse and a solitary seated figure. Instinct made him reach for the revolver he was not wearing, before reality calmed him. This was no enemy but a young woman in a toffee-coloured habit with a wide-brimmed hat lying beside her. She was more shaken than he, for she jumped to her feet and shrank back against the rock, white faced. Val was nonplussed by her evident terror, and by the sight of a cut surrounded by a dark bruise on her cheek. Instinct urged him to ride on, yet inborn chivalry kept him there.
‘I’m sorry to have startled you,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
She could not recover as swiftly as he and remained gazing up at him with frightened blue eyes as if expecting him to attack her. Val dismounted with inner dismay. He could not leave her without assistance, although the last thing he wanted was to become involved in something which promised to be awkward.
‘Did you have a fall?’ he asked, studying the livid mark on her cheek.
It was a moment or two before the stammered reply came. ‘Ye … Yes. A … a fall.’
‘Are you all right?’ He did not know what else to say.
‘Oh, yes … yes, thank you.’
‘You should visit a doctor as soon as possible you know,’ he told her, seeing how he could pass on the responsibility. ‘Do you live in Pretoria?’
She shook her head, then appeared to relax as she drew away from the rock to step towards him. ‘You are Mr Havelock, aren’t you?’
He frowned as he tried to recall where they had met. It seemed discourteous to reveal that he did not remember her at all.
She spoke again in the same hesitant, shy manner. ‘It’s clear you don’t recognize me, but why should you when I look so … so … unkempt,’ she finished, then burst into tears and collapsed against him as if unable to stand without help any longer.
Well and truly trapped, Val cursed fate for sending this girl to the hills just as he was returning. The more he attempted to disengage himself the more fiercely she clung to him. Soon, even to his inexperienced mind, it became obvious that she was in a state of severe shock, so he held her with a supporting arm while stroking her hair, murmuring, ‘There, there,’ as he used to do when comforting Kate after a tumble. When she grew calmer and tilted her face up to his he realized this was not in the least like comforting a five-year-old niece. Tear-drenched lashes framed deep-blue desperate eyes that appealed for help, and the body pressed against his was enticingly soft and curved. As his hands savoured the submissive quality of female pliancy, he was momentarily shaken by an urge he had hitherto ruthlessly subdued with physical activity. For several seconds he fought the instinct to press his mouth hard against her full, parted lips. Thankfully, restraint prevailed.
Thrown by the unexpected sexual challenge, he said, almost roughly, ‘You’ve had a shock. I’ll go for a doctor.’
‘No! Please, don’t leave me,’ she begged, fresh tears flowing.
Val’s heart sank. ‘You’re in no state to ride back, and you need medical help.’
‘I don’t want to be left alone,’ she insisted with a return to panic. ‘If you go back for a doctor, he’ll come with him.’
‘Who?’
The name came out on a rush of fear. ‘Thorn.’
A succession of thoughts led to identification of whom he held in his arms. Val released her smartly and stepped back. His troop captain had brought from England a very young bride so pretty everyone likened her to a doll. The round, long-lashed eyes contained terror unknown to a toy. That rosebud mouth had a sensual quality which had tempted him a moment ago; the delicately tinted cheeks were presently ashen and marred by an injury.
‘Why are you riding alone, Mrs Marley? Does your husband know where you are?’
Shaking her head, she turned away to seek support from her brown mare by clutching the saddle. ‘I wish he would send me back to England as he constantly threatens to do.’
As Val gazed at the slender figure outlined against a sky turned pale greenish-yellow by the fading sun, he had no idea how to deal with the situation. An anonymous resident of Pretoria was one thing; the wife of his troop captain quite another. Into his silence, she continued in a faraway voice as if by not meeting his eyes he became a father confessor.
‘The life of a soldier’s wife is not easy. She is left alone for weeks while he goes to war which may leave her a widow. So she finds friends to cheer her spirits until he returns. He then demands that she gives them up to be at his beck and call at all times. War makes a gentleman forget how to be kind. He gives orders and expects to be obeyed. If he is not, he punishes.’
Val thought briefly of Sir Gilliard, but she turned to face him before he could respond. ‘I am afraid to go back, Mr Havelock. He told me to stay in our tent, but I could not. I could not,’ she repeated brokenly. ‘I thought I was running away, but when I reached this place and saw the miles stretching in the distance I saw how foolish I had been. He will be more angry than before.’ Her hands twisted within each other as she pleaded with him. ‘What can I do?’
Unusual perception left Val appalled at the inference of her words. ‘He did that to you?’
‘He … he ordered me to stay out of sight while he put it around that I was indisposed. He will never forgive me for disobeying.’ She crossed to grip his arm. ‘Please say nothing of meeting me here.’
‘But you must have that cut treated,’ Val insisted, filled with an unfamiliar brand of anger. ‘I’ll escort you back to camp.’
‘No!’
‘You can’t stay here all night. A full search would be mounted. That would anger Captain Marley in the extreme.’ He glanced down at the spread of tents glowing in the fast approaching dusk. ‘It will soon be dark and the alarm will be raised. You must come with me.’ Sudden gentleness overtook him and he took her icy hands in his. ‘I assumed that you had come a cropper while riding, so that is the tale we’ll tell. It will be universally accepted without question. I shall say I came upon you soon after the fall.’
‘But there will be talk concerning why I was riding in the hills alone,’ she said with continuing apprehension.
‘Oh Lord, so there will!’ He thought for a moment, conscious of night descending fast. ‘You had arranged to ride with a friend who cried off at the last minute. I was passing the horse lines and offered to escort you. That’s perfectly acceptable.’
‘But how did I fall?’
Inspiration arrived speedily. ‘Your mare was startled by a snake while following a narrow path in single file.’ A thought occurred. ‘At what time did you leave camp?’
‘When Thorn went on duty at two o’clock.’
‘Whereas I set out much earlier.’ He frowned. ‘
I can claim to have visited Pretoria first. That should suffice.’ Growing confident, he said they must move before it became too dark to see the paths. ‘I’ll help you to mount, ma’am.’
‘How kind you are, and how splendid to contrive a means of rescuing me from my predicament. How can I ever thank you?’
Warning signals began to ring as Val saw in her expression the kind of admiration displayed by many young women who gushed and giggled in his company. Cursing fate for this encounter, he remained silent until they were both in the saddle and ready to leave.
‘Let’s pray we get there before half the regiment is turned out to search for you,’ he muttered in a manner designed to discourage further compliments.
The plan was carried through without a hitch. Cecily Marley was returned to her tent and the ministrations of her maid before her absence had been noticed, and Val related his lie to the Medical Officer who promised to go straight to the patient. Always careful to see that his horse was properly tended, Val spent a while in the lines before making for his tent to prepare for dinner. Pleasantly tired after his long ride, he decided not to dally for long in the Mess and turn in early. After a wash in his canvas tub, Val dressed in the tight two-tone grey mess dress while his batman emptied the bath water then tidied away towels and Val’s riding clothes discarded in careless style, as always.
A Distant Hero Page 34