Outside his tent Val stopped for a while gazing upward. On cold winter nights the stars were particularly brilliant. The sight of them somehow accentuated his lonely restlessness tonight. Around him were the sounds that stirred his blood: deep-throated laughter of men relaxing, the snorts and occasional neigh of horses, and a bugle’s clear notes ordering a familiar routine. Beneath those glittering stars were sights in which he revelled: rows of pointed tents turned yellow by lamplight, the glow of camp fires illuminating the faces of men telling tall yarns after a day of hard physical labour, distant piquets being posted, horses being led to the farrier, their coats gleaming in light thrown by leaping flames, smart officers strolling in leisurely fashion from tents to their canvas Mess for a meal served on delicate china with wine sparkling in expensive crystal glasses. All this was what he had craved from the age of comprehension, yet the ache inside his breast was almost unbearable.
Cecily Marley’s words came back to him. War makes a gentleman forget how to be kind. He gives orders and expects to be obeyed. If he is not, he punishes. Sir Gilliard had given orders to serve the West Wilts or no regiment. He had issued a plain ultimatum. Val had disobeyed. His punishment was to have all he desired in exchange for the loss of his identity. Val Ashleigh would not be standing here reluctant to join his fellows; he would not look with envy at men sitting together on the grass around a fire in close companionship. He would not wish to turn back the clock.
Sudden enlightenment touched him as his gaze returned to the stars so far out of reach. As Thorn Marley would never change, would not repent his treatment of someone who had dared to cross him, so Sir Gilliard would never forgive a grandson who had defied him and disgraced the name he so valued. Not even the bravest of deeds would compensate for disobeying an order; a chestful of medals would mean nothing on the jacket of Martin Havelock. Trooper or subaltern, he would make no impression on someone whose punishment was worse than a blow on the cheek, and lasted forever.
Val’s heart began to lighten, and he was grateful to that young woman who had shown him the truth. The burden of constant pursuit of courage fell away. The drive to prove his worth no longer applied. Let Val Ashleigh melt into the background so that Martin Havelock could be the man he had now become, and feel free.
In this liberated mood Val entered the Mess to find ladies gracing this masculine stronghold. He then recalled that influential guests were being entertained to dinner tonight. No chance of retiring early, but it meant he could remain on the periphery while all attention was centred on the guests. As the most junior officer he would have to give the loyal toast, but not be called upon to impress anyone. He had forgotten the constant hazard, however. When Colonel and Mrs Beecham entered with their distinguished companions, his heart missed several beats. The grey-haired brigadier standing a foot taller than those around him had been a frequent visitor to Knightshill. Sir Rigby Scott knew the Ashleighs well.
During dinner Val felt conspicuous alone at the far end of the table, although the only pair of eyes to watch him almost constantly were those of Vivienne Beecham looking falsely demure in pale-primrose heavy satin. Even at a distance he detected undisguised accusation in them and knew he was in for a confrontation when the meal ended. Light-heartedness vanished as swiftly as it had come out there beneath the stars, and yet again he wished females to the devil. Why could she not emulate his sisters: marry and concentrate on babies? He gloomily suspected that she had that plan lined up for him.
The loyal toast was correctly proposed, and drunk with pride. It was then Val feared the game was up, for he saw Sir Rigby lean towards Max Beecham to nod towards his end of the table and embark on confidential conversation. Curiously, now that the moment he had dreaded was upon him, Val felt calm. Having realized he could never redeem himself in Sir Gilliard’s eyes, what was about to happen would not matter so much. He owed these people around him no bond of devotion or gratitude. He had served them well as Martin Havelock and had truly earned the rank he presently held. He had given as much as Val Ashleigh would have given; there was nothing to be ashamed of. Could a man be dubbed a villain because of his name alone?
As ladies were present the drinking of port was put aside, and everyone gathered in the second tent for polite conversation. All too soon Val saw his colonel bringing the main guest across, and something in Max Beecham’s eye told him why. He braced himself.
‘Sir, may I present Mr Havelock, whom I was delighted to commission in the field after a gallant action in which he took over command from his mortally-wounded officer and routed the Boers.’
Sir Rigby nodded, unsmiling. Not a man of much humour, Val recalled. ‘Good thing to give a fellow a commission he has already earned,’ he commented in surprisingly meek tones. ‘Too many wearing the rank they fail to live up to. Been the trouble out here. Should have been over within a few weeks. Come out to see what can be done about this ridiculous state of affairs. Can’t let it go on. Becoming a laughing stock around the world. What do you think about it, Mr Havelock?’
The question was shot at him like a sniper’s bullet and Val answered without thinking. ‘Chasing the enemy is a waste of time. They have every advantage over us, sir, and disappear into secret hideaways in the hills. They are determined to continue fighting, so I think we should sit tight and let them come to us. Instead of scattering our men in many small units easily overrun, we should concentrate in several very large forces. To attack us they would need greater numbers than they have available. I’ve been told many members of commandos are weary of war. They long to return to their farms, and only continue their attacks because there is little risk attached. If they were confronted with half an army once more, they would have no stomach for it.’
‘Tried that. We would lose thousands, sir.’
‘Not if we reversed our tactics and installed ourselves in the hills, as they always do. They would then be exposed on the plains.’
‘They’re too canny for that,’ said Sir Rigby flatly. Conscious of Max Beecham watching him closely, Val pursued the subject, waiting for the moment of betrayal certain to come. He had nothing to lose by arguing with this surly commander. ‘Exactly, sir. They would not relish approaching across an open plain, but if we stayed in the hills inviting attack they would have to do that or kick their heels indefinitely. After a time they’d give up the game and go home.’
The grey-haired man almost barked the next comment. ‘You mean we’d refuse to fight them?’
‘No, sir. We would be using a tactic they proved to be highly successful. We had no choice but to expose ourselves on the plains because we had to raise three sieges, but they would have a choice. Attack us in the hills and be decimated, or call it a day and end hostilities.’ Well into his stride by now, Val added warmly, ‘My grandfather is a firm believer in holding an advantageous position while the enemy exhausts itself in costly attacks.’
Sir Rigby’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your grandfather? A military man, is he?’
As Val stood speechless, realizing the gaffe he had made, Max Beecham intervened smoothly. ‘A student of Napoleon, by all accounts, sir. Isn’t that so, Mr Havelock?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Val murmured through stiff lips.
‘I see. Well, warfare has advanced since then, Beecham. What do you think of this fellow’s theory?’
Colonel Beecham shrugged. ‘As a theory it would work, but the practical aspects make it impossible. The Boers have ponies well able to move swiftly in the hills, and they live off dried meat each man carries with him. Our animals are not bred for this brand of fighting, and our troops require decent meals from mobile cookhouses. Hard rations for a short period would be acceptable but if, as Mr Havelock suggests, we sat in the hills until the enemy tired of the game, we would very soon have insurmountable problems trying to feed and supply troops scattered over difficult terrain.’
A ghost of a smile touched Sir Rigby’s long face. ‘Quite so. However, I like a man who can respond to an unexpected question with an inte
lligent reply. Shows he can think. Some can’t. That’s been obvious throughout this deplorable business.’ He began to move away, the interview over, saying to Max Beecham, ‘Amazing resemblance to the Ashleigh boys. Same assured manner, same way of speaking. Spitting image of the hero of the family. Killed by savages outside Khartoum, you’ll recall. Another has made his name as a war artist. You must have seen his work in The Illustrated Magazine. The youngest must by now be up at Oxford, I suppose. They’re not cavalrymen, but I had quite a start when young Havelock proposed the toast. It was like looking at a reincarnation of Vorne Ashleigh.’
As Val began to breathe with relief he found himself looking at a girl with excitement written all over her narrow freckled face. From frying pan to fire!
‘Are you a reincarnation, Havelock?’ she demanded softly. ‘A reincarnation of a hero?’
‘Shouldn’t you be looking after your father’s guests?’ he asked pointedly.
Her sly smile appeared. ‘Am I getting close to solving the mystery? I always know you are on dangerous ground when you start being rude to me.’
He longed to be far ruder than protocol allowed, but instead tried to make her feel foolish. ‘All this nonsense about a mystery. I suspect you read too many romantic novels and live in a world of imagination.’
She shook her head. ‘You do that, dearest Havelock, when you repeat that ridiculous fiction concerning your past as a stable-lad.’
The regimental orchestra at the far end of the tent began to play for the entertainment of the guests, so Val took refuge in the sudden burst of sound to avoid further comment. Vivienne never gave up when pursuing a subject, and moved uncomfortably close to him to continue it.
‘The spitting image of Vorne Ashleigh, eh? The other made his name as a war artist out here, did he? Rather like the man who visited you at the convalescent home in Kimberley. The one who seemed much more friendly towards you than an interviewing newsman. You rushed me away from him to give me tea. Remember?’
Val grew angry. She always riled him when she began piecing together those inconsistencies her sharp eyes never failed to miss, and making of them something which put him in a vulnerable position. Still shaken over the meeting with a family acquaintance which had only turned out well thanks to this girl’s father, and the supposedly unbreakable link between a family and an infantry regiment, Val knew the ground beneath Martin Havelock’s feet was growing shaky.
‘I can’t imagine why I ever wanted to give you tea, Miss Beecham. We’ve never yet held a conversation without you being spitefully inquisitive.’
‘And you being arrogant and secretive,’ she retorted.
‘There’s nothing secretive about not caring to discuss one’s private life with someone whom it in no way concerns.’
To his chagrin she laughed. ‘Every time you say something like that you make nonsense of that stable-boy story. Everyone knows it’s a pack of lies, and Father has made it more than clear he accepts your right to your rank.’
‘He also accepts my right to privacy,’ Val countered, casting around for an eye to catch as an excuse to leave her. All present were deep in conversation. The volume of voices was competing with the orchestra and it was growing hot within that tent illuminated by a number of lamps.
‘So do I, silly,’ Vivienne said with warmth. ‘You should know me well enough to trust me with your secret.’
‘Stop being melodramatic!’
‘Are you connected to the Ashleighs Sir Rigby mentioned? A cousin, perhaps,’ she probed, to his consternation. ‘That would explain why you look so much like the family hero. And why you have those same qualities. The visitor at Kimberley, was he the artist Vere Ashleigh?’ Her look of excitement deepened. ‘He was. I can tell by that defensive expression. Now you have to confess all.’
With his back to the wall Val hit out. ‘You’re determined to put two and two together and make it whatever you wish. You’re being quite ridiculous!’
His voice carried in the quieter atmosphere created by a break in the music. Those nearby glanced around in surprise then resumed their conversations. Others were more persistent.
‘Is this fellow annoying you, Miss Beecham?’ drawled an affected voice at Val’s side.
Vivienne’s glance was scathing. ‘Not in the least, Mr Pickering. There was no need to interrupt a private conversation to ask about something you should know could not possibly happen.’
Infuriated by her snub, he replied, ‘There are those present who might think otherwise on hearing a raised voice during a social occasion. It’s very ill-mannered and we have some important guests tonight.’
‘As Mother and I have been entertaining them for most of the day, I’m well aware of that … and Sir Rigby has just listened with the greatest interest to Mr Havelock’s ideas on how to bring a swift end to this war.’ She turned to Val. ‘In fact, he asked for them, didn’t he?’
Val would have been amused if Pickering did not arouse such intense dislike in him. As Vivienne had put the focus on him, he voiced it. ‘I wonder why he chose not to ask the opinion of someone with royal connections. Perhaps he has heard you have none.’
The thin, pasty features flushed darkly. ‘I have manners, which is more than can be said of a fellow whose behaviour is conducive with having being reared in the stables. Even if you learn a few, Havelock, the smell of the barrack-room will still be offensive.’
Val smiled. ‘Those months in the barrack-room taught me my trade. You’ve yet to learn it.’
‘What did twenty-eight days behind bars teach you?’ Pickering snapped. ‘Not enough to make you accept your true place in this regiment. You clearly need a harder lesson. Gentlemen will tolerate an upstart for just so long, then their retribution is total.’
‘Then you’ll have to take care, Pickering. You’ve been masquerading as a leader of men for almost four years.’
The other man’s eyes narrowed with venom. ‘People like you invariably invite their own destruction. When your unwarranted arrogance leads to your downfall every man in this regiment will turn his back on you.’ He gave Vivienne a stiff half-bow. ‘Miss Beecham.’
As he sauntered away, she looked up at Val in concern. ‘He’s an insufferable, puffed-up fool but he has relatives in Horse Guards. I can be as rude as I like to him, but he can make life difficult for you.’
‘He already has, on numerous occasions,’ Val said grimly. ‘Now we have equal rank it’s my turn to humiliate him. No one else appears willing to do it.’
‘They value their careers. You’re constantly jeopardizing yours.’
He gave a confident grin. ‘I’ve risen from trooper to subaltern in two years. Not much wrong with that.’
‘But you’re now among a breed who are particular about who joins them. Some stubbornly accept the stable-boy story and decline to acknowledge you. Others recognize your true status but believe you’re a fugitive from scandal and won’t trust you.’ Adopting an exaggerated tone, she mimicked, ‘Once a bounder always a bounder, what!’ She cast him a frank look. ‘Some of them are awfully silly men. Those who aren’t either respect your privacy and hold back, or they resent a mystery man who constantly puts them in the shade.’ She put her hand on his in beseeching manner. ‘Why don’t you tell me the truth? I’m the only true friend you have now, yet you consistently insult me.’
‘I do not!’ he contradicted heatedly.
‘Well … you hurt me.’
‘That’s only because you … ’ He fell silent, unable to put his suspicions into words.
‘Because I what?’
As he gazed at her unexceptional face with its determined mouth and frank green eyes, he fleetingly wished he could believe she wanted to be no more than a friend. Not that he could reveal to her his true identity, but she was shrewd, intelligent and lively, and he was lonely.
In the face of his silence, she added ammunition to her attack. ‘I know you were sometimes in hot water with Felix Wheeler, but he let you off lightly because h
e likes and admires you. Thorn Marley is vastly different. His arrogance exceeds yours, and he’s jealous of his record on the Indian Frontiers. Felix is a nice person and a good, reliable officer, according to Father, but Thorn was twice decorated in Bengal and his reputation for fearlessness is enviable. He’s also reputed to bully those under his command.’
‘I’m not easily bullied.’
‘I know that,’ she exclaimed with impatience. ‘I also know you’re worth ten of him. But he gives orders and will jump on you if you attempt to question them, or even hesitate before obeying. He’ll also exploit your weakness if you rile him.’
‘Oh, what’s that?’ asked Val, falling into her trap.
‘You tell lies.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve done it to everyone since you joined the Fifty-seventh. A man of Thorn Marley’s type will see it as weakness to hide behind a pack of obvious lies rather than face up to the consequences of whatever it is you’ve done. Others see it that way too.’ Her eyes began to glow with something Val recognized too well and her voice grew soft. ‘Dearest Havelock, I know you are really someone very special. When I hear people patronize you, I long to leap to your defence. I can’t unless I know the truth. Are you related to the famous Ashleighs?’
Val then saw red and reacted accordingly. ‘What I need more than anything is a female to protect me from my bullying fellows. If she’s the colonel’s daughter, so much the better. Here’s the truth, then. I killed two men in duels, then ran with my sword still dripping blood to claim the beauty I had saved from these villains. Her noble father demanded that I further prove my worth by taking the Queen’s Shilling and pretending to be a stable-boy until I became the colonel of the regiment and revealed my true identity as a Prussian prince.’
For several moments Vivienne gazed at him as if in shock. Then, to his surprise, Val saw tears spring in her eyes and an expression of immense distress dawn on her face. The effort of speaking seemed insurmountable, at first, until she managed to say, ‘Audley is right. You’ll destroy yourself. When you do, don’t count on my friendship. I’ve just withdrawn it.’
A Distant Hero Page 35