Sir Gilliard, unexpectedly docile in his ninety-first year, appeared to take on a new lease of life. Armed neutrality with his daughter-in-law might have contributed to it, or maybe the old warhorse recognized a worthy opponent, for once. The succession still obsessed him, however. Vere and Kitty took every opportunity to impress upon him that he had another grandson who was legally next in line. On one occasion when the time had been right, Vere again produced Val’s photograph and the gazette entries of his commission and award of the D.C.M. The initial reaction was all Vere could want.
‘A very fine looking fellah! Looks one straight in the eye. Always tell a man’s character from that. If he’s shifty he’ll never make a good officer. This one will. See it in his face. Every inch a replica of our hero, don’t you think?’
‘He does strongly resemble Vorne, yes,’ Vere agreed, knowing Val to be a far finer person. ‘A grandson to be proud of, wouldn’t you say?’
The old man handed the photograph back as bleakness touched his expression. ‘No grandson of mine is called Havelock.’
This bothered Vere also. Val was carving out a distinguished career with the 57th Lancers. He was happy and fulfilled. He did not want the responsibility of Knightshill. Yet he was the legal heir after Vere himself, and his first-born son would be the indisputable second in line. How Val would ever resolve the identity barrier he could not think. To claim the inheritance he would have to reveal his masquerade, and end his military service under a cloud. To marry and produce an heir, he would also have to declare his true name. Yet he surely could not live to the end of his days as Martin Havelock, bachelor. He had put himself in an impossible situation which could only complicate further as year succeeded year. Vere always shrugged off this problem by telling himself he was only just twenty-nine, and set for a long wonderful life with Kitty and their enchanting twin daughters. Martin Havelock could survive until he became captivated by a woman, too. Then he would have to make an unenviable decision which was his alone.
Sir Gilliard no longer lived reclusively in his suite of rooms. Although he still did not approve of Vere’s friends from the world of art and theatre, he frequently joined the family when military or diplomatic guests were present and enjoyed their company. Pointedly ignoring John, he nevertheless showed signs of recovering something of his former verve in company. Part of this was his penchant for dominating conversations with long anecdotes from his distinguished past. As these were, in the main, highly entertaining, Vere allowed his grandfather leeway until he felt it was time to intervene.
Later, Vere realized this pleasant period had been the lull before the storm. At the start of November he received a note from Edward Pickering telling of his engagement to the cousin of an old school friend. You teasingly invited me to stay at Knightshill with my fiancée when we parted in Ladysmith, oh, so long ago, he wrote. May I confound you with that invitation designed to persuade me that I was not the half-man I believed I was then, and come for a few days with Helen? She cannot wait to meet the artist she so admires.
Vere replied telling his friend to come for as long as he wished the following month, cheered by the evidence of Edward’s recovery beyond all expectations of his surgeons. He recalled the man’s fervour for a military life which matched Val’s, and guessed it had been a case of mind over matter. He looked forward to the meeting.
By the next day’s mail came two letters which were to change the pattern of his life in most unexpected fashion. The first was from the family solicitor stating that he had received from a legal firm in the state of Texas notification of the death of Mrs Clarissa Mulhone, formerly widow of Roland Ashleigh of Knightshill. Mrs Mulhone had survived her husband by three years, and their extensive property in the United States had been willed her on his death. A copy of her will sent by its executors showed her fortune and estate to be bequeathed in equal parts to any of her children by Roland Ashleigh who survived her by twenty-eight days, except the youngest, Valentine Martin Havelock, who should receive an additional portion to compensate for her desertion of him whilst a babe of tender years. Mr Simms requested a date when he could wait on the late Clarissa Mulhone’s children for a full reading of her will.
Vere was strongly moved for someone who had last seen his mother at the age of eleven. For the sake of happiness with a man who had offered her security, and a life in which he would not be chasing wars all over the world, Clarissa Ashleigh had left her five children to the autocrat who would not allow her to take them from their inheritance, and had abided by his stipulation that she should have no further contact whatever with them. With children of his own now, Vere tried to imagine his mother’s anguish over the past eighteen years, particularly for a toddler who would have been the most difficult to surrender. Her life at Knightshill must have been unendurable under Sir Gilliard’s rule.
An extensive property in Texas! A cattle ranch of many hundred acres, he had once been told. He would have to go out there to settle the business of selling it. He did not imagine either of his sisters would care to live there, or Val. If it was hugely profitable they might all agree to appoint agents to run it and divide the profits, rather than sell. There were other possibilities, of course. Any number of them. He grew excited at the notion of travelling to the New World. Another experience, fresh opportunities for widening his artistic scope. Maybe he and Kitty could go there with Charlotte and John, the latter of whom might better assess the property than he. Then he smiled as he thought of the impecunious Martin Havelock who would find this bequest a godsend. He penned a note to his solicitor telling him to come on the following Monday. Then he put aside the man’s letter feeling very much as he had in the Sudan, when the past had suddenly reached out and changed the direction in which he had been heading.
The second letter he opened immediately divided that direction so that he faced two paths stretching into the future. The Illustrated Magazine had been contacted by the representative of an Indian Maharajah who wished Mr Ashleigh to paint a series of pictures of the regiment his father had raised to fight with the British in Afghanistan. The Maharajah understood that Mr Ashleigh’s own father had been mortally wounded in the war of 1878. For this reason, and because he was deeply impressed by his work published in the magazine over the past three years, the artist was offered a commission to be executed before November of the following year. Mr Ashleigh would be given an apartment in the palace for as long as he required it, and would be expected to represent the regiment in every aspect of its routine. From these pictures a set of four would be chosen to present to King Edward VII when he visited India at the end of 1902 to be officially proclaimed Viceroy of India. The remaining studies would be given to persons of importance to commemorate the occasion. The editor of The Illustrated Magazine offered Vere his own commission to cover preparations for the King’s visit.
After reading the letter through several times, the honoured artist was still overwhelmed. Since his return from South Africa he had done very little painting, despite several offers of rich commissions from clients begging him to produce something spectacular for the bare space above a mantelpiece. He had declined, explaining that he did not work that way, but now he knew eagerness to take up his brushes again. An Indian regiment; those proud dark faces and elaborate uniforms. The stirring backdrops to such pictures would be an inspiration in themselves. He had enjoyed carrying out the contract in South Africa to sketch and paint Indian troops serving with the Ladysmith relief column. If the terrain there had thrilled him, that of another wild and beautiful continent would surely do the same.
For the next few hours he and Kitty discussed this offer, and his mother’s bequest. Finally, she said with quiet reason, ‘I cannot make this decision for you, my dear. It is possible to do both if you are prepared to spend half the year away from Knightshill and the twins.’
‘Are you?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘I will come with you to the Texan ranch, but any wife would be wise to steer clear of a man grappling
with artistic genius.’
‘Then I’ll decline the Maharajah’s commission.’
‘And regret it forever? You are again facing the conflict of your mixed personalities, Vere. It will crop up throughout your life, I suspect. All other Ashleigh men, including Val, have known exactly what they are. Being far more complex, you no sooner decide that you are, at heart, a landowner and host to the talented and cultured than the artist in you rises up to demand satisfaction. It will be forever so.’ She kissed him with lingering tenderness. ‘You must accept the commission. Although King Edward may hang the Maharajah’s gift in a small room at the rear of one of his official homes, you will gain enormous prestige from his royal connection with your work.’
‘Maybe,’ he said with a touch of doubt, ‘but I shall pay a high price for it. Three or four months without you will seem an eternity.’
‘Also for me, darling, but you won’t be going to war as other Ashleigh husbands have. I’ll know you’ll return. I suspected when I married you that the artist would not be subdued for long. Only if the warrior in you revived would I grow afraid.’
‘That will never happen,’ he assured her. ‘I’m leaving warring to Val. He’ll gain enough military distinction for us both.’
Although the matter appeared to have been settled, Vere made no definite commitment to go to India. He had been faced with a difficult decision two years ago: China with the West Wilts or a tour of the Mediterranean as an artist. He had wound up in South Africa dragging an ammunition wagon to safety under fire. Two years before that a girl had driven him on a course which, until then, had never been a possibility. Experience had taught him that his life was not entirely his to order. Fate had plans for him regardless of his own decisions. He would not rush into anything.
Charlotte greeted the news of her mother’s death in typical manner. ‘I cannot accept your theory of life being so unbearable here. We have all lived with Grandfather and survived.’
‘He drove three of us away,’ Vere reminded her.
‘No, Vere, Annabel drove you away. Philip did it to Margaret, and that woman at Chartfield was responsible for Val’s abscondence. Mama had every comfort and advantage here. She must have been the envy of many less fortunate army widows.’
‘But I remember her as a gentle, artistic creature. She sang beautifully, and did the most exquisite embroidery and lace work. I believe she must have loved Father deeply because she was distraught when he died. Remember how she collapsed at his graveside? Exhausted by grief and the bearing of eight children, I suspect she was not strong enough to withstand Grandfather’s domination of the five who survived. When Mulhone offered her affection and a brand of dominance based on that, she saw an escape from a life in which she was gradually being stifled.’
‘So she selfishly took it, leaving us to fend for ourselves.’
‘No, Lottie, we have only had to do that on leaving Knightshill. We had every comfort and advantage you claim Mama had. Everything would have been fine if Grandfather had not set us all such an example of strength and resolution. He did not foresee that we would emulate it in directions he had not suspected.’
Charlotte would not concur. ‘We were abandoned by Mama, however you try to excuse her. Would you go off and leave your dear twins to be brought up by servants? Of course not. This bequest of Mama’s was made to salve her conscience. We wanted her caring, not the money she inherited from the foreigner who took her away from us. Margaret will agree with me.’
Vere saw that she would never change her opinion, and sighed. ‘Then it’s useless to invite you and John to go with us to view this ranch in Texas next year. It might be wiser to employ a bailiff than sell. You, Margaret and I will have children who might one day care to live there and manage it. We should consider that. Then there’s Val. If he should be forced to give up his army career because of severe wounds, he could well choose to take it over on our behalf. Kitty and I were hoping you two would also make the journey to assess the potential of Wildeast Ranch.’
‘I see. Well, I shall ask John,’ she said, mollified by his persuasive tone. ‘What of the children?’
‘They’ll be safe in Nanny’s care. Mathilda will tend the new baby along with the twins. If you agree, of course,’ he added quickly.
The solicitor’s visit revealed the ranch to be amazingly prosperous. The fortune left to Clarissa’s four surviving children was staggering. It gave Vere further food for thought, and he had not reached any conclusion when Edward Pickering and his dark-haired, vivacious fiancée arrived with several large bags, for an extended visit. The pair easily integrated with the four younger residents, who were proud to show Knightshill to the grandson of Sir Gilliard’s old acquaintance, Lord Gamier. Accordingly, dinner was served in the formal room lined by military portraits and Sir Gilliard presided at the long table. He was delighted to have a military officer sitting at it, for Edward was back with his regiment on full active service having astonished doctors, and angered men at Horse Guards with his articles and letters in the newspapers deploring the conduct of many commanders in South Africa. His grandfather was presently very cool with him he confessed. But he was unrepentant, as he explained to Vere and Sir Gilliard after the ladies and John had left them with port and cigars.
‘You know quite well, Vere, that terrible mistakes were made trying to lift the sieges. You saw the slaughter first hand. It was unforgivable. Buller should be shot for needlessly sacrificing so many lives.’
‘Now, look here, sir,’ countered Sir Gilliard, climbing aboard a beloved hobbyhorse, ‘a general issues orders only after receiving reports and Intelligence from every available source. If those are misleading he is in no way accountable for the outcome, and if his divisional commanders see fit to amend or disregard their orders it is they who cause wholesale slaughter. With poor regimental officers no general can succeed.’
Edward was unabashed by this and said slyly, ‘But did I not see several letters from you damning Buller’s performance, sir?’
‘You did, indeed. I think it may be conceded that one general is qualified to criticize another. It is when subalterns and captains pronounce on what should or should not have been done that it amounts to effrontery,’ was the smart retort. ‘In India a fellah called Pontefract — the name alone tells you the kind of man he was — stood up in front of … ’
Vere sat back with his port knowing his grandfather would produce numerous anecdotes to support his theme. Edward would be amused by them, so he would not stop the flow just yet. Having heard most of them many times, Vere let his thoughts stray to the poser confronting him. Should he go to India and leave Kitty? If fate was planning to intervene once more, he wished she would do so soon and save him from making a decision which would lead him somewhere altogether different from his planned destination. The port flowed as richly as the conversation until he indicated that they really should join the ladies.
Sir Gilliard took a while to get to his feet these days. While they waited for him to do so, Edward said to Vere, ‘You heard about Cousin Audley, of course. Needless to say I did not receive a communiqué from him on that disgraceful affair.’
Vere grinned. ‘What affair?’
‘You don’t know?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Thought your cousin would have told you, hotfoot.’
‘He … he doesn’t write often.’
‘Ah! Well, the business was conducted in secret and was supposed to remain that way. Not the sort of thing we wanted splashed all over the front pages of international newspapers. British officers fighting each other instead of the enemy. Undermines morale … and the pride of our army. Just what our critics need.’
‘You’re one of them, aren’t you?’ Vere teased.
‘Certainly, when this kind of nonsense goes on.’
‘What kind of nonsense?’ demanded Sir Gilliard, flushed from a large intake of port.
The three stood by the head of the table while Edward related a story he had no way of knowing would have such a
dramatic outcome.
‘I’ve never made a secret of my opinion of Audley, as you know, Vere, so you’ll probably share a popular saying that if a man’s no good for anything else he’ll end up in the cavalry. It’s harsh on the majority of stalwarts in mounted regiments, but nincompoops like Audley who have the right connections and a noble name are often to be found in élite cavalry ranks where they gain advancement through influence rather than skill.’
‘Don’t believe in that,’ ruled Sir Gilliard. ‘Fellah must make his mark through efficiency and devotion to duty, no other way.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed Edward. ‘Colonel Beecham is a good man running his regiment on those principals, and saw fit to commission a sergeant who rose from the barrack-room on pure military merit. It seems Audley had given him a rough time in the ranks, so there was no love lost between them and this fact was known by the entire regiment.’
Vere’s neck was beginning to prickle with apprehension as he said quietly, ‘Go on.’
‘Fate decided that they should both be with a detachment of men ordered to burn a farm from which a number of Boers had been seen riding away. The captain gave chase with the main body of troops. Before departing he threw an envelope containing sealed orders to Audley, telling him to deliver them to Max Beecham on arrival at headquarters. No one knows the truth of what happened then except the two officers concerned, but the facts are that when a Boer woman and child appeared from the burning house, the other subaltern knocked Audley’s revolver from his hand and kicked it away from his reach. After speaking privately to the woman, he apparently ran off to rescue two horses from the flaming barn. When he returned to the scene he found Audley in his underwear, shot in the chest. The woman and child had escaped on his and Audley’s horses, taking with them a uniform with a pocket containing the sealed orders.’
A Distant Hero Page 40