The Edwardian era had brought changes in social attitudes and fashion. Victorian values vanished beneath a desire for gaiety and pleasure. Britain’s army, apart from small uprisings in various dominions, was not engaged in a major war. King Edward enjoyed reviews and parades, so soldiers on garrison duty at home were much in evidence amid people who wanted their faith in scarlet-coated warriors restored. These military spectacles took place far from the area immediately surrounding Knightshill, and everything continued as before.
Charlotte welcomed the unchanging scene. The villages she had for years visited for shopping knew her as well as she knew them. It was very comforting. Life at Knightshill had settled again into its peaceful pattern, although sadness still touched it. Sir Gilliard’s presence often manifested itself in long corridors temporarily deserted, or in rooms entered suddenly on quiet days; his voice echoed through the house when the wind rattled windows and countryside debris was blown against the panes to sound like rain. It was still impossible to be in the main dining-room without feeling that he was looking down in accusation from the new portrait hanging there, painted from a photograph by a friend of Vere’s. Sir Gilliard and Knightshill had been inseparable for the whole of Charlotte’s life.
Vere had been unable to discover what had happened to Val during the four months he had travelled from region to region, twice being shot at by jumpy soldiers uncertain who he was. All the family knew was that Martin Havelock had ridden out with two horses, and little else, shortly after the ritual rejection parade. Three days after Sir Gilliard’s funeral Vere had received a large parcel from South Africa. It contained Val’s sword, and notification of the amount received from the auction of his other military equipment which had been donated to the fund for regimental widows and orphans. Slipped in with the sword was a curious letter from the daughter of Max Beecham, which clearly indicated that she had known Val’s real identity. Why else would she send Martin Havelock’s sword to Knightshill? The letter had been brief, merely stating that Mr Ashleigh should not believe ill of his brother who had been the victim of cruel injustice. He is a splendid, courageous person, she wrote at the end of it, and expressed her fervent hope that the owner of the sword would one day wear it with pride.
Vere had attempted to see the girl, but the 57th had been shipped back to England just before he landed in South Africa. He thought it advisable to let the matter stay as it was. Aside from that cloud of uncertainty over Val’s fate, it was a contented family group living at Knightshill. Although he had surrendered the commission from a maharajah to paint the man’s private regiment, Vere had made a brief visit to Texas to view the ranch. It had impressed him so much they were all planning a visit early next year. The twins were almost three years old and healthily robust despite their dainty build. Charlotte’s son, Richard, was taking his first steps confirming his father’s firm belief that the child was the most wonderful ever born. John doted to a fault on him and Charlotte hoped the arrival of her second baby next month would not cause ructions in the nursery, which was a lively place once more.
Kate, almost thirteen, missed Simon now he was at school. She continued having lessons from the tutor, but Vere added to her knowledge by taking her when he and Kitty visited London for art exhibitions or theatrical shows. Although she clearly enjoyed the outings, she was glad to return to Knightshill and the children.
Charlotte now glanced at the girl as they walked together through Dunstan St Mary towards the church. Kate’s face was still a serious one, but the primness of earlier childhood had gone. She had grown quieter since Sir Gilliard died, and was often seen gazing into space as if in another world, yet she seemed curiously neutral about her mother and brother. The Nicolardis were still in South America and Kate now had two stepbrothers, but she had no desire to join them and Margaret did not push her to do so. Charlotte supposed her sister would come home eventually.
As she walked slowly through the village returning the greetings of people who had accepted the marriage of an Ashleigh to a bailiff, the baby inside her moved so violently she gasped. From the evidence of its activity it seemed likely to be another boy. Poor Vere! She and Margaret were producing male children with ease, yet he could never have a son to succeed to all he held dear. With Val gone she supposed he must endeavour to appoint Margaret’s son, Tim, as his legal heir. Not that the boy would welcome it. At fourteen he was apparently still steadfastly set upon an army career. Grandfather had been quite wrong about his ideal heir, and Vere had stepped into the role quite magnificently.
Charlotte and Kate reached the church and went through the gate. Only four male Ashleighs were buried here. The rest had graves elsewhere in the world on long forgotten battlefields. There were a number of wives and children, however, so the family had a large corner of the churchyard devoted to it. Rounding the eastern side of the church Charlotte was startled to find someone already beside Sir Gilliard’s grave. The man was dressed in rough clothes and was crouching by the flowers Charlotte had come to replace. She approached warily, uncertain what he was doing, and clutched Kate’s hand tightly. Their feet made no sound on the grass, so it was not until they reached the foot of the grave that he grew aware of their presence. When he turned to look up at her, Charlotte was shocked to see tears on his cheeks.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked sharply.
He stood up, staring at her in most unnerving fashion. He could have been a foreigner, his skin was so dark a brown, and yet his hair was milk-fair and the eyes burned vividly blue in a face that was curiously familiar despite its haunted expression. For a moment or two she was inclined to run, for he was a big, strong man, then her heart began to race and she took a step forward.
Kate was quicker than she. ‘Val!’ she shrieked, and threw herself at him with unrestrained joy.
There were also tears on Charlotte’s cheeks as she stretched out her hands in loving welcome. Another Ashleigh had come home to Knightshill.
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A Distant Hero Page 42