‘But in the summer,’ he added, ‘we really do work, wherever we are, as long as there is daylight. Manoeuvres, musketry practice, training for the displays you mentioned earlier. If you’d ever seen a bunch of raw recruits in the riding school, you’d understand the amount of work that has to be done to achieve that seemingly effortless coordination.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘There are times when I despair, but in the end it all comes right, and there lies some of the satisfaction of it.’
Edward nodded, adding, with deceptive innocence: ‘I believe there’s a school of thought which dares to question the viability of cavalry in modern warfare. Is that not so?’
Faintly nettled, for a second Robert stared at him, seeing the half-hidden provocation which lurked beneath that bland façade. With what he hoped was a disarming grin, he said, ‘Well, as the young Subaltern said to the General: “I suppose we’re there, sir, to give tone to what would otherwise be a vulgar brawl!”‘
Amidst the laughter, Edward acknowledged the joke with a cold smile. ‘But how do you see your role?’
‘How do I see it?’ Robert smiled. ‘Well, Mr Elliott, that is – if you’ll forgive me – a leading question! I could bore you and these good ladies for the entire afternoon with my ideas about the role cavalry should be playing in these modern times. But shall we say I don’t agree that bravery, and a willingness to die gloriously in a medieval set-piece, are enough?
‘In a riot, or against a bunch of ill-equipped natives, cavalry will always break resistance, so we have our uses there. But modern arms are far too accurate and deadly for the traditional charge to have much effect. That was illustrated tragically at Balaclava. If we’ve learned nothing from that, the “Tally-ho!” generals should be pensioned off here and now. Unfortunately,’ he added dryly, ‘we still have a lot of the old die-hards in command.’
‘So what’s the answer?’
‘Change is the answer, but like all other things in the army, it will take time. Horses will always be needed, of course — and in an increasing variety of roles — but men will have to change. Instead of relying on the old principles, we’ll have to become like a kind of – may God forgive me! — a kind of mounted infantry, experts with gun and carbine, as well as sword and lance. And tactics will have to change, too. It may take time, but it will come eventually. Of course,’ Robert laughed at his own seriousness, ‘my opinions don’t make me very popular with everyone in the Mess!’
‘I can imagine,’ Edward murmured, but Robert saw that he had earned a certain grudging respect.
At the end of the meal, a chance remark reminded Mary Elliott of other things. She disappeared into the kitchen and came back holding a letter for Louisa.
‘This came for you yesterday. I almost forgot. From Blankney — the writing looks like Cousin John’s. It’ll be news of the baby, I expect,’ she remarked as Louisa slit the envelope with a knife. ‘Do hurry and read it,’ she urged, ‘and tell us what he says.’
Louisa scanned the page quickly, initial tension giving way to smiles as she informed them that John Elliott was the proud father of yet another son, strong and healthy, God be praised, although the birth had taxed poor Jenny’s health severely and she was compelled to rest.
‘She must be ill to have had the doctor,’ Mary Elliott said, clucking sympathetically. ‘Poor thing, however will she manage with a new baby and all that brood to look after?’
‘That’s just it,’ Louisa sighed. ‘She’s not managing. Cousin John asks if I can go down and help out for a week or so.’
Glancing quickly round the table, Robert caught the gaze of both Edward and his aunt: both revealed surprise that was just a little too eager for his liking.
‘Then you must go,’ they said, almost in unison.
‘But – he thinks I’m still here, helping out. He doesn’t know I’m working at the Station Hotel.’
Robert stifled an exclamation. He did not want her to go away, even for a few days, but it would be a small price to pay if she could be persuaded to give that up.
Mary Elliott sniffed and said, ‘But you don’t even like the job.’
‘That’s not the point —’
‘The point is, John needs help and he’s asked for you. You had a good holiday down there in the summer, Louisa, and one good turn deserves another...’
Robert chewed the inside of his lip and stared hard at the tablecloth, praying that the details of that particular holiday would never come to light.
‘...so you must ask for leave of absence from the hotel. If they won’t give it, then you must leave. You can always look for something else when you come back.’
‘But Mamma, you know that’s easier said than done.’
Louisa knew better than to look to Robert for support: he wanted her to give up working. Instead she sought Edward’s eyes, but he came down on his aunt’s side. Keen, Robert thought, to get her away from ‘the bored dilettante’ by whatever means.
Primed by his aunt beforehand, Edward excused himself after the meal. A few minutes later, Louisa joined him, her cheeks burning with indignation.
‘Has Bessie gone out?’
‘She has, but there’s a pot of coffee here,’ he said evenly, pointing to the hearth.
‘I don’t care about the coffee!’ Louisa exclaimed, striding angrily towards the sink. Alert and troubled, Edward’s eyes followed her, watching as she drank half a glass of water and stood gazing rigidly out of the window. Beyond the leaf-strewn yard, he could see the city walls white against a darkening sky.
‘You wouldn’t believe it, would you?’ she said at last. ‘You’d think Mamma would berate him, weep, make a scene – demand the restoration of her poor demented daughter to the family home? But no, she’s got a mind like a cash register: mention money and she’s all ears!’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘He would like to make me an allowance. But I don’t want it.’
‘Why ever not?’
Louisa turned. ‘Because I love him,’ she said, amazed that he should need an explanation. ‘I don’t want to be his kept woman!’
At a loss, Edward stared back. He wanted to say: but you are! Then he realized what she meant: her job gave her a certain amount of independence. Without it, she would have to rely on Robert Duncannon; either that, or come back home.
Beset by his own distrust, he said: ‘Don’t you trust him?’
‘Of course I trust him!’
‘Then why are you so upset?’
‘Can’t you see? It would be like — like receiving payment for services rendered!’
He could not deny it. Her words recalled his own reaction when Mary Elliott had told him his mother had accepted money. And yet he still believed the summons from Blankney was heaven-sent. Get her away from York, he thought, and in a few weeks this madness will cool. She might be hurt, but better such pain in the short run, than long-term anguish. The iniquity of her situation infuriated him, the more so because it seemed the folly of women that they should continue to walk such pitted but well-trodden paths.
With an exasperated sigh, he said: ‘Yes, I do see what you mean. But perhaps you’re being oversensitive. If you were married, you’d expect him to provide for you and — and any children of the union.’
‘But we’re not married, Edward. It makes a world of difference.’
‘It certainly does,’ he agreed heavily. ‘But I don’t think you’re being very practical, which is most unlike you.’
‘I’m being far more practical than you give me credit for,’ she said enigmatically.
Since she refused to be pressed, he let it go, returning to the matter of her job. ‘If I were you,’ he said as calmly as he could, ‘I’d follow your mother’s advice. Tell John Elliott you’ll go to Blankney, and see what the hotel has to say. And if—if the Captain wants to provide for you, then let him. It seems quite natural to me that he should want to protect you financially, since it seems he’s unable to do so in any other way.’
‘I love him,’ she said suddenly, and with such intensity that Edward recoiled. ‘I love him so much it frightens me. But if he went away tomorrow and never came back, I’d not regret one minute of the happiness we’ve shared. Can you understand that?’
No, he thought painfully; nor do I want to. Chilled, he moved closer to the fire, chafing his work-scarred hands as he stared into the glowing coals. He thought of their childhood, the difficulties of growing up; and then of Mary Elliott’s confession. Money – no matter how tainted it seemed – had saved them.
‘Just thank God your mother and mine had money behind them, Louisa—because without it they’d have ended up on the streets or in the House of Correction. Pride beaten, spirits broken. And what would have happened to us then?’
‘Oh, stop it!’ she cried, blocking her ears. ‘They had the hotel. We weren’t paupers!’
‘No,’ he said softly, ‘we weren’t paupers. Money protected us from the ultimate disgrace. But where do you think it came from in the first place?’
For a moment he searched her face in the twilight, seeing the flush of mortification deepen. Despite the anger, she looked so very young and vulnerable that Edward instinctively reached out, wanting to hold her, build a wall around her, protect her from herself; but she jerked away as though burned.
‘You don’t know what love is!’ she spat out. ‘If you did, you’d understand.’
Pain shot through him. In need of support, he turned and leant against the mantelpiece. As he steadied himself, he strove to regain some of the detachment which had always proved a defence against his mother. To suffer and to show it was to invite greater pain, and he was loath to experience more.
When he had found his voice again, he said tersely: ‘Perhaps you’re right. But still, I think you should accept that allowance. Even if you don’t need it now, there may come a day when you’ll be glad of it.’
She did not reply, but he was aware of her standing a little distance away. On the mantelpiece stood a little porcelain replica of Lincoln Castle; he stared at it for several minutes before it impinged upon his consciousness.
‘When will you go to John Elliott’s?’ he asked.
The question seemed to exasperate her. ‘Oh, Lord, I don’t know. Next week sometime, I suppose. How can you ask that at a time like this?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know. I was just thinking, I have some business to conduct in Lincoln.’
Seven
The halt, on a little branch line running south-west from Lincoln, was almost a mile from the village it served. Watching the train puff noisily away, Edward felt strangely deserted, as though an old friend had accompanied him as far as the lion’s lair, then suddenly discovered a more pressing engagement.
Until this moment, it had been merely an idea, a fantasy which had grown and taken on shape. In his imagination, Edward had seen himself arriving here like some invisible observer, but with the rich scent of wet earth in his nostrils, and the feel of the wooden platform springy beneath his feet, he recognized reality. He was a stranger, and with the curiosity of villagers the world over, the people here would mark his presence, take note of his clothes and the slightly shabby valise, try to classify him, and wonder what he was doing in their community. They would examine his face for familiar features, speculate upon possible relationships; he was bound to be questioned. For a second, resolve wavered; had it not been for the searching wind, Edward might have waited for the next train back to Lincoln, his curiosity unassuaged.
But there was rain on the way, and he was chilled; with a shiver, he picked up his small case and set off along the muddy road.
A directory in Lincoln Library had provided all the details he required of the village and its environs. There was an inn, a church, a post office and three shops. Burke’s Peerage had furnished a potted biography of his paternal grandparents, now deceased, and their descendants. Sir Alfred Gregory, born under the rule of George III in 1795, had lived through four reigns, dying in the year of Victoria’s Golden Jubilee. His wife had been a peer’s daughter, remarkable in that age for her devotion to the poor. Of their three sons, Edward noted that the eldest and present baronet, Sir Oswald, had married his lady in the year 1859, subsequently siring two daughters. His listed interests were the traditional ones of the landed gentry, no doubt funded, Edward thought, by the family’s extensive holdings in Nottinghamshire coal.
Sir Oswald, a year older than Elizabeth Elliott, was Edward’s favourite for the role of seducer. Alfred, the second son and two years younger, was a Tory MP for a constituency in the Midlands. He too was now married, with two sons and three daughters. There seemed little chance of catching a glimpse of him, with his residences in London and Warwickshire, but Edward planned to make a journey to London to cast his eyes over the second contender. The way things were going in Parliament, it would probably be quite soon. With the question of Home Rule under hot debate, Alfred Gregory dare not miss the vote on that Bill.
With regard to the Lord of the Manor, Edward judged his chance of seeing him about even. Sir Oswald might be away from home, but there was a possibility he would be in church the following morning. That the third brother would be present was more likely than not, although George Gregory, the youngest and unmarried, seemed the least eligible. Aged twenty-three in the year of Edward’s birth, he would have been Elizabeth Elliott’s junior by seven years. He had taken Holy Orders, and had been this parish’s incumbent for more than twenty-five years.
As the threatened rain began in earnest, Edward raised his umbrella. He had been walking at an even pace for perhaps ten minutes, along a road that wound between ploughed fields on one hand, and dense woodland on the other. A low wall, crusted with grey lichen spirals and topped by velvet cushions of moss, divided the woods from the road; the house itself stood a half-mile distant according to the map, beyond some forbidding trees.
As the road snaked to the right, he saw a grey lodge, and beyond, set in a semi-circle of crenellated wall, a pair of elaborate cast-iron gates. A moment of anticipation was dashed, however; the gravel drive curved between banks of mature rhododendrons, so that even here the house was hidden.
He stood and stared, aware that he might be watched from the lodge, wishing that he had the courage to go back, climb the wall, and creep upon the place unobserved, but the real possibility of traps in those woods, the indignity of being caught by a patrolling keeper, urged his steps towards the village. He pressed on, and the muddy country lane became a street, meandering like a soft brown ribbon between steep-gabled cottages, mostly thatched and white-washed, an occasional red-brick house standing like a guardsman between. A broad lane led off to the right towards the church, whose tower could be seen above the rooftops, and on the left stood the inn, square, two-storeyed, its yard and stables behind.
After a moment’s hesitation Edward entered the bar, waited while the landlord served a bent old character his pint of ale, then made himself known. He had telegraphed previously, requesting bed and board for one night. While the landlord went off to find his wife, Edward glanced round, catching the expected curious stares from a group of elderly farmworkers by the fire. The room was a typical bar-room, stone-flagged, with wooden settles and benches, but the sawdust was clean and the brassware well polished, and logs blazed cheerfully in the grate.
The landlord led his guest through to an inner hall which obviously served as a snug, for there was a tiny bar with bottles of spirits, easy chairs and a desk in the corner. As he signed the register, Edward was subjected to a string of oblique questions. Recalling details from the Directory, he murmured something about interesting monuments in the church; and with that, the short, round man evidently had him placed. Apparently other visitors came to the village, although usually in the summer months, to view the tombs of a family dead these 400 years. There was even a brass plate, very old indeed, which always aroused great excitement, although the innkeeper himself could never see why. Nevertheless, proud of this claim to
fame, he went on to relate every scrap of fact and fiction he could remember. Edward began to think he would never see his room.
At last, her feet heavy on the creaking wooden stairs, his wife appeared, and the landlord excused himself. Without a word, she led Edward upstairs and opened the door to his room. Unlike the landlady, it looked pleasant enough. He would have liked to enquire whether Sir Oswald and his family were in residence at the Hall, but her strange manner did not invite questions. It seemed an imposition to ask the time of morning service.
‘Half-past ten, sir.’ And with that she was gone.
He glanced at his pocket watch: it was just turned three. Time enough to unpack and take a leisurely walk over to the church; there he could examine the more recent memorials, mark the position of the family pew and prepare himself for the morrow.
For such a small village, the church was a delight, a combination of early and late Gothic styles which had been sympathetically restored. Edward’s opinion of the family rose several degrees as he noted the unspoiled lancet windows in the aisles and beautiful hammer-beam roof. Only the east window jarred a little. It seemed odd to have a great armorial window above the altar, although it was compatible with the tombs of long-dead knights and their ladies in the nave.
The early monuments were fascinating, but Edward’s interest lay in more recent ones. Judging by the marble inscriptions, the forebears of the present family would seem to have been patriotic paragons of great virtue. There were sportsmen, soldiers and public benefactors; and several clergymen, younger sons of course, but only one had achieved the purple. Judging by the present incumbent’s length of service in this humble sphere, it seemed unlikely that he held any such ambition. Almost unwillingly, Edward warmed to him.
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