The Brigadier's Daughter

by Catherine March

  ‘No, Reid, I cannot let you do such a thing.’

  He straightened then, glancing anxiously at the clock. ‘Do you not love me, then, Sasha? You have never said so. Is it only a…physical…attraction that you have for me?’

  Sasha felt her heart contract, and she closed her eyes for a moment before turning away from him and staring out of the window at the garden, in full summer bloom. She had to lie, she had to make him go. ‘Of course.’ She forced a light laugh. ‘It was only lust, Reid. You will get over it soon enough.’

  Reid swallowed, his jaw clenched, and then he stepped back from her, slowly and carefully placing his hat on his head. He bowed. ‘Good day, then, Miss Packard.’

  She turned and offered him her hand, saying brightly, swallowing hard to shut back the tears that sparkled at the back of her eyes like silver splinters, ‘Goodbye, Major Bowen, and good luck.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Over the next few days a succession of lawyers, a physician and a clergyman all paraded through the hallway of the Packard mansion, spending some hours closeted with the Brigadier in his study. These gentlemen were all well known to him, the lawyers having been family retainers for many years and handsomely paid, and Dr Mattheson and Reverend Albright had been at school with the Brigadier, and passed through Sandhurst with him. The result was that Georgia’s annulment from Major Bowen was soon underway, with discreet swiftness and on the grounds of non-consummation. No one challenged it.

  Sasha wondered how Georgia’s innocence was going to be affected when evidence of her increasing state became apparent, but her fears on these grounds were demolished when Georgia sailed into her room early one morning before breakfast, and nonchalantly announced, with a sigh of relief, ‘False alarm, Sasha, darling. My monthly has started at last.’

  Sasha stared at her, open-mouthed, as she sat brushing her hair before her dressing-table mirror, while Georgia helped herself to tea and biscuits from Sasha’s tray. ‘Are you quite sure?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I think it’s because I am home and feeling relaxed and happy. Don’t you?’

  Sasha felt numb, lowering her hairbrush and sitting there quite still. How typical of Georgia! She had no idea how her news affected other people. Why, to think that she had been prepared to do the noble thing and give Reid up so that Georgia’s child, her non-existent child, could have a name! At the thought of Reid she felt that searing ache in her chest again, and wondered where he was at this very moment, what he was doing, how he was feeling. In a few weeks’ time he would sail back to Russia, and she would never see him again.

  Their father thought it best, under the circumstances, that they lead a quiet life and not take part in the social whirl of summer functions. He sent word to their housekeeper in Shropshire and asked her to open up the house and prepare for their arrival, just as soon as he could clear the decks of his own obligations and depart from London. They would spend the rest of the summer, and most probably the winter, too, in the country, returning to the capital in the spring, and a fresh start.

  Georgia huffed and sighed, bored, longing to be out riding her horse in the park, to attend dances and luncheons, to meet with her friends, but the Brigadier forbade it. His two eldest daughters were a source of great concern to him, the one being far too gay and giddy, and the other far too quiet. He thought he might have well resolved the problem of what to do with Georgia when a most unexpected suitor came calling. At first, none of them had any idea his intentions lay in that direction and he was welcomed merely as a family friend. Then one afternoon he appeared to join them for tea and a game of croquet on the lawn, and his appearance caused Georgia to gasp.

  ‘Why, Captain Turnbull, you have shaved off your beard!’

  He looked years younger, and he had rather a pleasant face, not handsome in the way of Reid, thought Sasha, looking at him carefully as she handed him a plate of biscuits, but certainly not at all ugly and his eyes were a sea-green, most appropriate for a Naval man. He was, of course, a good twenty years older than Georgia, but they seemed to enjoy each other’s company, she laughed when he was about and the Brigadier had no doubt that his maturity, his quiet sense of strength mixed with just a dash of Scottish no-nonsense attitude was just what she needed. Captain Turnbull’s proposal, much to everyone’s surprise and relief, was accepted by both the Brigadier and Georgia.

  Sasha questioned her sister as they made ready for bed that evening. ‘Are you sure, Georgia? Captain Turnbull? You’re not toying with him, are you? He’s a very decent, kind man and I would not like to see you hurt him.’

  Georgia stared at her sister for a moment, and then smiled, with a little shake of her head. ‘No, of course not, it’s not like that.’

  ‘I would never have guessed.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think he would be the sort of man you would want to be romantically involved with. He’s not exactly young and dashing, like Felix.’

  ‘No, thank God, he’s not!’ exclaimed Georgia. ‘I know he’s much older than me, but I like that. He makes me feel safe, and I know he won’t hurt me or run away because he’s so upright, and I know that when he kisses me, he knows what he’s doing and I feel a tingle from head to toe.’

  The engagement was to be a long one, as the Captain was soon to depart for sea again and would be away in the Mediterranean for six months. It was not to be made formal and public knowledge until Georgia’s annulment from Major Bowen had been through the courts. It could well take some time, but neither Georgia nor Captain Turnbull felt any need to rush things.

  Now that the question of Georgia was settled, he hoped, the Brigadier turned his attention to Sasha. There seemed little he could do to help bring the smile back to her face. There was an air of grief about her, and sometimes he would come upon her unexpectedly, in the library or in the conservatory, and he noticed that her eyes were red from crying. She seemed to find solace in reading and drawing, spending hours on overly romantic charcoal sketches of dashing soldiers and writing poems. There seemed to be a sense of anguish in Sasha that found release in poetic expression. He was glancing through her sketch book one day when a poem fell out from between the pages and he could not help but read it.

  The Fusiliers

  With pride and grace he did wear

  Dark beret and hackle of a Fusilier

  Pristine white tipped with scarlet

  Hard won against a foreign foe

  Across the plains they did gallop

  Swords drawn, muskets primed

  Their battle cry to the four winds cast:

  ‘For England and St George!’

  While the Colonel’s lady watched

  As she sat and waited upon a drum

  And fought to still the fear in her heart

  That her brave Colonel was only hers

  ‘Until death us do part’

  The poem seemed unfinished, and when he looked for another page he found only sketches of a Fusilier—Major Reid Bowen. He could understand now that what she felt was grief, for if Bowen was declaring love for her, then, no doubt, Sasha had returned his feelings. He felt a guilty stab as he thought of the letters and notes that Bowen had sent to Sasha over the last few weeks, all of which he had destroyed. But no, damn it, he could not encourage the match! The man was a scoundrel. She would get over him, sooner or later. As the thought passed through his mind, Lodge appeared at the conservatory door and announced, ‘The Earl of Clermount has called, sir.’

  The Brigadier muttered under his breath, his old friend being the last person he wanted to see, purely because of his connection to Bowen. ‘Tell him we are not at home.’

  ‘Her Ladyship and Miss Alexandra are already entertaining him in the front drawing room, sir. I was sent to fetch you.’

  ‘Oh, damn!’

  With ill grace he marched down the corridor and arrived in the drawing room just in time to overhear his wife say, ‘Oh, please, let us not be so formal. Do sit down, Percy. Tell me all yo
ur news. What is going on in London nowadays?’

  ‘My dear, very little that you would find surprising,’ Percy replied, lowering his ample frame into the armchair alongside Olga’s. ‘The Queen has gone to Balmoral again, it seems there will be no end to her mourning and the nation must manage without her—’ He stopped, catching sight of Conrad as he came striding through the doorway, hesitating and rising to his feet as he greeted his old friend, who did not seem particularly friendly towards him at the moment.

  The Brigadier nodded and busied himself with accepting a cup of tea from his wife, plunking a finger of shortbread in it as he mulled over the best way forwards and just how friendly or unfriendly he should be to someone as influential as the Earl of Clermount.

  ‘I have had a letter from my cousin, Irena,’ her mother said. ‘You remember her, don’t you, Percy? At one stage, a long time ago, I think you were quite smitten with her.’

  The Earl coloured beneath his collar and muttered gruffly, ‘Er, perhaps.’

  ‘Well, it seems she is now in Paris—goodness knows what she’s doing there and who with! She has bought a house near the Bois de Boulogne; she says it’s very pretty and she is enjoying the French way of life. Shall we invite her to join us for Christmas?’

  This last sentence was directed at her husband, but he merely muttered that they would discuss it later and sipped his tea.

  To fill an awkward moment the Earl carefully engineered the conversation in another direction, and while they conversed, and her father silently observed, Sasha moved to the armchair beside the fire and folded away her embroidery frame. She sat down, accepting a cup of tea from her mother, and gazing politely and yet with little expression at her parents and their guest, making no comment as they talked. She turned her attention to her tea and while she sipped, unbidden into her mind came the sudden memory of a lurching ship’s cabin, and being offered a cup of tea from a strong, suntanned hand, a deep voice urging her to drink as she suffered the throes of seasickness. The prick of tears stabbed sharply behind her eyes, and she struggled within herself, as she often did, to blink them back and give no outward sign of the sadness and terrible sense of loss that afflicted her.

  Time, that was all she needed, just let time pass by and she would forget. Or so she had thought, weeks ago, but not a day went by when she did not think of Reid, or wonder where he was, and what he was doing. How she longed to hear his firm, steady voice, see the smile in his eyes, and feel the touch of his hands on her skin. Here she forced her mind to cease its futile thoughts, for the memory of Reid’s fingers on her body was a memory she could not, must not, ever think about.

  Summoning up every ounce of her will, Sasha listened to the conversation. Tea cups rattled, Uncle Percy commented on the cook’s excellent pastry, her mother murmured that the weather had been quite warm for this time of year, and the Brigadier mentioned that Philippa and Victoria were currently enjoying Venice before sailing for France and then home for Christmas. Conversation petered out and they were all silent, with bowed heads, brushing crumbs from their laps, clinking teaspoons in cups, and thought of the one person who was not there, and how he had affected all their lives.

  ‘Well…’ the Brigadier murmured, glancing at the clock on the mantel. The obligatory half-hour for calling had well passed.

  ‘Indeed.’ Uncle Percy’s gaze also strayed to the clock, but he made no move to rise. He cleared his throat, and said in a strained tone, ‘There is one matter, that I, um, wished to mention. My nephew, Reid—’

  ‘Percy…’ growled the Brigadier as his brows lowered in displeasure.

  ‘Hear me out, please, Conrad.’ He turned in his chair towards Sasha. ‘Please, my dear, Reid has implored me to speak on his behalf.’

  ‘There is nothing—’ Sasha began, her fingers twisting the pale grey silk of her gown, but then her taut voice caught on the emotions that threatened to burst from the confines of her throat.

  ‘You’d better leave, Percy.’

  With one hand raised, Percy rose to his feet, and said in a firm, loud voice, ‘Just listen for a moment! Please…’ He gazed about, imploring in a softer tone. ‘No one regrets what happened more than Reid. It was not his fault—’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘Just listen, Conrad, for God’s sake! Sasha…’ He took a step towards her, drawing her to her feet as he clasped both of her hands in his. ‘Please listen to what I have to say. I cannot believe that a girl with a good and kind heart as I know you to have would not give anyone a second chance. Hmm?’

  Sasha inclined her head slightly, the ache in her chest rippling out from somewhere deep within her heart.

  Taking a steadying breath, Uncle Percy rushed on, before the Brigadier decided to throw him bodily out of the house. ‘In two days Reid will be returning to St Petersburg—his ship sails on Friday evening.’

  Sasha winced. ‘Please, don’t. We made a terrible mistake and now we must make the best of it. I— I am quite happy to carry on as if—’

  ‘Sasha, you do not strike me as a happy girl, gaily carrying on with her life. I sense your sadness, and I can assure you that Reid is in no better state.’ He glanced keenly at her eyes, lowered and avoiding his. ‘This situation needs to be resolved one way or another.’

  The Brigadier took a step towards them, his voice quite firm. ‘As far as we are concerned, it’s all done and dusted. Nothing more to be considered and we are making the best of it.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Percy’s tone was quite sceptical, and he pressed his case further, urging Sasha, ‘Please, my dear, before the poor boy goes away for God knows how long, just see him, please.’

  ‘I— I…’

  Sensing her hesitation, he continued, ‘He is staying at my house until Friday, on his last few days of furlough before departing for his ship. He could call upon you whenever—’

  ‘That’s quite enough,’ barked the Brigadier sternly. ‘Percy, despite our years of friendship, I must insist that you leave.’

  ‘Oh, Conrad, do shut up!’ Percy snapped, severely annoyed by this display of parental control. ‘Let the poor girl make up her own mind. Sasha, what do you say?’

  Her mind was whirling, with a heady mixture of hope and fear and pain. It was all too much to bear, and with a small sob she snatched her hands from Uncle Percy’s clasp, picked up her skirts and ran from the room, ignoring her father’s frowning disapproval, the soft plea from her mother, and the gaping servants hovering in the hallway.

  In her bedroom she closed the door and flung herself down upon the comfort and safety of her bed. There were no tears, only her ragged gasps for breath and her racing heart, and the haunting, ever-present memory of Reid. She closed her eyes for a moment, yearning suddenly, as though by the mere power of her thoughts she could reach out to him. How empty her life had been without him!

  All that night she lay sleepless in bed, going over and over what Uncle Percy had said. She spent hours talking herself out of the growing insistence at the back of her mind that she must see Reid.

  She awoke on Friday morning feeling overwrought, her head aching and eyes heavy from lack of sleep. She rose from the bed, dressed apathetically and went downstairs. Her father was already seated at the dining table, reading The Times, and not a word was said as she sat down, and a maid brought her a teapot and toast. They ate in silence, and then her father snapped his newspaper closed and departed, the atmosphere thick with tension. She sighed as the door banged behind him, and she poured her tea and sipped slowly from the cup.

  Later that morning she went shopping on Oxford Street, purchasing new gloves and sketch paper, and chocolate peppermint creams from the confectioner’s, returning home for an early lunch with her mother upstairs in her boudoir.

  ‘Your papa has gone out,’ Olga murmured, dipping a crust of bread in her soup. ‘He is most distressed.’

  ‘Why?’ Sasha asked with little interest, staring out as they sat at a small round table set in front of the window overlooking the green le
afy chestnut trees of the square.

  ‘You know why, of course, Sasha dearest.’ Olga waved her hand expansively. ‘All this—this commotion with Uncle Percy about Major Bowen.’

  Her tone of voice reflected the dullness of her eyes as Sasha replied, ‘I doubt that, Mama. It’s more likely he is worrying about a campaign somewhere.’

  ‘Sasha,’ Olga reproved in her smoky voice, reaching for the peppermint creams and popping one in her mouth, ‘that is not a kind thing to say. Your papa worries very much about all you girls.’ For a moment she studied her daughter, who sat so still and silent, gazing out at nothing, at least nothing that Olga could see, as she, too, glanced at the street below and the blue summer sky. After several considering moments, she spoke softly. ‘My dearest, darling Sasha, my beautiful girl, it hurts me to see you like this.’

  Sasha turned her head to look at her mama. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  Olga smiled, her dark eyes fluid with emotion. ‘Do you think that no one sees? That I do not see? The light has gone out of you, ever since you came back from Russia with your Major Bowen.’

  Sasha fiddled with a silver knife, her eyes downcast as she murmured, ‘He is not mine, Mama.’

  ‘What happened, Sasha?’ Her mother spoke gently. ‘I thought it best not to ask, for you are a grown-up young woman and have the right to privacy, but I cannot bear to see you so alone and unhappy. Did he make love to you, Sasha?’

  Sasha frowned, her head jerking up at this intimate enquiry. ‘Mama, what kind of question is that?’