by May Woodward
BLOSSOM
of
WAR
May Woodward
Copyright © 2018 May Woodward
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
Matador
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks
ISBN 9781789012958
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
for Karen
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It has never been established who was responsible for the disaster at Balaclava. Nolan is the only one who probably knew the truth, but he died in the engagement. The behaviour of the grotesque crowd on Saupon Hill might have had something to do with it.
‘War tourism’ was quite common in the 19th Century. I have not invented Lord Raglan’s Gallophobic gaffes.
Any reader who regards the Smoky Mountain subplot as farfetched should check out The Believers by Adam Lebor. The Aubrey-plot, meanwhile, was inspired by the Tichborne case which gripped mid-Victorian England.
All the characters in this story are fictional apart from the well-known public figures. They include Timmy the Tortoise, the last surviving veteran of the war, who passed away in 2004 at the age of 165.
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
PROLOGUE
1849
‘Let me in! Oh, help me, Miss Honeywell! Let me in… please…’
The girl’s small fists hammered the huge front door.
‘Don’t leave me out here, Miss Honeywell! I’ll do whatever you want! But please let me in! Let me in! Please!’
Her screams were not answered. From indoors came no sound.
‘Miss Honeywell – I cannot breathe! I’m choking!’ She took gasping breaths. ‘Please hear me – ’
Her wails waned into hiccupping sobs. One more time she battered the door. Her nails scratched track-marks in the ancient, brass-studded oak beams. She slumped to her knees – then passed out upon the marble flagstones of the mansion’s colonnade.
High above, to the side of the jutting portico, a window snapped open. Out stuck a female head.
‘You may come in when you’ve learned your lesson,’ the woman called down. ‘Six months, now, you’ve been moping indoors, Miss Clemence. It’s not natural. Learn the hard way, Clemmie. Discipline!’
The governess wasn’t finished. Yet she halted – the doorstep drama had an audience.
Two men were striding up the carriage-sweep towards the grand façade of Eardingstowe. Aged in their early twenties, wearing belted Norfolk jackets and leather bluchers, hunting guns were slung over their shoulders.
‘What the devil…?’ said one. Face down in the porch the unconscious twelve-year old lay, flashing white pantalettes beneath a flouncy frock with its sash tied in a bow. ‘Dickon, what the devil’s this? That’s your sister, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is!’ Sir Richard Somerlee raised astonished eyes to where the woman stood framed in the window.
Both men dumped their guns. Across the remainder of the lawn they sprinted.
Slimmer and fitter than the baronet, Lord Brandon Fanshawe got there first. He laid gentle hands on the girl’s shoulders, then lifted a wrist and checked for a pulse.
Richard stopped at the base of the colonnade, one foot on the first step. He scowled up at the governess.
‘Miss Honeywell! Explain yourself, madam. What have you done to Clemence?’
‘Sir Richard.’ The female stood tall, chin up, ready to defend herself. ‘I thought this might cure Miss Clemmie of this strange affliction…’
‘Oh, my God! You foul creature! You could have killed her – ’
The baronet’s friend looked up.
‘She’s breathing, Dickon. But her pulse is slow. Shall I carry her inside and send for a doctor?’
‘Yes…’ Richard heaved a great sigh. ‘But the doctor won’t be able to help, Fanny.’
The other man cradled and rocked the slip of a thing. His face was horror-struck.
‘What on earth is wrong with your sister?’
‘We don’t know, Fanny.’ Richard ran a hand through his thick, fair hair. He glared one more time at the governess – worried, now, that she might be in trouble for this. ‘Don’t you realise how serious this is, Miss Honeywell?’ he snapped. ‘Clemence could die if she is forced to go outside the house. She cannot breathe!’
The woman wasn’t looking so sure of herself now.
‘Sir Richard – I only did what I thought best for the young lady…’
‘Yes, and damn near killed her, woman!’ Richard flung out an arm towards her. ‘Good God, suppose my little brother Aubrey had been here to witness this! I’d have him fretting with nightmares! You know how very close he and Miss Clemmie are. Get out of my sight, Miss Honeywell! I’ll speak to you properly later.’
Shoulders heaving, he mounted the steps. He crouched beside his companion and the little one in his arms.
‘Clemmie has not been outside the house since Pater died, Fanny. She took his death very badly – coming so soon after Mater’s.’
‘But that was January!’ Lord Brandon Fanshawe gazed around at flowerbeds buzzing with insects, parkland trees in full leaf, sparkling sun, and deep blue sky almost cloudless.
‘As I told that blasted governess… tormentress might be a better word for her, Fanny… it isn’t that Clemmie doesn’t want to leave the house. She cannot. One step outside and everything starts spinning, so she tells us. She says it is as if the whole world is closing in – suffocating her.’ The baronet swung his hands together like a trap. ‘Sometimes she cannot even breathe…’ Richard stroked a few strands of hair from Clemence’s face. ‘I’m going to dismiss that woman for this.’
Brandon looked from Richard to the girl. He
r head drooped over Brandon’s elbow. Her ringlets, which were the same light blonde as her big brother’s hair, dangled on Brandon’s knee.
His eyes rose to the time-darkened wood – such a massive portcullis the great front door of Eardingstowe seemed if in front of it you were kneeling – and the scratches so lately grooved there.
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘That she is hysterical, of course. And agrees with Miss Honeywell that we should just shut her outside and snap her out of it.’
‘That’s barbaric, Dickon!’ As Clemence began to stir, Brandon caressed her brow with a finger.
‘I agree, Fanny,’ Richard said. ‘But then Dr Moffitt’s probably never encountered a case like it before. I don’t know anyone who has.’ The master of Eardingstowe leaned one arm upon his thigh and gave a nervous cough. ‘Clemence was like this once before. Trapped inside for over a year, then. But she recovered, eventually. We prefer to keep it quiet, Brandon. I’m sure I can rely on your discretion, can’t I, dear chap? You’re my good friend, aren’t you? We don’t want an affliction like this in the family being broadcast abroad. I mean… well… won’t do our reputation much good, will it?’
The other man tutted – sounded very like disgust to Richard. But he had cause to be worried, damn it. The Somerlee family was said to be cursed with mental infirmity. Some tainted ancestors passed on their syphilis; the Somerlees bequeathed their mad-blood. And these little frailties weren’t helpful when you were seeking a peerage. Or maybe they were! But should he think twice about dismissing Miss Honeywell… a lady in possession of rather damaging inside knowledge…?
Brandon Fanshawe got to his feet. He lifted the limp featherweight. Two blue eyes were struggling to open.
Had the wretched soul been meaning to sup from the cess-pool? Oh, Jeannie Mac…
The boy had at first thought the crumpled form, sprawled across his way on the riverbank, was a discarded sack; and then realised it was in fact an old starveling who had expired where he’d fallen.
Och, that was old Jarvis, the lad thought, as he looked closer and recognised the potato-sack cloak. Someday soon they’ll break yer man’s legs so we can toss him into the midden-pit and be rid of his stink. With a name like Jarvis I’m guessing he had English blood. Better off without him we are. Why could it not just be the likes of him who die and not those who are really missed, like my ma…?
The boy listened to the talk of the grown-ups, one of whom was his father. The two men were trying to catch something to eat. But there wasn’t much life even in the waterways these days.
‘Seamus! I’m offering you a neighbourly warning I am. The Somerlees are for throwing you out – all of ye, childer and all. And then you’ll be off to Americay like all the rest.’
‘Aye,’ the father of the listening youngster said. ‘Rather starve in a Yankee wigwam than an Irish hovel, so they would. And eaten by buffaloes if the coffin-ships don’t do for ‘em. I’ll take my chance with our Somerlee landlords, Ruari.’
The boy was gazing upstream towards the waterfall. The cascade strewed spray and ephemeral rainbows as it pounded the rocks. On the bank above its foaming pool an outcrop stood: toadstool rocks piled one upon another as if a giant had abandoned his counting-house long ago.
‘You know,’ the first man was saying, ‘in my travels I passed through Connemara. Saw a pile of dead all stacked like those there rocks, so I did. At least the Irish flies are getting fat. Then this old hag comes creeping up and takes a bite out of one!’ The man touched the horseshoe nailed to the nearest tree trunk to ward off witchcraft.
‘They say there’s food in the towns, Seamus. The Dubliners hide their grain up their arses. Or England maybe? They’re supping and farting well enough. And there’s good work there. Talking of Sir Dickon Somerlee, Kilara’s phantom landlord. I worked a season in me youth in a mill his family owns. Great, black cavern of a place in that cauldron of the devil they call Manchester. Ah, but the wages…’
The child watched the waters making whirlpools of dead leaves as they were sucked towards the Shannon confluence where this subject-stream paid homage to its overlord.
The Somerlee clan owned the whole caboodle. Everything and everyone hereabouts which the eye could see. Yet never came. Absentee landlords, who from whatever English palatial pile they called home turned families out to starve for want of a shilling they’d never miss…
1853
Four years later
ONE
The soprano finished Oh, giusto cielo!…Il dolce suono on a high F natural. Applause broke out. In the change of scene which followed, a vocal murmur hummed around the theatre’s auditorium.
‘You said you would let me know your answer, Aunt Lizzy. What a fine idea of James’s – you and I to go with the hussars when the troops sail!’ Clemence gave a tiny thrilled shiver and smiled from behind her fan.
On stage meanwhile, the new scene was set in the castle. Real flame sconces lit up the great hall. Their illumination splayed out over the audience. Diamonds and perspiration were glistening on Lysithea’s slender neck and shoulders.
‘I really don’t know, Clemmie. Dickon, what do you think?’ The countess turned to the man sitting on her other side.
‘I’ve told you, Aunt Lizzy,’ said Richard. ‘I have no objection to your travelling to the war. Can’t come to much harm.’
‘No! We’ll be with Aubrey,’ said Clemmie, ‘and Captain Swynton.’
‘I mean, sister dear, the army won’t come to much harm,’ Richard said, raising a brow. ‘Heaven help the Russkies though. Not that I could stop you doing whatever you want anyway. Well, you’ll be seventeen in just two months.’
‘You won’t be my lord and master any more soon,’ said Clemence with a teasing look in her light blue eyes. ‘It’s James who will tell me what to do.’
‘Not even a brave hussar would dare, Clemmie. I feel certain James Swynton will be a meek and dutiful husband to you.’
Clemence laughed.
‘Please remember that I followed the drum with Wellington’s army.’ Lysithea sighed. ‘It wasn’t all romance, chicken.’
‘But you do have some fond memories of the war,’ Clemence said. ‘Oh, Aunt, the hardships will make it an adventure!’
‘We aren’t at war yet, sweet one.’ Lysithea fanned herself. ‘In truth, Clemence, I feel sure it’ll be settled without battle. I hope! Poor old Raglan ain’t a Wellington.’
‘No… could be quite farcical!’ Richard said. ‘It likely hasn’t sunk in that the Iron Duke’s dead. The old nincompoop might consult him.’
‘Well, I adore a farce,’ said Clemence. ‘Was Lord Raglan that distinguished gentleman you talked with at the ball last week, Aunt?’
‘You mean the one-armed old codger?’ Richard said. Clemence fanned hard. She’d tried not to notice the disfigurement. ‘If we do go to war, he’ll be Field Marshal. Deaf as a post and thinks we’re still fighting the Frenchies. It was Boney had his arm of course. Seemed to show a bit of interest in you, Aunt Lizzy, eh?’
‘Ah, but you see,’ said Clemence, casting her relation a sidelong, admiring look, ‘Aunt Lizzy is very beautiful.’
‘She’s a wealthy widow, Clemmie!’ Richard gave a snort of laughter.
‘Oh, really, Richard!’ said Lysithea.
‘Yes, Dickon, that’s mean!’ Clemence scowled. ‘Aunt Lizzy would turn all heads in a room if she hadn’t a penny to her name!’
‘And you’re no better, Clemence!’ the countess went on.
‘Oh, but it’s true, Aunt!’
The stories Clemence had heard about Aunt Lysithea. It was said she’d driven Napoleon wild with desire. Some said she’d been his mistress. In legend there had once been a nymph named Lysithea who in his passion for great Jupiter had turned into a lusting beast. Had a bovine Emperor done so too?
Lysithea turned to her w
ith a serene smile.
‘Nothing I say will dissuade you from this adventure you have in mind. And, in a way, maybe it’ll do you good, dearest.’
‘Aunt, you mean yes? We can go?’
Lysithea said ‘aye’ with a sound of weary resignation. But what joy. Clemence wafted her fan.
The girl cast her eyes all around the theatre before and behind her: rows of flapping fans, and medals and jewels winked in the dimness. While nothing was happening on the stage, some opera glasses were focussed on the galleries. The Duke of Ardenne’s was the notable party here this evening.
She wondered where James was. Somewhere out on the town with his fellow officers. He and her brother Aubrey were in the same regiment, and bosom bows.
‘I’ll look after him for you, Clemmie, never you fear,’ Aubrey had teasingly told her. Shame James did not care for the opera, though, and had declined to come with her instead.
In the stalls, silence fell. Clemence turned back to the stage as the piece resumed.
What did Captain James Swynton care for, she found herself wondering? Would he wish to play duets with her on her beloved keyboards when they were married?
Yet, no… ‘Sorry – can’t hit a right note,’ James had guffawed. But she could tinkle away on the piano if that’s what she liked. Himself, he loved a bracing walk in the Broads; fresh air and wind in the hair – except after a repast, of course; preferred to let his dinner settle.
‘Oh no.’ Clemence had let out a small cry; she hated open spaces, even feared the outdoors sometimes.
‘How very odd.’ James had raised his brows. He’d beamed, however, and given her hand a little pat. ‘You’ll love my cook’s honey cakes, and marzipan, though.’
They must have something in common, surely? She loved him. This chortling, rather rotund, ruddy-faced soldier who’d swept her off her feet at her début ball. A maidie from deepest Somerset, fresh in town for the season… James Swynton was the only suitor she had known.