Blossom of War

by May Woodward

  Amathia pressed her lips to the top of his head in a light kiss.

  Richard eyed her through his tears.

  ‘Why the concern for me, dearest one? Aren’t you glad to see me in dire straits?’

  ‘You know, husband – I hated you so much when I was younger, I used to fanaticise about something like this happening to you. If you succumbed to some winter chill tomorrow, of course all this would be mine… Eardingstowe, the estate, Carswell’s Mill… mine, all mine… at least until Edmund comes of age, which won’t be until 1891.’

  ‘Hmm… how tempting for you!’

  ‘Except that now I see it isn’t going to work out that way, if you’re in trouble with the law, Dickon.’

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure whether fraud is still a hanging offence.’

  ‘Even if not… you’re ruined, aren’t you? You’ll lose Eardingstowe, your title, everything, won’t you? The estate will be forfeit.’

  ‘I expect so, yes.’

  ‘So, the children and I would be destitute! We’d have to depend on the goodwill of some distant, well-wishing relation taking us in out of charity.’

  ‘Quite. Makes me realise why some women want the vote!’

  ‘How long has this been going on, Dickon?’

  ‘Years…’ he sighed.

  ‘Dickon,’ Amathia fondled his hand, ‘everything started going wrong for us when Aubrey came home, didn’t it? So… maybe… if he went away again, things might be good once more.’

  Richard stared at her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  His lady waved a graceful hand.

  ‘We cannot wipe out the disgrace of Smoky Mountain. And you’ll always have the reputation of a fool, come what may. But Aubrey could save your neck.’

  ‘Just what are you suggesting, Amathia?’

  Amathia cupped Richard’s face in both hands. She looked deep into his eyes.

  ‘We could fashion evidence, couldn’t we, that Aubrey mired himself in debt over Smoky Mountain? And even that he was the one behind Smoky Mountain and duped you! Years ago, if need be, before he went away to war. You always said he had the reputation of a spendthrift, didn’t you?

  ‘Suppose Aubrey was to meet with an accident at Kilve Cliff… well, you are Justice of the Peace for these parts, Richard. Who would gainsay a verdict of suicide? We might have to buy off persons like Boscawen maybe…’ she finished on a shrug.

  Suddenly, a rattling and squeaking rent the air outside the window. Amathia let out a startled gasp. Her look shot towards the source of the disruption.

  The letter-carrier could be made out through the blizzard. He was approaching along the carriage-sweep – pedalling a contraption. The large wheel at the front churned the snow like butter.

  ‘Goodness! What on earth is that?’ Amathia cried.

  The silent Richard stirred himself to look.

  ‘It’s called a “bicycle”, Amathia. Don’t it look ridiculous? Doesn’t go faster than a horse and takes a lot more effort to ride, although I suppose it eats less hay. The world’s a crazy place today.’

  She smiled weakly.

  ‘When there’s no way out, and you’ve no option but to continue onwards, whatever lies ahead and whate’er the cost… “Cannon to right of them, Dickon. Cannon to left of them. Cannon in front of them…”’

  ‘“Into the mouth of Hell rode the six hundred!”’

  She smoothed away sweaty strands of hair from his brow.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me to the nursery, Dickon? The nursemaid Kate tells me Ned rolled himself over for the first time this morning. Another three months and he’ll be crawling. Our little prodigy is going to have a great future, Richard, and I shan’t let anyone stop him.’

  ‘Clemmie, do you recall that old fisherman who used to live in the shack at the foot of the cliff? Warned us children to stay away because at high tide the water came almost to the threshold – and Jenny Greenteeth had been seen there sometimes.’

  ‘Ah, yes! But you and I were curious, as always, Aubrey… snuck in one night… and found the old rogue counting his smuggler contraband!’

  Clemence ambled her way around the Somerlees’ beach cottage, flicking at months’ worth of dust. The little retreat was not far from the path to Kilve. In summer, the family came for fishing and boating trips or picnics on the cliffs, even an adventurous night or two out.

  In the dark months of the year, though, the property stood unused. A seaweed smell hung in the musty air. Clemence gave the cushion on the seat in the oriel window a sturdy brush. There she settled, looking out over the waves.

  Michael lit the candle in the lamp. Amber light furled into the corners and chased away the shadows. Earthenware, pots and kettles gleamed on shelf and mantelpiece. Upon one wall hung an anchor.

  ‘I thought to bring along a supply of flints to get the stove going. And some clean goblets! And cider. I knew there’d not be much of a welcome here at this time of year.’

  ‘That sounds good, Aubrey.’

  ‘It’s a good place for us to meet though, Clemmie. Away from Eardingstowe, and Dickon and Mathy.’

  Michael softly crossed the rug and bare floorboards to where the Somerlee woman sat. He handed her cider which he’d heated up.

  She began to drink. He stood over her as she did. The warm liquid began to colour up her cheek. One Saxon-gold ringlet dangled against a sinewy, breakable neck.

  Her eyes flickered shut and open, and shut again. She must be slipping away into drowsiness.

  Michael fingered her hand – so lightly that a dozer would believe it no more than a dust mote. His touch slid up her wrist. Leaning close, he was about to brush an airy kiss on the side of her face.

  Seabirds shrieked around the chimneystacks. Seawater battered the glass as a mega-wave crashed upon the rocks.

  But Clemence wasn’t asleep. She dashed for the fireplace. Up swept the poker – aimed at his heart.

  ‘I’ll use this poker – I swear I will – if you lay another finger on me. We know who you are… Michael McFarland!’

  Michael sank into the window-seat she’d vacated.

  ‘Aunt Lizzy’s met with Father Cassidy. He’s identified you from a recent photograph. And he’s willing to sign an affidavit. We know you faked your own death after you ran away blubbering from the battle of Gettysburg. We could get you hanged for desertion and cowardice if nothing else. And we know it was you behind Smoky Mountain!’

  For a long while, he stared at the termagant with the pointy weapon.

  He began to laugh.

  ‘All right, then. Game’s up!’ He set his head on one side, studying her. ‘Is that what you’re going to do then, you and Lizzy? See me hanged?’

  Clemence relaxed and lowered her weapon.

  ‘Funnily enough… Michael!… no. For what it’s worth… most of those who’ve lost money in your little fraud probably deserve it. And that includes Dickon.’ She took a step towards him. ‘And what was done to you and your family back in Ireland was terrible. I’m very ashamed… Michael! Listen! If you want to go on being Aubrey, and enjoying your fame and fortune, then Lizzy and I are willing to turn a blind eye. We’ll say nothing. Just as long as you don’t hurt any member of the family any more than they have been already. Does that sound fair?’

  Michael sat back in the seat.

  ‘Have you asked yourself why you doubted for so long that I was Aubrey? Was it because you fancied me that you realised I couldn’t be your brother? Ah, Clemence – deep down, did you?’

  ‘No…’ she replied, thoughtfully. ‘I’m such a fool I think I did believe in you – or at least I was in turmoil over it for many, many months. My aunt searched high and low for my brother, even spoke with the Russian high command. If Aubrey’d been a prisoner we’d have found him. I think he died – the Serbs murdered him and disposed of
his body somewhere that he would never be found to shame them.’

  She stepped to the centre of the rug to look hard at him.

  ‘We’ve always thought Isabella was the scatterbrain of the family, but on this occasion she showed more wit than Richard or me. She saw through you straight away, you know. As soon as she saw you in Vienna. She knew you weren’t Aubrey.’

  ‘Yes… that I gathered. Fancied me something rotten, though. Playing along with my deception was her way of getting inside my breeches.’

  ‘Quite! You know, I don’t believe it was your so-called memories that made me and Dickon and the others so uncertain. I think it was the fact that Bella seemed so convinced – that’s what persuaded the rest of us.’

  ‘The madness of crowds…’ Michael muttered, and smiled.

  ‘But now Bella has come to Aunt Lizzy and me in tears. Because she’s with child. Everyone knows it can’t be Lord Markham’s – not while his taste runs for young men rather than his wife.’

  ‘So, what do you expect me to do about it? Even if Markham divorces her, I can hardly marry a woman the world thinks is my sister.’

  ‘No… no, I realise that.’

  The two stared at each other for a long interval.

  ‘Isabella has been an awful flirt for years. You aren’t the first to get her in the family way, you know. There were two others. Lord Markham isn’t foolish enough to imagine he could pass them off as his own. So, he spirited her away to some remote estate of his, then paid a tenant whose wife was expecting to pretend they’d had twins.’

  Michael slowly got to his feet. He collected his overcoat.

  ‘All right. I’m on my way, Clemence.’

  ‘We’ve copied one good idea you had, Michael McFarland,’ Clemence said. ‘Aunt Lizzy has her own spy placed in Dwellan House now. Gathering intelligence on Warburton and his staff to expose their mistreatment of Cassie and the other patients.’

  ‘It’s been nice knowing you, Clemmie.’ A slow, dragging smile came to Michael’s face, and he laughed. ‘And for what it’s worth… you I really wanted.’ He crossed to the exit. There – he paused, hand on the open door, and looked back.

  ‘There’s just one thing I’d like to tell you,’ he said. ‘When the story was first in the newspapers last summer… Cornet Somerlee found after all these years… one newspaper mentioned the Earl of Cardigan. Said Cardigan had been to Vienna a year or two ago and found the man with no name being cared for at Klosterneuburg Priory. And Cardigan was convinced this man was Cornet Somerlee… said he had Cornet Somerlee’s sword.

  ‘Well… I never saw Cardigan. I was never in Klosterneuburg. And I didn’t claim to have Aubrey’s sword – I figured he’d have been robbed of his valuables, see! Whoever it was Cardigan saw in the priory… it wasn’t me, Clemmie.’

  Michael smiled a final farewell, went out and shut the door.

  She rode at a gallop over the headland and through the lanes to Eardingstowe – desperate to see Dickon.

  But a tweenie Clemence did not know answered the door. How far Eardingstowe must have sunk that a between-maid was doing the butler’s job. Sir Richard and Lady Amathia were not at home, the girl said. Clemence might leave her card if she wished.

  ‘Please! You must tell Sir Richard to see me or the countess as soon as possible. It’s urgent!’

  But that was the most she could manage.

  She returned to the road. There would be snow soon, she thought, looking up at the darkening sky. A sense of dread was also falling.

  And what more calamities could descend, hey? Her brother Carrie had drowned in the Eardingstowe mere, Richard’s life was in tatters, the Somerlees in disgrace the length of the land – even Lysithea had not been invited to Marlborough House the Christmastide just gone.

  Philo was horribly dead; and Clemence found she had cared for him – in a way. Enough to miss never bantering with him again… laughing with him, damn it. Liking being with him… as much as she did Fanny, truth be told.

  The beautiful city of Paris was starving, France facing ruination at the hands of the vengeful Prussians. Now 1871 to come would see Clemence’s sister bring a half-Irish bastard into the world.

  Clemence looked up at sound of clumsy hoof beats heading her way.

  Mr Shankly passed her, hurrying his pony along the lane in the direction of Kilve. She waved and called out to him.

  ‘Miss Clemmie!’ he said as he looked back and saw her.

  She smiled to herself. At least someone didn’t call her “Your Grace” – he’d known her as Miss Clemmie all her life.

  He must be one of the last parish constables in England since Sir Robert Peel had introduced the police force. Lived above the Eardingstowe lock-up where poachers, thieves and other wrongdoers were kept before being handed over to the baronet. The constable’s ornate truncheon hung above the lintel. But Mr Shankly was eighty-three; after him, Clemence guessed, there would be no more of his ilk.

  ‘Is the Taunton road still open, Mr Shankly? I’m staying at Dwellan House overnight, and it looks like snow.’

  ‘Still open, Miss Clemmie. But ‘ee’d best get going, m’dear. Tis late, see. I’d come part way with ‘ee… see you safe on your road. But I’m summoned to the cliff top. Been an accident, so I’m told.’ He looked that way with a worried frown.

  ‘Well, I’ll not keep you, Mr Shankly.’

  Clemence watched after the constable until he disappeared behind the wall of St Laurey’s.

  She walked her mount through the gate in the lane which led into the Taunton road, and began to ride the bridle path. The Quantocks were bruise-coloured shadows in the cloudy distance.

  The Earl of Cardigan, who had known Aubrey well, believed he had met him? Didn’t wish to tell the Somerlees for fear of raising their hopes?

  “He did not know his own name or where he had come from, nor did he know me,” Lord Cardigan reported, “but I was sure he was Cornet Somerlee, and the sword was certainly genuine. But maybe I scared him, for when I returned – in great excitement – sadly, he had vanished again.”

  And now Cardigan was dead, and his knowledge with him.

  But whoever it was Cardigan saw was not the impostor McFarland?

  Was this that cruel trickster’s final vengeance on the woman who rejected his loving charms? Or was it true?

  The first snowflakes began to fall. She drew her cloak tighter and shielded her face. Soon there were more and more snowflakes until she could barely see her way ahead.

  And now McFarland, too, had vanished into the blizzard.

  Gone, then, just like Aubrey. And maybe he, too, would one day come back.