by CL Skelton
‘You, sir?’ Donald was amazed.
‘Aye, laddie. I’ll tell you aboot it, though the telling of it still hurts. It happened thousands of miles from here in China at a place called Taku. We had just fought an action. I was in C Company. We lost a third of our men. It was a hard day. There was a wee drummer boy, Wee Alex we used to call him. I had recruited him myself. Alex came through the action untouched; we had taken the fort and he was standing on a heap of rubble cheering and shouting when he was killed by a falling rock. I remember picking up that wee body and holding him in ma arms and cursing the army which had done that to him. I tell you, Donald, if I had been an officer, I would have been out the very next day. But I was only a sergeant at the time and it is no so easy if you are in the ranks.’
‘But, sir, that was in the heat of an engagement. This morning was just blind violence.’ He paused. ‘I couldn’t take it, sir.’
‘Did Grigor deserve what he got?’
‘Yes, sir, I don’t dispute that.’
‘Donald, listen carefully to what I have to say. It is important to any soldier. I am not a violent man and I know fine that you are not, either. Do you think that the army wants violent men? They do not! The man who died this morning was a violent man, that was why he died, and it was why Sergeant Murdoch died; and Sergeant Murdoch was a good N.C.O., he was not a violent man. You know, Donald, violence never made a good soldier, but a man like you could, and that is why I want you to stay in the regiment.’ He picked up the letter and looked at his son.
‘What shall we do with this, Donald? Until I open it, it does not exist, but once I do, I am bound to act upon its contents … Well?’
‘Sir, I think you had better tear it up.’ He watched as his father ripped the letter deliberately and slowly into fragments and dropped it into the wastepaper basket. ‘I am not fully convinced, sir, but it may be a mistake. You will understand when I tell you that I cannot promise that I shall not resubmit it.’
‘Thank you, Donald, I understand.’ His tone changed:
‘And now, Mr Bruce.’
‘Sir,’ replied Donald, getting to his feet and standing at attention, his feather bonnet under his left arm.
‘This morning you performed your duties in a most unsoldierly manner. You will report to the adjutant and request that he give you three extra orderly officers.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You may go now’ ‒ and as Donald turned to leave him ‒ ‘Tell the adjutant, not tonight. We’re dining with Sir Andrew.’
Chapter Two
Ian Maclaren, the eldest son of the laird, stood at the window of his room on the second floor of the west tower at Culbrech House. Culbrech House was one of those houses peculiar to the Highlands of Scotland. It was a fortified house, neither a castle nor merely a dwelling place but something between the two. It was certainly a home. It had been built several centuries previously by a Maclaren, for the Maclarens, in the days when the clans still raided and fought one another. It had never passed out of their hands, which was a credit both to its builder and to the fortitude of those who for generations had occupied it. It was built of the same Moray sandstone that had been used only a few years ago to build the barracks of the regiment which bore their name.
Ian’s Aunt Maud had once described Culbrech as an upside-down house and this was probably fair comment, coming as it did from an English lady. The house consisted of a large rectangular block, taller than it was long, flanked by two towers. The banqueting hall occupied the whole of the top storey of the centre block. The ground floor, with its six-foot-thick walls, contained the kitchens and the servants’ quarters. The huge iron-studded oak door which stood in the centre of the front of the house led directly into these departments, while the entrance used by the family and guests was a much less imposing affair around the side of the west tower and at the top of a flight of stone steps. The ground-floor windows had been designed with defence in view: they were elongated slits through which a man might fire an arrow or a musket without being seen. As a result there was very little light in the domestic quarters and the gas lamps were always lit. Just above the kitchens and on the first floor was the dining room with its long, polished mahogany table which could seat twenty; the library, which had served the lairds also as a study for the last three generations; the gun room; and in the east tower, or more accurately the south-east tower, the morning room. The towers themselves each contained a narrow stone, spiral staircase which wound its way upward to the bedrooms, piled one on top of the other. Each one of these had a little alcove containing a huge copper bathtub. These tubs now boasted piped water and no longer was a bath something which required an hour’s warning for the servants to clamber up the stairs carrying buckets of steaming water. Above the dining room, the whole of the area of the main block was occupied by the large withdrawing room. Above that and just below the banqueting hall were the two master-bedroom suites consisting of bedroom, dressing room, and a small sitting room. One was occupied by Sir Andrew, Ian’s father, and the other by his grandmother Lady Maclaren.
During the years since the regiment had been formed, the house had acquired a mass of militaria. Everywhere there were old swords and guns and portraits of men in uniform and even children in Highland military dress. There were sketches of actions in which the regiment had taken part and of course the inevitable profusion of ancestors in oils.
The Maclaren estates covered several thousand acres and the people who lived upon them were utterly dependent upon their laird, for that was how it always had been. But Sir Andrew always maintained that the laird was equally dependent upon the people. Not that Sir Andrew did much about the running of the estate; this was all handled very efficiently by Ian’s uncle by marriage, Richard Simpson. The estate was important to Andrew in another way, for almost every family had one or more of their men serving in the regiment and as far as Andrew was concerned, it was the regiment that mattered.
The only part of the estate which really interested Andrew was the four acres which immediately surrounded the house. This area was kept in what must have been one of the finest lawns in the whole of Scotland, bisected by a long, straight, gravelled drive which scythed its way down to the main Beauly road.
It was down this road that Ian was looking to catch the first possible glimpse of the Bruces’ carriage.
He had already changed for dinner into the new and fashionable mess kit only recently authorized by the Queen. Trews in the regimental tartan of blue and green, over-checked with red and yellow, the short red open jacket with twisted epaulettes and yellow facings over a tartan waistcoat, and an uncomfortably stiff starched shirt and high collar.
Ian stood there gazing out of his window, ready to be the first to greet his father’s guests at the door. Lieutenant Maclaren’s keenness did not spring from the very genuine affection in which he held his uncle and C.O., Willie Bruce, but from a strong desire to monopolize the company of Willie’s daughter Naomi, several years his senior, but none the less in Ian’s opinion the most beautiful and charming of God’s creations. What added to her fascination was the mystery that surrounded her.
To start with, the Maclarens and the Bruces all looked alike. They were tall, lean, red or fair in colouring, and with faces that were destined to become craggy and stern as the years took their toll. There were only two exceptions to this; Ian’s grandmother, who was small and round, but fair eyed and, before she had become grey, blonde haired. Naomi, however, was quite different. Her hair was black, not just very dark but black and shining. Her eyes, which should have been blue, were of the deepest brown. Her skin, which should have been white, and sometimes appeared so against the black of her hair, was more the colour of thick Jersey cream, smooth; and though he had never dared to investigate the fact, Ian was sure that it was deliciously soft to the touch. But above all it was her hands. Slender yet full fleshed so that the creases over her knuckles were barely visible. Long tapering fingers accentuated by the smallness of the hands
themselves and always they seemed to be in repose for they always moved with slowness and grace.
Once only had Ian mentioned Naomi to his grandmother, who had replied, ‘Don’t talk about the child.’ And whenever it had appeared that there was a chance to discuss her with his father, Sir Andrew had changed the subject with a complete lack of subtlety. So Ian was left wondering. If it had been his father’s intention to still any interest that he might have had in the lady, he had failed, succeeding only in making her all the more fascinating.
Ian had never known his mother. She had died in India shortly after the birth of his younger brother, Robert, and his father would seldom discuss her. He knew her only from the large portrait which hung in the dining room, a tall, fair, beautiful girl with sad blue eyes. It was strange that he knew so little of her; his father, who was a good friend and affectionate towards his sons, was curiously guarded about her, and Ian always had the feeling that Sir Andrew had a guilty feeling about his late wife.
As for the Bruces, they were family. The colonel had always been Uncle Willie until he became Ian’s commanding officer, and his wife was still Aunt Maud, though he was sure that there was no blood relationship there and the Bruces were uncle and aunt by adoption.
Ian was enjoying the last of a few days’ leave. He had been with his father down to Sandhurst where they had taken young Robert to start his official studies prior to his being accepted into the regiment. Robert would enjoy Sandhurst. He was not a deep thinker like his brother, and would happily comply with all the restrictions that would be placed upon him at that august establishment. The brothers Maclaren and the brothers Bruce had, of course, gone into the regiment. Any other course would have been unthinkable. The regiment was theirs and they were the regiment’s, just as though it had been ordained thus from the beginning of time.
A carriage was turning into the main drive. It was closed against the November cold, but Ian spotted the twin lamps and could visualize the pair of black hackneys which drew it. It was the Bruces’ party. He left his room and went downstairs, timing his move so that he would ‘accidentally’ arrive in the small hall inside the door just as they entered. He could not pre-empt his father’s position as host and be waiting for them at the door.
Sir Andrew Maclaren was in the library on the first floor awaiting the arrival of his guests. He was seated in a wing-backed leather armchair facing the fire, with his peg-leg propped on a small tapestry-topped stool. Andrew was surrounded by shelf upon shelf of leather-bound volumes most of which had never, to his knowledge, been read; indeed many of them still remained with their pages uncut. The Maclarens were not great readers. There was, though, one well-thumbed section, the medical section, which consisted of about thirty volumes. This, army medicine, had been Andrew’s father’s abiding interest. He had spent many years, especially towards the end of his life, working for the cause of army medicine even to the extent of enlisting the aid of the Prince of Wales who himself supported that cause. The medical books were all together on the third shelf behind the big leather-topped desk, his father’s books, and his father’s desk. Andrew often wondered if his father also always thought of that desk as belonging to his own father. Ownership was a strange thing, more a state of mind than anything else.
As in all of the occupied rooms in the house there was a log fire burning in the grate, the logs balanced across a pair of wrought-iron dogs, spluttering away and falling as ash into the bed of ashes which lay six inches deep beneath them. On the sideboard there was a decanter of whisky and four crystal glasses. The decanter was topped up every morning by MacKay, Andrew’s butler. Not that Andrew drank much; apart from anything else, it was too much damned trouble to heave himself out of his chair and stomp over to the sideboard.
He could get around all right, with an effort, but too much standing made his non-existent foot hurt where he had lost his leg just below the knee. As a result he had, during the last few years, lived a rather sedentary life, and had put on quite a bit of weight in the process. He still tried to stalk; he had got a fine stag, a ten pointer, only two days ago. But it was really his ghillie who did it all during the hunts. They would put him on a small Highland pony and he would follow the ghillie until beasts were near. Then he would dismount and crawl the last few yards to take his shot. But that last stag had been a good one, right through the heart, and he had told the ghillie to help himself to a haunch when he butchered it.
He had, when he lost his leg, left the regiment which he had commanded. The Maclarens were a kilted Highland regiment and his pride would not allow him to wear the kilt with a pegleg.
Andrew had had a protracted youth which really ended on that day on the North-west Frontier when his leg had been shot off during his successful rescue of Willie Bruce from the Pathans who were holding him captive. But as he said himself, ‘There was only one place that a Maclaren could serve.’
Now he sat nursing a glass of Glenlivet and awaiting the arrival of his guests. Not that he really regarded Willie Bruce as a guest. In a way he considered Culbrech House as much Willie’s home as it was his own. Maud would be with him, Maud whom he had loved once after he had rescued her in ’fifty-seven at Cawnpore; and who had finally chosen Willie, and in doing so earned Andrew’s respect and eternal friendship. He now felt more at ease with her than he did with his own sister Margaret who with her husband, the factor, really ran the estate.
MacKay, their butler, came into the room. MacKay was getting quite old; Andrew did not know how old, but certainly he must be over seventy. Like nearly all of the men who served in the house, MacKay was a retired Maclaren. He had been senior mess steward with the rank of sergeant when he left the army to go into service. A man proud of his past, straight backed and smart of bearing as befitted an old soldier, he wore his morning coat and striped waistcoat as if it were a military uniform. Indeed all of his buttons were regimental buttons embossed with the head of the wildcat emblem of the Maclaren Highlanders. But age was beginning to tell and, sadly, he would soon have to be pensioned off. One of his buttons was missing and there was a slight dusting of tobacco on his collar.
‘Colonel, sir, I think your guests’ carriage has just pulled into the drive.’
‘Thank you, MacKay,’ replied Andrew, and then, as the older man moved to help him, ‘No, dammit, I can get up by myself.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said MacKay, and stood aside as his master stepped out of the library.
Inside the main door was a small hall or large landing, and it was to this spot Sir Andrew stomped to greet his guests.
Andrew’s second footman, a time-expired Maclaren Highlander, opened the door, and the Bruces came into the house.
Naomi was first. She ran up the stairs and planted a kiss firmly on Andrew’s cheek.
‘Uncle Andrew, lovely to see you, but you shouldn’t have bothered to come to the door. Oh, hello, Ian.’
‘Dammit, I’m not a cripple,’ grunted Andrew as Naomi swept past him.
Then came Maud. Andrew could never look at her without a feeling of nostalgia. She was over forty now but still beautiful. That golden fair hair which he had first seen matted and torn in a cellar at Cawnpore all those years ago; perhaps it was a little less lustrous now but not a lot and still beautiful enough to make any man turn his head. They had been lovers many years ago, even after she had married Willie Bruce. It had been a mad, mad time, but Andrew still found it difficult to regret the memory of it. Once, he could have let Willie die and had her for himself just after his own wife had died; thank God that he had not succumbed to that temptation. Now it was all different, the years had softened passion and turned it into an affection much more deep and more real than youthful lust. It was an affection which had flowed across both of their families and, Andrew liked to think, made them as one, as the regiment was one.
She was wearing dark-green velvet. Somehow she always looked best in green and Andrew always thought of it as Maud’s colour. Strange, he thought, looking at her, that they mi
ght have been married but for the social dictates of society. He often wondered what things would have been like now if that had happened. But now she was coming towards him, assured and calm as ever.
‘Thank you for asking us, Andrew,’ she said, brushing his cheek. ‘You won’t mention this morning?’
‘Think I’m a fool?’ And they smiled at each other and there was understanding in their smiles. ‘Just go through to the drawing room, I’ll come up with Willie. Donald, you and Ian take the ladies through,’ he said to the solemn-faced young man who was approaching him, followed by his father.
Willie grinned at Andrew as he followed his son up the stairs. He knew that Andrew needed help to get upstairs and the drawing room was on the second floor. But he also knew that Andrew carried on a fiction that aid was unnecessary, and only Willie or MacKay were ever allowed to help him.
‘How did it go?’ asked Andrew as the others disappeared up the curving staircase.
‘Not too well. The lad made a mess of it.’
‘Don’t be hard on him, Willie. I think I would have made a mess of it at his age.’
‘Och, no,’ replied Willie. ‘Three orderly officers. But he was quite ready to resign his commission.’
‘Not really. I don’t believe that. I was ready to do that once, but I don’t think I meant it, and I’m sure Donald didn’t. It was just the moment.’
‘I wish I could be sure. He hasna spoken a word since he got home.’
‘Well, I’ll put him next to my mother at dinner. She’ll soon sort him out.’ Andrew put his hand on Willie’s arm. ‘Well, are we going up or not?’
They went up to the drawing room. Lady Maclaren had recently had the whole of this room redecorated. Gone were the dark oak panels and in their place she had had the walls plastered and painted in cream and gilt. It was now furnished with occasional chairs, gilt-framed with light brocade seats and backs. Chintz covered the dark velvet of the easy chairs and the two sofas. All of this combined with the flickering fantailed gas jets recently installed, and the two large crystal chandeliers carrying twenty-five candles each, reflecting the facets of the cut glass surrounding them, gave a bright and airy atmosphere to the room.