by CL Skelton
‘How do I know that I can accept your word?’
‘You don’t,’ he replied. ‘But there are servants in the house and I am not the kind of person who would drag you screaming into the bedroom. At least not in front of witnesses. Shall we go?’
He got out of the brougham and opened the door, taking for granted her acceptance.
She was not quite sure where she was except that she must be somewhere in Mayfair, that island of wealth and the establishment. Where the town houses of the ancient and titled families rubbed shoulders with the homes of ambassadors, foreign diplomats and the self-made tycoons of the industrial revolution. Here, behind closed doors, many decisions which affected the lives of hundreds of millions of people throughout the world were taken. Here many of the parties which were given were not given for entertainment but for information, that most valuable commodity in the mysterious world of secret international diplomacy. Here the Germans, now emerging with their illusions of Empire, would ferret out details of the British naval programme. Here the French and the British eyed each other with outward courtesy and inward suspicion born of centuries of conflict. Mayfair was the seat of real power.
They went up the stone steps to the front door. Then into an entrance hall and Naomi was immediately struck by the obvious opulence of the house. It had a high ornate ceiling, from which hung a polished brass gas chandelier. Two particular items caught her eye, a medieval painting and a huge Chinese vase sitting on a Grecian column of black marble. The whole place breathed of wealth, and the staircase flowed upward to an ornate gallery which led off to the upper reaches of the house.
They were approached by a man in tail coat and black tie, superior and formal, who glanced at Naomi with pallid eyes and downturned lips.
‘Good evening, Watkins,’ said Charles.
‘Good evening, my lord,’ replied Watkins.
‘This is Miss Bruce. We’ll go into the drawing room. Is there a fire there?’
‘Yes, my lord. I think you’ll find it most comfortable,’ replied Watkins, opening a door on their right. ‘Good evening, miss,’ he said as Naomi passed him.
The floor of the hall was all highly polished parquet. When she entered the drawing room, she was conscious of the deep pile of the carpet which was now beneath her feet. The elegance of the soft inviting furnishings, the glitter of the cut-crystal glasses and decanters on the sideboard, and the huge fire burning in a beautiful Adam-green fireplace, gave an almost sensual aspect to the room.
‘I have an excellent Napoleon brandy here if you would care for some,’ said Lord Charles.
‘I think I’ve had enough for tonight,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you have one and I’ll just sit here and watch you while you drink it.’
She seated herself in a silk-brocade-upholstered armchair near the fire. Opposite her was a long, low-backed matching settee, at right angles to the fire. Lord Charles poured out his brandy, came over, and sat in that.
‘I feel that I owe you an apology,’ he said.
‘Whatever for?’
‘My behaviour in the carriage. It was most ungentlemanly. Please forgive me.’
‘I did not object at the time,’ said Naomi. ‘So I was a willing party. I think it was the wine. Your apology is quite unnecessary. I do, however, feel that you owe me an explanation.’
‘I suppose you mean regarding my intentions.’
‘You are a married man. You have invited a single woman into your house alone. Forgive me if I suspect that your intentions are not what gentlefolk would regard as honourable.’
‘I can assure you, my dear young lady, that intentions I have not. Hopes? Yes, but I do not intend anything. As you have obviously found out, I am a married man. I am twenty-five years old and two years ago my parents arranged for me what they considered a good match. I am not the misunderstood husband. There has never been any love in our marriage, though we are good friends and do what we consider to be our duty. To that end, my wife has already produced me one child and another will be coming along within the next few months. She is quite aware that I look for my pleasures outside the marriage bed.
‘Now forgive me for saying this so early in our acquaintance, but I think that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I want you very much. There is nothing I desire more than to form a relationship with you. Perhaps you think that what I am saying is outrageous, but I mean it, every word. I want you to have no doubts about how I would regard our association. I can promise you that the door will always be open. You need never feel trapped. I also give you my word that I shall be most discreet, and in return I should require your promise that you would be likewise.’
Naomi studied him for a moment. ‘Isn’t this all very sudden?’ she giggled. ‘Are you not supposed to take time to work up to this sort of a proposition?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘That is quite true. But we would both know exactly what I desired whether I had spoken as I have or not. So, what is the point? Either you will become my ‒’
‘Mistress?’
‘Quite. Or you will not become my mistress. A few weeks of verbal sparring and play-acting’ ‒ and here he laughed ‒ ‘and hand-clutching in dark corners, are not going to make any difference to the final outcome. I would much rather you were completely aware of what you are letting yourself in for, if you decide to go ahead. Now, shall I ring for Watkins and ask him to have you taken home?’
‘Perhaps,’ replied Naomi, ‘but not for a moment. I want you to be quite silent while I think over what you have said.’
She gazed at him intently, and he, aware of her scrutiny, toyed with his brandy snifter and looked back at her with that faintly sardonic smile never leaving his face.
Now, Naomi Bruce was all woman. As such, she had no intention of going through life being denied all of those things woman’s flesh desires. These were her right as a human being. By an accident of birth, she found herself in the position of the child who was invited to the birthday party, only to be told that the cake was for everyone except her.
This young man who had offered to make her his mistress, she found attractive. But she was totally aware that it was simply healthy womanhood within her which desired him. Whereas she could certainly give him her body, she could never give him herself. It would not be the way it had been with Ian Maclaren. Dear Ian, he was not for her; she had known that from the beginning. She did not have to be told by her stepfather. If she married Ian, all she could offer him would be social ostracism, and she loved him far too much to do that. She feared too that the burden of being married to her would have proved too much too soon. At least, that was what she believed.
Charles was different. As far as she was able to see, this would be an uncomplicated relationship. There was no question of marriage with anyone she had ever met in the circles in which she moved and lived.
She only had to look around the room she was sitting in to see that Charles was immensely wealthy. He could and probably would give her anything she ever wanted in return for her body. Of course, it would not last. In two, four, five, or even ten years, they would tire of each other and he would find someone else, and that would be the end of it.
If she accepted his offer, she realized that she was becoming, in effect, a prostitute. But half the duchesses in London were prostitutes, though they would never see themselves as such. A real prostitute was a damned sight more honest than this society which pretended that sex did not exist and jumped in and out of each other’s beds, behind their opulent locked doors. There was always the possibility of children in such an alliance, but in this Naomi felt fairly safe. As far as she was able to tell, she was not capable of having a child; after all, she would probably have had one by now if she had been. So it was accept this offer or one like it or live a life of celibacy, punctuated by a series of hole-in-the-corner affairs.
Well then, she thought, if I say yes, what do I get out of it, apart from satisfaction in bed? She wondered what he would be willing to pay. S
he felt very cold-blooded in this, but no more so than those who made the rules that made women like her unacceptable in any other way. She smiled as she realized that what they both wanted was simply sex. She, probably, as much as he. But the rules also said that she could call the tune and he must pay the piper.
She smiled again and Charles, sitting opposite her in silence, raised his eyebrows.
‘May I speak now?’ he asked.
‘You may.’
‘Are you ready to talk?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I think I am.’
‘All right, my dear. I await my fate.’ And the mocking smile was there again. ‘Are you going to give me an answer? Now?’
‘I will give you a conditional yes,’ she replied.
‘Conditional? I expected no less.’
‘Yes,’ said Naomi. ‘I am as old as you. I am not a young blushing virgin. If I become your mistress, then I shall have sacrificed whatever chance there remains to me of having a husband and a family.’ She felt that she was being slightly dishonest, knowing how minute the chances of her marrying actually were. ‘But,’ she continued, ‘I am willing to do that if you, for your part, are willing to promise some insurance.’
‘Insurance?’ he said.
‘Yes, Charles, insurance.’
‘I think you had better explain.’
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘First, I am at the moment living in a house which is not mine; it belongs to my uncle. It is just off Sloane Square. A very middle-class neighbourhood where the sort of arrangement that you propose would undoubtedly lead to a deal of gossip. I would require you to give me an establishment of my own; not somewhere to live, but my own property. I would like it to be in Mayfair, preferably overlooking the park.’
‘Do you know what they cost?’
‘A great deal, I have no doubt. Now talking of money, I receive a small allowance from my mother. I would expect that you would supplement this in order to allow me to live in a style that you would expect of your mistress.’ She paused. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘As crystal,’ he said. ‘Go on. I am sure that there must be something else.’
‘There is. It is always possible that, in this sort of a union, a child would result. You will, of course, bear full financial responsibility should such a thing occur. Now, for my part, I will be completely faithful to you except for those periods when you are living in Yorkshire with your wife. Do you consider that fair?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Very well then. On these terms, I will agree to become your mistress. Those are my conditions, the details I will leave to you. Well?’
‘Dammit, I think you’re wonderful. If anyone else had said to me what you have, I’d have booted them out of my house. But you are different. I suspect that there is a very deep reason for what you have said. I shall not pry. Perhaps one day you will be willing to tell me. If you ever do, I shall regard your confidence as a great privilege.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I will make you as happy as I possibly can.’
‘And I you, my dear. I agree to all of your conditions without reservation and in return ‒’
‘In return,’ said Naomi, ‘you will have me. You will have my body. I find you most attractive, but I do not love you. I doubt I ever shall. But I shall give you everything that a woman can give a man whenever it may please you.’
‘You’re quite sure? You won’t change your mind?’ said Charles.
‘Yes, quite sure,’ she said. ‘Now if you would ring for Watkins, I would like to be taken home.’
‘But I thought ‒’
‘But nothing, dear Charles,’ she answered. ‘You may visit me in my new house in Park Lane the day after I move in. Until then, goodbye.’
Chapter Seven
It was the first of March, 1884, the day after the battle. They had, the previous night, moved into the undamaged village of El Teb and found that the wells had not been tampered with. Then, almost as quickly, Graham’s force moved out of the little village and bivouacked about half a mile away. They set up their neat lines of tents, thankful to be away from the few rude, square mud-and-straw buildings which comprised El Teb, together with years of animal droppings and a permanent stench.
Early in the morning, parties consisting of an N.C.O. and about ten men set out to scour the battlefield for any wounded who had been left behind. It was during this that Lance-Sergeant Smith almost ended his promising military career. From the mass of bodies that already stank with the cloying smell of death, a huge Sudanese with a heavy black beard, suddenly arose, a large double-handed sword in his hands.
‘Look oot, sarge!’ shouted a voice.
Smith whipped round and ducked just in time to avoid a blow which would certainly have decapitated him. The Sudanese did not have time for a second attempt, as he was immediately transfixed by four bayonets. After that every Sudanese they came upon was kicked, and, if he showed any sign of life, bayoneted. Private Anderson, who was in Smith’s party, took particular delight in this exercise.
The back-up of the medical teams had obviously done a good job and they found no more of their own wounded, and so the parties made their way back to camp, where they settled down to wait. For what? They did not know.
‘It’s a bugger,’ growled Frankie Gibson, swatting his face and addressing no one in particular, ‘I think the bloody flies must send scouts oot wi’ us and when we bivvy they send home for a’ their relations.’
The men were looking forward with some distaste to the immediate future. There was nothing to do. You can only clean a rifle so much. And there was nothing else in that dreary, yellow, barren country that was the Sudan.
For the Maclarens there was much speculation about what the hell had happened to the second battalion. It was weeks ago now that they should have been reinforced by the second battalion’s commanding officer and the two companies he was supposed to be bringing from India. They never did come; instead of sailing west they had moved up to the Northwest Frontier, much to their disgust. Instead of half of their number, those with the longest overseas service, going home, and the rest of them to the Sudan, it seemed like at least another year of India for them.
The Maclarens were therefore left with just three companies and Major Murray in command. In view of this situation, Murray had been gazetted acting lieutenant-colonel and second-in-command of the first battalion.
Bivouacking in the arid plains of the Sudan was no one’s idea of enjoyment. Officers and men alike suffered the triple purgatory of heat, flies, and boredom. But for one man in their battalion, these things did not matter. For him there was only worry and shame.
Gordon Bruce had seen the incident during the battle for El Teb when his brother had failed to fire on the Sudanese who had broken through and into the square. This was something beyond his comprehension. Gordon, though he would not have put such a name to his actions, had conducted himself in a gallant and soldierly manner throughout the action, though he had not been within the area where the hand-to-hand fighting had occurred. But he had been not far away and had seen Donald trembling in the face of the threatening Sudanese before the R.S.M. had bayoneted him.
Gordon did not know what to do. Should he tackle his brother? Should he go and ask him why? There had to be some explanation for his conduct. But it was difficult, for Donald was not only his brother, he was also his superior officer, and the tradition that one did not question one’s superiors in matters military had been bred into Gordon from birth.
As for Donald, he kept himself very much to himself. He was faced with the constant nightmare of what would happen next time, for there would surely be a next time. After El Teb, he knew that he could not kill. He had stood there awaiting the sword, his flesh cringing at the thought of his own death, knowing that he only had to pull the trigger and he would be safe. But he could not do it. He could not do it because even his own death would be preferable to taking the life of a fellow human.
Gordon, as
soon as he joined the battalion, had realized that something had happened to his brother. The extroverted young man who, after three years of playing at soldiers at Sandhurst, had won the Sword of Honour, no longer existed. He was now a man who shunned all company, even of his brother officers, and was regarded as a nonentity by the men. If only Donald would speak to him about whatever it was. But Donald was silent, keeping his own company with his own thoughts, remembering Jimmy Grigor, staying alone in his quarters and coming out only for meals or when parades were ordered.
The differences between Gordon and his elder brother were mostly a question of degree. Gordon was one and a half inches shorter than Donald. Gordon could run a hundred yards in twelve seconds, Donald could run it in just over eleven. At musketry if Gordon got a one-and-a-half-inch group, then Donald would get a one-and-a-quarter-inch group. For most of his time at Sandhurst, Gordon had been reminded constantly by his instructors of how well his brother had done. This could have caused resentment but it did not, for ever since they had been children together Gordon had tried to copy Donald in everything he did. The longest separation they had ever had had been that between the time Donald left Sandhurst and the day Gordon joined the battalion. It was after this that the change in their relationship had become so noticeable. Donald had always helped him along. Gordon had always been able to go to Donald with any problem, however small, assured of a sympathetic hearing. But now all that had changed; Donald just did not seem to want to know him. The difference between them at Sandhurst had been the same as that which had existed throughout their lives, the difference between the good and the excellent. Now excellence had nothing to do with it and Gordon, who was basically a good, reliable regimental officer, keen and willing to learn, could, for the first time in his life, find no communication with his brother.
They had been at El Teb for almost two weeks when Major-General Sir Gerald Graham, V.C., called his officers to conference. The general was a small man, about five foot eight with a slightly greying moustache at which he constantly tugged while addressing his audience. He had a fine record of bravery and aggression in action, having won his V.C. in the Zulu Wars. He also had what was then an unusual attribute: he firmly believed in taking his officers into his confidence before any action. No great strategist, he was nevertheless regarded as a safe, reliable commander.