by V. A. Stuart
“Lord Cardigan’s patrol has just returned, sir,” Alex said. “I met some of his men on my way here. His lordship appears to have knocked up a great many of his horses and the men are in little better shape. But he must surely have brought back much useful information, he’s covered a lot of ground. A sergeant informed me that they reconnoitered the edge of the Dobruja. Do you suppose the marshal would listen to his report?”
“St Arnaud places reliance only on reports from his own patrols. And”—the colonel’s tone was dry—“he has no very high opinion of Cardigan.” He lay back on his cot, arms folded behind his head, and gave vent to a tired yawn. “I fear there’s nothing to be done, Alex. But . . . on a happier note. I made the acquaintance of the Lady Charlotte Cassell and Miss Emma O’Shaughnessy at General Canrobert’s soirée . . . two exceptionally charming young ladies, if I may say so.” He avoided Alex’s gaze, staring thoughtfully up at the roof of his tent. “I had made a promise to call on them this morning but, as I’ve told you, I had a more urgent call to make at the French camp. So I had to postpone the pleasure. However, I sent them two good little horses, as a gift—hearing that they had none and were, in consequence, confined to their quarters. I sent also a young Greek, by the name of Constantin Nitulas, who had been recommended to me as honest and reliable, to act as their dragoman. He delivered this letter to me, a short while ago.” William Beatson took the letter from his pocket. “Perhaps you would care to read it. They are pleased with the horses, evidently.”
Alex read the letter. It had been penned by Emmy expressing her gratitude and Charlotte’s very gracefully. The horses, she said, would be a joy—they were about to set off on them, to pay a visit to Mrs Duberly. And to have a servant who spoke English and was both pleasant and willing was, in Emmy’s own words, “a luxury beyond belief.” Alex smiled as he read the brief little note and returned it to its owner. “That was good of you, sir . . . and as Emmy O’Shaughnessy says, extremely generous also.”
“A pleasure, my dear Alex. I was much taken with the little Miss Emmy and talked to her for a while last evening. She has wit and intelligence and rare spirit.” The colonel’s eyes were on him now and Alex returned the look, his expression carefully blank. “She has not her sister’s striking beauty, perhaps, but nevertheless I found her enchanting. I imagine that you will be calling on them, now that you’re here . . . .” It was as much a statement as a question. “When you do so, be so kind as to express my regret at my inability to pay my own promised call on them and explain the reason for my absence in Shumla.”
“Yes, of course I will, sir,” Alex agreed. He was uncomfortably aware of the older man’s continued scrutiny. “I last saw Emmy when she was a child of fourteen. And Charlotte—”
“When you were engaged to be married to her?” William Beatson suggested. Alex inclined his head reluctantly.
“Yes, Colonel. On that occasion I was compelled to break my engagement to her and I have not seen her since.”
A kindly hand was laid on his shoulder. “I can appreciate, now that I have met her, what your loss has been, Alex my friend . . . and how keenly you must have felt it.”
“She has since married someone else, sir.”
“So I understand. Her husband, as I learnt from Miss Emmy, is at present up-country buying horses with Edward Nolan, the date of his return here uncertain.”
“Phillip Dunloy informed me of it,” Alex managed. “He asked me to look after them until he returned from his patrol. But presumably he’s back now . . . I heard he was on his way.”
“Which should lighten your task, Alex . . . and absolve you from sole responsibility for their care.”
“Yes, sir, it should.” Alex did not pretend to misunderstand him and reddened. Then, recalling the message he had been charged to deliver from General Scarlett, he broke the little silence that had fallen between them. “My news is better than yours, sir. I lunched today with General Scarlett who commands the Heavy Cavalry Brigade and he’s offered me an appointment to his staff. He is anxious to make a similar offer to you as soon as you are free of your Turkish commitments and asked me particularly to tell you so. He has the highest opinion of you, sir, and told me that he had great need of an officer of your experience to serve him as adviser.”
A look of almost ludicrous astonishment on William Beatson’s face was succeeded, an instant later, by one of pleasure.
“Upon my word, Alex,” he exclaimed,“I did not imagine that any of the British generals would go so far as to offer me employment! I went, cap in hand, to Lord Raglan, who turned me down as courteously but just as uncompromisingly as he turned down my Bashi-Bazouks. Lord Lucan’s refusal was not even courteous. He is a strangely embittered man and I fear I struck him in an evil mood. He told me he had no division to command and therefore needed no more staff than he was burdened with at present and added that, if he did, he would not recruit them from the Indian army! This is indeed good news you have brought me.” He rose. “I’m dining with Nasiri Bey but I shall pay a call on General Scarlett this evening.”
“In order to accept his offer, sir?”
“My dear fellow, do you take me for a fool? Of course I’ll accept it, with the deepest gratitude.”
“I’m glad,” Alex told him, with sincerity. He met the older man’s shrewd and searching blue eyes without flinching. “And I, sir,” he said, “shall call on Lady Cassell and Miss O’Shaughnessy this evening, in order to pay my respects and deliver your message.”
CHAPTER FIVE
EMMY WAS ALONE in the small living-room of the house in the Street of the Silversmiths, endeavoring to effect some repairs to her riding habit, when Constantin, their newly acquired Greek dragoman, came in to announce a visitor.
She had been alone since the ride out to the Light Brigade Camp at Devna for Charlotte, complaining that this had fatigued her beyond bearing, had retired early to bed. She was only a passable horsewoman and did not enjoy riding, but it had been the sight of Lord Cardigan’s returning patrol which, Emmy guessed, had been the real cause of her decision to retire so early. The sight had not been pleasant . . . the pitiful, jaded horses, limping and plagued by flies and the plodding, weary men in their dust-caked uniforms had brought tears to her own eyes, as she had watched them straggling in. Even now, she found it hard to forget them and Fanny Duberly’s agonized cries, “Oh, those wretched, wretched horses!” lingered still in her memory, the echo of her own distress.
In consequence, the prospect of a caller was one to be welcomed and she jumped up eagerly. “Who is it, Constantin?” she asked, wondering whether to awaken Charlotte or to leave her—as she had petulantly demanded to be left—to seek forgetfulness in sleep. “Is it Colonel Beatson?”
The Greek boy shook his dark head. “No, Madame, it is not the colonel. Another officer, very tall . . . his friend, I think.”
Alex . . . Emmy’s heart leapt in joyful anticipation.
Alex had come at last, for surely it could be no one else? But . . . she caught her breath. If he had come, it was to see Charlotte.
“Show him in, if you please, Constantin. And then go and knock on Lady Cas sell’s door and tell her ladyship that we have a visitor.” She hesitated, uncertain of how to word the message and then said, with finality, “One whom I am sure she will wish to receive.”
“Certainly, Madame,” Constantin promised. “At once. First I will show in the gentleman and then I will knock on the door of the Lady Charlotte’s chamber and convey to her this message. Afterwards, I will bring wine.”
Alex was announced with due ceremony. He looked, Emmy saw with relief, much less wan and tired than he had the previous evening, much more like his old self. Although, as Colonel Beatson had warned her, it was evident that he had changed a great deal. But he greeted her with affectionate warmth and without the smallest constraint, taking both her hands in his and retaining them in his clasp, as he stood looking down at her as if she were a vision from another world.
“Why,
Emmy . . . this is unbelievable! You’ve grown up.”
“What did you expect, Alex?” She smiled back at him. “I could not stay a child forever.”
“No,” he conceded. “But this was how I’d remembered you—as a high-spirited, precocious little girl, with her hair down her back and the strangest notions filling her head. As a little madcap, with more nerve on the bunting field than I ever had and . . . goodness, you had some impossible idea of studying medicine, had you not, and becoming the first lady physician in England?”
“I believe I had,” Emmy admitted, her cheeks scarlet. He had remembered so much about her, she thought—but had he remembered that this same child, whose strange notions he was now recalling had once offered to marry him? That, because she had so deeply deplored her elder sister’s refusal to wait for him, she had promised, quite solemnly, to wait for him herself, until he should send for her?
“And now,” Alex observed, “you are a young lady. A very charming young lady if, as the privilege of an old friend, I may be permitted to say so, Emmy my dear.”
She studied him critically, taking in the faded uniform, with its patched sabre cut and tarnished braid, the worn leather of his boots. “And you, Alex?” she asked. “Are you not a distinguished soldier, who has covered himself in glory both here and in India?”
His smile vanished. “No, I am just what I seem, child. A simple and most undistinguished soldier, for whom the word glory has now something of a hollow ring, I fear.”
A lonely, even a solitary man, Colonel Beatson had told her, Emmy thought, with compassion. But the colonel had omitted to add that the intervening years had made Alex Sheridan steel-hard—a man’s man, not a woman’s, whose eyes held disillusionment, even when he smiled, and whose memories were bitter and engraved in harsh, revealing lines about his mouth and in the stern contours of his face. A man who had suffered and whose battles with a tangible, flesh and blood enemy had been no fiercer than those he had been compelled to wage, against himself and the devil of doubt which rode him. A man whose victory over these had cost him more than mere physical agony . . . .
There was an oddly tense little silence, as they stood looking into each other’s eyes. Then Alex released her hands. “Is Charlotte at home?” he asked evenly. “I had hoped to see her also.”
Emmy felt tears come welling up into her eyes. Of course, he had hoped to see Charlotte. That was why he had come . . . not to see her, whom he remembered only as a child. She bit back the tears and answered, lowering her gaze, “Charlotte was very tired. You see, we rode to Devna today on the horses your friend, Colonel Beatson, so kindly provided for us, and that wearied her. But I have sent Constantin to tell her that you are here.”
“If she is sleeping,” Alex put in quickly, “do not disturb her, Emmy, please. Not on my account.”
“But you’d like to see her and she will want to see you—”
“Not if it means rousing her from sleep. That’s the last thing I should want to do, when I can call again at a time which is more convenient.” His smile returned and now, Emmy observed, it touched his eyes, melting their cynical coldness. “I shall be in Varna for as long as the British Expeditionary Force remains here, God willing. So there is no urgency about my call.”
“Oh, Alex!” The implication of his words sank in and Emmy echoed his smile. “Does that mean that you have ended your service with the Turks? Are you to rejoin the British army?”
He shook his head. “No, not that. But the next best thing to it, let us say . . . I’m to be appointed to General Scarlett’s staff, as one of his aides. Or I hope to be by this time tomorrow, subject to Lord Raglan’s approval. And Colonel Beatson also—he’s to act as Scarlett’s military adviser, as soon as he is free of his obligations to Omar Pasha and can hand over his Bashi-Bazouk command. He goes to Shumla tomorrow, for that purpose.”
“That is wonderful,” Emmy said happily. “General Scarlett is an extremely good commander and all his officers and men are devoted to him. I am so pleased for you, Alex . . . and Charlotte will be overjoyed when you tell her of your appointment.”
“I scarcely flatter myself that it will matter to Charlotte very much if I go or stay, Emmy. “Alex’s tone was harsh.
“But of course it will! Did you imagine that any of us—Charlotte or Phillip or I—had ceased to care about you because you went out of our lives?”
Alex expelled his breath in a deep sigh. “I feared you had, I . . . well, I should have had more faith perhaps. But when I heard of Charlotte’s marriage to Arthur Cassell, it seemed to me the end of everything that had been between us.”
“The end of friendship?” Emmy chided gently. She laid a hand on his arm. “Charlotte had to marry, Alex—she’s the eldest of three daughters. Of four, if you include me. It was expected of her.”
“Yes,” he conceded. “I know. And I expected her to marry . . . it would be untrue to pretend that I did not, when I had made it plain that she was under no obligation to me.” His momentary bitterness was gone. “Arthur Cassell is one of the best, as I recall. I hope they are happy together?”
“Oh, yes,” Emmy assured him, with more conviction than she felt. “Arthur is devoted to Charlotte and most indulgent to her.” To her relief, Constantin returned with a tray of coffee, which he set down at her side, and she broke off to thank him.
“There is no wine, Madame,” Constantin told her, in a whisper. “So I am bringing coffee. And I am to say to you that her ladyship is now dressing and will be with you very soon.”
Emmy smiled at him, thinking how indispensable he had already made himself. Even the sullen Bulgarian servants, who had hitherto been so difficult to manage, had responded to his charm and, with Constantin to act as interpreter, it was now quite simple to make them understand what was required of them. She told Alex this, as she poured coffee for him, apologizing for the lack of wine.
He offered quickly, “I’ll get you wine, Emmy, and anything else you need. You have only to tell me what it is . . .”
“That is kind of you. But Phillip is back, I’m sure that he will attend to it . . . or Constantin will. It isn’t that we are short of money, only that it has been difficult to buy what we required because our other servants do not speak English.”
Alex accepted the coffee. “Have you seen Phillip yet?”
She nodded. “Briefly, that was all. He was quite exhausted after Lord Cardigan’s patrol. I saw them coming back to camp . . . .” Emmy shivered. “Their state does not bear description.”
“I also witnessed their return,” Alex said, with grim emphasis. “It scarcely even bears thinking about. In any event, the subject of Lord Cardigan is one I prefer to avoid. Let’s talk of something else.”
“Of what? Charlotte is coming down, you know . . . she is dressing and says she will not be long.”
“You should have let her rest. But since she is coming down, you had better bring me up to date with your family’s affairs. Tell me about yours, to begin with.” He looked down at her ringles’s left hand. “You have not married. Why . . . was it not expected of you?”
“No. That is, I did not choose to marry.” The swift, betraying colour leapt unbidden to Emmy’s cheeks. “The others are married, Alex. Lucy to Michael Ward of the 20th and Melanie to—”
“It was you about whom I asked, Emmy,” Alex reminded her, with mock severity. “Why did you not choose to marry and what are you doing here?”
Her colour deepened. “I entered a convent . . . for almost three years I was a postulant to the Order of the Sisters of Mercy in Dublin. But I . . . on the advice of the Mother Superior, I did not take my final vows. She said that I had the wrong temperament.”
“And I think that she was right, child.” Alex’s expression softened into tenderness as he looked into her small, shamed face. But he offered no other comment and Emmy, realizing that in the uncannily perceptive way he had always had, he understood both her motives and the sense of failure she still felt concerning this par
t of her life, went on to tell him about it. He listened gravely and asked, when she had done, “Is this why you have followed the army to war, Emmy—in the hope, perhaps, that you may exercise your medical skills by caring for the wounded?”
“That was my idea,” Emmy confessed. “But I have since learned how foolish and impractical it was to imagine that I might be needed. It was one of my . . . strange notions, I am afraid.” She added, with sudden bitterness,“I travelled with some of the army women below decks in a transport. It was from them I learned the truth. They laughed at me.” She changed the subject abruptly and was giving him news of her mother when she sensed that his attention had strayed.
Charlotte had descended the uncarpeted wooden stairs almost without a sound but as if he were aware, even then, of her presence, Alex was on his feet a moment or so before the door opened to reveal it. And Charlotte had taken some pains with her appearance, Emmy saw. The short sleep she had enjoyed had rested and refreshed her, so that she looked lovelier than ever when she entered the lamp-lit room and glanced about it expectantly. For an instant, she regarded Alex in some bewilderment and then recognition dawned in her eyes and she went towards him with a cry of pleasure.
“Constantin said that an officer had called but never, in my wildest dreams, did I imagine it could be you! Oh, Alex, Alex . . . to see you again, after all these years. I can hardly believe it. You should have warned me, Emmy—you should have told me it was Alex. How could you be so cruel as not to tell me who it was?”