by V. A. Stuart
Emmy did not answer her reproachful question. It was doubtful if either of them would have heard her if she had attempted to, she thought miserably. Alex had neither eyes nor ears for anyone but Charlotte; he was like a man bemused as he bore the hand she gave him to his lips. And she, radiant with happiness, was gazing up into his face with shining eyes, as if he were the only man she wanted, or ever had wanted to see.
“You have not changed, Alex. You are a little older but otherwise you’re just the same and yet it is . . . how long? Nearly eight years since you went away. But I’Id have known you anywhere.”
“As I would have known you, Charlotte,” he asserted.
“But I am eight years older . . . .”
“My dear, you are more beautiful—if that’s possible—than you used to be. Like a young girl . . . .” His voice was choked with emotion, grating harshly, as if the sight of her had hurt him deeply. But he did not move, simply stood there facing her as though turned to stone, a tall, stiff figure, deprived of the power of movement yet not, Emmy realized, of the power to feel. The pain he felt was in his eyes, in every tense muscle of his body, as well as in the stammered words, and she sensed that for him in that moment, it was well nigh unendurable.
She slipped silently from the room, leaving them together. Neither noticed her going for neither had been conscious of her presence since Charlotte had entered the room. If she had stayed, she told herself wretchedly, it would have made no difference. She could not assuage Alex’s pain or warn Charlotte that his love for her was not to be trifled with, because it went too deep and had never changed. She could not tell her sister that it would be cruel to treat him, as she treated the young French officers or the Guardsman with whom she had flirted in Constantinople, as merely another conquest. Perhaps Charlotte was aware of this; she did not know. Perhaps Alex meant more to her than any of the others—more, even, than her husband had ever done—perhaps she was still in love with him.
In her helpless misery, Emmy could not have said which she hoped it would be; her own emotions were confused, her pity for Alex so intense that, when she reached the sanctuary of her own room, she flung herself on her bed and wept.
From the room below came the low hum of voices and the sound continued for a long time, Charlotte’s higher pitched than his, Alex’s deeper, more level and controlled. At times, Emmy imagined that she could hear sobs, as though Charlotte were weeping; at others, she laughed, and later her voice sounded angry, as if raised in argument, but the pitch of Alex’s voice did not alter. She could not hear what passed between them, could only imagine what it was and pray, her eyes closed and her hands tightly clasped in front of her, that God, in His infinite mercy and wisdom, might guide and protect them and that, having led them to the right decision, He might grant them the strength and courage to adhere to it.
And then suddenly the voices ceased and there was silence. The street door creaked shut on its rusty hinges and, after a while, Charlotte’s light footsteps echoed faintly on the bare wood of the narrow staircase as she ascended to the upper floor. Emmy sat up, half hoping—yet half dreading—that her stepsister might come in, might want to talk, to tell her what had transpired or even ask for comfort or advice. But Charlotte did not come, did not even pause by her door. The footsteps went past and the door of Charlotte’s own bedroom slammed. She did not call for Maria, as she usually did, to help her to undress. It was late, of course, past midnight, but Charlotte did not, as a rule, worry very much what hour it was, if she were in need of Maria’s services.
Emmy rose from her bed, feeling achingly chilled now, and herself began to undress. Wrapped in her voluminous flannel night-gown and pulling the bedclothes up to her chin, she felt warmer and a trifle less worried but, in spite of this, it was dawn before, at last, she fell into an uneasy sleep.
Next morning Charlotte was wretchedly depressed. She complained of a migraine and made no mention of Alex and when Emmy, deeply concerned for them both, attempted to bring the conversation round to the subject of his visit, her diffident questions were met with a blank, uncomprehending stare. The suggestion of a ride to Devna, for the purpose of inquiring for Phillip, elicited no more encouraging response. After luncheon, which was eaten in glum and uncomfortable silence, Charlotte retired once more to her bed.
Phillip called towards evening but his call did little to restore Emmy’s spirits, for he was weary and out of sorts, bitterly critical of Lord Cardigan’s ill-managed patrol and the probable results of it. They had lost a great many horses which they could never replace, he told her, the morale of all who had taken part had suffered considerably and the patrol itself had achieved nothing of practical value—certainly insufficient to justify the loss of the horses, all of which had been brought with them from England.
“Cardigan is conferring with Lord Raglan now,” he told his stepsister wryly. “After driving his staff nearly mad, writing out half a dozen different versions of his report. And, to cap it all, there is a rumor which appears to be well-founded, that he’s to be given a brevet promotion to major-general!”
“But surely that can’t be true, Phillip,” Emmy objected.
“I’ve reason to believe that it is,” Phillip asserted. He shrugged. “To add to our troubles, Lord Lucan has chosen this moment to order a field day for the whole Cavalry Division and we’ve less than forty-eight hours to prepare for it. So do not expect to see much of me until it’s over, Emmy. I’m sorry but I shall have my work cut out getting even one troop mounted, in the circumstances.”
He was so worried and upset that Emmy made only casual mention of the fact that Alex had paid them a visit—not having the heart to add to his anxieties by suggesting that this might lead to complications where Charlotte was concerned. But he seemed genuinely pleased when she told him of Alex’s appointment to General Scarlett’s staff and, when he took his leave, promised to make contact with his onetime friend as soon as he could.
Charlotte appeared for supper, pale and listless and without appetite. But she recovered a little when two of the French Chasseur officers, whom she had met at General Canrobert’s reception, paid a brief call at the house, in order to deliver a welcome present of some game they had shot. They could not stay long, they explained regretfully. Marshall St Arnaud’s sudden mobilization of the Zouaves and his departure for the Dobruja the previous night—of which the two girls learned, with some amazement, for the first time—had caused a considerable stir in the French camp and both officers were required to be on duty. When they had gone, Charlotte talked quite animatedly for a time of the news they had been given but, as the minutes ticked by and there were no other callers, she lost interest in talking to Emmy and went back to her own room.
The following day was almost a repetition, except that Phillip did not make an appearance and only one of the Chasseurs was able to obtain release from his military duties for an hour. He seemed anxious and distrait and eventually admitted, as he was about to return to camp, that a number of Marshall St Arnoud’s Zouaves had had to be sent back to Varna by bullock cart, all of them suffering from a sickness which, it was feared, might be cholera.
Emmy heard this with dismay and her apprehension grew when, next morning, Mrs Duberly rode in and told her that cholera had been confirmed, quite definitely, among the Zouaves who had fallen out on the march into the Dobruja, and that a fresh batch of them had arrived in camp during the night.
“So far it has not hit us,” Fanny Duberly said, but she sighed. “I wish we could get away from here, don’t you? The rumor that we were to go to Vienna has, of course, turned out to be false, but I hear that Sir George Brown is to go, within a day or so, by ship to the Crimea, for the purpose . . .” She paused, to let the full significance of her announcement sink in. “For the purpose of discovering the best place to land troops! If this is so, we can hardly doubt that we shall be following him before long, can we? And I confess that it will be a relief, for Varna is not the salubrious place we were led to hope it woul
d be, by any stretch of the imagination.”
Charlotte, who had listened in unresponsive silence to what Mrs Duberly had to tell them, asked with a note of bitter envy in her voice, “Why do you say that we shall be following Sir George Brown? Have you permission to accompany your husband, if the army embarks for the Crimea then?”
“No, not as yet,” Fanny Duberly replied. “But Lady Errol and I are both equally determined to accompany our husbands, wherever they are sent, Lady Cassell. For my part, even if I have to do as you and Miss O’Shaughnessy did and smuggle myself on board one of the transports with the soldiers’ women, I intend to go with Henry. Although I am hopeful that it may not come to that. “She smiled and added cheerfully, “If necessary, I shall seek Lord Cardigan’s aid and protection and I believe he will give it, for he has already assured me that he has the greatest admiration for my pluck. He is a detestable man, of course, and like everybody else, I abhor him but, if I am compelled to, I shall invite his assistance . . . and keep on plaguing him until I get it!”
“You are indeed determined, Mrs Duberly,” Charlotte said, eyeing her with barely concealed misgiving. But she allowed herself to be persuaded to accompany their visitor back to Devna, to Emmy’s heartfelt relief, in order that they might all witness the field day and Lord Lucan’s inspection of the Cavalry Division, due to take place there that afternoon.
They rode over in pleasant sunshine and the inspection, contrary to Phillip’s gloomy foreboding, went off without mishap. The full division did not parade—part of the Heavy Brigade and the 4th Light Dragoons were quartered elsewhere—but nevertheless the cavalry gave a brilliant display, the men’s uniforms blazing in the afternoon sun, the horses groomed to perfection, as squadron after squadron wheeled and circled with impeccable precision in obedience to the shouted commands.
Emmy thrilled to the sound of galloping hoofs and her heart beat faster when an imperious trumpet call brought the Light Brigade charging in extended line across the flat, open country, led by their brigadier. And Lord Cardigan, she was forced to concede, played his part with breathtaking skill. Whatever else he might be, he was a superb horseman, with a well-deserved reputation for spectacular daring. Mounted on his great chestnut, with sabre drawn and fur-trimmed pelisse flying behind him in the wind of his passing, he commanded admiration for the manner in which he rode and the unforgettably splendid figure he cut, as he headed the charge at breakneck speed, aiming straight as a die for his objective.
His brother-in-law, Lord Lucan, enjoyed less success when he assumed command of the assembled regiments towards the end of the afternoon’s proceedings. He was, to begin with, a very much less impressive-looking man than Lord Cardigan and, by comparison, he was nowhere near as accomplished a rider. In addition—although, until Mrs Duberly whispered the information in her ear, Emma had not been aware of it—he had held no active command for seventeen years and in the interim, cavalry drill had been considerably altered and many of the words of command changed. Lord Lucan’s orders were misunderstood; in an alarmingly short space of time, the well-ordered precision of regiment after regiment dissolved into something approaching chaos and the earl, red of face and furiously angry, made matters worse by losing his temper.
“He’s clubbed the Green Horse!” Fanny Duberly exclaimed disgustedly. “And now he is blaming them for it . . . as if they could possibly help what happened, when his orders were so utterly confusing.”
The review came to an abrupt and inglorious conclusion with the regimental commanders having to extricate their men from each other’s ranks and the divisional commander, accompanied by his embarrassed staff, riding off in a towering rage, without waiting to take the salute.
Lord Cardigan watched him go, a smile of satisfaction which he did not try to hide, curving his lips as, in the absence of his superior officer, he dismissed the parade. It was then that Emmy noticed General Scarlett, who had taken no part in the review, save that of a spectator, wheel his horse round and canter over to the colonel of the 5th Dragoons, evidently to commiserate with him, for the way they had been treated. Alex, she saw, was with him together with three others of his staff. He recognized her, smiled and, a little later, came in search of her.
“Well,” he said ruefully, when greetings had been exchanged, “I trust you will not have to witness a spectacle like that again! It was almost unbelievable, was it not?”
“It was a great pity,” Emmy agreed,“because up till the moment when Lord Lucan took command, everything had been going so well.”
“Indeed it had, child!” There was a gleam in Alex’s eyes, of pride, mingled with nostalgia. “They are magnificent regiments . . . I had forgotten, until today, how truly magnificent they were. As you say . . . it was a pity.” He looked about him. “Is not Charlotte with you?”
“She came with me,” Emmy assured him. “We both rode over before lunch with Mrs Duberly and—”
“She is over there,” Alex interrupted, “talking to Lord Cardigan. “He was frowning, Emmy saw. Following the direction of his gaze, she observed that Charlotte was, indeed, talking to Lord Cardigan. She and Mrs Duberly were the centre of a group of officers, now dismissed from the parade, but it was to Charlotte that the brigade commander was giving his flattering and undivided attention, bending gallantly over her hand and smiling into her lovely face with every appearance of pleasure and admiration.
Mrs Duberly looked a trifle put out but recovered herself when her husband joined the little group and, after a while, Charlotte excused herself and rode across to where Emmy and Alex were waiting. Her greeting to Alex was cool and somewhat offhand and turning to Emmy, she said abruptly, “I suppose you are wanting to leave now?”
“Well . . .” Emmy hesitated. “We have a long ride and it will be dark before we reach the town, unless we make a start now. It is rather unwise for us to be out after dark, with so much drunkenness among the troops, I think.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Lord Cardigan has invited me to take refreshments in his marquee with himself and his staff. As an added inducement, he has offered to send an escort to see me safely home afterwards. But I refused, on your account, Emmy. I was not sure whether you would manage to persuade Alex to give you his escort.”
Faced with so direct and disconcerting a question, Emmy reddened unhappily, having not the least idea how to answer it. It had never occurred to her that Charlotte who was, as a rule, very careful to observe the proprieties, should even consider deserting her in such a situation. Alex, seeing her discomfiture, put in quickly, his voice low and devoid of expression,“It will, of course, be my pleasure to ride back with Emmy—or with you both, if you will permit me to do so, Charlotte. General Scarlett is dining here, with the officers of his old regiment, so he will not require me until later on. If you wish to change your mind and accept Lord Cardigan’s offer of hospitality, I pray you to do so. Emmy, as you know, will be quite safe with me and I will gladly look after her. In fact, I would have suggested it, had I realized that the opportunity to escort her might arise.”
For an instant, Charlotte appeared undecided, her eyes searching his face. She was smiling but, in spite of this, Emmy sensed that she was angry, as if for some reason she considered that Alex had offered her a slight.
“Well, I should like to see Phillip,” she said at last. “I was feeling unwell and in my bed the last time he called, so that I have had no opportunity to talk to him since his return. I will stay, then . . . if you are sure that it is not too much trouble for you, Alex, to ride back with Emmy?”
“I am quite sure,” Alex returned crisply. “As I told you, it will be my pleasure.” He bowed politely and, when Charlotte bade him a distant good night, echoed it with one as cool. Then, urging his horse forward, he set off in the direction of Varna, with Emmy at his side.
The ride back in the fading sunlight and with a cool, refreshing breeze in their faces, was pleasant enough. Emmy would have enjoyed it—as she had always enjoyed a ride in Alex Sheridan’s compan
y in the old Dublin days—had she felt less concern for Charlotte and been less bewildered by her stepsister’s attitude towards him, which she found impossible either to explain or to understand. She was tempted several times to question him about it, to ask him point-blank whether his avoidance of Charlotte was deliberate, but Alex’s manner did not encourage questions. He talked quite freely about the review, about General Scarlett and his satisfaction with his appointment to the Heavy Brigade commander’s staff and he even mentioned his new commander’s strained relationship with Lord Lucan . . . but he did not utter Charlotte’s name.
Since he did not, Emmy was unable to do so, yet she sensed, as he led her on to tell him of their life in the small house in the Street of the Silversmiths, that he wanted to talk of Charlotte. It was in Charlotte’s daily doings that he was interested, not in hers, yet with stubborn obstinacy, he would not admit that he was and would not speak of her. Even when the possibility of the army’s move to the Crimea cropped up in the course of their conversation, Alex asked only whether she intended to seek permission to accompany it and, when she told him that she was undecided, he advised her firmly against doing anything of the kind.
“Mrs Duberly is determined to go,” Emmy said. “And Lady Errol also, I believe.”
“They do not wish to be parted from their husbands,” Alex suggested. “You have no such reason.”
“No. But . . .” greatly daring, she turned in her saddle to face him, “Charlotte has and I want to stay with her, Alex.”
“You would both be better off in Therapia,” Alex returned shortly. “In any event, I think it extremely unlikely that permission will be granted for Lady Errol or Mrs Duberly. We do not know what forces the Russians have in Crim-Tartary and our landing there—if it takes place—may be met with strong resistance. You can have no conception of how terrible a sight a battlefield can be, Emmy. It is no place for a lady of gentle birth.”