Victors and Lords

by V. A. Stuart

“I worked in the Hospital of the Sisters of Mercy in Dublin,” Emmy reminded him. “For almost three years, Alex. I have seen death and disease before. I nursed some of the victims of the Irish famine.”

  His voice softened. “Yes,” he conceded, “I know you did, child, and I am conscious of how much courage it must have taken for you to endure such an experience. Nevertheless the aftermath of a battle is worse than anything you could ever have seen or imagined . . . I know, I have witnessed many battles. I beg you to believe me when I tell you that, even with your brave spirit, you would be unable to bear the sight of the ghastly carnage that is wrought in battle. And you would be helpless, Emmy, for all your nursing skill. That is almost the worst part of it, I think—one is powerless to help the dying, to make their passing easier, to alleviate the agony of the wounded. The most one can do, even for one’s dearest friend, is to offer him a sip of water. The surgeons are skilled and they do their best but . . . they lose more lives than they can save and often, in order to save a man’s life, they must add to his suffering and inflict horrible mutilations on his body. An army hospital is a nightmare place, even for a man. For a woman it would be quite unendurable.”

  “I see.” She knew that he was telling her the truth, minimizing rather than exaggerating the horrors at which he had hinted. “Have you been wounded, Alex?” she asked gently.

  “Yes,” he answered, “several times. But I have been fortunate, I have never suffered a severe wound. And I will make a confession to you, Emmy—a confession of cowardice, which I have never before made to a living soul. Each time that I ride into battle, each time I hear the sound of the trumpet sounding the charge, I am afraid. Not of death—that is a hazard all soldiers must accept—but of being wounded. And”—in the dim light, Emmy saw that his face was pale and his expression very grave—“I pray that, if it is to be my fate, I may die cleanly and quickly, with a sword-thrust through the heart.”

  “I can understand your feelings,” she assured him, and added shyly, “If it will help, I . . . will add my prayers to yours.”

  “The same prayer?” Alex asked.

  “Not quite the same prayer, perhaps. Mine would be that you should survive the battle unscathed.”

  “And live, to fight another day?” he quoted cynically. “I think I am tired of fighting, Emmy . . . weary of war, and of life sometimes. I told you that to me the word glory has a hollow sound now, did I not?”

  “Because you are alone?” Emmy ventured. “Because you have no one but yourself to fight for . . . to live for?”

  He shrugged. “No wife, you mean—no home and children? Ah, but in India, in the Company’s service, one sees little of one’s wife and less of one’s home if one is a junior officer, Emmy. Besides I—” he broke off, frowning.

  Emmy drew a deep breath. Summoning all her courage, she said, avoiding his gaze, “You are still in love with Charlotte, are you not?”

  For an instant, resentment flared in his eyes. Then it faded and he answered, without attempting to prevaricate, “Emmy, I do not think I have ever loved anyone else. That has been the trouble. I compare every woman I meet with her—compare and find each one of them wanting. But now . . .” Again he was silent and Emmy, anxiously studying his face, could find in it no clue to his feelings.

  The lights of Varna came into sight, flickering here and there in the gathering twilight. Alex kneed his horse on, as if, Emmy thought sadly, he were impatient to reach there, impatient to deliver her safely to her door and then, free of his responsibility on her account, to make his escape from her. They rode in silence, neither anxious to break it, yet neither at ease in its isolation.

  At the door of the little house in the Street of the Silversmiths, Constantin was waiting. He ran to assist Emmy from her horse but Alex was before him, holding up his arms to her as, she recalled, he had been wont to do when she had been a child, mounted on a horse that was too big for her. She went into his arms, shyly, half fearful, yet half eager, and he held her for a moment, looking down into her eyes, the expression in his own strangely tender and questioning. “You are a sweet child, Emmy,” he told her and then asked unexpectedly,“Do you ever regret not having become a nun?”

  Surprised, she shook her head. “Oh, no, not any more. I had not the vocation for such a calling. The Mother Superior was right, I have realized that now, so I cannot regret it.”

  “Then you will marry, I suppose?”

  “Marry?” She felt confused and flushed under his scrutiny. “I do not know, I suppose I may one day, I . . .” and then Constantin was beside them, taking the horses’ reins, and Alex released her.

  “May I come in for a few minutes?” he requested.

  Emmy stared at him, puzzled and then remembered her manners. “Why, of course, if you would like to, I should enjoy it if you would. And we have some wine now, we—”

  “I am not in need of your wine, Emmy my dear. It is just that I have something further to say to you.”

  “But you will drink a glass of wine while you are saying it,” she insisted. Perhaps he wanted an excuse to enable him to wait until Charlotte returned, she thought, and added quickly, “If you would like a meal, I am sure that Constantin—”

  Again he cut her short, his tone a trifle brusque. “No, I have not time to wait for a meal, thank you, Emmy. I must return to camp.” He followed her into the living-room. The wine, with a tray of glasses, had been set in readiness by the attentive Constantin and, having invited Alex to take a seat, she poured a glass of it for him. But he remained standing, looking too tall for the tiny, low-ceilinged room and, for no reason that Emmy could have explained, out of place there as if, instead of being the old friend he was, he had suddenly become a stranger.

  “Emmy,” he said, and his voice, too, sounded like that of a stranger, “do you remember once, years ago, you promised to marry me?”

  “Oh, but I . . .” Tears burned in Emmy’s eyes, tears of shame and humiliation and she felt the distressing waves of colour rising to flood her cheeks at the memory of that foolish promise, made so long ago. But she had made it, she could not deny that now. “Yes, I remember only—”

  “Only you were a child,” he finished for her, “and neither of us took it seriously.”

  “No.” Her smile was shaky and it was one of relief. “Of course not. I believe I told you that you were the only man I should ever want to marry, did I not?”

  “You said something of the kind,” Alex agreed. He came towards her, putting out a hand to take hers and holding it gently in his own. “You were sorry for me.”

  “Yes, I . . . yes, I was.”

  “Take pity on me now, Emmy,” he pleaded.

  “I do not understand, Alex . . .” she was frightened now, as much of herself as of him. “Please . . . don’t make a joke of it, you—”

  “I am not joking, Emmy,” he assured her gravely. “Upon my honor, I am absolutely serious. Perhaps I have not the right to speak of this to you yet. To be strictly correct, I should address myself to your brother Phillip first, I am fully aware. But we’re at war and, in war-time, one is permitted to relax the conventions a little, because there is not much time and we may, at any moment, be separated.”

  “Yes,” Emmy agreed, “I know. But . . .” She was still very much at a loss, still vaguely apprehensive and uncertain of what he was trying to tell her. “Why do you wish to speak to Phillip?”

  He smiled. “Why? Emmy dear, you told me a little while ago that I had no one to live or to fight for and it’s true, I have no one. Unless it is you . . . I should like it to be you, Emmy. I should like to have the privilege of caring for you and protecting you. More than anything in the world, I should like to have you to come home to, as my wife, when the war is over.”

  “Do you mean . . .” Emmy drew back, looking up at him in startled incredulity, unable to believe that she could have heard him correctly. This was a dream, of course, she told herself, a dream from which, all too soon, she would awaken. “Alex, are you as
king me to . . . to marry you?”

  “Yes,” Alex confirmed quietly, “I am asking you to marry me, Emmy. If you will do me that honor.”

  “But Charlotte . . .” Emmy managed, her mouth stiff. “You said that you were still in love with Charlotte! That you compared every woman you met with her and . . . and found each one wanting—”

  “Except you,” Alex amended. “I realized as we rode over here this evening, Emmy, that you are the only woman I could compare with Charlotte and find wanting in nothing. Believe me, my dearest child, it is the truth. I would not lie to you.”

  “No, I . . . do not think you would,” Emmy whispered. She was trembling. His proposal had come as such a shock to her that she could find no words with which to answer him. That he should want to marry her had been the last thing she had expected—yet, after subjecting him to an uneasy scrutiny, she was forced to the conclusion that he appeared to be in earnest. His eyes met hers frankly and unashamedly and, although he was smiling, it was in reassurance, not in mockery or amusement. “Why?” she asked at last. “Why, Alex? Why do you want to marry me?”

  “We are both alone, in a sense,” he told her gently. “And we are both lonely, I fancy . . . you, as well as myself. And we’ve known each other for a long time, have we not? If you became my wife, Emmy, I should do everything in my power to ensure your happiness and I should give you my complete devotion, now and always.” He patted the hand he held, drawing her closer to him. “There would be no one else, in my heart or in my thoughts, I give you my word.”

  The touch of his hand and his nearness set Emmy’s heart beating wildly. He went on, still in the same quiet, level tones, “I don’t have to go back to India, if you felt the smallest reluctance to accompany me there. I have some money now—it is not a fortune but would be sufficient for our needs. And there are other occupations I could follow, besides soldiering, once this war is finished. We could go back to England together, Emmy, if you wished.” She was silent and he said apologetically, “I am confusing you, I fear. We can discuss these matters later on, if you would prefer it.”

  “Yes, I . . . I think I should prefer that, Alex. If I, if we . . . .” Emmy could not go on. She gave him a pleading glance. “I do not know what to say. You see—”

  Alex relinquished his clasp of her hand. “Do not upset yourself, child. You will require time to consider my proposal, I know, and I will give you time . . . all the time you need. But with your permission, I should like to speak to Phillip and obtain his formal consent to my courtship. May I do so, at the first opportunity?”

  He had not said that he loved her, Emmy thought. He had said many things but not that, which was the one thing she longed to hear—although, perhaps, he had intended to imply it. She drew in her breath sharply. Even if he were still in love with Charlotte, what difference could it make? Charlotte was Arthur Cassell’s wife and, because of that—no matter what he felt for her—she was lost to him. He could not, in honor, pay his court to Charlotte . . . .

  “If you wish to speak to Phillip,” she heard herself saying, “please do so, Alex.” Her voice sounded odd, even to herself, and so tense and strained that she could hardly recognize it as her own. “You have been very kind and .. . and considerate and I am grateful. I should like a little time, as you suggest, to think over what you have said, before giving you my answer. But I will try not to keep you waiting too long, I . . .”

  “Thank you, Emmy my dear.” Alex bent and brushed her cheek with his lips. His kiss was without passion, almost formal, yet it stirred her deeply. “Bless you,” he said softly and then, with a swift change of mood, reached for his cloak, as if now impatient to be gone. “I will leave you now. It is late and I ought not to be here. Take care of yourself, child. I shall hope to see you again very soon.”

  He would not allow her to accompany him to the door. When the sound of his horse’s hoofs had receded into the distance, Emmy returned to her chair. She sat there for a long time, dreaming again the bright dream she had cherished as a child; not eating, although Constantin hovered anxiously in the background, trying to tempt her to partake of something. She was happier than she had been for many years, although still a little frightened, still more than a little confused and uncertain, even now, of what her answer to Alex’s proposal ought to be.

  She felt the need for advice, for counsel from older and wiser heads than her own and wished that her mother might have been there or, at least, near at hand, so that a letter might reach her, to which the reply could be obtained within a few days. But her mother was in Dublin and letters home took weeks and sometimes months to reach their destination; Emmy wrote to her but, as she sealed the letter, was aware that in this decision her mother could not help her, however much she might wish to.

  The decision must be hers and hers alone. She could not ask Charlottes advice, in the circumstances—that would be out of the question. But there was Phillip. He was only her stepbrother, it was true, and therefore not as close to her as he was to his own sisters, and to Charlotte in particular, but she knew that he was fond of her and had always had her well-being at heart. Besides, in the old days, he had been Alex’s friend, when they had both been in the 11th Hussars . . . and Alex had said, before leaving her, that he intended to tell Phillip of his proposal at the first opportunity. In which case, Phillip would undoubtedly speak to her about it very soon, Emmy thought, with a lifting of the heart as she rose from her chair at last and went upstairs to prepare for bed. When he did so, she would ask for his guidance . . . .

  Phillip called, the following evening. Emmy and Charlotte were together in the living-room when he arrived and he made his announcement—to them both—with obvious pleasure the moment he entered the room.

  “Alex Sheridan is asking for your hand, Emmy my dear,” he said, smiling at her. “He tells me that he has mentioned the matter to you already and that you’ve promised to consider his proposal and give him your answer, when you’ve had time to think about it. This is so, I take it?”

  Emmy agreed in a small voice that it was. She was watching Charlotte as she said it and saw, from the expression on her stepsister’s lovely face, that the news had both shocked and displeased her. But Charlotte said nothing, only turned to look at Phillip with raised brows when he observed that, while the proposal had been made in a somewhat unorthodox manner, the circumstances were themselves somewhat unorthodox.

  “Your position here, for one thing,” he added reproachfully, “but I see no reason, on that account, to refuse Alex’s request. He is the best of fellows, as we all know, and personally I should welcome him as a brother-in-law if you decide to accept him, Emmy.” He glanced at her questioningly, his eyes bright with expectation. “Have you decided?”

  Emmy hesitated and Charlotte said, her tone derisive, “But of course she has! She has always worshipped Alex, even when he was betrothed to me and she was only a child . . . that is true, is it not, Emmy? You wanted him even then. You were jealous of me and you hated me—yes, hated me—for years because I refused him, after he was involved in that cause célèbre with Lord Cardigan and had to sell out of the 11th.”

  “I never hated you, Charlotte,” Emmy denied, shocked.

  “Did you not? Well, never mind, you’ve no cause to hate me now. He has asked for your hand, so why do you hesitate? Let him make you his wife . . . you are no longer a postulant to the Sisters of Mercy, you do not have to behave as if you were still incarcerated in that convent of yours, surely? Phillip, persuade her . . . it is time she was married. Her position here, as you say, is unorthodox.”

  “Well,” Phillip evaded, “I do not think that it is for me to attempt persuasion. Emmy must make up her own mind. But I assure you, my dear little sister, that if you do accept Alex’s offer of marriage, you will have my blessing—and I have told Alex as much. So it rests with you, Emmy child.”

  Emmy lowered her gaze. She was very conscious of Charlotte’s hostility but she said evenly, “I understand, Phillip, thank you
. But Alex promised me a little time and—”

  “There is not much time left to us,” Phillip reminded her. He put a hand beneath her chin and lifted her downcast face to his, looking into it intently, and his tone was kindly as he went on, “It is your life, Emmy . . . your future. But we are about to embark upon the serious business of war and, while I am not seeking to evade my responsibilities toward you, I am compelled to tell you that the fact that you are unmarried renders them the more onerous. I should feel them less keenly if I could share them with Alex, as your husband.”

  “You mean that we should be married, here? In Varna, Phillip?” Emmy was startled.

  “That, I think, is Alex’s wish. It could be arranged. There are army chaplains here, Emmy. “Phillip spread his hands. “When we leave here—and rumor has it that it will not be long before we do—you will be unable to come with us. I shall have to send you to Therapia and depend on Lady Stratford de Redcliffe’s goodwill to care for you.” He sighed. “I should have sent you before, had it not been for that infernal reconnaissance of Cardigan’s.”

  Emmy glanced instinctively at Charlotte, who replied to her unvoiced question with a shrug. “My plans depend on my husband’s wishes, Emmy. But if Lady Errol and Mrs Duberly are granted permission to sail with the army, then I intend to seek the same privilege.” She silenced Phillip’s objection with an imperiously raised hand. “We shall see, shall we not, whether Lord Raglan decides to allow any of us to sail? Do not concern yourself, Phillip dear . . . in any event, I am not your responsibility, am I? So you have really no say in the matter.”

  They wrangled, a trifle heatedly, and Emmy listened, only half hearing what they said but thankful that Charlotte’s hostility appeared no longer to be directed exclusively against herself.

  The argument was interrupted by Constantin’s announcing dinner. Phillip dined with them and, mellowed by the excellence of the meal, was in his usual good spirits when he rose to take his leave.

  He said, as Emmy lifted her cheek for his farewell kiss,“Good night, Emmy my sweet. Sleep well . . . and do not keep Alex waiting too long for his answer, will you? Because there is really not much time for any of us now, you know.”