“Colonel,” said Andrews, one of the men who had nearly come to attention, “don’t you have a dinner party this evening, sir?”
“I do,” came the reply, as Nathan began unpacking the basket.
“Are you lost, sir?” asked Stark, the second former soldier, seated besides Andrews.
Nathan pulled a cloth-wrapped bundle out of the basket and set it on the table, opening it to reveal a warm loaf of dark bread. “Not a bit.” The other men craned their necks to see what else might be inside, as Nathan removed sliced slabs of beef, a quarter wheel of cheese, mushrooms, a crock of soup and bowls, and two stacks of glasses.
“Mrs. Smyth prepared you boys a sample of what she’s serving tonight. It’s not on fine china and you won’t dine to violin music, but it’s the same as the proper folk,” he exaggerated the word proper, “will be stuffing themselves with.”
There were smiles all around and nods of gratitude. Last from the basket, Nathan produced a bottle of fine whiskey, its appearance greeted with sounds of respect and admiration, more for the label than their host.
Andrews immediately snatched the bottle away from Nathan and expertly uncorked it, as another mechanic lined up the glasses. “Can’t entrust such a treasure to the inexperienced hands of an officer, sir. You might drop it, and that’s a casualty we couldn’t sustain.”
One of the older men squinted an eye at the former soldier. “I’d wager his Lordship has pulled his share of corks in his life.” He winked at his employer.
“Nevertheless,” said Andrews, finishing his pour. They each took a glass and raised them. “To your health, sir.” The whiskey was finely aged and smooth, touched with hickory, and it burned pleasantly on the way down. Nathan raised his glass but did not drink, a fact which insulted none of the men gathered here. He set it back on the table, knowing it wouldn’t go to waste.
“I’d stay if I didn’t think Mrs. Smyth would come fetch me back.”
“And she would, M’Lord, she would,” said the older man.
They thanked him, and Nathan made his way back up towards the house, needing the cane for the climb up the gentle hill. Night was falling, and with it the temperature. Ahead, the many windows of the great manor were warm with light, and smoke from several chimneys drifted into the cooling air. A soft evening wind rustled the trees and hedges bordering Elaine’s gardens.
Nathan stopped on the stone walkway at the top of the slope and leaned on his cane. He was tired, not so much from the climb as from the day’s events, which had drained him emotionally as well as physically. Until now he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on them, but here, alone in the dark, his mind turned to what he had done. The rotten smell of the lower mausoleum was still with him, and even the lavender in the air could not dispel it.
It had taken three years to exact his vengeance, three years to finally serve justice for Geoffrey, who would have been eight now if he’d lived. And he had found this afternoon, as he’d long suspected he would, that there was no satisfaction, no victory, no feeling of peace. He was still empty. The monster who had murdered his son was destroyed, but those he had created himself were not so easily put down.
He walked slowly along the path, looking out at the gardens in the rising moonlight, his leg a dull ache. He loved these gardens, and the good memories they held for him of Elaine, but they provoked other feelings as well; anger, regret, failure. The tip of the cane tapped a slow, hollow beat on the flagstones as he walked, passing a stone fountain where water whispered softly from a jar held by a cherub, the statuary marking the entrance to the manicured green spaces. He turned away towards a door to the house, then stopped in mid-step.
In 1900, Nathan’s unit had been encamped at the eastern edge of the British settlement in Natal. A man had managed to elude the sentries and enter the camp, easing under the edge of Nathan’s tent, moving slowly and stealthily, like a predator. The knife he’d carried had been intended for Nathan’s throat, but something had awoken him in time to reach his pistol first and blast the man into the next life. He had never really known what it was, a sound, a sense of movement in the air…. This felt like that. He knew he had nothing to fear on his own estate – or anywhere for that matter – but then hadn’t he believed that for his whole family, for Geoffrey?
Nathan turned and gripped the shaft of his cane, raising it before him. His eyes scanned the darkness, and he strained to hear. No movement, no sound other than the wind and the water in the fountain. He stayed that way for several long minutes, but the sensation didn’t return. Striking the tip of the cane onto the stones once more, he turned and went inside.
Dressed in a tuxedo and freshly shaved, Nathan left his rooms and made his way down the upstairs hallway, an exquisite Persian runner beneath his polished shoes, past oil paintings depicting scenes of a noble and privileged country life. He turned at the balcony, and through archways on his right he could see down into the great hall, where half a dozen servants were making final preparations, Douglas directing last minute tasks. A fire roared in the large hearth at the far end, flanked by a pair of twelfth century suits of armor, and over which hung the Madison family coat of arms.
Instead of descending the wide staircase into the hall, Nathan turned down another corridor, where the warmth of an oil lamp glowed at the far end. Seated in a comfortable armchair just outside the last door in the hall was Mr. Voorhees, a newspaper in his lap, a brandy on the small table beside him, next to the oil lamp. He was smoking his pipe, the scent of hickory tobacco drifting down the hall.
“Good evening, Sergeant Major,” Nathan said.
Voorhees nodded, clenching his pipe in his teeth. “Sir.”
Nathan saw the wide black muzzle of a revolver peeking out from under the newspaper, and in the shadows behind the small table was the outline of a medieval battleaxe standing on its broad head. It was the sergeant major’s favorite, taken from the armory wall in the library, and kept sharpened to a razor’s edge by the man personally. Nathan knew there would be a double barrel shotgun placed discretely nearby as well.
The sergeant major was the son of a British soldier and a Boer farm girl, brought up in a string of different garrisons as his father moved around with his regiment. Outcast from his Dutch roots, he had been raised a loyalist, and it had been a natural progression for him to enter military service. In 1899 he found himself assigned to a very young colonel as the senior regimental enlisted man. He and Nathan had been together ever since, in uniform and out.
For the last three years, since the autumn of 1908, someone had sat outside this door every night. Sometimes it was Corporals Andrews or Stark from the garage, one-time raw recruits of his former unit who had managed to survive, and now served him in different but no less loyal capacities. Most often, however, it was the sergeant major. This watch had been kept ever since a vile and unholy creature had entered the house and carried five-year-old Geoffrey away, leaving his bloodless and lifeless body in the forest. The creature he had finally put down today.
“I think you can stand down now, Sergeant Major,” he said.
The older man puffed at his pipe. “Habit, sir. I’m accustomed to it, and it’s a fine place to do some quiet reading.” The man did little reading here, remaining watchful through long nights, and protecting the one thing of value still remaining to the Earl.
Nathan nodded and entered the room, and was immediately attacked by a five-year-old with pigtails and a white nightshirt who shrieked, “Daddyyyy!” as she flung herself into his arms. Nathan swept Amelia up and spun her in a fast, high circle, making her giggle. The room was a catastrophe of toys and dolls, brightly lit, and a heavyset woman stood near one of two doorways, dressed in a simple yellow dress and head wrap. She smiled with impossibly white teeth, made more so by her bluish-black skin.
“Nannybird says you’re having a party tonight, Daddy! May I come?”
“I told you, child,” the black woman said, “it only for full grown ladies and gentlemen.” Her Swazi accen
t was strong, despite the near decade she had been in England after Madison had arranged for her new home and new life.
Nathan held his daughter in the crook of an arm, and pressed his forehead to hers. “A stuffy party for stuffy grownups.” He scowled and stuck out his tongue. “What say I just hide up here with you all night and play?”
The little girl clapped her hands. “Oh, Daddy, that would be delightful!” Then she thought for a moment, her forehead furrowing the same way her mother’s had when she was thinking of something serious. “But that wouldn’t be polite, would it?”
He smiled. “No, love, it wouldn’t be.”
“We must take care of our guests,” she said, nodding, and he laughed.
Nathan carried her from the playroom into her bedroom. Nannybird slept in the adjacent room and rarely left the girl’s side, day or – especially – night. He plopped her onto a frilly canopy bed and tickled her until she squirmed and begged him to stop, then she scrambled under her covers.
“What shall it be tonight,” Nathan asked.
“Peter Rabbit!” she said, pointing to her nightstand.
Nathan picked up the beautifully illustrated book and climbed onto the bed beside her, stretching his legs out and leaning back against the headboard, as Amelia snuggled in close to him. This particular copy was autographed by Beatrix Potter herself, after Nathan had run into her in London in June. Run into wasn’t exactly right. He had made a point of locating her through her publisher, and had set an appointment, inviting her to join him for tea. She had accepted, and they had spent a pleasant afternoon chatting about children, ending with her autograph and an agreement that at Christmas, she would visit the Madison house as a most welcome guest, meet her greatest admirer and read personally from Amelia’s favorite. Of course Nathan said nothing of it to Amelia.
They read together for fifteen minutes, the five-year-old turning the pages, practicing her own reading skills, and often speaking the lines of pages not yet reached, before her eyes grew heavy and she began to sink into the pillows. Nathan eased off the bed and brushed a stray wisp of dark hair from her face, kissing her gently on the forehead before turning off the lights and closing the door behind him. Nannybird wished him a good night, and he rejoined Voorhees in the hallway.
“Really, Sergeant Major, you can take your leave.”
The older man crossed his legs and settled deeper into the chair, puffing his pipe. “Right away, sir.”
Nathan understood, and went to see to his guests.
The party was not Nathan’s idea. His sister Pauline, now married to a Duke and living in Wales, had pushed him into it with her co-conspirators Linus and Caroline Edgemont. Pauline said it was time for Nathan to return to the world and start putting his sorrows behind him, and Linus, a friend from Oxford who had never worked a single day and lived off a vast family trust, advised that it was a wise business move to socialize with people who might become or recommend future clients. Linus’s wife Caroline wanted to play matchmaker, and arrange something between him and any number of well-bred young ladies from proper families. After months of refusal, Nathan had relented for no reason other than to end their perpetual nagging, well-intentioned though it may be.
He had little desire to “rejoin the world,” and his business needed little assistance. Madison Iron was quickly growing into an empire as the international need quickly outpaced the supply. Among its many contracts, Madison was the primary supplier for the liners being built by White Star. As for any liaison with ladies, well-bred or otherwise, the mere thought upset Nathan so that his hands trembled. There would be no more relationships for him.
The guests began arriving at a quarter past eight, and Nathan was there to greet each one, allowing their coats and umbrellas to be collected by a pair of male servants, then approaching them as they stepped into the entry hall to begin the expected ritual. A firm handshake for the men, a gracious bow for the ladies, a kiss on the cheek for the wives of closer acquaintances. Welcomes and appreciation for their long trip to the country, insistences that they spend the night in one of the manor’s many rooms, and the offers declined with equal graciousness, with only two exceptions – the Edgemonts and an older couple from several miles away, who didn’t like to travel after dark, the chill hurting their old bones. This was a task for which his upbringing had trained him well, and was a process he found intensely tedious.
His sister Pauline sent a messenger with a hand-written note, expressing her apologies for her last-minute cancellation, and begging his forgiveness. The Duke had been called to France on urgent business, and she was required to accompany him. Nathan took several minutes at Douglas’s desk, tucked discretely into an alcove, and penned a reply, telling her it was no trouble whatsoever, wishing her well on her trip across the channel, and insisting she visit him upon her return. He meant it, too. Pauline’s pestering that he rejoin society was genuine and good-hearted, and he loved her. Other than an aunt in London and a few cousins he barely knew, Pauline and Amelia were his only surviving family.
The Edgemonts were the last to arrive, Caroline admonishing a servant to take special care of her full length sable coat, and Linus spinning his cloak off dramatically, tossing his leather gloves into his bowler and casually tossing it to one of the young men. Caroline’s gown was from Paris, the very latest fashion, and Linus’s tuxedo was elegant in the extreme, with diamond cufflinks and diamond stickpin in the black tie.
“Nathan!” Linus cried, hurrying forward past his wife. “You must meet my new love.” He tried to grab his host’s elbow, but Nathan sidestepped him in order to take Caroline’s hand and give her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“You look stunning as always,” he told her.
It was clearly what she wanted to hear, and she smiled demurely before setting off to collect and spread the latest society gossip.
Linus managed to catch Nathan’s arm, and pulled him back towards the front door. “Come on, you must see this.”
Nathan allowed himself to be led out to the broad stone steps in front of the manor, where a brick drive curved in a wide circle before the house. An assortment of luxury automobiles, most of them chauffeured, were lined up around the drive. Half a dozen or so polished black carriages were there as well, an affectation of elegance preferred by some of the country nobility, mostly the older gentlemen who refused to put their faith in the combustion engine. The liveried drivers tended to their horses, grooming and feeding and, of course, quickly cleaning up behind them.
“You’re in love with a horse, Linus?” Nathan asked.
“Clever, quite clever.” He pointed at one of the cars. “That, my friend, is my new romance.” It was a gleaming black 1911 Rolls Limousine, its chrome like mirrors, its deep black shine reflecting the gaslights around the circle.
“Lovely,” said Nathan.
“Isn’t she?” Linus beamed. “Powerful, fast…first class luxury from front to back.”
Nathan gave the appreciative nod expected of him and guided his guest back inside. Shortly, he found himself in a knot of tuxedos, pompous and whiskered men grumbling about commodities and business and politics, drinking his wine and trying to one-up each other with not-so-subtle references to their wealth. Nathan was bored in minutes.
“Here, now,” said a portly man in his fifties, gesturing with his wine glass, his white mustache drooping but curling upwards at the tips. Nathan had known Randolph Kensington for years, a man who enjoyed fortunes equally divided between gold and railroads. The Dark Continent was the source of one and destination of the other.
“Madison’s an authority on Africa, let’s hear his word on this. What say you, Madison? Those damned savages in Swaziland, a threat to Her Majesty’s empire or no?”
Nathan held up a hand. “Gentlemen, I’m really not qualified to…”
“Nonsense,” said Sizemore, a man nearly Kensington’s twin in age, girth, and investments in Africa. It was diamonds for him. “You commanded troops during the Boer Wars,
what was it, for two years?”
“Three,” said Kensington. “Showed those bloody Dutchmen a thing or two!”
“Yes,” said Sizemore. “And your unit was…”
“Queen’s 11th Rifles,” Nathan said quietly.
“A colonel, no less!” cried Kensington. His cheeks were getting flushed with the wine. “Youngest man in the regiment to ever hold that rank, I’m told. Sorted out that business at Tugela Heights.”
Nathan stiffened. For a moment he could hear the impact of a 37mm shell.
“Of course,” said Sizemore, “the papers went on about that for some time. Nasty business. My compliments to you, Colonel.” The man tipped his glass. Nathan had no wine glass of his own, and wouldn’t have raised it if he had. Oh, he had ‘sorted out that nasty business,’ alright, and lost a thousand men in the process, as well as the full use of his leg. Over the soft tones of the string quartet playing in a corner of the great hall, Nathan again heard the whine of a shell, the blast, and the screaming of boys who hadn’t yet begun to shave.
The Boers had been dug in on the Heights, their gun emplacements well positioned and pre-sighted, their shooters protected in sandbagged bunkers and trenches, with plenty of ammunition for their Mauser rifles. For three days, Nathan had sent the regiment against them, up and down the slopes, taking ground and losing it just as fast, while the casualties climbed. On the third day, with 2nd Battalion’s commanding officer killed, Nathan had taken charge and personally led an assault which would prove to be the final, victorious push that sent the enemy into retreat. But the cost had been staggering, and it was Sergeant Major Voorhees who found Nathan on the hillside, his leg torn apart by shrapnel, bleeding badly and still barking encouragement to his young troops. Voorhees had carried him on his back to a medical field unit, saving his life and his leg.
Red Circus: A Dark Collection Page 20