The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  ‘Oh, look Sam, the pond where you and I would catch tadpoles!’ Alice exclaimed as the carriage passed a pond to one side of the carriageway to the regal house. Ian nodded and smiled as Samuel had not briefed him on the tadpole-catching incidents with his sister, but he pretended to remember.

  When the carriage halted before the front entrance, they were met by the large staff. The men in dress coats and the ladies wearing white apron-like dresses.

  ‘Welcome home, Miss Alice,’ an elderly lady said, stepping from the line of servants. ‘And you, Master Samuel. It is so good to see your face again after so many years.’ Ian could see that there were tears in her eyes, and guessed from her warm greeting that she must be the nanny Samuel had told him about.

  ‘Nanny Groves, it has been a long time,’ he replied, stepping from the carriage. ‘You have not changed in all the years that we have been apart.’

  The elderly lady with her grey hair tied into a bun broke into a full flood of tears at being recognised, and Ian breathed a sigh of relief for playing his part. She impulsively hugged him, and Ian felt that if his supposed governess accepted him for being Samuel, he had passed a very important test.

  A couple of manservants assisted with the luggage from the carriage and Ian was ushered inside the manor house, Alice and Herbert following closely behind.

  Ian tried to recall the layout of the house as described by Sir George. This would be another test and he turned to his old governess.

  ‘I would like to go to my old room,’ he said.

  ‘I will show you to your room,’ Mrs Groves said.

  ‘There is no need,’ Ian replied. ‘I know where it is.’

  ‘Certainly, Master Samuel,’ she replied, and Ian walked towards the large staircase in the ornate foyer to locate the room. He did not show his nervousness, but walked confidently up and turned left at the top to walk down a hallway until he felt he had located the room Samuel had once occupied. He opened the door and stepped inside. It smelled musty but he could see the rows of shelves stacked with books, and smiled. The more he was in the company of the family, the more he knew he was being accepted by the Forbes members. He felt that he was, in actual fact, Samuel Forbes, heir to the dynasty. As he stood at the centre of the room, he was aware that Alice had joined him.

  ‘I insisted that your room be left as it was when you were taken to the regiment in London all those years ago,’ she said. ‘I do so remember how much fun we had here.’

  Ian turned to look at Alice and could see from the expression on her face that she was totally convinced that she had her brother home. Now all he had to do was be commissioned into the regiment to join the circle of his future. What could go wrong now?

  Nine

  For their first day at the Forbes country manor, Ian had Alice’s full attention. They spent the day riding the estate, and at night, played cards, with Herbert always hovering, eager to get Ian’s attention. On the second day, Peter arrived, and Ian suddenly had less attention from his supposed sister.

  On the third day, Charles arrived without his father, who had been called away on business, and the coldness that had started at their London meeting continued. Neither had spoken hardly a word to the other since Ian had arrived. Ian had noticed the doubt in Charles’ eyes and realised that Sir George’s warnings about his nephew and brother were well-founded.

  But Peter’s friendship warmed the air at the estate in the country.

  ‘Alice has told me that you are a good rider,’ Peter said one morning after breakfast.

  ‘I did a lot of riding in the colonies,’ Ian replied.

  ‘Good, I have arranged to have a couple of mounts prepared for us,’ Peter said and that morning, both men went to the stables where a couple of the Forbes’ finest horses had been saddled.

  The Canadian and the Australian mounted, riding down the grand driveway off the estate, and continued in a leisurely manner through avenues of shady oak trees until they found a winding, narrow road that took them to the edge of a country village.

  ‘Well, old chap, time to find a pub and try a local ale,’ Peter said as they trotted into the cobbled main street of the quaint village.

  ‘No bark huts here,’ Ian quipped when he looked down the street busy with the local population going about their daily chores. Ian could see that their arrival had caught the interest of the villagers, who stared with curiosity at the two well-dressed gentlemen riding fine steeds through their streets.

  They came across a pub and dismounted, securing their horses to a railing by a water trough. When they went inside, the few patrons sitting at tables, paused to glance at the strangers entering.

  Peter walked over to the bar and ordered two large ales, taking them to a table Ian had selected in one corner of the bar.

  ‘To your health,’ Peter said, raising his tankard.

  ‘You too,’ Ian responded, noticing that their appearance in the bar still caused interest to the other patrons, a few farmers and artisans from the district. He could see them whisper and cast the occasional curious glance in their direction.

  ‘I thought that we might come here so you will be one of the first to know that I have been granted a position in the army as a surgeon in your regiment.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Ian said, bumping his tankard against that of the Canadian doctor’s. ‘When do you commence your military duties?’

  ‘As soon as I return to London at the end of the week,’ Peter said. ‘But I had another reason to get you alone today,’ Peter said. ‘I will be asking for Alice’s hand in marriage and, as I am a colonial with few friends in this country, I am requesting that you be my best man at the wedding. I think you are the best choice, as I know how much Alice is fond of you as her brother.’

  ‘Congratulations, old man,’ Ian said, both flattered and mildly shocked at the announcement. ‘When do you intend to ask for Alice’s hand?’

  ‘I hope to tonight,’ Peter said with a touch of gloom in his answer. ‘With Charles’ blessing, if I can obtain it, in lieu of your father.’

  ‘You don’t sound all that optimistic,’ Ian said.

  ‘I know Alice feels the same way about me as I do about her, but your father considers me below her class and some kind of adventurer intent on getting my hands on a substantial dowry. I am afraid a medical doctor is not what he has planned for Alice’s future.’

  ‘If the family rejects your proposal, what will you do?’ Ian asked.

  ‘I don’t know at this stage,’ Peter replied. ‘But if worse comes to worst, I would wish Alice to elope with me, after my service to the Queen as an army surgeon.’

  ‘Let us hope that Charles sees sense and gives his blessing on behalf of the family,’ Ian said. ‘I think I would like to propose a toast to your success.’

  Both men raised their tankards in silence. They finished the contents and exited the coolness of the bar into the warmth of the English summer. Ian could see dark rolling clouds gathering on the horizon and knew there would be a storm.

  They had hardly made it back to the manor when the first fat droplets began to fall and the sky was rent by lightning.

  The storm rolled on into the early hours of evening.

  Ian had discovered a Charles Dickens’ novel in the library and was absorbed reading it. The room was small with a comfortable divan and good gas lighting from the overhead chandelier. The evening meal was being prepared by the staff, and he expected the sound of the bell to tinkle on the wall calling him to supper. He did not expect the intrusion of Charles, storming into the room.

  Ian closed the book as Charles towered over him, rage painted across his face.

  ‘I have just come from a meeting with Dr Campbell. He has informed me that you support his desire to marry Alice.’

  ‘That is right,’ Ian replied. ‘As a matter of fact, Dr Campbell has honoured me with his request for me
to be his best man at the wedding.’

  ‘There will be no wedding,’ Charles snarled. ‘He is not worthy of Alice’s hand. I would have expected you to understand that matter. But you actually take his side. I feel that you have been too long in the colonies and have lost all respect for your station – our station – in society. You seem to have the manners of a colonial yourself.’

  ‘In the colony of New South Wales, I noted that a man’s standing in society is more based on his personal qualities, and not his birth into any privileged family. As a matter of fact, I have even witnessed former convicts become gentlemen of wealth and substance.’

  ‘You sound like you admire those colonials who have risen above their station in life,’ Charles spat. ‘God has ordained that we rule. I have wondered from the first day I set eyes on you if you are really my brother, or an imposter.’

  ‘I am as disappointed in our blood connection as you,’ Ian replied. ‘I should have told Mother about when you tried to push me under a moving wagon when we were little,’ Ian countered, remembering the incident related to him by Samuel. ‘It seems nothing has changed, brother Charles.’ Ian was satisfied to see the expression of surprise on Charles’ face.

  ‘That was an accident,’ he spluttered, and Ian knew he had the upper hand.

  ‘It did not feel that way at the time,’ he replied. ‘I was fully aware of your hostility towards me,’ Ian added. Charles stood to attention, his hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘You should take care, Samuel,’ he said quietly in a threatening manner. ‘You’ve been away from England so long. Accidents like that happen all the time.’

  ‘I will be careful,’ Ian replied, remembering the revolver Samuel had given him.

  Without any further discussion, Charles exited the room, leaving Ian with the copy of David Copperfield and his concern about the veiled threat. Was it possible that his own brother – half-brother – pretend brother – was capable of plotting to kill him? Ian shook his head. But still remembered the cap and ball revolver in his room.

  The next morning, Ian read in the paper that the Russian army had crossed the Prith River into Moldavia. He knew that it meant war was almost inevitable with the Tsar, and that with luck, he would be in the thick of it, as he had always yearned to be in his little village on the other side of the world.

  *

  ‘They won’t allow Molly any visitors,’ Edwin said bitterly. ‘She must be having sleepless nights, wondering where we are.’

  ‘The prison might not allow any visitors, but I have been chatting with Colour Sergeant Leslie who told me that for a small fee, the guards will smuggle letters in and out of her gaol. We can at least get word to her,’ Conan said.

  Edwin and Owen paused in polishing their boots to stare at Conan.

  ‘We can’t read or write,’ Owen said. ‘But Molly can read and write good.’

  ‘I can read and write,’ Conan replied, examining the new shine on his polished boot. ‘I can write a letter to Molly on your behalf, and Colour Sergeant Leslie can arrange to have it smuggled in.’

  Owen and Edwin exchanged a look and nodded. ‘We can get paper and pen,’ Edwin said. ‘Tonight, we write a letter to Molly.’

  In the barracks that evening, the three men huddled together on Conan’s bed to compose the words to their beloved sister. It was a strained effort by the brothers but the letter – filling two pages – described their life in the British army. When they were satisfied they had possibly eased their sister’s concern for their welfare, they left Conan with the letter. Conan gazed at the ink on the pages, and impulsively pulled out another blank page, and began to write his own letter.

  My dear Molly,

  I wrote your brothers’ words for them and now I write my own.

  I am very saddened to learn of your miserable fate at the hand of the British justice. I will confess that when I met you for that short time I liked you a lot.

  There is a rumour that we might be going to war with Russia very soon. I promise that I will look out for Owen and Edwin so that they might stay safe. I know that you were sentenced to five years, but I also promise to do everything I can to get you out of gaol. I will wait for that day no matter how long.

  Conan pondered on the last sentence and put a thick ink cross through it to obliterate the sentence. With a piece of blotting paper, he dried the wet ink. He felt that it was possible his added words might give her hope and signed off the letter, carefully folded it and tucked it under his pillow. In the morning, he would approach the Irish sergeant with the few pennies he had to have the letter delivered via the corrupt guards of Molly’s prison. He did not expect to receive a reply but before the week was out, Colour Sergeant Leslie slipped a letter into Conan’s hand after an inspection parade. The colour sergeant had not asked payment from Molly, and Conan had a new appreciation of his fellow Irishman.

  Conan felt his heart pounding when he hurried back to the barracks to read the reply.

  On his bed, Conan unfolded the paper to discover there were two letters. One addressed to the three of them, and one written to him alone. He had hardly had time to read the letters when he was joined by the Welsh brothers.

  ‘Is that a letter from Molly?’ Owen asked eagerly, seeing the paper in Conan’s hand.

  ‘It is,’ he answered. ‘Our letter got to her.’

  ‘What has she written?’ Edwin asked eagerly.

  Conan began to read the letter to them as they stood by his bed. It expressed how thrilled she was to have the message smuggled in to her and a special thank you to Conan for writing it. She also wrote of her yearning to be released and once again be back with her brothers. She explained that prison was harsh, but it was the loneliness that was worst.

  Tears rolled down the cheeks of her brothers.

  ‘Can I keep the letter?’ Edwin asked, stretching out his hand.

  ‘What for?’ Owen said. ‘You don’t read, boyo.’

  ‘Don’t need to read to have it,’ Edwin said, sniffing back his tears.

  Conan passed the letter to him and he folded it with some reverence, as if it were a holy manuscript.

  Both brothers departed, and Conan unfolded the letter addressed to him.

  My dear Conan,

  I thank you for your kind words which mean a lot to me in my time of joyless existence. I was able to discern the words you attempted to hide and was very touched by the feelings imparted by its meaning. Time will pass but I hope that the sentiment of your words remain.

  Yours sincerely,

  Molly

  Conan felt a lump in his throat and reread the few words, his feelings in turmoil. Had he committed himself to this Welsh lass he hardly knew? What did the future hold for them?

  A bugle sounded and called the men to their evening meal. With great care, Conan placed the letter inside his red jacket, over his heart. Edwin was not alone in his reverence for the written word.

  *

  The manor was in turmoil. The servants carefully avoided the family and guests as Peter’s raised voice equalled that of Charles in the drawing room. Upstairs, Alice lay on her bed, sobbing inconsolably.

  Ian and Herbert sat in a living room, exchanging knowing looks. In the short time he had known him, Ian had grown very fond of the youngest Forbes brother.

  ‘I think it is time for you and I to visit the local tavern,’ Ian said to Herbert, whose face lit up.

  ‘Charles has forbidden me to go to the village,’ Herbert said.

  ‘Well, I am your older brother, and I give you permission to accompany me.’

  Herbert did not hesitate, and arrangements were made to have a couple of horses saddled. They rode to the village just on dusk and already, lights showed in the windows of the cottages of the village.

  Both men dismounted, secured their horses and went inside to a rowdy, smoke-filled public house
. The sound of a fiddle screeched in the corner, and men were singing old Kentish folk songs to the tune.

  Their entrance was hardly noticed in the crowd, and the atmosphere reminded Ian of his own public house in his little village back in Australia.

  Ian shouldered his way through the crowd to order a couple of tankards of ale and returned to Herbert, who he could see was entranced by the atmosphere of the public house.

  Ian thrust the tankard in Herbert’s hand, raising his own. ‘Cheers.’

  They stood and listened to the fiddler and the folk songs. Sweat rolled down most faces as the aftermath of the storm had left the night air humid in the crowded bar.

  ‘It is grand!’ Herbert said, his foot tapping to the rhythm of the songs. Ian could see that Herbert was already feeling the intoxicating ale and the music surge through his body.

  Ian glanced around at the villagers enjoying this interlude from long, hard labour and felt his heart almost stop a beat when his eyes settled on those of a young woman only paces away. She had raven hair to her shoulders, emerald green eyes, and a complexion Ian immediately thought of as cream. In any world, she was an exceptional beauty. Ian was aware that she was appraising him, and he wondered if she was aware that he was staring at her.

  ‘Hey, you just caused me to spill my ale,’ an angry voice said from behind Ian, and his attention on the beautiful young woman was broken when he turned to see Herbert being cornered by a huge local lad.

  Herbert appeared frightened by the larger man’s menacing stance. Already, the confrontation was drawing attention immediately around them.

  Ian stepped forward between Herbert and the local man. ‘My apologies, sir,’ he said. ‘If my brother has caused you any grief, I will pay for another ale.’

  The man turned his attention to Ian. They were eye to eye, and Ian could see a real threat in the man’s expression. ‘I don’t just need another ale,’ he snarled. ‘I need an apology. And his boots.’