Esmie put her hands over her mouth to smother a sob. It must have been talking to Harold about Serbia and the retreat over the mountains of Montenegro that had triggered off the nightmare. She hadn’t been plagued with it for weeks and had hoped the traumas of the past were finally diminishing. She took deep breaths to calm herself.
Padding to the window, Esmie peered out at the tranquil garden lit by early morning light. Perhaps it was the argument with Tom Lomax about the effects of shell shock that were to blame for her disturbed sleep. She wondered if he had a sore head this morning and whether he would remember their fractious argument, and thought probably not. He would no doubt be still sleeping off his hangover. Well, let him deal with his demons as he saw best; she would not judge him or interfere. She knew what complete exhaustion from war was like. Only the care of Aunt Isobel and time in the Highlands had helped heal her own mental wounds as well as restore her vitality. She knew though that she was not the same carefree young woman as before the War.
Yet the War was over and she’d survived it where good men like David Drummond had not. Esmie felt the familiar gnawing pain at the thought of the Drummonds’ son.
‘Live your life to the full, dear Esmie,’ Isobel had urged her. ‘And that will be your way of honouring David’s memory.’ Esmie had promised that she would – and privately she hoped that by doing so she might in some small way make up for letting David down.
Chapter 2
Tom shot awake at the sound of a gun going off. He had no idea where he was. He sat up, heart thudding. They were under siege. Moments ago, he had been fending off snipers hidden behind a ridge of black rock . . .
He looked around him in confusion; it must have been a dream. He was in his bedroom in the tower of The Anchorage, its walls crowded with his amateur watercolour paintings and the sound of the sea crashing on the cliff below. The noise came again; an exhaust backfiring. Tibby must be going out.
Tom sank back. But his relief was short-lived. The sudden movement made his head throb as pain shot through his temples. Daylight hurt his eyes. The scar across his left shoulder from an old sniper wound ached more than usual. Why did he feel so ill? He squinted at the trail of discarded clothes across the threadbare carpet. Shreds of memory began to surface.
‘Oh, God!’ he groaned, pressing the heel of his hands to his sore head.
The Templetons’ dinner party. He remembered the drinks before dinner and the meal – or some of the meal – and copious amounts of Jumbo’s claret and whisky. Lydia had found him amusing; at least he remembered her laughing a lot. And hadn’t they danced? He had a vague memory of a gramophone and Harold red-faced and sweating. And Lydia’s friend with the attractive eyes . . . Had he argued with her? Yes, he had. Why on earth would he do that? She didn’t like him – he’d been aware of that the moment they’d been introduced – though he had no idea why she should take against him. She’d reluctantly partnered him at tennis and hadn’t been very good.
Amy? Ellie? Esmie; that was it! Esmie McBride, daughter of the late Dr James McBride, a hale-and-hearty man who’d once reset Tom’s broken arm when he’d fallen out of a tree. She was one of those modern girls who did what she wanted. Harold had told him how, unmarried, she’d gone abroad as one of Dr Inglis’s medical women and put her life in danger. She’d been on the infamous Serbian Retreat. And she’d been engaged to David Drummond – or so Harold had thought – but the gentle, upright David had died right at the end of the War.
Tom sighed. No wonder Esmie held him in such little regard; he had none of David’s good qualities. She must resent him surviving the conflict when her intended had not. Damn the War!
Gingerly, he sat up again and swung his legs out of bed. They’d argued about nursing – something about shell shock – and he’d been deliberately rude. She’d looked at him with knowing eyes as if she could read his thoughts and offered to source him some sort of sleeping draught. He didn’t need her help or want her pity. It might be fashionable to go in for psychoanalysis but he would have none of it.
‘You sound just like your father.’ Esmie’s stinging words came back to him. How that had annoyed him! His father was a bully and a snob; whereas he cared nothing for social standing. Yet in Esmie’s eyes he was the privileged son and heir to The Anchorage. She probably thought he was wealthy and didn’t need to work – just played at being a soldier – while she had had to go out and earn her own living, with her mother long dead and no father alive to support her. Perhaps that was why the nurse had taken against him; envy at his titled position.
Tom hauled himself out of bed and shivered. Even in this spell of good weather, his turret room was damp and draughty. In winter, ice formed on the inside of the narrow windows. Yet there were times in the broiling heat of India’s hot season when he had yearned for this dank room and a cold sea fog to chill his bones.
He stripped off, relieved himself into the chamber pot and then plunged his head into a basin of cold water. The nearest bathroom was two floors below. On his return home, Tibby had warned him he would have to start emptying his own pot and filling his own water jug as they could no longer afford a chambermaid. As part of new economising measures, his sister had appointed herself as housekeeper and declared, ‘And I’m certainly not going to be your pot-wallah or whatever you call maids in India.’
‘Sweepers,’ Tom had chuckled.
He stood in an old tin tub, poured the remains of the water over himself, towelled himself vigorously and then lit the first cigarette of the day. Wrapped in a towel, he sat smoking and thinking of Lydia. Now, there was an attractive girl; pretty face and gorgeous figure. The Templeton daughter was good fun, keen at sport and uncomplicated – she’d been openly flirtatious and he’d been flattered by her attention. He’d forgotten how pleasant banter with a beautiful woman could be. Not since Mary . . .
Tom ground out his cigarette. He would not allow himself to dwell on the past. From now on, he was going to look forward to the future. As he dressed, he wondered if he had made any arrangements to see Lydia again. He couldn’t even remember getting home but assumed Harold had dropped him off. Good old Harold. He didn’t deserve such a faithful friend. He’d go over to the Guthries’ place later and apologise for getting so drunk, and find out if he needed to make further apologies to the Templetons – and Esmie.
Harold had seemed quite taken with the nurse – they had talked non-stop all through dinner. He suspected Harold had once thought romantically about Lydia – not that he’d ever said so as they didn’t really talk about affairs of the heart – but it was obvious that Lydia wasn’t interested in his friend. Besides, Harold would always put mission work before marriage. He had once said that it wouldn’t be fair to take a wife into such a dangerous place as the North-West Frontier, so he had resigned himself to bachelorhood.
Since word had filtered through that the Afghans had started raiding into British India, the lawless borderlands would be even more hazardous. Yet Tom thought Esmie might be one of those rare British women who could handle living in such a harsh terrain with the ever-present danger of martial tribesmen.
For a moment, he thought about the slim young woman in the tennis whites, with her tendrils of flyaway hair that wouldn’t stay pinned back. She had a sweet nose with a dusting of freckles but it was her grey almond-shaped eyes that were striking – or were they blue? The greyish-blue of the sea at Ebbsmouth on a cloudy day. He shook the thought from his mind and came to a resolution.
Today would be the day he confronted his father about the future. He had put it off for too long. Tom strode to the door, took a deep breath and clattered down the stone spiral staircase in search of the colonel.
Tom’s nerve failed him and he decided he needed breakfast first to fortify him for the ordeal ahead.
While he was eating scrambled eggs – Tibby had shown him how to make them – his sister returned from the shops, staggering in with two hessian bags of vegetables. Tom jumped to his feet.
‘
You should have let me do that,’ he said, taking one of the bags.
His sister gave a snort of amusement as she dumped the other on the table. ‘Judging by last night, Tommy, I doubt you were in any state to help this morning. I had to help Harold get you upstairs without waking the old man.’
Tom grimaced. ‘Sorry. Was I really that bad?’
She gave a hearty laugh. ‘You were singing about Tipperary and jabbering about ragtime. And you tried to show me some dance steps but kept falling over. All quite entertaining.’
‘Did I wake up Papa?’ Tom asked, cringing inside.
‘Luckily he’s as deaf as a post,’ said Tibby. ‘Never heard a thing.’
‘Thanks, Tibby,’ said Tom, swinging an arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss on her rosy cheek.
She wiped it off and pushed him away. Shrugging off her long coat but keeping on her battered khaki hat, she busied herself unpacking the shopping.
Tom scrutinised his sister. ‘Tibby, are you wearing my old polo jodhpurs?’
‘Yes; what of it?’
‘Bet that surprised the grocer.’
‘I doubt it. He’d be more shocked if I walked in wearing a tea dress and a feathered hat.’
Tom chuckled. ‘Well, you’re welcome to them. I shan’t be needing them again.’
Tibby paused and regarded him with round hazel eyes. ‘Meaning?’
Tom hesitated. The only person who knew of his radical plan was Harold. He wanted to confide in Tibby – he nearly always did – but he was wary in case she tried to talk him out of it. She hated scenes between her brother and father. She was so much better at handling the colonel than he was. She coped with whatever life threw at her with a dogged spirit that he could only admire. Even the death of their mother when they were ten years old had not subdued Tibby for long, whereas his grief had been acute. For years he would bury his head under the bedcovers and cry silently for his beloved mother.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ Tom answered. ‘Is Papa in his den?’
‘He was when I went out,’ said Tibby. ‘What are you up to, Tommy? You’re not going to upset him, are you?’
‘Stand by with the iodine and bandages,’ Tom joked, but his stomach curdled with nerves.
‘You haven’t finished your eggs.’
‘Not hungry,’ said Tom.
‘Oh, no,’ Tibby said in dismay, ‘that means you are going to upset him. Tell me what it is.’
Tom was striding to the door. ‘You won’t change my mind.’
‘Tommy!’ she called after him.
Swiftly, Tom took the stairs to the main hallway and swung through the green baize door that divided the servants’ quarters from the family domain. The dining room was still cluttered with iron bedframes from its time as a hospital ward, though he and Tibby had made an effort to refurnish the drawing room and bring it back into use. All through the War, the colonel had clung on to the large downstairs library as his living quarters, from where he could observe the nurses wheeling invalids around the garden and shout at them if there was too much fraternisation.
These days the octogenarian Archibald Lomax, crippled with arthritis, emerged from his ‘den’ only for a morning perambulation round the grounds and a nightcap with Tibby in the drawing room before bed. Their old housemaid, Miss Curry, came in daily to wash him and serve him breakfast and lunch, leaving Tibby to arrange his evening meal. Tom had passed the lugubrious woman on the back stairs, clutching a pile of the colonel’s washing, and given her a cheerful, ‘Morning, Miss Curry; beautiful day!’ To which she had shaken her head and predicted, ‘It’ll rain before the day’s oot.’
Tom stood outside the library door and tried to calm his breathing. How often as a boy had he hesitated here, summoned by his father, bracing himself for punishment of some minor misdemeanour? His buttocks tingled at the memory of the regular beatings, yet he had long forgotten what they had been for.
He took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was no answer. Tom rapped louder.
‘Yes?’ his father barked. ‘Come in!’
As Tom entered the darkly panelled room, a familiar fetid smell enveloped him; toast, incontinence, dusty books and smoke from the coal fire that was kept alight throughout the year. The colonel, his back to the door, sat hunched over a vast table by the window, contemplating an array of metal toy soldiers. His shoulders looked shrunken in the large captain’s chair, his neck thin under wispy grey hair, and the hand that held up a toy lancer to the light was veined and tremulous. Tom felt a twinge of pity. How vulnerable and alone he looked; an old man who had married in middle-age but outlived his young wife by twenty-three years.
Then his father swung round in his chair and his gaunt face, framed in white side-whiskers, puckered in a frown.
‘Oh, it’s you. What do you want?’
Tom’s heart began to thud. ‘A moment of your time, sir.’
Archibald pursed his lips. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy, boy?’
Tom gripped his hands behind his back. They were slippery with sweat. ‘Obviously very busy,’ he muttered.
‘What was that? Speak up, for God’s sake!’
Tom raised his voice and took a couple of steps forward. ‘It won’t take long, Papa.’
‘Very well.’ The colonel put down the toy soldier and gave him a sour look. ‘I suppose you’re after more money but I can’t raise your allowance. You’ll just have to draw in your horns like Tibby has or pay your own mess bills.’
Tom hid his irritation. Had his father forgotten that he’d stopped his meagre allowance eight years ago in disapproval of Tom marrying? ‘No officer should marry before thirty,’ his father had declared. Aged twenty-five, Tom, in a rare act of defiance, had secured the permission of his commanding officer and married Mary Maxwell, his childhood sweetheart.
‘I’m not asking for money,’ Tom said. ‘I’m not asking for anything.’
‘What then? Are you wanting to marry again? Can’t leave it too long. High time you got on with providing an heir for The Anchorage.’
Tom winced at the tactless words. With such lack of charm, how had his father ever won his mother’s heart?
‘No, I have no plans to marry again – not yet at least.’ Tom wondered if he would ever be ready to replace Mary or risk losing someone so dear. He never wanted to experience that much pain again.
‘Well, spit it out,’ his father said.
Tom swallowed. ‘I—I’ve come to a decision, sir. About my future. Well, it’s already decided. This is just to let you know. It’s not just spur of the moment. I’ve thought about it a lot – thought it through – and I know it’s the right thing – for me, at least.’
‘Stop talking in riddles, boy. You never can get to the point. Always waffling on, just like your mother. Thought what through?’
Tom’s chest thumped. ‘I’m leaving the Army – I’ve resigned my commission.’
Archibald cupped his hand to his ear as if he’d misheard. ‘What was that?’
‘I’m not going back to the Peshawar Rifles,’ Tom said.
His father gaped at him in utter disbelief. For a moment he was speechless, and then he was pushing himself to his feet with a roar.
‘You’ve done what? Is this one of your damnable pranks?’
‘No,’ said Tom, standing his ground. ‘I’m no longer in the Army. My days of killing are over.’
His father advanced towards him, his face turning crimson. Even at eighty, the colonel was as tall as his son. He glared at him with pale blue eyes.
‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘Have you been cashiered?’
‘No, sir, I’ve done nothing wrong but I’ve had enough of soldiering.’
‘Done nothing wrong?’ Archibald cried. ‘No Lomax has ever resigned his commission – ever! And for nothing. It’s shameful!’
Tom bunched his fists at his side, trying to stay calm. A familiar wave of humiliation washed through him. But he would not be cowed.
‘I’ve d
one my bit for king and country, Papa. I’ve done what you wanted – followed in your footsteps in the Rifles. But I’ve had enough. I’m going to do something I want now.’
His father was shaking with rage. ‘You ungrateful boy! I pulled strings to get you into my old regiment – your grandfather’s regiment. He fought in the Mutiny – I fought in Afghanistan. You can’t just turn your back on all that family history and honour. And to do what? Don’t think you can lounge around here spending my money. I’ve let you grow soft. You don’t have the backbone for India. You’re weak and foolish like your mother – always have been.’
Tom felt anger pump through him. ‘I hope I am like my mother. She would have understood. And I’m not turning my back on India,’ said Tom. ‘I’m buying a hotel in Rawalpindi.’
Archibald exploded. ‘Pindi! A hotel? You’re going to be a bloody box-wallah?’
‘Yes, and why not? It’s an honest trade – providing food and shelter and a bit of good cheer. Better than running around playing hide-and-seek with the Pathans.’
‘How dare you?’ his father cried. ‘You dishonour all the brave men who have sacrificed their lives to keep India safe from those brigands and murderers.’
‘And what is honourable about bombing men on horseback from the air?’ Tom said scathingly. ‘Because that’s what the future of warfare on the Frontier will be like from now on.’
Archibald’s look turned glacial. ‘All I ever wanted was a son to make me proud – to make the Lomaxes proud – but you have been nothing but a disappointment to me. Tibby should have been the boy – she has ten times your spirit.’
‘I agree,’ Tom said, holding his father’s gaze.
‘If you go ahead with this tawdry little business venture, I’ll disinherit you,’ Archibald threatened. ‘Tibby will get everything.’
Tom smiled. ‘Go ahead – she’s welcome to it.’
The Emerald Affair Page 4
