Scarlet Shadows

by Elizabeth Darrell

  Suddenly he laughed and leaned back. “I have been riding my hobbyhorse, Victoria. You must forgive me.”

  She sensed that she had put a foot wrong and was anxious lest he felt she did not care about his ideas.

  “Please go on. I may sound ignorant, but this is the first time anyone has spoken to me on the subject. I assure you I am most interested and am prepared to believe that if a horseman of your reputation says there should be changes, he must be right.”

  “Despite all the generals?”

  “Despite any number of generals,” she said decisively.

  He bowed his head. “Thank you, ma’am — patroness of the Hussars.”

  At that moment the faint sound of a gong resounding through the house set her heart thumping. Waterloo or Salamanca was standing erect in a frenzy of barking as she swung her feet to the ground from the curled-up position she had unconsciously adopted.

  “This is the luncheon gong. Charles is always so punctual I shall never be ready when he comes for me!”

  Hugo stood up and held out a hand. “You sound panic-stricken. There is no need. Charles will not eat you. He is the most reasonable of men!”

  “Is he, indeed?” she told him fiercely. “I shall be in dreadful disgrace for even setting foot inside your room against all advice. He will be furious.”

  “Then do not tell him.”

  She was taken aback. “I could not deceive him.”

  “I could — quite easily. For the sake of your good name,” he added artfully. “It would be much easier to say nothing, would it not?”

  “Ye-es,” she agreed doubtfully, “but what shall we do when introduced as strangers?”

  “Act like strangers.” He shook his head. “My dear sister, it is plain you are not used to telling lies.”

  “I am not, sir. It is also plain you are an old hand at it.”

  He smiled. “I am also an old hand at telling tales. You have no notion of the tale I shall tell if you do not promise to come again tomorrow. I shall swear you were here the entire morning, spinning my head with your chatter and exhausting me with your energy. I shall moan and groan — I am excellent at that — and sit gasping as if my last breath were about to be drawn.”

  Perhaps it was the wine or maybe the warmth of his personality that contrasted with the other members of this household. Whatever it was, she laughed merrily.

  “You are quite unscrupulous, sir.”

  “I know it,” he replied calmly, “but you have no idea how lonely I have been these past days. Take pity on me,” he begged, knowing no woman could resist such words from him, then added something unintentionally heart stirring: “If you do as I ask I swear I will pretend when we are introduced that I have never set eyes…on you,” he finished slowly, leaving a silence that was more telling than words.

  “I will do my best,” she said eventually, “but you must promise that you will make no more attempts to slip past Stokes and leave this room.”

  “Done!” he said with warmth. “Your visits will eliminate the need. Stokes!” he called, and the soldier appeared like magic from the other room. “Miss Castledon is leaving…but she will be coming to tea with me tomorrow.”

  “That is good news, miss.” Stokes gave her a smile that turned up the ends of his mustache and escorted her to the door.

  Victoria had almost left when she remembered the circumstances that had brought her there and turned back to the blindfolded man.

  “You will think me quite stupid, but I do not know how to return to my room.”

  Hugo laughed. “If I were really unscrupulous I should refuse to help you, thereby ensuring myself company for luncheon. Where have they installed you?”

  “I really cannot say. Charles always accompanies me. The furnishings are mostly pink, blue and ivory…and there is a superb oil of a sunset in my room.”

  “Ah, you are in the South Gallery.” He frowned. “How thoughtless of Mama to situate you so far from the main rooms. However, you are in luck, for it is no great distance from here if you cross the Mirror Room. At the end of this corridor you will find a pair of doors leading to it. Cross there and you’ll find yourself in the South Gallery.” He grinned. “You are not likely to be spotted in your clandestine journey, for it avoids the main rooms.”

  She smiled back, then let the smile fade. What use to smile at a man who could not see her?

  *

  Hugo knew she had gone only when he heard the door close with a soft click he had never noticed until forced to concentrate on sounds rather than sights. He sagged back in his chair and told Stokes to pour him some more wine.

  “And, Stokes, please do not let my stocks of lemonade dwindle so again.”

  Stokes sighed theatrically. “No, sir.” He put the glass safely into his officer’s hand. “About tea, sir.”

  “Find out Miss Castledon’s preferences and ensure they are available, even if it means going into the village to purchase them.”

  “That’s all very well, Captain Esterly, but I ain’t exactly popular down in the kitchens, as you know. I’ve had another argument with Dawkins this morning.”

  “Good God, man, can you not make an effort to get along with him?”

  Stokes drew himself up to his full height. “No, sir, that I can’t do. I think you are well enough used to my ways to know I am not a person as likes to have enemies, but me and Dawkins is completely incomperapatible.”

  Hugo laughed and shook his head. “Not incompatible, just too full of your own importance. Dawkins has had his nose put out of joint by your presence and feels he should resume his personal service to me. You, on the other hand, sniff at him because he is too high-flown by military standards.” He sighed. “But I depend on you, Stokes. God knows, I do. Dawkins would drive me to the devil at a time like this.”

  “My very words to him, Captain,” put in the incorrigible Stokes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll be seeing about your luncheon and giving them dogs a bit of exercise. Sorry about letting them annoy the lady.”

  “That is all right. Miss Castledon does not appear to take umbrage over small things.”

  Stokes departed with the retrievers, and Hugo sat deep in thought until his restless spirit drove him to his feet. He felt his way to the window and stood before it. The sun was warm on his hands. He imagined it must be one of those glorious blue and gold days December exploded into from the usual grayness now and again. Outside, the shrubbery would be ablaze with scarlet holly berries and pyracanthas, contrasting with the yellow and gold of witch hazel and forsythia. The ivy rambling over the wall of the south aspect would be russet and crimson at this time of year, and just below his window two tall conifers must be sharply divided into light- and dark-green by the slope of the sun’s rays over the roof.

  Beyond the gardens he could visualize the lush spread of the park encircling the tranquility of blue water. The grass would be dew-laden and shimmering, the air would fill a man’s lungs with sharp, cold purity, and a horse would go like the wind, consumed by the same exultation as its rider.

  He knew it so well: a lesson learned from boyhood. With a good mare like Flame between his knees he could bend low over her ears and feel the wind rushing past as the long-striding beast took him across the park, through the lower meadow, a leap to bridge the stream, up through the copse and along Three-tree Ridge. Then a gentle trot past the old granaries, slipping and sliding down the leaf-covered bank, on past Mother Timmins’ cottage and a long easy ride back through the orchards to the home paddock.

  For several minutes he stood with his head tilted back, reliving every yard of that ride. Then his hand gripped the gold-brocade curtain beside him and twisted it savagely. Dear God, had he seen all that for the last time? His other hand unconsciously tightened around the stem of his glass. Why had he not looked more closely at those familiar landmarks on his last visit? Why had he not appreciated it to the fullest extent of his senses? Why had he not drunk the wine of perfection in deep draughts against
the possibility of it being the last?

  How could he live as a blind man? He was not cut out for drawing-room existence. Always ill at ease in the company of intellectuals, Hugo was also bored to tears among political figures. If he could not be a military man there was nothing left for him. The possibility of buying a small estate and becoming a squire was attractive to him, but what use was a gentleman who could not ride over his acres and superintend them?

  A man who reveled in an active open-air life would be stifled and caged by an infirmity such as he might have to face. Dammit, he could not even see to his own dress and ablutions. In time, the art of eating might be mastered sufficiently to allow him to accomplish the business without too much mess, but he could never entertain guests in his own house. As for the fair sex, even if he could find a trollop willing to sell her favors to a blind man, he would have too much pride to go to her. Marriage would be out of the question. Even an angel of virtue like Charity Verewood would hardly relish tying herself to half a man.

  In a sudden rush of fear and desperation he flung the wineglass as hard as he could and had the satisfaction of hearing it smash against the wall. Patience was not one of his virtues; ten more days of uncertainty would have him in an asylum.

  *

  Hugo waited for his visitors the following afternoon with a sense of anticipation. How would his new sister carry off the meeting? The news that there was to be one had come as a surprise, and he wondered if Victoria were responsible for his father’s change of mind. It seemed likely that Charity Verewood had persuaded them it was not good for him to be left alone, for she could influence his parents more than anyone. His spirits dropped. Now that Charles had dashed their hopes, he knew his parents would wish him to make a match with the girl — but he was not yet ready to settle down. There was so much he wanted to do with his career before contemplating matrimony — so much that involved his entire days to that end. It was too soon to devote himself to home and family.

  A knock fell on the door and he yelled, “Stokes!”

  “Yessir,” said a voice from a few yards away. “I bin listening for it, never fear.”

  “A minute, man, before you open the door. You are not to forget we have never met Miss Castledon.”

  “Oh, sir,” said Stokes in his most hurt tone, “as if I’d give the young lady away! It’s them dogs as might do it.”

  Hugo groped his way to his feet. “For God’s sake keep them out of it. Miss Verewood does not care for their form of greeting.”

  “I see, sir.”

  Hugo could picture the look on his servant’s face and knew the rough soldier had already decided the other lady was not of the same caliber as Victoria Castledon. The door was being opened, and there was Charles’s voice greeting Stokes in friendly fashion and making him known to the ladies. He smothered a smile at the polite exchange between Stokes and Victoria. So far so good.

  “Come in and make yourselves comfortable,” he said, trying to judge whether they had come right up to him or still lingered in the doorway.

  There was the rustle of silk shirts and the smell of fresh lavender. That would be Charity. Victoria had brought a scent of lemons and sweet hay yesterday that had reminded him of happy interludes with village maidens.

  A hand took his elbow suddenly, making him start nervously, and his brother said in his ear, “Hugo, old fellow, you are very fortunate to have two charming ladies come to visit you. Miss Verewood has driven especially across to Wychbourne on hearing news of you this morning.”

  “You are the most considerate of friends,” said Hugo, putting out his hand, praying he would not touch the girl’s person in doing so.

  She put cool fingers in his. “I would have come sooner, Captain Esterly, if I had thought it advisable. Dare I hope you are on the mend?”

  “Yes, thank you. Please take a seat by the fire. I value your concern that brought you out on a cold day such as this. I’ll feel very guilty if you should catch a chill because of it.”

  “There is no chance of that” was the reply as she moved away in a cloud of lavender perfume. “I have been across the hills to visit parishioners with the Reverend Meakins on worse days than this.”

  “Now, I have the honor and extreme pleasure to present you to my future wife,” said Charles warmly. “Victoria, my dear, Hugo has been most anxious to meet you.”

  “Miss Castledon, it is most unkind of you to arrange your betrothal at a time when I am not fit to celebrate it,” he said, putting out his hand for a second time and taking the warm fingers to his lips as he executed what he hoped was a graceful bow. “But I offer my sincere felicitations and promise to be all in one piece when I stand beside Charles at the wedding.”

  “It is my fervent hope that you will be” was the controlled reply. “I apologize for my atrocious mistiming, but you were also at fault, sir, for deserting your regiment at the beginning of the summer.”

  He smiled. “I stand rebuked, Miss Castledon.”

  “Please call me Victoria. I am to be your sister so very shortly.”

  He would have sworn she was smiling, for her voice had taken on a richer tone. Damnation! This continuous infernal darkness!

  Charity expressed the hopes of the members of her family for his quick recovery, and he answered automatically. A clear mental picture sprang to mind when he heard that soft cool voice — perfect oval face unmarred by selfishness or indulgence, large blue eyes full of feminine appeal, corn-gold braids wound around her head in the manner of Teutonic opera singers and an attractive rounded body that she would insist on disguising with severely plain gowns. But as for the other voice, he had nothing to accompany it but blackness deeper than night.

  There was no guide to tell him whether she was fair or dark, fat or thin, tall or short, pretty or plain. Did her nose tip up or was it long and pointed? Was her complexion cream and rose or sallow and spotty? Was her smile slow and beguiling? Surely it could not snap on and off like Dan Ferriday’s sister’s ghastly grin. No, he could not associate the sound of Victoria Castledon with any girl he knew. The ephemeral Victoria of yesterday had been full of gaiety, yet hauntingly uncertain of herself, and try as he might she would not take form in his mind.

  “Miss Verewood has brought you some potted meat that has proved beneficial in other cases, Hugo,” said Charles, breaking into his thoughts.

  “How kind of you, Miss Verewood. Will it cure all ills?”

  “It sustains one’s constitution, Captain Esterly. It is not a medicament” came the slight reproach.

  He pulled himself together and tried to concentrate on the conversation. “Foolish of me. I beg your pardon, Miss Verewood.”

  “Victoria has great regrets at being unable to bring a gift fit for an invalid but has suggested to me what I think might be an excellent scheme,” said Charles after letting out a breath that told Hugo he had taken a seat. “She is very willing to devote a part of each day to reading to you. We have all discussed the matter and feel a short period of that nature would do you no harm and would keep you from brooding. Do you approve?”

  “Heartily. Thank you, Victoria. I have been quite cut off without even a newspaper to keep me in touch with the world.”

  “You need not have been, for I wished to perform such a service several days ago.”

  “Perhaps it was all for the best,” put in Charity soothingly. “There is sometimes nothing more taxing for a gentleman than the newspaper. My papa rages over some of the items he reads in them — not that I believe you are prone to rages, Captain Esterly, for you have always been exceedingly sweet-tempered when we have been together.”

  Hugo felt irritated. He did not wish to sit there being complimented on the sweetness of his nature — which it was not, however one looked at it. If people were permitted to visit him at last, let them tell him amusing stories and entertain him.

  “You must have caught me when I was being particularly angelic,” he said, and a merry laugh came from across the room.

&n
bsp; “I think it likely to snow,” said Charles heartily. Hugo was familiar enough with his brother to know he was being tactful. Dear Charles — so much better at drawing-room manners than he would ever be.

  “It is very attractive visually, but it brings much hardship in its wake,” said Charity. “Was there snow in Vienna, Captain Esterly?”

  “Not in the city. I spent a weekend with a colonel of Lancers at his country home and the snow there was so deep I was prevented from returning until halfway through the following week. I was not the most popular officer in the mess when I did arrive, for the visiting Russian detachment was impatient to see a demonstration of my new cavalry drill and had been cooling their heels for longer than they cared to do.”

  “But they must have known you had made every effort,” protested Miss Verewood.

  “Yes. Was it not uncharitable of them?” agreed Hugo, choking back a chuckle, for he had not tried all that hard to return from the chateau. The colonel’s daughter had had a governess who was extremely unresistant to British cavalry officers, and the small room at the top of the house had provided him with several more comfortable and satisfying nights than he would have spent in some isolated inn on the snowbound road to Vienna.

  “Would you describe your new cavalry drill?” The light voice sailed across from his right like a sip of champagne after heavy mulled wine.

  The chair squeaked as Charles moved again. “What a very odd thing to ask, my dear. Females should not concern themselves with such things.”

  “But if I am to become a patroness of the regiment in the future, I should understand what you do, Charles.”

  “Patroness of the…what nonsense is this, Victoria? You might well be a colonel’s lady in time, but that does not mean you will have to train as a cavalryman.” His indulgent laughter made Hugo clench his fists.

  “I think it was not meant to be a joke, Charles,” he said.

  “Of course it was a joke, my dear fellow. Victoria can be very entertaining, as I know full well.”

  Hugo recognized the caressing note in his brother’s voice. This child bride teased the maturity of the thirty-eight-year-old major with her naïveté, but Hugo did not feel that Victoria was likely to be content as simply an amusing play thing for an experienced man. The naïveté was due purely to her lack of years, not to her lack of intelligence. Surely Charles could see that?