Scarlet Shadows

by Elizabeth Darrell

  As it only takes a short while for complete feeling to return once numbness breaks, so Hugo admitted to things he had banned from recognition since that night after the ball. He had read the letters he had received from Charity avidly for their references to Wychbourne, his parents, Aunt Sophy and the life he had known since babyhood. They had told him of the horses, the summer countryside through which he had ridden countless times and of his dogs whom he had sent to Wychbourne for good when he left England.

  Weakened by the wound brought about by his latest letter, he faced up to the bigger pain of loss. When he had left Brunswick Square on the night of the ball, he had rebuilt his life by cold rejection of all those who had brought about his destruction. Charles went by his own choice, his family had been abandoned of necessity, and he had seen Victoria as the siren who had bemused him.

  His passion for her had shaded into anger — the anger that cries out against the hopelessness of love — and she had become the target for his rejection. From that night he had seen Victoria as the cause of everything that had happened to him. She had caught him off guard when he had been blinded to reality; had tugged at him with her frailty after her honeymoon; had made it impossible for him to leave again when he arrived at Wychbourne unaware of her presence there.

  Charles had challenged him to live beside her day by day, and he had created an illusion of possibility by rejecting her. He had told himself she would see his strength, his completeness, his lack of need of her, and it had been easy until she deliberately confronted him. His careful plans had not allowed for that and, finding it impossible to be indifferent, he had resorted to hurting her as the only outlet for the emotion locked within him.

  He sat now in the anguish of numbness long past, knowing the truth. He watched her constantly as she moved about the camp, separated from him by his own determination; listened for every sound of her merry voice on the still air at Devna. He admitted to jealousy of those who could receive her smiles and confidences, to burning sleeplessness when he thought of her in the tent with his brother. He grew hot at the memory of her face when she told her love in words for the very first time such a short while ago. His head went down into his hands. How could he have left her without some sign that would soften his departure?

  The tent flap was pushed up and Jack Markham walked in, his sword clanking against the pole.

  “He has done it again! That old gentleman is a bigger enemy than the damned Russians,” Jack declared in disgusted tones. “Our fellows are just about done in — half of them still with fever upon them — and he has called them out on inspection because he found one of my troop with a button missing from his tunic and must needs look closely at all the others.” He unbuckled his sword belt and threw the weapon down angrily. “We are being mocked, Hugo. As if it were not enough to be forbidden to charge at the Alma and have to see the infantry drag past us covered with honorable wounds, asking us where we had been all day, our noble Lord Cardigan now asks us to have a care to our appearance lest we become too untidy. Are we soldiers or dolls, man?”

  Hugo rose and poured them both a drink. “Our esteemed colonel told me our chance will come, Jack, so we can do nothing but rest in impatience. Please do not set me off on the subject of Cardigan. I shall be hauled in front of the regiment for yet another reprimand, for he will hear my rage from where he sits.” He gave Jack a tin cup of wine and sat on the corner of a wooden ammunition case while his friend eased himself from the tight-fitting stable jacket and loosened the collar of his shirt.

  “Aye, you had best hold your tongue for a while,” advised Jack darkly. “One more outburst will get you placed under close arrest — and I have no fancy for another officer of equal rank moving into this cramped space to chaperone you.”

  “If we are forced to watch the enemy ride away from us once more while we sit in neat rows doing nothing, I shall be unable to hold my tongue, Jack, close arrest or not.”

  “All right, my fierce friend.” Jack held up a conciliatory hand as he sank onto his bed. “Protest, rant and rage, vent your frustrated cavalry spirit — but do it out of earshot of the noble earl in future. That you are still in this regiment is miracle enough. It will not do to chance your arm too far.”

  Hugo gave him a frowning look. “You begin to sound too much like Rayne for my liking.”

  A short silence fell, then Jack said, “Have you noticed how our colonel plays safe these days? He’s a sound enough man for regimental duties, but I cannot think he is going to distinguish himself in battle. Oh, I do not question his courage — that goes without saying — but if we are ever faced with the unexpected, I doubt he will take a gamble.”

  “He is too old — like all our commanders,” said Hugo angrily. “The Alma was won through sheer grim determination of the regiments. If there was ever a plan of battle, I never saw evidence of it — and we were in the perfect position to watch the whole thing, were we not?” he added bitterly. “I tell you, Jack, this war is going to be long and bloody. Why did we not march straight into Sebastopol and take it while they were still retreating to within its walls? You know we should have done so, I know it, and all those damned wretches in the trenches know it. Our chance is lost. They have regrouped outside the fortress, and any siege must now be incomplete. As long as there is a route inland they can bring in supplies and reinforcements. Crimean winters are extreme and we are now in October. Our men are still dying of fever and cholera, and the horses are in a piteous state.” He rose and paced the tent, head in the bent position he was forced to adopt within the sloping canvas walls. “Only today Tilden’s horse dropped dead beneath him. The man was obliged to walk back from patrol because I could not put the burden of two men on one of the other beasts.”

  He gripped the center pole and waved his tin cup almost in Jack’s face. “It is criminal to let the poor creatures grow so thin and weak. Where are the supplies? If we are not to take Sebastopol immediately, why are we not shipping in stores as fast as we can? Where are the stables for our animals? They stand tormented by flies and the burning sun by day, and shiver in the open at night. I have petitioned Rayne on three separate occasions for permission to erect huts against the bitterly chill nights, but he says there is no wood available.” Well and truly roused by now, he snapped, “It seems there is nothing available. I cannot even buy oats for my horse.”

  Jack looked up from beneath bushy black eyebrows. “The word is that we are going into winter camp at Scutari. I heard it today.”

  For several seconds Hugo gripped the center pole, then sagged wearily and walked to the tent entrance to gaze out over the camp. “May this army forgive them,” he said, “for they died at the Alma for nothing.”

  By morning the news was around the entire cavalry camp, fostering a mood of resentful resignation. Those who had seen Scutari on the way out dreaded the move, those who had been suffering from recurring cholera since being at Devna felt a journey would finish them, and those who were still relatively fit put a further strain on their reserves by indulging in invective concerning the bastards who thought up the idea of fighting right up to the gates of the citadel, then sailing away again.

  Hugo had spent a bad night. The intermittent shelling between Sebastopol and the besiegers in the advance trenches was too familiar a sound to disturb him, but there was enough on his mind to keep it too active for sleep. Cornet MacKay was detailed for morning stables, so Hugo used the short time before breakfast to write a letter to Lord Blythe. It did not mention that he had only heard the news from Charity. He penned a brief note to her also, thanking her for her condolences and giving her the latest situation — not forgetting to say how much he appreciated the tins of pâté and the cigars she had sent for his birthday that had finally reached him.

  Stokes entered with breakfast — black coffee in a tin container, gray bread and some fruit — and shook Jack awake. “Mr. Markham, sir, it’s seven o’clock.”

  “What is so remarkable about that?” Jack demanded, rollin
g over.

  “You’re taking a foraging patrol at eight. You told me to remind you.”

  “What is this, Stokes?” asked Hugo, looking at the tray.

  Stokes smiled. “Breakfast, Captain Esterly.”

  “Where are the eggs?”

  “There won’t be no more, sir. You ate Betty last night, if you remember.”

  “So we did. The ham, then?”

  “All gone, sir.”

  Hugo’s face was a picture. “Gone? It cannot be.”

  “Ah, well, sir… Mr. Markham asked Lord Dovedale and Mr. Edmunds to lunch yesterday when you was on patrol, and there was nothing else for it but to use the ham. I didn’t have prior knowledge of the fact or I could’ve tried to borrow a bit of extra salt pork.”

  “Jack!” cried Hugo through clamped teeth. “I would be obliged if you entertained your guests out of your own pocket in future.”

  “Sorry, old fellow,” Jack grunted, swinging his legs to the ground. “It was a long-standing invitation to return their hospitality.”

  “Why did you not ask them on a day when I was in camp?”

  “There wouldn’t have been enough ham for four, sir,” put in Stokes hastily.

  Hugo turned on him. “Dammit, Stokes, it was my ham.”

  “Yessir,” said the trooper unabashed. “I could make some of that porridge if you feel really hungry, Captain.”

  “No, Stokes. It will be a long time before I bring myself to eat any more of that mess you call porridge,” Hugo vowed in disgruntlement.

  “Yessir. Well…there’s breakfast, then. I’ll be seeing to your boots, if you’ll excuse me.” He turned to Jack Markham, pretending not to notice the expression on his own officer’s face. “Any news, Mr. Markham?”

  “There has been no mail since Monday, and I told you then that my wife and Mrs. Stanford were still in Varna,” said Jack patiently. “Of course, that was written two weeks ago, so they could be in Constantinople by now. I have assured you that I will inform you when I get word, so that you will know where Mrs. Stokes is. Now, I suggest you clean Captain Esterly’s boots before he inquires what became of the rest of his cigars.”

  “Oh Gawd, yes, sir,” said Stokes, his mustache quivering, and ducked beneath the tent flap with alacrity.

  Around midday Hugo called for his horse to be saddled. There was word of supply ships newly arrived in the harbor, and he was determined to ride down there in the hope of beating the other officers to it. Difficulty in obtaining any kind of equipment made a man seek every opportunity, and he wanted a blanket for Monty and another horse he had bought when they auctioned off the belongings of the officers killed at the Alma. How he kicked against the order that had compelled them to bring only one horse from Varna; he doubted he would ever see his fine trio of chestnuts again.

  Trotting through the camp, he was hailed by Colonel Rayne, who was in the company of Charles outside the colonel’s tent.

  “One moment, Captain Esterly, if you please.”

  “Good morning, sir… Colonel Stanford,” said Hugo tonelessly from his saddle. “May I be of service?”

  “Yes, you can oblige me by dismounting,” snapped Colonel Rayne. When this was done, he continued. “I have just received a message from the Earl of Cardigan asking why a trooper of your patrol returned on foot without his horse when you came in yesterday. Why did I hear nothing of this?”

  “I cannot say, sir. My report was handed to the adjutant, as usual.”

  “I see.” He was thrown off his stride. “Well, I was dining in the French lines last night and had no time to read routine reports. However, you still have not explained the incident.”

  Hugo was aware of his brother’s presence but could hardly protest at being questioned in front of the second-in-command. “The horse died from starvation, exposure and mishandling, Colonel. Since the rest of my troop horses are on the verge of doing the same, I did not feel justified in allowing two men in one saddle.”

  The older man grew red in the face. “I did not ask for one of your heated tirades on how this regiment should be run, sir. If the beasts are mishandled, it is your fault. As troop leader they are your responsibility.”

  Hugo felt his anger growing. “I cannot keep healthy animals if I have no food for them, nor wood to build some kind of shelter against the weather.”

  “And neither can anyone else, Captain Esterly. Find me a grain store and a timber yard within a hundred miles of here, but please do not treat me to an impertinent lecture on what should be done.”

  “I am sorry, sir.” He meant it. He knew it was no fault of his colonel that supplies were not reaching them but felt the man could do a little more to badger those responsible, even if he made himself unpopular for once. “I have arranged for a remount for Trooper Tilden, sir, so we are up to strength again.”

  The sandy-haired man sucked his mustache as he drew in his breath.

  “Why is it always your troop on whom misfortune seems to fall?”

  Hugo kept silent. He did not know a suitable answer. “You are summoned to his lordship to explain the incident, Captain, so I caution you to watch your tongue. You have earned his displeasure on two previous occasions.”

  “Is the summons immediate, sir? I was on my way to the harbor.”

  “I should imagine when a brigade-commander issues a summons he expects it to be obeyed immediately,” Charles put in smoothly. “All the more so if the offender is a junior captain. Lord Cardigan is known to have no fondness for them.”

  Colonel Rayne smiled thinly. “I think Colonel Stanford has a point. I just wish it were not a junior Hussar captain on whom he picked. Captain Esterly, do you think you could make an effort to avoid further clashes with his lordship?”

  “I do not clash with his lordship, sir,” said Hugo quickly. “It is he who clashes with me.”

  The colonel was not amused. “I think you have said enough on the subject, sir. A little less levity and a little more attention to regimental duties would stand you in better stead for the days to come. You had best go for your interview immediately.”

  They moved off, and Hugo watched the straight back of his brother for a few minutes before mounting Monty and returning to his tent in a black mood. The interview with Lord Cardigan meant changing into full-dress uniform to ride into Balaclava, where the Brigade-commander had taken up quarters on one of the ships because the state of his present health made it inadvisable to live under canvas. All the junior captains prayed he would remain there.

  His mood slid deeper into depression when overtones of a storm at the outset of his journey grew into a full-scale thundery downpour that soaked him to the skin before he reached the harbor. Half an hour of kicking his heels on deck and fifteen minutes listening to a lecture on his shabby appearance and the fact that his lordship would not countenance a cavalryman walking on a patrol, under any circumstances, raised Hugo’s temper, as he left the ship with angry strides, to the same heat as the sun that had come out to set the steam rising over the tiny town.

  His mind fixed on seeking out the newly arrived vessels, he approached the jetty and was pulled up short at the sight of eight or nine horses being held by local navvies.

  “By God, I cannot believe what I see,” he breathed viciously. “Those are two of my chestnuts, they are Jack’s Merlin and Mayhem, and beside them are several from my brother’s stable.” Immediately his blood was up. Those animals had cost several hundred pounds, and no one was going to pirate them after they had been left in Varna in good faith.

  He ran up the gangplank and pushed past a seaman at the top, vaguely registering the fact that the vessel appeared very much like the one in which he had left England. They all suggested torture chambers, as far as he was concerned, and he saw too little of the men who sailed them to make any friends. The captain of this one would be far from a friend when he had finished with him. Swinging around the wheelhouse with great energy, he came upon a figure standing at the ship’s side, studying the hills that ro
se up all around, enclosing the tiny harbor. She turned at the sound of someone approaching, and all thought of horses went from him.

  After a month without her he could see how she had changed since leaving England. The green cotton gown was well washed and crumpled, but she was so unconscious of the fact, one did not count its importance. Her face was finer and an unfashionable golden-brown that highlighted her dark eyes to an extreme of beauty he could hardly believe. The limpid innocence they had once held had been replaced by a luminosity that was at once anger, yet joy, at his present helpless self-betrayal. In seconds he drank in greedily every detail of the girl he had thought lost forever, while his spirits soared.

  “I knew nothing of your arrival,” he breathed, “so how did my feet carry me here?”

  “Does it matter?” The words were as soft as his.

  “Not a bit.”

  Her eyes searched him as if she would catch up on all the days she had missed. “You are wet through.” The sentence was as caressing as an expression of love.

  He felt his youth flood through him with vigorous warmth. “You say that more prettily than Lord Cardigan.” Foolish words. He longed to shout to the four winds that he loved her.

  She drew nearer, and the lemon-and-hay perfume was all around him, drugging his senses to everything but her. “You left Varna without a word — not even a glance in my direction,” she whispered. “I might never have seen you again.”

  Walking to meet her, lost to the barriers and constraints that had been between them, in the unexpectedness of coming upon her when his defenses were shattered, he took her cold hands fiercely in his.

  “Forgive me. Forgive me. Do you think I have not regretted it every moment since then? I have missed you beyond belief…beyond endurance. Only a fool could believe it possible to shut you out of his life.”

  For a moment she closed her eyes against the ravishment of his words, and he was shaken by the desire to make them fly open again lest he lose forever the amber surrender in them. Her lashes came up and it was there in double measure.