Scarlet Shadows

by Elizabeth Darrell

  Dragging herself to her feet, she lit the lamp and went into the sleeping end of their hut. He was sitting with his head in his hands but raised it with an effort at her approach. He looked haggard and a hundred years old.

  “The French broke through but will never hold it. We were repulsed,” he said through a dry throat. “Sebastopol is impregnable, and we shall be here for another winter.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Six days after the terrible failure of the assault on Sebastopol, James Escort, Adjutant-General of the Army, died from cholera very suddenly and was followed to the grave four days later by Lord Raglan, commander-in-chief of the British force in the Crimea. Raglan’s symptoms were of a choleric nature, but many maintained the disaster of the previous week broke a stout heart that was already cracked. This was the man who had held back the cavalry at Alma when the Russians could have been routed. This same man settled his army neatly around Sebastopol when it should have marched straight into the town the previous September. Lord Raglan it was who sent the ambiguous message that sent the Light Brigade to its destruction. Yet, he was mourned as a kindhearted man — a gentlemanly old warrior who had been given a task for which he was too old and unfit.

  Seeing the row of tragedies as a sign of doom, the besiegers’ morale plummeted. With the insupportable heat of high summer came a vicious return of cholera, which left the men undecided whether it was better to succumb immediately or face another winter that would take them off in the end. There were no signs that another attempt would be made to capture the fortifications; indeed, many officers were packing up and going home on one pretext or another. They earned no condemnation from their fellows, rather their wry congratulations on doing something they themselves would be only too pleased to do, given half a chance. One fact that did arouse their fury was that, back in England, Lord Cardigan was being feted as the hero of Balaclava and was traveling the country with a boastful story of his part in the charge that had aroused such fervor in patriotic breasts. To men like Hugo Esterly it seemed the devil looked after his own.

  As deeply despondent as everyone else, Hugo found himself seeking Charity Verewood’s company more and more. When he was with her it was possible to put aside present problems. Not once did she ask about the battle of Balaclava nor show any interest in the renowned charge; it was as if she sensed that talk of home and horses was balm to a man who had seen the face of God and returned. Since he had no intention of applying to Charles for permission to leave Kadikoi, Hugo always arranged with any fellow officer he knew was going into Balaclava to accompany Charity back to the camp, where they spent many pleasant hours riding in the nearby hills in company with other officers. It became a regular sight — the golden-haired girl so immaculate in severe habit and correct hat, surrounded by young men who felt the pulse of youth and health returning merely by standing within the bright aura cast by this vision from a world they had almost forgotten.

  Hugo’s delight in her company was enhanced by the words in Lord Blythe’s letter. For the first time since he had made that terrible journey down Mexford Heights Hugo felt free to speak about and feel part of Wychbourne. Not knowing if Charity had any knowledge of the rift between Charles and himself, he carefully avoided mentioning his brother, and the girl followed his example until the afternoon before the steamer Norvic was due to leave for England.

  A small party was making an excursion to St. George’s monastery — a favorite picnic spot for tourists — and on setting out had passed a petite dark-haired young woman riding a chestnut mare. The officers had greeted her gaily, but she appeared to have none of their high spirits. The two women exchanged glances but nothing more.

  Hugo felt his usual distress at Victoria’s lifelessness, a lifelessness emphasized by the dazzling creature beside him. Only now did he realize how full of resignation the once vivid face had become, how frail her slender body had grown, how infinitely introspective her beautiful brown eyes appeared these days. There was no smile from him; his look told her once more that he was forced to be a stranger and must pass by on the other side.

  The encounter made him silent for most of the journey, but they had no sooner dismounted at the monastery and begun to explore than he found himself alone with Charity some distance behind the others. The building stood on a rock right above the sea, with an impressive view of the cliffs below that dropped precipitously into the inky-blue water. The aim of visitors was to climb to a vantage point before wandering about the gardens. Charity took the climb slowly, and Hugo automatically remained by her side.

  She stopped to rest on a ledge cut in the rocky ascent and smiled up at her escort. “So thoughtful on a truly lovely day? You have scarcely said a word to me since we set out, Hugo.”

  “I beg your pardon.” The eyes he saw were suddenly blue and the face tranquil. Shaking himself alert, he smiled back. “What, has Lord Dovedale left your side at last?”

  The eyes widened. “I am hardly flattered that you have only now noticed we are alone, when we have been so for at least ten minutes.”

  He made a rueful face. “I am not excelling myself in gallantry today, am I? Truth to tell, you are so often surrounded by admirers I give up all hope of a tête-à-tête with you.”

  Her eyelashes lowered. “Let me renew your hope. Lady Cullingham, with whom I travel, has decided to remain in the Crimea for a while. Her husband was fortunate enough to obtain permission for her to live aboard his ship while it is in harbor. She has invited me to stay in her company. I am to give my answer tonight.”

  He had still not retreated far enough from his thoughts to understand. “Remain in the Crimea? I cannot believe that is what you wish to do.”

  She looked at him with such cool appraisal he began to feel resentment. “You certainly are not excelling in gallantry today!”

  “I am sorry for that,” he replied stiffly. Suddenly he wished he had not come on this excursion. “Perhaps we should join the others.”

  She put out a hand and caught his sleeve. “Hugo, I can remain silent no longer. It is against my better judgment that I speak of so painful a subject, but I cannot hold back from giving the comfort I am able to offer.”

  Taken by surprise, he let his polished riding boot slide off the edge of the step he had intended climbing and turned back to her. She was so very close to him that he could not help noticing her flawless complexion that bloomed in the perfect July day like a pink-tinted magnolia. How very different it was from that small sun-browned face that had challenged him an hour before. Deep inside him a protest swelled. Would it be like this for the rest of his life?

  When he thought of Victoria he was back again in that valley, crawling agonizingly foot by foot toward the sunlit happiness of having her, and knowing he would never reach it. As he had then measured every foot he covered with some familiar comparison, so he now counted his life in days when he saw her against those when he did not. Where was he hoping to go? Victoria remained as unreachable as ever and he had only two choices — to change direction and perhaps chance upon an unexpected release from his pain or to turn back into the smoke pall and be swallowed up forever. In silence he stood looking down into Charity’s smooth, uncomplicated face and knew himself at the crossroad.

  He was all Charles had said — a conceited sentimental weakling. His conceit led him to believe he could continue this campaign despite his weakened physical condition. The wound in his skull often gave him terrible headaches in the oppressive heat, and the long patrols, on which he was sent so often because he knew the hills better than the newly arrived officers, left him more exhausted than he should be. Could he survive another winter like the last?

  Sentimental he plainly was, because Charity’s presence had shown him how much he valued his home, family and everything that had made his life what it was. And the last part? Was he a weakling to acknowledge that he would never master his love for Victoria? Charles had challenged him to last out the campaign and control his passion for a woman he could never
have. Why did he cede victory to his brother and go home with Charity? Those cool blue eyes promised him rest from the burning fires of amber-brown ones. The slender white-skinned body offered peaceful release without demanding his heart and soul. Charity would never remind him of a frozen beach at Scutari where he had looked up from the yawning grave to see his whole life kneeling beside him with wet cheeks.

  “Hugo, are you all right?”

  He came out of his trance to focus on Charity once more. Against the incredible blueness of the sky, her clear-cut beauty shone in the sunlight, suggesting clean refreshing escape. Desire flared, and he reached for her hungrily.

  “You look so lovely it is not surprising that I am not in possession of my senses today,” he breathed.

  She turned away from his grasp with great dignity. “We are in full view of our friends, I beg you to remember. I find it difficult to understand you this afternoon.” She went across to lean against a rocky overgrown bank. Its cool shade gave her a remote beauty.

  He followed quickly, imprisoning her against the bank with an arm at each side of her. “Perhaps you will understand this more readily.” The flame inside him rose to set his head on fire as he bent over her soft body, lured by the English perfume of sweet lavender. For perhaps five seconds the leaping pleasure of mastery inspired the strength of his hold. His kiss was passionate, but it was short-lived. His lips searched and found nothing; his hands touched only whale-boned stiffness; his body pressed against a passionless doll. Drawing back, he looked at the calm face untouched by love or even physical excitement, and the foolish plan vanished.

  “I do not know whether to be flattered or not,” she said, smoothing her hair instinctively. “The situation in the Crimea is so unusual that I suppose I cannot judge you by home standards.” A faint indulgent smile appeared on lips that seemed completely unaffected by his burning kiss. “Then again, you have always been impetuous, Hugo.”

  The flame died, while the memory of another kiss — one he had not sought but could not forget — transformed his passion to anger.

  Pointing up the steps with his riding whip, he said, “If we do not join the rest we shall have to return without having seen the view…and that is our reason for coming, is it not?”

  Before she could answer he began to ascend. They remained with the group until the end of the return journey, when Hugo found her beside him at the head of the party.

  “Are you more yourself now?” she asked calmly.

  He gave her a sideways glance. “I believe so.”

  “I am so glad. My experience with those suffering in all kinds of ways led me to allow you to recover before speaking further to you.”

  “That was most considerate of you.”

  “Not at all. A person under stress should be allowed to ride out his moods. It is of no use to cross him when his mind is set in one direction.”

  He said nothing, for there did not appear to be any reasonable comment he could make, and she continued, “As I said earlier this afternoon, I have shrunk from speaking on such a topic, but when I see it ruling your health and wellbeing I cannot stand by without offering comfort.”

  He rode on looking straight ahead. “I am not clear on your meaning.”

  “Hugo.” She said his name persuasively. “I admire your loyalty, but your mama confided everything to me. Before she died it troubled her beyond suppression, and I was able to give her what heart’s ease I could by promising to do everything in my power to bring about a reconciliation between you and Colonel Stanford.”

  He turned and looked at her then. “She told you?”

  “Why should she not? I have been like a daughter to her and she knew it would not be long before I…” She broke off delicately. “Who else would she turn to in her sorrow but the one who had your interests most at heart? Certainly it was of no use appealing to she who brought tragedy to the whole family.”

  His hand began tightening on the reins. “Is that your opinion or Mama’s?” he asked through stiff lips.

  Unaware of any change in him, she went on. “It is not an opinion, it is a fact. I cannot tell you how much it angers me nor how greatly I feel for you.” She flicked at a fly on her horse’s ear with a riding crop. “You might think you are hiding the way you regard her, but to one who knows you as I do it is all too plain that her presence here is a constant reminder. Do you truly believe I do not know what has made you fractious today?”

  Suddenly he remembered sitting in blindfolded darkness listening to this same sweet voice telling him he should not be bothered with items from newspapers in case the strain was too much for him. He also recalled a lively voice retaliating — a voice without substance, a girl he had never seen. Dear God, if only he had not! A rush of longing as strong as he had ever felt beset him, making him flinch beneath its onslaught. He had left behind a beloved brown face. How could he have imagined escape lay in this beautiful cold creature who humored him like a difficult child?

  “I saw from the start that she was not content with the prize she had won but must needs draw all attention. Her youth persuaded me that I was, perhaps, misjudging her, but her lack of years did not prevent an excess of guile. Knowing you would find it difficult to think ill of her, I decided to speak to her on the dangers of playing on your too easy nature to the displeasure of your brother.” Her voice sharpened. “Nothing would induce me to describe her manner to me when there were no gentlemen around to impress, but I knew at once she would cause grave disharmony in the family that had honored her with its name.” A sigh was faintly audible above the birdsong and gentle sounds of horses moving through grass. “My only regret is that I did not know the full extent of the tragedy when you left England. I could have eased your distress so much more effectively.” She cast him a searching glance that he did not acknowledge and would not meet. “When I heard the full story I realized why you did not ask anything too definite of me at the Farewell Ball. Your scruples are much to be admired, but you should have known I would not let such a thing alter my feelings for you.” Her tone became softer and more persuasive. “With me beside you she would not dare to continue to persecute you, and Colonel Stanford would see the truth in no time. He has, I believe, been completely influenced by her, for nothing else would have led to such a reversal of character. To turn upon a brother he loved from childhood could only be brought about by shock or some other strong force beyond his control.”

  At that point Hugo ceased to hear her voice or any of the nonsense of which she spoke. He was back in the study of a house in Brighton’s Brunswick Square, facing Charles across a room. The words they had exchanged were still etched in his mind after all this time. He could still hear his brother’s tone of voice and the contempt with which he had addressed him. For a while he rode automatically, unaware of anything else as he felt strength and determination flood back into him. So, he might be back in that valley clawing his way to his goal, but he would not give it up. He would not give it up!

  *

  Nothing was different today — the usual cases lay in the hospital hut, the camps had their accustomed busy look, the guns fired spasmodically between trench and fortification and Hugo had gone riding with Charity Verewood — yet Victoria felt that everything had come to an end. The sights in the hospital sickened her and held back her usual ready smile. She left it, wishing never to return. Wherever she looked on her ride back to Kadikoi were tents, soldiers and piled arms. If it were all swept away, what a beautiful place this could be.

  Men in uniform swarmed over the hills. How she hated the everlasting scarlet jackets and cavalry blue, the riflemen in green and staff officers with their cocked hats. Reaching the cavalry camp, she had a ridiculous urge to continue right on through it until she came to the sea. How beautiful it had looked from the distance, sparkling and constant despite the conflict on land. Did it really cleanse body and spirit? Would complete immersion in it leave her as untouched and bland as Victoria Castledon had been?

  Riding through
the officers’ lines brought the real reason for her mood to the fore. Since Charity had arrived in the Crimea life had become shadowed, not as it was shadowed by death and suffering, because they were clear-cut and visible, but by some uneasy foreboding of disaster. This morning had started well. Byron Porchester had been to dinner last night and the pleasure of the evening had lasted while she had her breakfast. Then the mail had arrived, bringing a letter from Letty, who was contentedly awaiting the birth of her child at her new home with her father. Victoria had been glad. Letty had come with the regiment only because Jack had been part of it. Once he had left the ranks she had no link with this life. Jack’s child would be enough for her.

  The letter had lifted Victoria’s spirits until she had encountered the picnic party. She had seen the look in Hugo’s eyes, the apology, the sympathy, the comparison. Then he had ridden off with Charity, as had the young officers who now clustered around the bright English flame. To be fair, Victoria knew part of the reason for the young men’s desertion of her was Charles’s growing unpopularity with his officers. As acting colonel, his attempts to improve on Colonel Rayne’s impersonal command of the regiment waxed and waned. In some respects he extracted greater efficiency from the men, but his control over his temper diminished as the weeks passed, making unreasonable demands on men who were either as war-weary as himself or were excusably new to the situation. His personal campaign against Hugo could no longer pass unnoticed, and where there was resentment, respect began to suffer.

  She dismounted and handed her mare to a groom before going into the hut. No one knew better than she how much Charles was losing his grip on himself. Day by day she watched him dragging his foot as he walked, knowing it gave him pain as he lay in bed at night. When she offered him a little laudanum he always refused, on one occasion knocking the cup from her hand with sudden violence. She had not made the offer since. The failure of the assault on Sebastopol had depressed him, so that he was obsessed with the winter to come. But then, who was not?