Sweethearts and Wives (The Regiment Family Saga Book 2)

by CL Skelton

  ‘What did he do?’ asked Davis.

  ‘Just about the bravest thing I ever saw,’ replied Buller. ‘One of his men had broken ranks and was surrounded by half a dozen Sudanese. Well, this chap calmly walks out of the square with nothing but his revolver. It was the coolest damned thing I have ever seen.’

  ‘Well, go on, man,’ said Graham, ‘let’s hear the rest.’

  ‘The soldier, damned fool, dealt with some of them, but there must have been three or four of them left, and this young fellah picked them off as if he had been at target practice on the range. Then he picked up the soldier ‒ he was in a sorry state by then ‒ and carted him back into the square.’

  ‘I suppose we ought to court-martial the soldier,’ said Davis.

  ‘No,’ said Buller, who was always one to excuse the indiscretions of the ranks. ‘He’s suffered enough. I hear that he’s in a pretty bad way.’

  ‘Well, it’s your decision,’ said Graham.

  ‘I don’t want to punish him. After all, he showed a wonderfully aggressive spirit. He’ll need taming, of course, and I’ll get his C.O. to give him a good dressing down. But not until he’s better,’ he added. ‘He got cut up rather badly.’

  ‘All right, have it your way,’ said Graham. ‘Now, what are we going to do about this young officer? I think you are right, we ought to recommend him. Why don’t we get him in and have a word with him? Not wounded, was he?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Buller.

  ‘Who’s the CO.?’ asked Davis.

  ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Murray is acting C.O. Actually the regiment is commanded by the boy’s father, a ranker,’ said Buller.

  ‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Graham. ‘Anyhow, let’s have him in and give him a glass of wine. Orderly!’ He turned to Buller. ‘What’s the lad’s name?’

  ‘Bruce, sir. Captain Donald Bruce.’

  ‘Go along to the Maclarens’ lines, orderly,’ said Graham, ‘and tell Captain Donald Bruce to report here at once.’

  About fifteen minutes later the orderly returned accompanied, not by Donald Bruce, but by Colonel Murray.

  ‘You’re not Captain Bruce,’ said Graham.

  ‘No, sir. Lieutenant-Colonel Murray.’

  ‘But I sent for Captain Bruce.’

  ‘I know, sir. We can’t find him.’

  ‘Can’t find him? What the blazes do you mean, Colonel?’ demanded Graham.

  ‘He’s vanished, sir. All of his kit has been left in his bivouac and he left this.’ Murray held out an envelope.

  Graham took it. ‘It’s addressed to you.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I think you ought to read it.’

  Graham took out the letter and unfolded it. He read it through slowly, then looked up at the others.

  ‘Good God!’ he said.

  ‘What’s in it, sir?’ asked Buller.

  Graham began to read aloud without further comment.

  ‘Sir,

  I have the honour to request that you will accept the resignation of my commission. I wish this resignation to take effect from today, March 13th, 1884.

  After careful thought, I have come to the conclusion that I am not a soldier, and that I never will be one. War and killing are abhorrent to me.

  Today, I killed three of my fellow human beings and this will be on my conscience for the rest of my life. It does not make any difference to me that they were black and the enemy. They were people. I know that I could never do it again. I would have submitted my resignation earlier. I had intended to write it yesterday, but the coming action would have left me open to a charge of cowardice. That would have mattered little to me, but it would have caused my family a great deal of grief. So I went through today’s action determined that it would be my last. I have never killed before and I shall never kill again. I almost died at El Teb, and but for the action of Sergeant-Major Macmillan, I would have done.

  In spite of all I have said, I know that this decision will cause my father and my family much distress, but there is no other way open to me.

  I have the honour to remain, sir, Your obedient servant.

  It is signed, Donald Bruce.’ Silently Graham handed the letter back to Murray.

  ‘Dammit,’ said Davis, ‘the man’s a deserter. He’s gone, you say, Murray?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Buller raised his eyebrows. ‘A moment ago we were recommending him for a Victoria Cross.’

  ‘But,’ said Davis, ‘you can’t resign your commission on active service in the middle of a campaign.’

  Buller looked at Graham. ‘What are you going to do about it, sir?’

  Graham thought for a moment. ‘I’ll do the only thing I can do,’ he said. ‘I shall take no action myself. I shall report the whole facts, including his gallant behaviour in the field, to the C-in-C Great Britain. Let him deal with it.’

  Four days after the conversation in General Graham’s tent, a dishevelled Donald Bruce, dressed in an old pair of trousers and a dirty shirt, signed as a junior stoker on board the SS Wayfarer, homeward bound from Port Sudan to London.

  It was easy. Three of the crew had jumped ship in the port and the master would have taken anybody who was willing to work. It happened all the time at every port in the world. The master did not care who or what his new crew member was as long as he shovelled coal; and that he did, losing a stone in weight in the process.

  Chapter Eight

  It was ten o’clock in the morning. It was June, and the temperature in London was approaching the seventies when Mr Wilson left his rooms in Jermyn Street and started walking, as he did every morning, in the direction of his shop. Mr Wilson’s shop was in Bond Street, and he sold high-class jewellery to a very high-class clientele.

  It was late. The shop would already have been open for over an hour. But Mr Wilson had no worries, for he had an excellent manager. Mr Wilson thought everything was just as it should be. The Marquess of Salisbury was Prime Minister, much better than that dreadful radical Gladstone. Mr Wilson’s politics were, like those of the Queen herself, firmly with the establishment. He had no business worries; his establishment ‒ he never thought of it as a shop ‒ was in the very capable hands of Mr Kevin MacDonald.

  A spry sixty-five-year-old, Mr Wilson was already contemplating retirement while he was still possessed of sufficient energy to enjoy his declining years. Not that he would lose touch with his business, but he felt that he could now, with safety, offer to Mr MacDonald a junior partnership.

  He was a grateful man, and the thought occurred to him as he walked along, how good life had been to him, and that not the least of his good fortune had been taking Mr MacDonald onto his staff. He had had grave doubts when he had first employed him. He had placed an advertisement in The Times offering a position to a person of refined habits and gentle bearing. Mr MacDonald had replied to the advertisement in person, with little or nothing to recommend him except the obvious fact that he was a gentleman who had fallen upon hard times. What had impelled him to accept the young man would forever remain a mystery to Mr Wilson. He supposed it was some sort of instinct that had made him decide to give Mr MacDonald a try. He had never regretted it. His assistant had proved himself honest and trustworthy, quite apart from being most popular with his customers. Mr Wilson was now in the happy position of being able to take time off from his business without the slightest worry, knowing that it would be handled as efficiently as if he were doing it himself.

  Mr MacDonald spoke with an educated, well modulated accent, with just that trace of Highland lilt which indicated that he was Scottish born, as his name implied. On more than one occasion Mr Wilson had attempted to persuade Mr MacDonald to tell him something about his past, but Mr MacDonald had always changed the subject. Anyhow, that was Mr MacDonald’s business, and Mr MacDonald was an efficient and honest servant, and what more could any master ask? Mr MacDonald lived in a small lodging near Golden Square; not fashionable, and on the wrong side of Regent Street. But Mr MacDonald would not be able to affor
d anything very much better on a wage of two pounds a week and an occasional bonus when he had made a particularly good sale. He did seem to come from a good background. The referees he had given were two titled gentlemen in Edinburgh. Mr Wilson had not written, so impressed had he been by the man’s initial demeanour, and this impression had been borne out by time. He was never late for work, never even seemed to want time off. He was always in the shop by nine in the morning, and seldom left before seven-thirty in the evening. What, if anything, he did outside of his work was a complete mystery to Mr Wilson, and he did not feel that he had the right to inquire.

  He paused for a moment, as he always did, to admire the front of his premises: a heavy-black, gilt-lined door with a little barred viewing hole at about eye height, a small window on either side set back in the heavy stone of the facade and each containing a single article of jewellery. It was flanked by shops of equal quality and like most of the shops at that end of Bond Street it would still be there many, many years hence.

  Mr Wilson went in through the door without touching it. His doorman had seen him approach through the little grille. Moffat, the doorman, was an ex-policeman, one of the original Peelers who had retired from the force while still a very fit and healthy man. He was responsible for the security of the shop and his impassive blue eyes never left anyone, no matter who they were, as long as they were on the premises.

  Mr Wilson handed Moffat his top hat and silver-topped cane, flicked an invisible speck of dust from the silk lapel of his frock coat, and smiled a greeting.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Wilson,’ said Moffat.

  ‘Good morning, Moffat,’ replied Mr Wilson, glancing down at the heavy wool carpet which deadened all sound, and running a speculative finger over the glass-covered counter on his right, beneath which lay a selection of cameos, gold bracelets, enamel brooches, and the like. Not the best, of course; like all jewellers, he kept the very valuable pieces locked away in the safe in the office at the other end of the showroom. It was in the office that he found Mr MacDonald; he was busy, as usual. On this occasion he was polishing a silver teapot.

  ‘Good morning, Mr MacDonald,’ said Mr Wilson.

  MacDonald looked up. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘There has been no business yet, sir.’

  ‘It is early yet. The customers will come, you mark my words.’

  For five years they had exchanged the same remarks every weekday morning. It was true, however, that the business was lucrative. So lucrative in fact that Mr Wilson had thought of moving into The Albany; but he had decided against that. Several of his clients lived in The Albany and it would not do to let them see that he was as wealthy as they.

  ‘Mr MacDonald,’ he said in a tone that indicated that the day’s work was about to begin, ‘I would like to have a word with you when you can spare the time.’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘No. I have a better idea. Why don’t you come and take luncheon with me tomorrow? Would Rules suit you? I have something to tell you which I think that you will find to your advantage, and it would be pleasant to discuss it over a good lunch and a half-bottle of claret.’

  ‘You are very kind, sir,’ said Mr MacDonald.

  Mr Wilson had always closed the shop between one and two p.m. It saved employing extra staff, and the type of people with whom he dealt would in any case be at lunch themselves between those hours.

  ‘Mr MacDonald, I have a mind to check the inventory of what valuables we have in the safe. Would you be kind enough to do that? I will attend to any customers while you do.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ replied Mr MacDonald, and he went into the office.

  Mr Wilson reflected that it was good to have someone working with him in whom he had absolute trust; who could hold the keys to the shop and the keys to the safe and never give one a moment’s worry.

  The door opened and a lady and gentleman came in. He recognized the gentleman at once. It was Lord de Vere-Smith, a very valued client, though this was the first time he had ever seen him in the company of a lady.

  ‘Good morning, my lord. How nice to see you again,’ he said in his most unctuous manner.

  The lady who was with him was wearing a heavy veil which completely hid her features.

  ‘What service may we be of to your lordship today?’

  ‘I had in mind to buy my cousin here a small present for her birthday. See what you can do for her.’

  ‘Ah, quite so, sir,’ said Mr Wilson. It was surprising how much money gentlemen like his lordship here were prepared to spend on their ‘cousins’. ‘Had madam anything particular in mind?’

  ‘I love pearls, Charles,’ she said, and Mr Wilson noted that her voice was low and soft, not a voice that one was likely to forget. ‘Would pearls be all right?’

  ‘Anything you want, my dear. It has been difficult enough to persuade you to come here anyhow. Pearls, diamonds, emeralds, the choice is yours.’

  ‘Then I should like pearls.’

  Mr Wilson stood a little aside from the conversation. He knew well that this was not the moment to make any suggestion.

  ‘Pearls are for tears,’ said his lordship.

  ‘For me, they will be for five happy years. But if you would rather I had something else ‒’

  ‘Don’t give it another thought. Pearls it shall be. Mr Wilson.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Pearls, Mr Wilson.’

  ‘Of course, my lord. We have quite a nice selection here if madam would care to glance at them?’ He reached down beneath the glass-topped counter to draw out a tray of pearl necklets.

  ‘No, no, Wilson, not those,’ said his lordship. ‘The ones you keep locked away in the safe.’

  ‘With the greatest of pleasure, my lord,’ said Mr Wilson, backing into the office.

  ‘Something very special,’ called his lordship to the retreating Mr Wilson.

  ‘Mr MacDonald,’ he said, as soon as he had closed the office door, ‘do you know Lord de Vere-Smith?’

  ‘Not by name, certainly, though I may know him by sight.’

  ‘Well, he’s one of the richest young men in town, and he’s got his lady with him. He wants to give her pearls. Where is that string of pearls that may have belonged to Marie Antoinette?’

  ‘Right here, sir. Good heavens, that’s fifteen hundred guineas’ worth.’

  ‘I know, Mr MacDonald, and his lordship will buy them.’

  He took the black leather case and went back into the shop. ‘Here we are, madam. These pearls may once have belonged to Marie Antoinette, though I doubt if anyone would ever be able to prove it.’

  As he spoke, he reverently laid the long rope of iridescent, perfectly matched pearls onto the black velvet cloth on the counter where they seemed to be infused with a soft glow.

  ‘They are so beautiful,’ said the lady.

  His lordship watched her, his slightly crooked smile playing around his lips. ‘They’re yours if you want them,’ he said.

  ‘I have others,’ said Mr Wilson as he saw the lady hesitate.

  ‘Well?’ said his lordship.

  ‘But you have not even asked how much they cost,’ said the lady.

  ‘And I shall not do so, in your presence. They are yours if you want them.’

  ‘There is just one thing.’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  ‘I should like the clasp altered.’

  ‘You would alter Marie Antoinette’s pearls?’

  ‘She means nothing to me. You see that the clasp is in the form of an “L”? Well, I should like it to be changed to a “C”, for Charles.’

  ‘Can that be done right away?’ inquired his lordship.

  ‘We could have it ready by this evening, sir.’

  ‘In that case, you will have to send it round to madam. I leave for York on the afternoon train.’

  ‘With the greatest of pleasure, my lord.’

  She took off her glove to touch the pearls and Mr Wilson admired the delicate creamy skin of her hand
as she fingered the gems. Her fingers were long and elegant and Mr Wilson was quite embarrassed by the manner in which they fascinated him.

  ‘They can wait till you get back, Charles.’

  ‘Not a bit of it. What time can you deliver them, Mr Wilson?’

  ‘Would seven thirty be too late, sir?’

  ‘That would be all right,’ said the lady.

  ‘Unfortunately, I shall not be able to deliver them myself, but my ‒ er, partner, Mr MacDonald, will be able to, I am sure,’ said Mr Wilson.

  ‘Thank you very much. The address is 182 Park Lane.’ They left, and it was only after they had gone that Mr Wilson realized that he had not got the lady’s name. Still, it did not really matter; 182 would be one of the small houses near Hyde Park Corner. Mr MacDonald would certainly find the right recipient.

  They got into a hansom outside the shop and Lord Charles gave the cabby instructions to drive to the Park Lane address.

  She reached out and put her hand into his, and after a while he turned to her.

  ‘Well, Naomi, this is really goodbye.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, and the word was soft and long drawn out. ‘But we will meet again.’

  ‘Whether we shall meet again, I know not.’

  ‘Therefore our everlasting farewell take,’ she murmured. ‘Julius Caesar.’

  ‘At Philippi,’ he answered.

  ‘If we should meet again, why then we’ll smile.’

  He looked at her. ‘I know only that I shall pray for the day. It can never be the same again, but perhaps one day ‒’

  Gently she placed her fingers over his lips. ‘Do not say it, my dear. Now that you know all about me, you know how impossible it is. Even if you were free, you know that it could not be. Perhaps in a way your father’s death has been a blessing to us. We could not have gone on forever.’

  ‘I suppose you are right. Our parting is of our own choosing. But if your brother were not returning to England tomorrow ‒’ She thought for a moment of Gordon. She would see him tomorrow when the regiment docked at Tilbury. If only Donald were to have been there, too.

  ‘There are so many buts,’ she said.