Sweethearts and Wives (The Regiment Family Saga Book 2)

by CL Skelton

  ‘I know that, and if Phillip had not insisted upon remaining in the United States, we could have gone on a little longer. He should have come home, you know. After all, he is the eldest son and he has inherited the title, though it is highly improbable that he will ever marry, so it will eventually come to either me or my son. I know that it is only a chunk of land, but the estate means more to me than my own happiness. I cannot tell you why, I can only tell you that it is so. I don’t suppose that you are able to understand that?’

  ‘I understand it only too well,’ she replied. ‘We have no estate, but we have a regiment.’

  ‘You’ve told me often,’ he said with a little smile.

  ‘It’s true, though, that one’s happiness, everything, must be sacrificed on its altar. I suppose that your estate, and your ancestral home ‒ no, no, I’m not laughing ‒ and my regiment are in a way a little bit of eternity, and we’ve all been bred to cling to them.’ Her tone changed. ‘Please, Charles, don’t write to me when you get home to Yorkshire. And if you come to London, don’t let me know, just come. Have no fear, I’ll be waiting.’ They were turning into Park Lane now.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, are you coming in?’

  ‘No, Naomi. You know how dearly I should love to. But I think it is better this way. I shall go straight to the station, get a bite of lunch there, and then catch the train. I do want you to know that I shall be forever in your debt.’

  ‘And I in yours, my dear,’ she replied.

  ‘Just one other thing: the house is yours and your allowance will continue for as long as I live, and when you wear your pearls, give a thought to the one who gave them to you.’

  ‘You know I shall,’ she replied. ‘And you are quite right. Pearls are for tears.’

  The hansom had stopped.

  ‘Goodbye, Charles.’ There was a little catch in her voice.

  He took her hand and gently raised it to his lips. ‘I think I love you more than anything else in this world. If love were all …’

  ‘I know, but it’s hopeless,’ she said, and then in a whisper, ‘Goodbye.’

  Suddenly she was gone and he was alone. ‘King’s Cross, cabby,’ he called.

  She went up the stone steps and paused with her hand on the polished brass doorknob. She turned and looked up Park Lane trying to distinguish Charles’s cab ploughing its way, in the maelstrom of London traffic, up towards Marble Arch. It could have been one of a hundred. She turned and went into the house.

  In the hall Barker was waiting for her as indeed she always was, in her long, severe, black housekeeper’s gown, her greying hair tied back in an equally severe bun; Barker whose forbidding appearance concealed a great deal of affection for her mistress.

  Barker had engaged the staff with care; none were too young, none were obtrusive when they went about their duties, and all of them ‒ there were six ‒ contented with their station in life. They were all women, even down to the cat who proved her femininity time and again by the number of litters of kittens she produced. On each of these occasions the entire household, Naomi included, spent many long hours searching for homes for the offspring.

  Things would be different now, for Charles, who had made all of this a reality, had gone out of her life. But he had been with her long enough for her to be able to create a life satisfying and completely her own. It was quite true to say that Naomi was one of the most sought-after hostesses in London. Anyone who was anyone in the world of art and letters, or the theatre, could at some time or other be found at her house. An invitation to one of her ‘Salons’ was eagerly sought.

  She took the pins out of her hat and handed it to Barker together with her velvet cloak.

  ‘Will you be taking luncheon, madam?’ asked Barker.

  ‘No, thank you, Barker. Perhaps a sandwich and a pot of tea in my sitting room in about half an hour.’

  ‘Very good, madam.’ And Barker left her.

  She went into her sitting room, which, like everything else in the house, was furnished in the most exquisite taste. This in a way was Charles’s legacy to her. Though not in any definable way a patron of the arts, he loved beautiful things and he had gently guided Naomi along the path of appreciation of the delicate and the tasteful. In her house she was able to blossom and express her secret self and wherever one turned there would be a delicate piece of porcelain, or a gilt-framed picture ‒ not like the heavy portraits of the Maclarens, but landscapes and seascapes all bright and cheerful, reflecting the whole demeanour of the house. Silk brocades, always gentle in tone, patterned much of her furniture, most of which belonged to an earlier and more delicate era than the heavy plush and horsehair of the present.

  In the sitting room the ceiling was Adam green, with the intricate plaster ornamentation picked out in white. A huge mirror which, in its heavy gilded frame, dominated one wall, made the room appear twice as large as it really was. The tall rectangular windows which looked out over Park Lane and Hyde Park beyond were hung with heavy curtains of deep green velvet. It was a warm house. Even in June the fires were always lit early and kept going throughout the day if need be and then banked up at night so that the house was never allowed to suffer from an early morning chill.

  Naomi had come to love this place. It was hers and it had become her home. In the beginning it had been a little difficult explaining it to her father and mother. Willie had come to visit her and she had explained to him how Charles had been looking for a London hostess, which was part of the truth, to assist him in entertaining his many business interests, and she had been given the job. Willie gave no hint as to whether or not he believed what she told him, but knowing his stepdaughter and knowing her position, he had held his counsel and gone along with the story. She saw Willie more often now, of course. Willie, as a staff officer of Scottish Command, had to make not infrequent trips to London. He hated every moment of these. Willie Bruce would far rather have given battle to Osman Digna than fought the constant skirmishes with uninterested brass hats in the high-vaulted corridors and oak-panelled offices of Whitehall. His only relief in London was the fact that Naomi insisted that he stay with her. Mind, he never stayed long. Naomi’s establishment was too delicate for him, Willie did not fit into the sophistication of Naomi’s world. When he had been promoted brigadier and Murray had been confirmed as commander of the first battalion, he had for a while imagined that he could get a few things sorted out and improve the lot of the Maclarens. But too soon he discovered that all the unpleasantries he was in the habit of directing against the controllers of the army’s destiny were sadly true. So he went to London as infrequently as possible and told himself that he would not damned well go there at all except for the chance of a day or two with Naomi.

  In all of this Charles had behaved wonderfully. Ever maintained the fiction of a business relationship, excepting for those golden moments when they were alone. Funny, Naomi thought, it really had started as a business deal, but that had not lasted very long.

  Of course, Willie would be arriving in London tomorrow. The regiment was due at Tilbury after five and a half years overseas. She would see Gordon again. As for Donald, she had no idea what had happened to him. No one ever talked of Donald. Willie had told her once that he had been reported missing, and he had left it at that. She sensed more than that. She was certain that there was a lot more to it. But Willie had shown very obviously that he had no intention of explaining further, and knowing Willie, she did not try to find out. Gordon could tell her nothing. He kept writing to her, asking if she had had any news. It was as if her dear brother had become a dark skeleton in the family closet.

  As for Charles, even after five years she still questioned herself as to whether or not she loved him. That apart, she knew that he was her best friend, and she his; nothing could ever take that away from them. But love? What was it, anyway? Was it what she had felt for Ian Maclaren? How strange and long ago all of that seemed now, an episode which seemed to spring from
her childhood. She would most certainly see Ian again; in fact, Gordon would most probably bring him with him when he called before they moved back up to Scotland.

  Naomi counted herself fortunate in that she had no material worries. She had desires, of course, but she could not name them so they did not really count. She was quite content for life to continue just as it was. There was really only one sadness, how much she would miss Charles. There was a new emptiness in her house.

  Mr Wilson looked at his watch. ‘It is seven o’clock, Mr MacDonald,’ he said. ‘I think you had better be on your way to Park Lane.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Don’t worry about locking up, I shall attend to that.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  Mr Wilson opened the till and took out a florin. ‘I think you had better take a hansom. After all, you are carrying something rather valuable.’ And he handed the florin to Mr MacDonald.

  ‘Shall I take the account with me, sir?’

  ‘Er ‒ no, Mr MacDonald, that will not be necessary. Lord de Vere-Smith is a very old and valued customer. I shall send the account to him in Yorkshire.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Mr MacDonald carefully wrapped the jewel case in brown paper and put it in the inside pocket of the jacket of his dark-grey lounge suit. He then asked Moffat to call him a hansom. It had been a very pleasant day, and from the first of next month the firm would become Wilson and MacDonald. He would be a very junior partner, but nevertheless it was all very satisfactory and Mr MacDonald was able to contemplate the fact that he was, at last, carving out for himself a completely new existence.

  The hansom stopped outside the door of 182 Park Lane and Mr MacDonald got out, paid the cabby, and gave him a twopenny tip. He walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell.

  After a moment or two the door opened. ‘Good evening,’ he said, ‘I should like to see the lady of the house. I am sorry, but I omitted to get her name. I have an important package for her from Wilson’s the jeweller’s.’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ replied Barker.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mr MacDonald, ‘but I must deliver it personally. It is rather valuable and I shall have to establish her identity before I hand it over.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Barker. ‘Mrs Bruce told me about it.’

  At the mention of the name, MacDonald raised an eyebrow.

  ‘If you will wait in the hall, I will tell madam that you are here,’ said Barker.

  Barker went into the sitting room. ‘There is a man here from Wilson’s,’ she announced.

  ‘Oh, good,’ replied Naomi. ‘Ask him to come in, will you?’

  ‘In here, madam?’

  ‘Please.’

  Barker went out and returned in a few moments with Mr MacDonald. What happened then made Barker for the first time in her life forget her place and simply stand and stare at Mr MacDonald and her mistress.

  ‘Good evening,’ Naomi said as the door opened. ‘I think you have ‒’ She stopped. An expression of utter astonishment crossed her face. ‘It cannot be,’ she said very slowly.

  But she knew that it was. He was thinner. He was dressed in dark serge, the sort of clothes that clerks and shop assistants wore. There were more lines on his face and a gravity born of suffering. But the back was straight, there was the echo of a soldier in his bearing. The only thought that she was capable of in that instant was, Thank God he is alive.

  Naomi sped across the room and put her arms around her brother. ‘Oh, Donald, Donald,’ she said. ‘After all these years, where have you ‒ What have you ‒?’ And then, realizing that Barker was still standing there, ‘Barker, go and get us a pot of tea’; and, as Barker hesitated, ‘This is my brother, Barker. It’s Donald whom we thought was dead.’

  A beaming smile crossed Barker’s normally rather grim face. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘isn’t that wonderful!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Naomi, ‘this is my brother Donald. Please leave us and ‒ and ‒ and bring us some tea.’

  Donald almost smiled as she said it. In any moment of stress his sister would always fly to the teapot. ‘Sit down here beside me,’ she said, her voice coming in little gasps. ‘Sit down, Donald, and let me look at you.’ Silently, for his emotions were such that speech was impossible, Donald did as he was asked.

  ‘Oh, Donald,’ she said, ‘why have you hidden yourself away from us for so long? We all thought that something terrible had happened to you.’

  He looked at her and smiled, and it was a sad smile. ‘Naomi,’ he said, ‘I knew it could not last. I knew that one day you would find me.’

  ‘But why shouldn’t we, my dear? Why shouldn’t we find you? Do you know how we have worried? Every letter I have had from Gordon has talked about you, asking me if I had any news. Why should he ask me? I could never understand it. How could I have had news?’ And suddenly her voice took on a graver tone. ‘You have been hiding, haven’t you, Donald?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been hiding.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. How are the family?’

  ‘Do you care, Donald?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I care very much.’

  ‘Donald,’ she said, ‘what have you done? Why won’t Father talk about you?’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. You see, I ran away and the Maclarens don’t run away.’

  ‘But you couldn’t have run away,’ she said. ‘Gordon wrote and told me that you did the bravest thing he had ever seen.’

  ‘No,’ replied Donald, ‘that wasn’t bravery. I was trying to say something, something that they would understand. I was trying to tell them that I wasn’t running away because I was a coward. Doing what I did was not brave; running away was. I was trying to tell them that I didn’t believe in their bloody army, that I was done with killing.’

  Naomi was silent.

  ‘None of them will ever understand; they don’t think like I do. I don’t suppose that even you will understand.’

  ‘Gordon will be here tomorrow,’ she said quietly. ‘I am sure that he will understand. He’ll be thrilled when I tell him that you are safe.’

  ‘No, Naomi,’ said Donald, ‘that you must not do. No one must know. Not even Gordon.’

  ‘But that’s unfair, Donald,’ she said. ‘What earthly reason can there be? Gordon has been miserable ever since you disappeared. I’ve got to tell him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He worships you, you know that.’

  ‘Not any more,’ said Donald. ‘Will you keep my secret?’

  ‘How can I? Why should I?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Not even Gordon?’

  ‘Not even Gordon. I don’t want the regiment to know. I have a completely new life. The Donald you knew no longer exists. I have worked very hard and I have tried to forget. I don’t want all that wiped out.’

  ‘Is it Father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know that he is not with the regiment any more. He was promoted to brigadier. He’s at Scottish Command now. Ron Murray’s got the command now.’

  ‘It makes no difference, Naomi. Please promise me that you will help me to keep my secret.’

  ‘Did you know that the regiment is coming home?’

  ‘From Africa?’

  ‘Yes. They dock at some ridiculous hour tomorrow morning. Wouldn’t you like to see Gordon again?’

  ‘Of course I would but it’s just not possible.’

  Somewhere in the distance a bell rang, but they were both too engrossed in each other to notice.

  ‘Where are you staying, Donald?’

  ‘I have rooms in Soho. I may be able to move soon, though. I’m doing quite well, really. I’ve been offered a partnership in the shop. Very junior, of course, but it starts next month. I like the work. It’s nice being among beautiful things all day, and it’s interesting. You meet so many people.’

  ‘Well, you certainly did today,’ said Naomi,
and for the first time he really smiled. ‘Is it really better than the army?’

  ‘Oh, Lord, yes. It’s much better than the army.’

  ‘And are you happy?’

  ‘I think,’ replied Donald, ‘I am as happy as I ever can be. You see, I started wrong. I should never have been a soldier.’

  Barker came in.

  ‘It’s the brigadier, madam,’ she announced, smiling all over her face as Willie Bruce strode into the room.

  At ten o’clock the following morning Mr Wilson arrived at his shop and was surprised to find Moffat standing outside the door.

  ‘Mr MacDonald is not here, sir,’ said Moffat by way of explanation.

  Mr Wilson could not recall any similar incident in the whole time he had known Mr MacDonald. His first reaction was to assume that Mr MacDonald was ill. He told Moffat to hurry round to Mr MacDonald’s lodgings and see if there was anything that he could do to help. He became quite agitated, however, when Moffat returned half an hour later and told him that Mr MacDonald was not in his lodgings, and that he had managed to ascertain that Mr MacDonald had not been there since he left to come to his work yesterday morning.

  Mr Wilson felt quite guilty at the terrible suspicions which raced through his mind. He could hardly credit that Mr MacDonald had done anything criminal. But Mr MacDonald had been entrusted with a very valuable piece of jewellery last night, and Mr Wilson could not afford to take risks.

  Leaving Moffat in charge, he called a hansom and went to the Park Lane address. When he arrived at the house, the housekeeper assured him that Mr Donald, as she called him, had been there last evening. At Mr Wilson’s insistence, the housekeeper went and asked her mistress if indeed the pearl necklace had been delivered. She returned to inform Mr Wilson that the necklace had been delivered, but that her mistress was not very well and regretted that she could not receive him.

  Mr Wilson returned to his shop utterly mystified. By twelve noon, he had taken an inventory and found that nothing was missing. It just did not make sense. Why should a promising young man like Mr MacDonald disappear the day after he had been offered a partnership in the firm? Mr Wilson could not understand it, and he doubted that he ever would.