Tender Torment

by Meadowes, Alicia

  “Perhaps, but it is much too early.”

  “Never acquired the vice, eh?”

  “Not that one, at any rate.”

  “Gammon! You don’t think I believe for a minute those scurrilous attacks in the papers.”

  “Past or present ones, ma’am?”

  “Both! And don’t try my patience with a lot of balderdash about your reputation. When that tiresome hearing is settled, we must think to your future.”

  “My future?” His eyebrows rose a fraction. “I thank you for your concern, but it is misplaced. I have always done very well for myself, and I shall continue to do so.”

  “So you’re telling me to mind my own business.”

  Her candor disarmed him momentarily, and he found himself able to respond to her directness with a short laugh “Again I bow to vour perception.”

  “But I won’t be hushed that easily. Justin,” she said in that confident manner which irked him. “It’s time someone took you in hand.”

  The earl’s annoyance surfaced and his politeness quickly vanished. “I warn you, Madam!” he said in rising tones, and punctuated his words with a thrust of a pointed finger.

  “Don’t threaten me, young man!” Lady Maxwell stomped her cane on the floor. “It’s time some plain speaking was done! Your mother has been dead…”

  “Madam!” He came to his feet, but Lady Maxwell ignored him.

  “If you had remained to defend yourself against your mother’s insinuations at the time…”

  “I would still be branded a scoundrel!” he said through clenched teeth. “Now have done with it!”

  “I don’t wish to cause you pain, my boy.”

  “Pain!” he laughed harshly. “Don’t you know I have no such human feelings? Try my patience no further, Grandmother, I desire nothing more than to be left alone.”

  “That’s just my point! You can no longer be left alone. Your obligation as the Earl of Straeford supersedes all else.”

  He turned his back on her and walked toward the window without replying, but Lady Maxwell was not deterred. She plunged on. “You must marry!”

  “Marry!” he said with deep sarcasm.

  “The line must be secured and the Park saved!”

  “I shall save Straeford in my own way.”

  “I already have the solution.” Lady Maxwell rose and walked slowly toward the tall slender chair behind which he had positioned himself.

  He eyed her suspiciously under half-closed lids. “Very well, Grandmother, I see I shall have no rest until you have your say. So tell me your scheme.”

  A triumphant sparkle lit her eyes and lips. “There is a wealthy merchant who is mad for the ton. He has two daughters…”

  “My God!” He threw up his hands. “Not only do you condemn me to matrimony but to a climbing heiress!”

  “If my calculations are correct, you will be thirty-five come August. Do you intend the line to end with you?”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” Turning, he pulled the bell cord hoping to close the discussion.

  “Are you afraid of women?”

  Straeford whirled to face her and hissed, “This is beyond endurance, Grandmother.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Justin, all women are not like your mother!”

  “Enough!” he roared, slamming his fist into the wall. She had pushed him too far! But with superhuman effort he dropped his arm. Then wheeling on his heel, he stalked out of the room as Manners entered with the tea tray. Lady Maxwell sighed heavily. She had been hard on him, but it had to be said. If only he would drop that protective armor he had built about himself and permit himself to feel again. The tragedies of the past had forced her grandson down a bitter, lonely path for too many years. And she was determined to change all that somehow!

  Since Justin left home at the age of seventeen, he had returned only twice. The first time was for his father’s funeral. There was no assuaging the grief Justin suffered for never having explained himself to the man he idolized. There was no way possible to explain without disclosing the shame that had sent him fleeing in the first place. Sometime later he had sold out and returned from India at the hasty summons of his grandmother. His brother Robert was dying. But Robert was dead by the time he reached England. The deep personal loss, along with his mother’s disastrous remarriage, had placed the seal of destruction on the family.

  Straeford stood in the long gallery before the portraits of his distinguished ancestors. Holding a glass of port in one hand and the bottle in the other, he walked down the gallery to the picture he had come to view. Lord Straeford, seated beside his wife, with Robert standing next to him and Justin on his mother’s knee, presented a false picture of family tranquility. Justin thought about that coldly beautiful woman, his mother, and how he had tried to warn her.

  “Justin, you don’t know what you are saying!”

  “And I told you I have written proof!”

  “You were always a headstrong boy,” she laughed weakly.

  “I am no longer a child, Mother, you can’t put me off!”

  “So much like your father…” she went on.

  “And that ploy won’t work either! I’m here to talk to you about Huxley…”

  “No! Don’t you dare speak those filthy lies again! You hate Ellis because I love him!”

  “No, I hate him because…”

  “Isn’t it enough for you that you are now the Earl of Straeford?”

  “Do you think I give one blasted damn for the title? For God’s sake, don’t you see anything?”

  “I will not be talked to in such a manner! You were a bad, unfeeling child, Justin St. Clare, and you have grown into a cruel, heartless man. That’s why I could never love you.”

  The glass of port cracked in his hand, pouring wine onto the floor and carpet, mingling with his own blood. Becoming aware of his aching hand, Straeford pulled a handkerchief from his vest pocket and wrapped it about his palm before quietly withdrawing from the gallery and the memories it engendered.

  Straeford was going through the strongbox in the library when Major Edward Harding, a tall, well-built man in his early thirties, walked into the room. He was an attractive man with tanned features, sandy hair and hazel eyes.

  Easy-going and good-natured, Edward Harding had been Straeford’s friend since boyhood. If there was one person the earl trusted and respected, it was this confidante of his youth and companion of his military years in India. Straeford was in need of cheerful company and Harding was precisely the one to provide it.

  As they vigorously clasped each other’s hands, Harding admonished his friend for not having called on him and his new wife in London. Major Harding had married Ann Cromwell, his colonel’s daughter, shortly after returning to England. He had requested a transfer to the western front when Ann’s father retired and the family came home. Harding had followed them soon afterward, and Straeford had not seen him since that time.

  “I went to your lodgings to see you but found Billings instead. Your batman was concerned about you.”

  “Billings is turning into an old lady,” the earl stated in exasperation. “So that’s what sent you hotfooting it down here.”

  “Thought you might need some company. After all, the press has been pretty hard on you.”

  “Believe me, I’m not going into a decline over some scoundrels who write libel,” Straeford jeered. “I simply came down here for some solitude, but between Manners and Lady Maxwell bending my ear about saving Straeford, I might just as well have stayed in London.”

  “What are your plans for the Park?” Harding asked as he surveyed his surroundings.

  Straeford threw back his head and laughed, causing the major to smile sheepishly. Then in a more sober vein the earl explained that he had just finished an inventory of the family jewels to discover that besides the legendary Straeford emeralds, which were entailed to the estate, there were a few good pieces he could pawn along with the last of the Van Dycks. After that he wou
ld try his luck at the gaming tables.

  Harding was not enthusiastic about this plan, but he had to agree with Straeford that there was little else he could do under the circumstances. They speculated about his chances of winning a fortune, and Harding volunteered to investigate the clubs most likely to accommodate his friend in this matter.

  “When do you return to London?”

  “The inquiry begins next week.” Straeford scowled.

  “Just, I’ve been thinking. You ought to defend yourself against these attacks in the press. Cromwell and I are only too willing to give character references for you.”

  “But you and Cromwell were not there when the Nangore incident took place.”

  “Yet we know what Seton is like!”

  “Hearsay. The facts will have to speak for themselves.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “I’ve survived slander before.”

  “Damn! I’d like to tell them a thing or two.”

  “But you won’t. I can count on you.”

  “You know you can.”

  Straeford smiled and brought the discussion to a close by inviting Harding to join him for dinner.

  2

  “And did you not on the morning of February 18, 1807, two days after the total rout of the rebel forces under the leadership of Dashrami al Singhe, deliberately order the public execution by hanging of twenty-three of those rebels? And was not that order in direct disobedience to the express orders of General Seton, your commanding officer in charge of the expeditionary forces to the Madras territory of continental India?” Major Ross Covington of the Judge Advocate’s Office droned on in the near-empty chambers of the military court at the Horse Guards.

  “The statement as read by Major Covington is in partial error—the execution was ordered by me, but not in direct disobedience to General Seton’s orders.” Lord Straeford directed his reply to the seven-man board before him.

  “My lord, I hold here a direct communiqué from General Seton, charging that you were given explicit orders to take no reprisals in reestablishing British control over the village of Nangore.” The major regarded the earl with a quiet disdain.

  “I take it you have those exact charges in writing, sir?” Straeford’s reply in the form of a question was not what Major Covington had expected.

  “I have here General Seton’s letter…”

  “But does the general make formal charges of misconduct, Major Covington?”

  “They are not charges by writ of military code, but this represents the word of your commanding officer. Do you choose to question the word of General Seton, sir?”

  “I choose to defend myself, Major. Do you deny me that right?” The cold authority in Straeford’s voice struck the assembled board with surprise. Whatever Lord Straeford had done in that distant Indian village, it was obvious that shame bore no part in it.

  “I should think your right to defend yourself is apparent since it is an inquiry and not a court-marital we are conducting here, sir,” Major Covington sneered.

  “In that case, I assume I have the right to explain my actions during that operation and why I ordered the execution of twenty-three Indian rebels.” Again a statement delivered with absolute authority.

  “Very well, my lord, suppose you tell us your…” the major paused significantly, “… version.”

  “I will tell the board the facts, Major. I do not deal in versions.”

  “Pray then, proceed.”

  “It is necessary that I start with the attack on midnight of February 15, preceding the battle at dawn on the sixteenth. It was shortly after the midnight attack that twenty-three members of His Majesty’s 74th Foot were captured by Dashrami…”

  Straeford disregarded the startled looks of the board as he thought back over the events of that dark night. The jungle blackness had been so intense that it was impossible for him to see his hand in front of his face. Straeford had struggled to prevent General Seton’s midnight attack, knowing in advance that it was a disastrous tactic, but it was impossible to penetrate the fog of inebriation that clouded the general’s brain.

  The order to attack was given by Seton to Bradwick, and by the time Straeford received word of it, it was too late. The earl knew he should never have left Seton’s side that night, but there was no way of covering every hole in that ill-conceived operation. Calamity was inevitable despite Straeford’s vigilance.

  It had been only a matter of time before the general committed an irreversible blunder. Seton’s drunkenness had been a scandal of growing magnitude, and no effort of Straeford’s could conceal it. But the earl’s obsession with duty was a habit of too many years to alter. And Seton had once been a first-class soldier—that Colonel Lord Straeford could not disavow regardless of the enmity between them. The earl would try to pull them both out with honor if it were humanly possible; nevertheless, this inquiry was an humiliating blow. How could the fool have dared create such a fracas? Seton was probably beyond salvation, but Straeford would not be the one to expose him.

  “… and it was because of our attempt to rescue those captured troops that the battle was enjoined at dawn on the sixteenth…” he continued calmly.

  The looks of increasing dismay from the board finally caused the earl to halt in his recitation.

  “Lord Straeford, is it your contention that there was a predawn attack on the fifteenth in which British soldiers were captured by the enemy?” This was from General Belvoir, who was also a veteran of the. Indian campaigns.

  “But of course, sir. The success of the attack on the morning of the sixteenth was due in large part to surprise. Dashrami did not think we would regroup and counterattack so speedily. Unfortunately the scoundrel escaped capture, or it would have been his neck we stretched later.”

  “But my lord Straeford,” this time it was Lord Carstairs of Castlereagh’s office who interrupted, “there is nothing in the record concerning a predawn encounter with Dashrami’s forces. This is a most shocking report you bring forth at this time.”

  The earl received Lord Carstairs’s statement impassively, in no way betraying the dismay and anger this piece of information caused him.

  The seven-man board appointed by the Secretary of State for War, Major Covington and the court recorder all stared in consternation at the implacable countenance of the earl, who regarded each man silently.

  After some passage of time, Straeford spoke quietly. “If I may be allowed the opportunity of reading through the record—it seems there is need of clarification.”

  “Indeed, sir, there is,” Lord Carstairs replied. “However, I feel it necessary to put some questions to you before we adjourn and reconvene to consider this revelation.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “There are any number of matters to cover here, sir. Let me briefly state them as I see them. First, there was a predawn attack in which twenty-three British soldiers were captured?” Carstairs had taken over, relegating Covington to the sidelines.

  “That is correct, my lord.”

  “And the attack at dawn was partially a rescue effort?”

  “It was.”

  “And did you indeed rescue those men?”

  “No sir.”

  “No!” Carstairs was aghast.

  “No, we found their mutilated bodies following the defeat of the enemy on the afternoon of the seventeenth.”

  “Before God, Lord Straeford, these are most serious charges!”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, my lord. I do not regard these as charges, but merely as the facts.”

  “Well, well, sir, we shall leave that till later. I don’t wish to get into the matter of facts versus charges just yet.”

  Straeford nodded.

  “Now then, was your order to execute the twenty-three Indian rebels a matter of punishment for the atrocities?”

  “Only in part, my lord. It was primarily to issue a public warning to all other rebels—as you know, Dashrami’s band is only one of many.
The rebels must be made to understand that British justice is swift and harsh and that acts of murder will not be condoned as part of military combat.”

  Lord Carstairs and his colleagues regarded Lord Straeford angrily. “My lord, why did General Seton not agree to these measuresif what you say is true?”

  “I am afraid you will have to question General Seton on that matter, my lord.”

  “You may be sure that I will. But he is in India, and you are here and I am questioning you now. Why did General Seton not agree to your course of action?”

  Lord Straeford paused, gathering his thoughts before replying. “There was great confusion in Nangore at the time. Many inhabitants of the village were fleeing into the countryside.”

  “Where was General Seton when you ordered the executions?”

  “On his way to Bengal.”

  “He left you in charge of occupational forces?”.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But he ordered no reprisals?”

  “I… General Seton gave no exact orders to me on that matter, Lord Carstairs.”

  “But we have here his own deposition.”

  Straeford cursed inwardly. “General Seton preferred that no reprisals be taken.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  The earl groaned silently. “He believed it might stir up greater hostility among the native population… and the general was aware of public opinion in England regarding the treatment of Indian nationals.”

  “But this was a situation involving warring natives and the restoration of public order.”

  “So I believed, my lord.”

  “How real was the danger of stirring up further native hostility, Lord Straeford?”

  “Very real, sir. It still is a great danger, and likely will continue to be.”

  “Then there was some wisdom in General Seton’s position, I take it?”

  Again Straeford paused. “Not… not as I viewed the situation, my lord.” His reply startled his auditors once more. “The control of India requires inflexible strength, Lord Carstairs. Especially in dealing with the countless brigands who roam the countryside attacking not only His Majesty’s representatives, but the peaceful citizens of the Indian continent as well. However, those are problems of state, my lord, which I do not pretend to answer. My training is that of a soldier, and as a soldier I knew the necessity of setting a harsh example before the people. The safety of the British soldier in India is risky, at best, and it was my concern to take whatever measures were necessary to ensure our men of at least minimal safety—prisoners of war should not have to risk mutilation!”