Six months in hospital and he was back in it. The battle for Tugela Heights had been a major catalyst in the Boer War, for it had broken the enemy’s ability to mount large scale, military-style operations. Instead, they switched tactics and began a brutal guerilla war of small unit ambushes and murder. This was met by the Crown’s implementation of a scorched earth policy, and along with it, another policy as inhumane and brutal as the new tactics of their adversaries.
“Decorated by the Queen, personally,” offered Linus. Neither he, the queen, or any of these men knew that in earning that decoration, Nathan Madison had also earned a nickname from his troops; Bloody Maddie.
“Indeed,” said Sizemore, nodding. “So you are in fact a man experienced in the ways of the indigenous population. What do you say to Kensington’s claim, that the savages threaten Her Majesty’s interests down there?” And of course by that, he meant his interests.
Nathan breathed deeply and tried to keep his voice even. “Forgive me, gentlemen,” Nathan said, “but without the Swazis, there’d be no one to dig your gold,” a look at Kensington, “your diamonds, “a look at Sizemore, “or lay the track for your railroad,” a look back at Kensington.
“Bah,” said Sizemore, waving a hand, “those beggars are controlled, docile. We’re talking about the real threat, the tribal groups.”
“They actually want the Crown to recognize them as a sovereign nation!” bellowed Kensington. “Can you imagine?”
Nathan looked at Linus, but his friend simply sipped his wine and said nothing. As long as his family money flowed, the man had little concern for the plight or exploitation of others, and understood it even less.
“I tell you how we solve this,” Kensington said, increasingly drunk, his face red as he leaned in and lowered his voice, wagging a finger. “We send in the troops and round up those bloody troublemakers in the night. Put them in camps like the Boer.” He gave Nathan a friendly nudge. “Eh, Madison?”
Nathan’s eyes turned cold, and he excused himself, his voice tight. He moved through his guests, evading offered pleasantries, leaning hard on his cane as his leg flared. He reached the safety and isolation of his study, closed the door behind him and leaned against it, letting out a shaky breath, his eyes closed.
Ignorant, pompous bastards. The same sort who had sent troops into the Boer Republic in South Africa in 1899, and kept them there for three years, enforcing British rule on Dutch colonists who only wanted to farm and raise their cattle and their families and be left alone. Tens of thousands dead. An entire way of life destroyed. All to serve the arrogance and greed of an empire’s elite. And of course there had been the camps.
Nathan opened his eyes and walked to a leather armchair, easing himself into it and straightening his leg, massaging the thigh. There was still metal in there, plenty of it, dangerous little pieces of twisted steel that worked their way slowly through the tissue, sometimes surfacing as sores and needing to be plucked out of the flesh, sometimes burrowing and grating against bone and nerve. The surgeons were amazed they had saved the leg, even more so that the young colonel had been able to walk again.
He looked about the dark study, then glanced at the window. Through the sheer curtains he could see a figure just outside, looking in. The features were in silhouette, and a moment later they were gone, a curious guest taking the evening air on a stroll around the manor.
The scorched earth policy had been terrible indeed, crops and houses burned, livestock slaughtered, wells poisoned. Not the kind of warfare gentlemen were trained to wage, or, presumably, to permit. And yet he had ordered it done, and put more than one homestead to the torch himself while Boer women and children watched. And as for them? The Crown decreed that the civilian population be collected and placed in concentration camps, ostensibly to deny the guerillas a support network of friends and family, but in reality as punishment for their savage and often effective tactics. The camps had been horrid, places of rampant disease and malnourishment, foul water, little or no medical care, and no place to bury the dead. So they burned them, and the African sky was lit each night with their pyres, the reek of charred flesh carried across the landscape for miles.
“And I helped put them there,” Nathan whispered to the darkness, staring not at the room, but at scenes which played only for him, and were never far from his thoughts.
A woman’s laughter came from outside the window, and he levered himself to his feet with the use of his cane. Dear God how he wanted these people gone from his house, from his estate, so that he could at least be alone with his failed life and not have it speculated upon by people who were never troubled by such things as loss and regret. He paused at the study door to compose himself, straightened his back, and went to face the rest of the evening.
Dinner was an exercise in restraint and a test of his upper-class upbringing, as he forced himself through the rites of playing host, pretending to show interest in people, smiling at their charming little stories, and looking appropriately concerned over the minor inconveniences in their privileged lives. At one point he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Smyth standing unobtrusively near the door to the butler’s pantry, and she gave him a tight smile and a wink, as if to say, “You’re doing fine, son. They’ll be gone soon.”
Dinner began winding down, and his guests started to drift from the dining room, most of the men heading for the library or the billiards room for brandy and cigars. A few, however, were intercepted by their wives and steered towards the gallery, where the quartet had relocated itself for after-dinner dancing. Nathan circulated as much as was required, and was counting himself lucky that he had thus far evaded Caroline Edgemont, when the woman appeared before him, a cluster of her female accomplices quickly surrounding him, a lovely and well-dressed young woman in her twenties on Caroline’s arm, looking shy. It was an ambush worthy of his former adversaries, carefully planned and executed with precision, cutting him off from male reinforcements, who were at the moment helping themselves to his liquor and fine tobacco.
Caroline put on her sweetest face and looked at the girl. “My dear, allow me to introduce Lord Nathan Madison III, our most gracious host.”
The girl smiled and gave a slight curtsey.
“Nathan, may I present Miss Deidre Winters, of Devonshire. Her father is Sir Charles Winter, who…”
He didn’t really hear the rest, as Caroline proceeded to detail the importance and lucrative businesses of the young woman’s father, the high placement of the Winter family, and the fine schools which young Deidre had attended. He smiled and nodded in the right places, but he felt the knot of his tie constricting his throat, making it difficult to breathe, and he fought the urge to simply bolt past them and find a place to hide. Deidre eyed him with interest and curiosity as Caroline extolled Nathan’s many virtues as a gentleman, war hero and successful businessman.
“In fact, he’s building our ship,” said Caroline.
Nathan returned to the present. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well,” said Caroline to her entourage, “I suppose he’s not actually building it, but Madison Iron is the primary supplier in its construction.” When Nathan just blinked at her, she patted his arm playfully. “The Titanic, silly.” She looked at her lady friends. “It sails to New York next April, and Linus has booked us passage on its maiden voyage, first class accommodations, of course. Perhaps you’ll join us, Nathan? The sea air would do you good.”
He shook his head. “I don’t care much for the sea, Caroline. But I’m certain you’ll enjoy your voyage.” He suddenly realized that while Caroline had been talking, the entourage had steadily been moving them from the dining room into the gallery, where already several couples were moving gracefully across the dance floor.
Caroline, still smiling, placed Deidre’s hand on Nathan’s, and the touch made him tense. “Now be a good host and ask our young lady to dance.”
Nathan resisted pulling his hand away, and touched his cane lightly to his leg. “I’m afraid I simpl
y can’t…”
Deidre pouted just the slightest, and Caroline tapped his cheek twice in a mock slap. “Posh! You mind your manners, Lord Madison, and entertain your guest.” Then she floated away with her accomplices to sip punch and speculate about the possibilities of the arranged pair.
A servant appeared and took his cane as Nathan drew a sharp breath, wishing, and not for the last time, that the evening would end. He asked, she accepted, and they were waltzing. His leg was starting to burn, and little pricks of pain shot into him, especially near the knee, where the surgeons said there was a large cluster of shrapnel. He soldiered on, years of lessons and practice remembered as he executed a precise, if somewhat stiff waltz, holding the young lady properly before him. She danced equally well, and though quiet at first, quickly began to speak about horses and riding and wouldn’t it be delightful to ride Nathan’s estate one day and oh, what a lovely home Nathan had and had he ever been to Paris and America. Nathan decided she was quite chatty and forward for a society girl during her first meeting, and immediately saw that Caroline’s hands were deep in this intrigue.
The musicians led from one piece immediately to the next, and Miss Winters pleaded for another dance as the floor became increasingly crowded, a turning sea of tuxedos and gowns. Nathan relented, despite the protests from his leg.
“Isn’t she adorable,” a woman said behind Nathan. He turned his partner to see who had spoken, but there were only other spinning couples.
A few moments later, the woman’s voice came from behind him again, close and soft, dusky. “Not your type at all, darling.”
Nathan went cold, recognizing the voice, knowing it was impossible. A quick turn of his head revealed only elegant ladies and gentlemen, all focused on their partners and the dance, none paying him any attention. Miss Winters urged him to keep up. More gliding as the group turned across the floor as a single mass, and then the voice again, a whisper this time.
“You won’t be able to keep her from me, you know.”
Nathan released Deidre and stopped, spinning around with fists clenched. He caught a glimpse of long blond hair, unfettered by pins or jewels, flowing free, and then it was lost in the crowd. The dancers gave him odd looks as they moved around and past him, and Miss Winters, flushed and embarrassed, fled to Caroline and her ladies. Nathan stood fast, searching the crowd.
“I don’t mean that little twit,” said the voice, and this time when he turned around she was there before him, dancing with Linus Edgemont, who wore a glassy-eyed look with a simpleton’s smile. She was in her early twenties, slender, wearing a tight white peasant blouse with a low, revealing neckline, and a floor-length red skirt that hugged her curves, the hem hinting at bare feet. Her simple clothing made her stand out among the gowns and tuxedos as one who did not belong. The woman’s long blond hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her pale skin was smooth and flawless. Red lipstick stood in contrast to her complexion, and her eyes were blue as and similar to the North Atlantic; dark, cold and utterly without mercy.
“I mean Amelia,” she said, and twirled away in Linus’s arms, throwing her head back and laughing, drawing looks of disapproval from the other guests.
Nathan could only watch her, paralyzed as a barrage of emotions assaulted him; anger, lust, bitterness, fear, self loathing. Most of all horror. Angeline had come back into his life.
But Angeline was dead.
From across the room she smiled at him once more, revealing a hint of two slender, white fangs. A moment later she was gone, Linus standing by himself on the dance floor, arms still raised as if holding a partner, blinking rapidly as if awakening from a deep slumber. Angeline was nowhere in sight.
Within ten minutes the peaceful night had been broken by the starting of many engines, the slamming of doors, and the clop of hooves and rattle of carriages. Headlights blazed around the circular drive, and more than a few chauffeurs laid on their horns as the crowd of luxury automobiles jockeyed to leave the estate. Within their well-appointed interiors, well-bred ladies and gentlemen complained loudly to one another about their guest’s utter rudeness and abrupt manner, vowing never to return, and fully prepared to drag the name of Madison through society’s mud. Such bad form, and from such a good family. Scandalous. More than a few suggested that losing his wife and son, combined with his experiences in the war, had driven him mad. Even the most charitable among them shook their heads and sadly proclaimed that the current Earl certainly wasn’t the man his father was.
After Angeline had vanished, Nathan had immediately and loudly ordered everyone out of his house. When no one reacted, several even chuckling at the obvious joke, Nathan had bellowed it in a command voice, one which had once sent reluctant men charging into enemy fire. That got them moving.
Servants had scurried to collect and deliver coats and cloaks and furs and top hats, working furiously to distinguish this black umbrella from that black umbrella, mumbling their apologies while guiding the dismissed assembly out the door. The elderly couple staying the night had the good sense to immediately retreat to their rooms, but the Edgemonts found themselves a perch on a padded bench in the entry hall and watched the exodus with delight. Linus still seemed a bit dazed, and chalked it up to the wine, but Caroline hungrily took in every sneer and sharp word. Oh, she would have gossip to dispense for a year after this.
Nathan hadn’t bothered seeing his guests out. He went straight to Amelia’s room, alerting the sergeant major and waking Nannybird, who clutched at a string of wooden prayer beads, eyes wide with alarm. Amelia had been sleeping deeply, clutching a much-loved stuffed rabbit, and Nathan pulled the tangled covers straight, tucking them around her. Then he checked the window, which was locked as it had been earlier. At the glass, he looked out into the night, barely able to hear the chaos of his front drive this far back into the house. The landscape was a realm of grays and blacks, lit by a three quarter moon, but nothing moved.
Now, hours later, the house was quiet. From the giant hearth in the great hall came an occasional pop as a knot burst among the glowing embers, and in the entry hall, a grand old clock ticked away the hours. Corporal Andrews stood watch at the top of the grand staircase, armed with his regimental saber and a Rigby, double barrel rifle. The two stablemen, Davis and Kealty, patrolled as a pair, endlessly circling the house with lanterns. Voorhees was in his chair in the hallway, and Corporal Stark sat on a flower-patterned divan in Amelia’s playroom, the lights on, armed with a heavy caliber pistol and a dangerous-looking, curved Swazi tribal knife.
Nathan sat in a chair, his daughter’s darkened bedroom around him, the girl dreaming only a few feet away. The only light filtered in through the heavy drapes, forming a pale slash on the floor, and deepening the blackness of the rest of the room. Like his men, he was armed as well. He looked towards the small, still figure in the bed, and felt the weight of his soul like a block of iron in his chest, heavy and unrelenting in its pressure.
He and Elaine had married in ’92, within a year of his return from Africa. Geoffrey was born the following year, and for a while life had been wonderful, the house a place of laughter and the joy that comes from watching a child grow. By 1907, however, Nathan had changed. He grew increasingly withdrawn and irritable, slept poorly, and began drinking heavily. He took to sleeping in a remote room, concerned that his nightmares and screams in his sleep would frighten his wife.
Geoffrey was four then, and Amelia came along. It should have been a time of happiness, but shortly after the birth, Elaine grew ill and by the end of the year, was bedridden. The physicians, both from here in the country and those summoned from London, attributed her sickness to a weakened heart, which was soon followed by a respiratory ailment. Both maladies kept her down, and she began to grow thin. Nathan drank constantly, neglecting his family, his business, unable even to look at his once-beautiful wife as her body turned against her. For nearly a year Nannybird raised his young children.
Nathan met Angeline in the spring of ’08, at a
small theatre in Manchester, where she was playing Juliet. He had been drunk, as usual, and was taken with her beauty, the unabashed way she moved on stage, her vigor and her life. He purchased roses from a street vendor, bulled his way backstage and introduced himself to the lovely young woman. An affair followed, and for three months his life was centered on her. He bought the Rolls to impress her, the two of them riding at high speed down country roads, laughing and drinking and ending up making love in meadows or in the back seat. When he was with her, lost in her passions, his troubles vanished. There were no tormenting thoughts of war, of sickness, of failure, and the nightmares which so often plagued him were pushed away for a time.
In the darkness of Amelia’s room, Nathan felt the familiar, savage bites of shame and guilt, and he was nauseated by them.
Elaine died in July of that year.
Angeline killed herself the following night, after a drunk and enraged Nathan came to her flat and stormed out minutes later.
The next two months were an unremembered blackness of alcohol, during which the manor staff worked diligently to care for him, make his excuses on business matters and to his few remaining social acquaintances, and care for his family. Nothing had ever been said of that dark time by any of them, and for that Nathan was both grateful and deeply ashamed.
The darkness peaked in October of 1908, when that thing carried Geoffrey into a rain-soaked night and ended his short life. Nathan had never actually seen it, only heard its animal wail of hunger and his son’s high pitched cries for his father as it fled through the woods of the estate. Mad with panic and fear, Nathan had been joined by the sergeant major and several other servants as they tracked it through the night with lanterns and whatever weapons they could quickly find. Their hunt had ended beside a hard-packed dirt road, where Geoffrey had been discarded, small and limp and cold, lying at the edge of the tree line. The creature was gone, but its distant, inhuman shriek of victory had carried through the black forest.
Red Circus: A Dark Collection Page 21
