by Max Hennessy
As he swung into the mess, a loud voice was complaining bitterly about some soldier who had objected to the meat the previous day and he turned, recognising the voice. Aubrey Cosgro looked like his older brother, Claude, plump, overfed, pale-faced and pale-souled. He had been switched to Colby’s squadron in the hope of working some improvement but so far it hadn’t been successful. Nobody ever did much with a Cosgro.
‘Did you taste the meat, sir?’ Colby barked.
Cosgro jerked round. ‘I should think not,’ he said.
Colby’s eyes blazed. ‘Then you’d better do it tomorrow,’ he snapped. ‘And for the next seven days! I’ll have a word with the adjutant.’
Leaving Cosgro red-faced and furious, he turned to find himself facing George Laughton, who ran C Squadron. Laughton had been in the regiment for ever, getting nowhere, reliable in that he did nothing wrong but also in that he never did anything very right either.
‘How’re the recruits?’ he asked.
‘Like the remounts. Hairy of heel.’
Laughton sipped his drink and glanced across the mess. ‘Bit sharp with young Cosgro, weren’t you?’ he said.
‘The officers in my squadron do their work like the men,’ Colby growled. ‘I don’t expect ’em to leave it to the sergeants.’
Laughton sniffed. ‘My squadron’s a bit more easy-going,’ he said.
Which, Colby thought, explained why C Squadron would never be as good as A. Anybody knew that a Cosgro – of whatever age – could be trusted no further than he could be thrown. He’d heard that Claude Cosgro, had started sniffing round a farmer’s wife at Hounslow. Wonder what Georgina thought of that, he asked himself. Perhaps nothing, because he’d also heard she was seeing a captain in the Scots Fusiliers.
As Laughton turned away, unimpressed with Colby’s zeal, Brosy la Dell appeared. He had acquired a well-fed look since he’d married the daughter of Colonel Markham’s successor, and since his wife had announced she was expecting a baby, was full of well-being.
‘How’s Grace?’ Colby asked.
Brosy smiled his lazy smile. ‘She’s fine. Baby’s due in a fortnight’s time. Gets excitin’, this family life.’
His enthusiasm made Colby feel lonely. There must be something to this marriage business, he thought, when a man so ardently a bachelor as Brosy had been could become so absorbed by it. He seemed left out in the cold, with the feeling that he was missing something.
‘Thought I might take a short break till it’s due,’ Brosy went on. ‘Get my strength up, you might say.’
‘Fishing?’
‘Probably. Paris don’t come within the reach of a married man.’ Brosy’s eyes were far away for a moment. ‘Pity. It’s the place to go. When Grace and I were there last year, you could feel the electricity in the air. Still, you know it better than I do. It’s where you’ve passed most of your misspent youth.’
Colby said nothing. Since returning from the States, he’d been suffering from a deep ennui that came, he suspected, from routine, the absence of excitement and the lack of anyone important in his life. Caroline Matchett was still around, but these days she went in less for acting than for drinking brandy and it was beginning to show. And, as far as a woman with a husband whom she had obligingly discarded could be called unfaithful, he suspected she was being unfaithful to him, too. The signs were there and he had long suspected someone else was visiting her.
‘Grace wants it to be called Horatio after the Old Man,’ Brosy was saying.
‘What?’ Colby’s thoughts had been far away.
‘The baby, ass! Can’t see it myself. One degree worse than Ambrose.’ Brosy peered at Colby. ‘You all right? You look as if you might have saddle sores. Too much 19th Lancers and not enough anything else. You should take yourself off to Paris again. Could be exciting just now with all this talk of war between the Emperor and the Prussians.’
Colby shrugged. The recent French aggressiveness had not gone down well in England, and there had been a strong condemnation in the newspapers and in stiff speeches in Parliament. Fortunately the disturbance, a flutter of ruffled feathers that had become a foreboding beat of wings, had subsided again in the last few days and the threatened storm over some princeling the Prussians wanted to put on the throne of Spain had died to nothing more than a murmur.
‘Won’t come now,’ Brosy said. ‘For once Bismarck got a bloody nose and all this big talk of war by French newspapermen’s simply because they think he should be given a fright.’
‘I don’t think Bismarck frightens all that easily,’ Colby observed.
Brosy smiled. ‘Well, nobody’s going to pick a quarrel with France, are they? Look at the experience of war they have. All those African conquests.’
Colby thought of von Hartmann, the eager young Prussian he had met in America. ‘The Prussians learn fast,’ he said.
Brosy smiled. ‘Well, if they do and they are out for war, all the more reason to go while you can.’
Colby was tempted. The previous winter he had flung himself into hunting, but it hadn’t been enough and as he had studied with a fastidious eye the women he met round the shires he had come to the conclusion that old age was hurrying towards him at breakneck speed and he was growing hard to please. He was sick of pre-marital skirmishings that always came to nothing. The occasions were always boring, he found, and the women all seemed to look like Georgina.
‘You could get time off,’ Brosy encouraged.
Yes, he could, Colby thought, and these days too much of his time away from the regiment was spent chasing women, gambling at Deauville or roistering around London and Paris. But Braxby didn’t appeal these days. With his father just clinging to life, his ancient frame knotted from old wounds, frail, nodding, shaking, and white as a corpse already, Colby didn’t enjoy watching him slowly die.
There was one other drawback, too. The Rector’s daughter had her eye on him. Her father was the youngest son of a peer of the realm, had a degree from Oxford, and had been a minor canon at Windsor which, she seemed to think, placed her family firmly among the mighty. She was also pretty and not too stupid and lately had taken to visiting Braxby Manor on the thin excuse that she was bringing calves’ foot jelly or beef tea for his father. What was more, she rode reasonably well, enjoyed hunting and had a brother in the 11th Hussars, all of which made her not too bad a bet. Nevertheless, there remained an uneasy feeling that, brought up in the atmosphere of the church, she would never understand, as Brosy’s undemanding, generous-minded Grace did, the importance of the regiment; and that, full of good works, she would grow boring in time. When he had tried to manoeuvre her into a dark corner after the hunt ball the previous autumn she had made it clear her ambition was marriage, not bed.
Brosy was watching him. ‘You’re cantering on the wrong rein,’ he said. ‘You need a wife.’
That was what Ackroyd was always saying, Colby remembered. Having smuggled him through the Federal lines to the waiting Brosy in New Orleans, where his service with Love’s regiment had been tacitly forgotten and he had become nothing more than a war correspondent who had been foolish enough to get himself wounded, Ackroyd was privileged and didn’t hesitate to take advantage of the fact.
‘You’re growing old,’ he kept insisting. ‘Before you know where you are, you’ll be tottering about on two sticks.’
Ackroyd himself was well-married now, with a small son, and a secure position at the Home Farm, and sometimes Colby watched him with a faint feeling of envy.
He needed a home and Braxby Manor needed a woman. There hadn’t been anybody who had really cared for it since his mother had died and suddenly he wondered what had happened to Gussie Dabney. By the time Ackroyd had got him home he had lost all contact with her and she with him and he had nothing to remember her by but the one urgent letter she had written, a stained yellow sash, a broken feather and a locket with a curl of her hair in it. She’d be twenty-one now, he realised, doubtless married and probably even a mother.
; Brosy was watching him carefully, as though trying to read his thoughts. ‘What about that Baroness you met at the Exhibition in 1867?’ he asked. ‘She was a goer, I’ll be bound.’
Colby smiled. He couldn’t remember much about the Exhibition but he could remember a lot about the Baronne Buffet de Maël. The French ballet dancer had long since disappeared into the limbo of old lovers, but Germaine Buffet de Maël, who had taken her place, was twenty-six, tall, ice-white with black hair and huge dark eyes, and, he hadn’t the slightest doubt, had taken him only as the last in a long succession of lovers. She had married her baron at the age of seventeen, only to lose him on Napoleon III’s ill-fated expedition to Mexico from the vomito negro which had decimated the French army list, and, inheriting his fortune, had joined that select band of emancipated woman who slept with whom they liked and said what they liked. But, while she was prepared to go to bed with Colby, she didn’t wish to marry him, which was a complete reversal of the order of things decreed by the Rector’s daughter.
As he thought about her, suddenly the mess seemed dreary, and the barracks with their surrounding mean streets and alehouses infinitely drab.
The afternoon was spent on the Common. The course was a stiff one with a variety of obstacles, including banks and drop fences, and an eye had to be kept open for NCOs who took a sadistic pleasure in contriving falls. Colby had no time for pushing his men too far. Going down the jumping lanes with arms and stirrups crossed was fine for grip and balance but to make a man do it facing the horse’s tail was a sure way to destroy confidence and was worse for the horse than the man.
There was a wind and the horses were lively when they returned, kicking and squealing so that their riders learned by the hard way that bestriding an animal was less of a problem than its care and maintenance. One of them regularly resented the ministrations of the curry comb and could kick the stars out of the sky when in the mood. On occasions it even came over backwards, and it was always wiser to pass it with care.
‘A horse, you’ll find,’ Colby pointed out dryly to the nervous recruit who was trying to handle it, ‘is not only uncomfortable in the middle, it’s dangerous at both ends as well.’
Claude Cosgro was sprawled in an armchair in the mess, peevish and unhealthy-looking with his plump, pale face and the taut lines at the corner of his mouth. The bugger had never been a beauty, Colby thought clinically, and marriage to Georgina hadn’t improved him any more than marriage to him had improved Georgina.
‘What’s this about my young brother?’ he said, looking up. ‘He says you’ve given him duty officer for the rest of the week.’
‘Yes,’ Colby agreed briskly. ‘He neglected his job.’
‘For God’s sake–’ Cosgro’s cheeks reddened ‘–nobody tastes the meat!’
‘The officers of my squadron do!’
Cosgro stared at him with the dull look of a goaded bull. He’d always had too much money to spend, and his father, a baron now among the new titles that were springing up in industry, was of the same mould.
‘He’s supposed to be dining at home,’ he grated. ‘It’s a family celebration.’
‘In that case,’ Colby said. ‘I have no objection to him being there.’
Cosgro’s expression relaxed and Colby went on. ‘Provided,’ he continued, ‘that he can find someone to stand in for him.’ He spoke with grim satisfaction because Aubrey Cosgro was no more popular than his elder brother and would have the utmost difficulty in finding a stand-in.
Cosgro stared at him, his eyes hot and angry. ‘Sometimes you go too bloody far, Goff,’ he said.
The colonel was dining in the mess and after the meal called Colby over, offered him a brandy and took him towards the side of the fireplace. One of the younger lieutenants appeared at the other side all smiles, but the look the colonel gave him sent him blushing to another corner of the mess.
Colonel Canning, Brosy’s father-in-law, was a short square man with a white moustache and long whiskers who had fought in India and he made it clear he wished to talk in private.
‘Been asked to detach you to the Horse Guards,’ he said quietly.
Colby’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Me, sir?’
‘Yes. Matter of fact, I thought Brosy might like the job but, though I’m fond of Brosy and he’s a good husband to Grace, he’s not the man.’
Colby frowned. ‘I’m not sure I want to be at the Horse Guards, sir. I’m not even sure I want to be on the staff.’
The colonel snorted. ‘Then you’re a damn fool!’ he said. ‘It’s what every good officer should seek. Without staff experience you’ll end up like me – just a colonel.’
‘Commanding the regiment was my ambition, sir.’
‘Then it shouldn’t be. You’ve got more to you than that. Not all of us have. You’ll be reporting tomorrow, so you’d better not drink any more of that brandy.’
The gloomy mood was still on Colby as he left the mess. Picking up a passing growler, he headed towards Hounslow, stopping on the way at an alehouse for something to eat.
But the alehouse was smoky and drab and the absence of anyone of his own type made him feel lonely. It was a pity, he thought, that there weren’t more women like Brosy’s Grace about the world and a few less Georginas. Grace was understanding and easy-going – perhaps too easy-going for a Goff but right enough for Brosy – and suddenly he wished he could find a wife like her.
He thought nostalgically of Germaine de Maël once more. She was beautiful and intelligent and a cut above Caroline Matchett. Spoiled? Yes, but she was damned good in bed, which was something the British Housewives’ Association didn’t seem to think very proper when a marriage had been entered into. He’d probably enjoy being married to someone like Germaine, he thought. But – he hesitated – she’d want to live in London or Paris, and he couldn’t imagine being away for ever from the beloved northern acres of Braxby – or for that matter, the 19th, which had become for him an ambition, a trust and an obsession all at the same time. She’d probably even want him to resign his commission and he didn’t fancy that either. Finally, she was dreadful on a horse, though she was kindly and understanding, made love with a healthy bouncing enjoyment, and had a habit of being sorry for the middle-aged men who offered their fortunes for the privilege of her affection. It might be an idea to follow up Brosy’s idea after all. If, he thought gloomily, this new job at the Horse Guards didn’t preclude leave in Paris.
As he entered her house, Caroline Matchett was sitting by the fire alone, with a glass in her hand.
‘You should be getting your beauty sleep,’ Colby pointed out.
‘It’s too late for that now,’ she said. ‘I’m well past beauty.’
She pushed the decanter towards him and, as he poured himself a drink, he looked at her in the firelight and realised that what she said was right. Her features were beginning to crumble and there wasn’t much left but the smile. As he always did, he swore to himself that when he left he’d not come back.
‘Have you been drinking long?’ he asked.
‘About as long as you,’ she retorted.
He struggled out of his coat and threw it over a chair. ‘I have to go to the Horse Guards tomorrow. I expect it’s some bloody awful job they’ve found for me.’
She was smoking, one of the few women he knew apart from Germaine who smoked regularly. As she brushed ash from her skirt, she seemed depressed.
‘Do women often sit alone drinking brandy and soda?’ he asked.
‘This one does,’ she said. ‘There are a lot of bogeys about Coll. One especially: old age.’
‘It worries me, too, sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘And they might even eventually give the regiment to that ass, Cosgro.’
‘Never!’
His head jerked up. ‘You know him?’
She paused. ‘He’s been here.’
Suddenly he was angry. The thought that he shared her favours with the man he most disliked seemed insulting. ‘Does he think he’ll get the regiment?�
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‘He thinks he has enough influence.’
Colby scowled. ‘He probably has,’ he admitted. He swallowed his brandy and poured a second. ‘I’ll see you get another bottle,’ he pointed out. ‘You can’t afford to keep thirsty cavalrymen in drink.’
‘I get a little help here and there.’
‘From Claude Cosgro?’
‘He’s not mean.’
‘Christ–’ suddenly the brandy was affecting his temper ‘–to think–’
She shut him up. ‘You’re conceited, Coll,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t he come here? Why shouldn’t I encourage him? I’m not wealthy and I haven’t many more years before nobody will come.’
Her mood depressed him. What she said was right and he felt sorry for her and just a little drunk. A thought struck him. ‘I heard Claude Cosgro was visiting a farmer’s wife here.’
She didn’t answer, staring him out.
‘Is it a farmer’s wife? Or is it you?’
Still she didn’t answer.
‘God damn it, is it? It’s been going on for years.’
Suddenly she was angry, too. ‘What do you expect? He has more money than you. And he doesn’t disappear into the blue like you do. Why shouldn’t he be a friend?’
‘I thought I was your friend.’
‘I can’t afford to have only one friend! It needn’t make any difference. You can stay.’
‘No.’ He stumbled to his feet. ‘I’d better go. I’m not angry. I just called – I – just to say I wouldn’t be coming any more.’
She laughed. ‘Because of Claude?’
It was because of Cosgro, but he couldn’t say so. He felt deprived, cheated and ashamed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not that. I’m thinking of getting married.’
