“I, on the other hand, was unable to succeed in society.” Lady Elaina’s smile faded slightly.
“But you did succeed, Ma-ma, until you entered Florence Nightingale’s School of Nursing. It was—and is—unheard of. You are the daughter of the Duke of Yarbury after all.”
“Yes, I learned what cruelty was.” Momentarily, Lady Elaina’s expression revealed the devastation of being shunned by everyone she had formerly known.
“It was one scandal after another with you, each more shocking than the last.” Alita giggled, taking her mother’s unencumbered hand. “But now you are firmly established in society as one of the most sought-after political hostesses in London, on par with the Duchess of Buccleuch. “
“We both influence the titled men who vote in parliament. That is the relevant point.” Lady Elaina pursed her lips resolutely. “But that is not to our purpose at the moment. Dearest, I have news which cannot be delayed much longer.”
“Yes, Ma-ma?”
“Your grandmamma has arrived. I understand she is directing the servants in putting away her belongings.”
“You left Grandmamma alone with the servants?” Alita exclaimed in a whispered breath, rising suddenly from the couch as if she had just learned of a fire in the next room.
And, indeed, there was.
“She insisted, and one—least of all her own daughter—does not argue with the Duchess. We will be well-advised to add a bonus to the salaries this month.”
As Alita headed towards her bedroom door, Lady Elaina commanded, “Do not go in search of Her Grace, she will come to you. Situate yourself prettily on the settee in your sitting room, displaying a quiet boredom.”
“Boredom? How could I ever be bored today?”
A few minutes later, Lady Elaina was proven true to her word. With nothing more than a light tap upon the door with her cane, Marvella Lawrence, the Dowager Duchess of Yarbury, swept into the room unannounced. Even as mouths were opening to offer admittance, Her Grace was already in the room, her pale blue-gray eyes surveying her surroundings regally.
Her opinion was easily discernible.
Lady Yarbury’s white-blonde hair was arranged simply and elegantly atop her head, with none of the flamboyance her daughter favored in hairstyles. That the Duchess made up for in her attire. She wore her finest visiting toilette consisting of a form-fitting dress and jacket in Oriental sapphire embossed in a floral pattern, emphasizing an hourglass figure the envy of many a younger woman.
Alita ran to her grandmother, bubbling over with happiness.
“Show some refinement, my dear child.” The Dowager Duchess of Yarbury scowled. “There is no occasion upon which to be less than ladylike.”
“Please forgive me, Grandmamma.” Alita smiled with docility at her grandmother and kissed her cheek. “I am simply so happy to see you.”
“Very proper that you should be,” Marvella replied reservedly. “And will you be so pleased today at Buckingham Palace that you shall hop about?”
“No, Grandmamma,” Alita answered demurely.
“I should hope not. Gentlemen are much more impressed with quiet reserve than with bouncy movements and lively opinions.” Marvella raised her eyebrows at her daughter.
“Yes, Grandmamma.”
“It is so refreshing.” Marvella sighed, holding Lady Elaina’s glance. “When you were her age you never acquiesced or agreed to anything, no matter how sensible. If I had told you to avoid a bee’s nest, you would have gone toward it just to spite me.”
“Not to spite you.” Lady Elaina shook her head. “To learn for myself.”
Marvella stared at her daughter blankly, still lacking in comprehension these thirty-five years later. Her granddaughter she understood, or so she thought, Lady Elaina mused.
As for Alita, Lady Elaina knew she loved her grandmother very much. Marvella Lawrence was everything Alita wanted to be: beautiful, elegant, a successful mother and wife, well-received in high society.
A perfect woman for her time. Alita well knew her grandmother’s understanding was limited, but Marvella’s way of coping with life’s difficulties was to focus on that which she wanted and to ignore the rest.
“Rest a bit, Alita.” Lady Elaina kissed her daughter’s cheek. “You have a busy day ahead of you. I will attend to your Grandmamma.”
Not budging an inch, Marvella turned to face her daughter. “Elaina, I understand you have hot running water now. What is it called?”
“Indoor plumbing, Mother.”
“This isn’t a home.” Marvella shook her head in disapproval. She moved away from the door to sit on the couch. “It is a science laboratory.”
“Yes, and we’re all part of the experiment.” She moved to her mother and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Jon will explain it to you over dinner.”
“Certainly not, Elaina Genevieve!” exclaimed Her Grace adamantly, her voice rising in pitch. “I should hope I raised you better than that. Most improper dinner conversation.”
“Politics, then?” Lady Elaina goaded, knowing the duke had been partial to this topic, as was she.
Just as quickly, she wished she had not been so quick with a retort. Her grief seized her as her heart ached for her father.
“Politics runs a close second to indoor plumbing as a most inappropriate topic for dinner conversation.” Her Grace shook her head in disbelief. “It is a wonder that Alita has turned out so well.”
Alita smiled, watching the proceedings with interest but remaining silent as was proper.
“I marvel at that myself.” Lady Elaina placed her hand on the doorknob. “Come, Mother, I’ll show you how the plumbing works.”
“But don’t you have servants to draw the water?” Marvella viewed her daughter with suspicion, as if Elaina were asking her to renounce her station in life and give her jewels to the poor.
“Mother, there are some things which are much nicer without a servant’s assistance, which are truly not their business.”
There could be no argument on this point, and the dowager duchess stood to follow her daughter reservedly but with some apparent interest.
At this moment, the maid appeared in the doorway, her hand raised as if to knock. All eyes turned upon her, Alita’s maid Flora stated shyly, “Miss Kristine Tutt is here to see Miss Alita.”
“At this hour?” demanded Lady Elaina.
Flora curtsied before adding, “Miss Tutt appears to be quite upset.”
“Oh, something is terribly wrong.” Alita’s face grew alarmed as she rushed to throw on her morning gown, motioning to Flora to assist. She turned to her mother. “I’ll be in the parlor with Krissy. Ma-ma, would you mind asking Mrs. Hill to bring tea?”
Lady Elaina nodded her immediate agreement, and Alita hurried to her friend.
5
The Dreaded News
“Whatever is the matter, my dear Krissy?” Sniffing into a lace handkerchief as Alita reached the drawing room, Kristine was showcased in a circle of light streaming in through five twelve-foot rounded windows separating the room from the garden.
Leaning against a white marble fireplace, Kristine’s reflection was mirrored in a life-size gilded mirror. Even in her obvious distress, she was dazzling against such a setting in a walking suit of green satin. Sensing intense grief, Alita ran to her and took Kristine’s free hand.
“I have a letter from my brother,” Kristine said, withdrawing her hand while she dropped onto a crimson satin winged-back couch, the letter falling beside her.
“Robert.” Alita caught her breath in trepidation, sensing that the written missive carried news of death.
“Yes.” Kristine barely nodded. “He fought in the desert battle of Tel-el-Kebir in Egypt.”
Lowering herself slowly onto the couch, Alita dreaded the news that could only be terrible from Kristine’s demeanor. One didn’t need a psychic gift to see that.
Alita knew that Kristine’s father had fought in the first Afghan invasion in 1839. Another of her broth
ers, Randall, had fought in the Second Afghan invasion only just ended. Thankfully, neither had died. Alita’s heart fell as she considered that the Tutt family’s luck had ended.
“Read it, Alita,” Kristine commanded.
Barely able to stop her hand from shaking, Alita picked up the discarded letter and frantically began reading Robert’s letter, which, it soon became evident, was a gruesome retelling of the battle of Tel-el-Kebir. As tragic as it was, no doubt the actual experience was far worse than Robert relayed to his sister.
It was a black, moonless night of impenetrable darkness. Imagine, if you will, being a stranger in a vast desert, moving towards the enemy camp. The only sound was the unrelenting and foreboding pulse of thousands of boots hitting sand: 14,000 British soldiers moving toward 26,000 sleeping Egyptians in their fortified camp.
It was the twenty-fifth day of August in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and eighty-two, a night that will haunt me for as long as I live.
This was the unpromising start to the bloody battle of Tel-el-Kebir.
Alita read furiously in search of the reason for her friend’s dismay. As she read, dots of light, a reflection from the six-tiered crystal chandelier overhead, twinkled across the page as if mimicking the march across the desert.
Ordinarily Alita would have no difficulty focusing her mind on her friend’s distress, a skill she had painstakingly developed, but the visual scene of the letter claimed her mind. She could see the spectacle unfolding as if she were there: a vast stretch of desert sand, an army of tens of thousands of men, along with camels, horses, mules, and ammunition.
We camped briefly for our evening meal before our planned night attack, so far from our home and loved ones.
Despite our circumstances and the odds, or perhaps because of them, intensity was high: there was both excitement and dread in the air. Many of our party were but mere lads, wild for the fight. Others were more solemn, achingly aware that this pitiful meal would be the last meal for some of us.
Bon Appétit. God in His mercy has allowed me to forget what we ate.
Alita closed her eyes. Many of the men whom she could see and feel preparing for battle were now... dead.
How they could be so alive to her and yet now gone? The very idea caused her to tremble. This was a horror she had never wished to experience.
She didn’t want to read anymore. “Krissy, tell me. What happened?”
Please, dear Lord, not Robert. This letter was proof he was still alive, at least at the time of writing. Had he lost a limb? Was he dying alone in a hospital of a disease?
Something terrible was in the letter, she knew it.
“Read it, Alita,” Kristine said without emotion. Slowly she raised the cup of tea just delivered to her lips and drank mechanically, as the hand on a clock might move forward with perfect precision. Alita’s eyes jumped to the page at the same time she was fearful of the answer she would find there.
There was gloom in the air, to say the least. While the words were never spoken—any of the officers among us would have beaten us to a pulp, with the one exception of our fine Captain—we all knew our chance of a win was slim.
The escalating strain was a revolting torture. We all fought it, knowing we must gain control of our emotions for there to be any chance of success. Even the ankle-biters and novices among us knew this principle of war without being told.
Alita felt the battle growing nearer, and terror flowed through her veins. The rage and ferocity of the Egyptians, fighting for control of their invaded homeland gripped her heart. Trepidation for the safety of her countrymen and her friends overcame her.
Anxiously she read on, desperate to find answers. She had the strange feeling the answers she both dreaded and craved would leave her with only more questions.
Everything was in our opponent’s favor: they were sheltered, and we were in open desert. We were thirsty, malnourished, and unaccustomed to the desert heat.
As if our numbers, our position, and the darkness were not disadvantage enough, in an instant we lost our only remaining advantage: A solitary bugle call in the Egyptian camp alerted the enemy.
Our presence was known. Attempting concealment was a lost cause at this point.
Officers and fellow soldiers were killed instantly, dropping and dying all around us, when only a second before they had been vibrant, the picture of health, and filled with the patriotism of her majesty’s army.
I looked up, and even in the darkness I saw, lit against the gun blasts, the Egyptian camp’s bugler robed entirely in white. I would have thought he was an angel of God if he had not made it his life’s mission to kill me. This Arabian Avenger fulfilled my worst nightmare.
The image of the ferocious white-clad Egyptian, splattered with blood, claimed Alita’s very soul. She knew inexplicably this warrior bugler would impact her life in some astonishing turn of events. Unfortunately, the association was so convoluted and her current terror so real she could not grasp the form this connection would take.
“I do not understand, Krissy. Surely Robert is alive. This letter is evidence of that.” Somehow reason poked its head through her terror. Alita did not add that she felt him to be alive still.
Kristine lashed out uncharacteristically. “Can you not tell from this letter that many men died?”
“Of course, I know, but…”
6
August 25, 1882
The Battle of Tel-El-Kebir
It was a black, moonless night of impenetrable darkness. Captain Lord Ravensdale was never more aware that he was a stranger in a vast desert than as his regiment moved towards the enemy camp.
More importantly, his men were in unknown territory. Some fourteen thousand combined infantry and cavalry, the British and Indian troops, moved towards twenty-six thousand Egyptians in their home territory.
Val ran his hand along his single shot breech loading Martini-Henry on his right side followed by his bayonet on his left.
Among the army were the Royal Horse Artillery, the Life Guards, the 19th Hussars, the Grenadier Guards, the Coldstream Guards, the Scots Guards, the Royal Irish Regiment, the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, the Seaforth Highlanders, the Gordon Highlanders, the Cameron Highlanders, the Black Watch, the Royal Artillery, and his own regiment, the 7th Dragoon Guards. Among the Indian Regiments were the Gardner’s Horse, the Bengal Cavalry, the 13th Bengal Lancers, the 2nd Queen’s Own Sappers and Miners, the Rajputs, the Brownlow’s, and the 29th Bombay Infantry.
They might all be heading toward their deaths under cover of night, but for once they had escaped the heat and the relentless swirling flies. The poisoned water, unpalatable food, and effects of dysentery were ever present.
As were the children, the child soldiers. Something Val never got used to.
“Psst! Captain!” an Indian child, no more than ten, pulled on his pants leg, Val naturally being on a horse.
“Guntaj! Get back to your regiment! And stay back when the fighting begins.” At least the child wore grey and drab, which was a fine sight better than the scarlet tunics and blue woolen trousers his men wore.
“But I want to fight.”
“Live to be great warrior. Then you may fight.”
“I’m hungry, Captain,” the boy said.
Val reached behind the satchel on his horse. He handed the child a piece of dried meat. “Do what I say, Guntaj. Stay quiet or you’ll get someone killed.”
“Yes, sir.” And the child scampered back, sand flying as he ran, the meat jerky hanging between clenched teeth.
They struck camp and ate their last meal before battle in near silence, whether from the dread of the battle or revulsion of the meal, it was difficult to say.
It might have been tolerable if they had had clean water. Their water bottles were filled with cold tea to hide the taste of the water—miserable fuel for fighting men in his opinion.
I am not the only Englishman who shall never again have a taste for tea.
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All the officers ate together, it was an unspoken rule, with the one exception that Captain Huntington sat amongst his men. His actions gained him the scorn of his fellow officers, but Val liked to keep his finger on the pulse of those who would be on the front lines.
“Captain.” Robert Tutt nodded, sitting down beside him. Colin O’Rourke was not far behind.
Val liked the two men, who were the best of friends. They never complained and always did what was required. Colin was a bit of a jokester—good for morale. Robert was strangely quiet this evening despite the air being charged.
As they ate and stared at each other, they wondered who among them would be together the following night. Everyone thought it, and no one spoke it.
“You not feeling well, Tutt?” Val asked.
“Oh, you know, the food, the heat. Nothing I can’t manage.”
“I’ll take your place on the front lines, Tutt,” O’Rourke said.
“Nothing of it,” said Robert Tutt. “I’ll be fine.”
“Not if ye keep eating, you won’t.” O’Rourke chuckled quietly. “The less you eat, the better you’ll feel.” He grew serious. “I’ll take your place. I couldn’t face your sister otherwise.”
“Take the rear, Tutt, you don’t look well,” Val agreed. He turned to Colin. “You have a sweetheart, O’Rourke?”
Colin’s face suddenly lit up. “The most beautiful girl and fiery lass you’ve ever seen.”
“I take it she is Tutt’s sister?”
“She is, Captain,” Robert said.
“I’m not surprised she’s a bit o’ trouble then,” Val said, a smile forming on his lips.
“That she is. O’Rourke’s the only man who can handle Krissy. She makes these foreigners look like a spring dance instead of a battle in the fires of hell.”
“Right. This will be good practice for married life for O’Rourke, then.”
Better to make a joke of it. They knew a ferocious battle lay ahead, they knew that their chances of victory were slim, they knew that it was their duty to fight anyway.
The Destiny Code: The Soldier and the Mystic (Daughters of the Empire Book 1) Page 5
