‘May I ask, Lady Slade, what sort of man she is to marry?’
‘A member of the medical profession, once a colleague of her late father. I barely know him, except by reputation. She intends to help him with his work, to cut free from society. But then I have said too much already. You will know that my husband is a man for offering advice. Then I shall do the same. Find a good, sensible girl and marry her. Someone who will complement your profession. Better still, marry one who can help you reach your goal in life. Otherwise, I warn you, you will end up with a broken heart.’ She offered her hand and added gently, ‘If at any time you feel my husband can help you, perhaps a transfer to London . . .’ She smiled as he straightened up. ‘No, I think not, Captain. You are too much the man of action. God bless you, and remember what I said.’
Blackwood found himself on the pavement again, the door closed behind him. It was all unreal, as if he had dreamt it.
He glanced at the house and thought he saw a curtain move slightly as someone looked down at him.
Then he turned on his heel and walked rapidly towards the park, oblivious to saluting guardsmen, nursemaids with their prams, even the fact that the snow had stopped and the trees were heavy with a thaw.
He reached the club, his leg throbbing from the exercise, his mind still going over what she had said, how she had held his hand.
It was almost obligatory for naval and military officers to be members of this respected club, but most of them used it as a refuge from the world outside, something more familiar, like wardroom or garrison.
Blackwood slumped down in a leather chair in the spacious smoking room and signalled to a waiter to bring him some brandy. His stepmother had been right. He was drinking too much, but unknown to her it had been going on for some time. A prop for courage, a shield against fear. He smiled at his own rambling thoughts.
He had seen a few left-over wrecks in various establishments and barracks. Put ashore to ‘keep things going’; who drank their pay away until, like dead marines, they were quietly disposed of.
There were only two other people in the room and they were discussing the news.
One said irritably, ‘Bloody country’s going to the dogs. No spirit any more. This damn government is cutting down everything. They say that half of the fleet is laid up an ’rottin’ for the want of good hands. They should have been around when the press gangs were on the prowl, eh?’ He gave a thick chuckle. ‘Do some of today’s youngsters a spot of good, what?’
Blackwood smiled wearily and signalled to the waiter for another drink. The anonymous member was like his father, he thought.
The second voice said, ‘I was at Christie’s the other day.’
‘Oh yes? Didn’t know you were interested in auctions, George.’
‘I’m not really. But it was poor old Lord Lapidge’s stuff. Furniture and that kind of thing. Went along out of curiosity, I suppose. Not nice to see such personal things under the hammer.’
Blackwood’s glass froze in midair as the voice droned on.
‘Thought of him when I read about the young marine who was mentioned in the
Gazette
today. His mother was the old boy’s mistress, y’know.’
‘You don’t say! I didn’t know that!’
The other man gave a fruity laugh. ‘You’re about the only one in London who didn’t then!’
Blackwood left his drink and strode blindly from the room. No wonder she had changed her mind about leaving Hawks Hill and moving to London. Her mind had been changed for her. It was all horribly clear, the transformation of the house at any expense, the planned improvements to the estate, everything.
But when the source of her wealth had been revealed in Lord Lapidge’s will the rest had followed swiftly.
Blackwood entered his small room and sat on the edge of the bed. He thought of his father, confined more than ever by his poor health, young Harry, now on the crest of a wave with his new-found fame. Georgina too would have to be protected, but how?
He stood up and began to pace about the room, his mind busy as he thought of how he would confront her. He would leave for Hawks Hill first thing in the morning and settle things once and for all.
Blackwood stared around the room and listened to the muffled murmur of carriage wheels beyond the heavy curtains. Coming to London had been a mistake. A double defeat which he had brought upon himself.
It was late afternoon when Blackwood arrived back at Hawks Hill. It had been a slow and frustrating journey, and the final part he had shared with a local carrier who had offered him a ride in his little cart from the railway station.
He could barely recall what the talkative carrier had said as they had trotted down familiar lanes until the tall gate pillars had come in sight.
In spite of the time it had taken to reach Hawks Hill he felt angrier rather than calmer. He had filled a flask with brandy at the club and yet he had not touched it. That in itself had surprised him.
Blackwood hurried up the stone steps and pushed open the doors. He saw Mrs Purvis, the housekeeper, staring at him as if she had just seen a ghost and said, ‘I came back early.’ Something touched his mind like a warning. ‘What is it? Has something happened?’
She exclaimed, ‘’Tis the colonel, sir. He’s been taken bad again. The doctor’s just gone.’
Blackwood removed his gloves and handed his heavy coat to one of the maids. It gave him time to think. To settle his mind. Like a moment in battle when the obvious has changed to something entirely different.
The housekeeper was watching him anxiously. ‘Master Harry’s here, sir. Arrived first thing.’ She sounded close to breaking down. ‘He looks a fine sight, bless him.’
‘I’ll go up.’
Blackwood mounted the stairs slowly and deliberately. He
had pictured his half-brother in Africa or patrolling the coast with Ashley-Chute’s squadron. The unexpected news of his return made him feel even more out of touch and vulnerable.
At the end of the passageway he saw Oates slumped in a chair outside the door. He looked like death but got to his feet as he heard Blackwood’s footsteps.
He said huskily, ‘We found him lying on the floor, sir.’ He dropped his eyes, again ashamed of revealing something secret. ‘He was trying to put on his dress-uniform when it happened.’
‘Who else was there, Oates?’ He thought he already knew.
‘The colonel’s lady, sir. She sent your man for the doctor. Must have flown like the devil.’
Blackwood looked away. Poor Smithett had ridden nothing but a mule in his whole life as far as he knew. He was a man of many surprises.
He gripped the handle and said, ‘Try and rest.’
He pushed open the door and saw the table with the decanter and glasses near the window. As if his father had been waiting for another detailed account of his exploits in Africa.
His stepmother came from the shadows near the bed and reached out to take both of his hands.
‘I’m so glad you came, Philip. It was as if you knew.’
Blackwood kissed her cheek, searching for a sign, some hint of what had happened here. He was conscious of her perfume, the cool smoothness of her skin, and the fact that in spite of everything she was beautifullly dressed in a dove-grey gown and her hair was set in a crown which left her ears bare.
He said, ‘Tell me!’
She moved to the end of the bed and looked at her husband. Blackwood joined her and saw that his father was in a deep sleep, his eyes screwed up as if to protect them from danger.
She said quietly, ‘I could not rest. The house seemed empty with you away.’
She touched his arm and he watched her fingers on his sleeve, fascinated even as he tried to hate her.
‘I often feel like that, Philip. I was walking in the gallery, watching the shadows in the moonlight. Then I heard him cry out.’ She turned away as if to dismiss it from her thoughts. ‘He was wearing his uniform, or part of it. Doctor Sturges says he is over the worst.’ Then she faced Blackwood and held his eyes with her own. ‘But any bad shock might bring on another stroke, and that would kill him.’
Blackwood returned to the bed and saw the dress-coat lying on a chair. What had made his father do it, he wondered? Like that dying marine perhaps, who had found the strength to yell commands and encouragement to his invisible comrades.
‘Harry’s here, by the way.’
Without turning he could see her expression. It was as if she knew, had been prepared for something like this. He recalled with sudden clarity how she had lost her composure for a few revealing seconds when he had told her about Rainbott’s visit. The late Lord Lapidge’s steward.
‘I heard.’
She came round and gripped his arm. ‘Something’s happened. Was it that girl?’
That girl.
‘I saw her.’
He could not bear to speak about her here. He felt trapped, outmanoeuvred.
‘Well, perhaps it’s better this way.’
He swung round, his voice shaking in a harsh whisper. ‘What do you know about her? How can you possibly understand?’ He saw her step back as if he had tried to strike her.
The door opened and Harry strolled into the room, his eyes moving between them as he said, ‘Hello, Philip, I feel better now that you’re here.’
Blackwood looked at him and crossed the room in quick strides. His half-brother was wearing his uniform trousers and his shirt which was open to the waist. He looked tousled and tired, and somehow even younger than ever.
Blackwood clapped his hands on his shoulders.
‘Sorry I missed your birthday, Harry.’ He knew he was not
making any sense, just as he knew he was already beaten.
‘Why don’t you two go downstairs and get Mrs Purvis to fetch you something. I’ll stay here for a while.’
Blackwood looked at her. She was watching him steadily, her hands relaxed by her sides. She knew too.
Blackwood left the room and together with his half-brother walked along the gallery which was dappled in weak sunlight.
Harry asked quietly, ‘What do you think about the old man? Did he have a shock or something?’
Blackwood paused by a window and in his mind’s eye saw his stepmother walking through the silent house in the darkness. Something she often did. He felt the same sensation of warning. Perhaps his father had also found out about Lord Lapidge? He gripped his hands together until the pain calmed him.
‘What’s
wrong
, Philip?’
Blackwood shrugged. ‘I went to see Miss Seymour.’
‘Yes, Mother said. Bad luck, but it happens.’
Blackwood studied him.
You sound just like her.
He said, ‘It’s me, I expect.’
Harry looked different in some way. More confident, and yet with the same old touch of recklessness.
He said, ‘Congratulations on your promotion, by the way.’
Harry grinned. ‘Yes. I’m catching you up.’ Then he said, ‘Seriously, I think it’s terrible you’ve had no recognition for what you did. But for you there would have been no “afterwards”.’
Harry’s mood changed again. ‘Anyway, things will be different now. The squadron’s being split up. Some of the older ships are being paid off, and others are being ordered to the Mediterranean. I came home in a steam-frigate.’ He sliced his hands through the air. ‘
Whoosh!
Like a streak of lightning. Well . . . almost!’
‘What did Doctor Sturges say?’
Harry grimaced. ‘Nothing much. He’s arranging for a senior physician to come down from London. But he said that
Father will be better off here than in some damned hospital, and I agree.’
Blackwood thought of his quiet room at Haslar, the painting of the crest above the bed. His father would go out of his mind there.
One of the maids bustled past, her arms laden with towels.
She saw them and blushed as Harry said, ‘Why, Jenny, I do declare you’re prettier than ever!’ She tried to pass but he blocked her way and said, ‘I shall have to do something about you one of these days, or nights, eh?’
Blackwood watched her as she fled down the passageway. Harry made him feel older than his years with his casual treatment of the local girls. Yet they seemed to love it.
He felt Harry watching him as he said, ‘You had a bad time, Philip. After you’d been put aboard ship for passage home there were some who said you’d never recover.’ He touched his arm with sudden affection. ‘Not me though. I know you better than that. Now.’
Together they descended the stairs, and Blackwood asked, ‘How were the others when you left?’
Harry toyed with the idea of teasing him and then blurted out, ‘You’ll see for yourself. They’re all here, at Forton Barracks.’ He watched the life returning to Blackwood’s eyes. ‘Two new companies are being formed. They need all the trained men they can get.’
Blackwood strode to a fire and held out his hands. ‘When have things ever been otherwise?’ He was strangely excited at the prospect of returning to duty, just as he was touched by Harry’s genuine pleasure in seeing him.
Harry was saying dreamily, ‘Someone in high places must have listened to your ideas about new methods of training for the Corps instead of the Waterloo mentality.’
Blackwood looked up quickly. ‘How’s Fynmore?’ It was not difficult to recall his face that day when he had climbed up from the boats and had seen the carnage.
‘Oh, didn’t I say?’ He was not that good an actor. ‘He’s
in command.
Been made up to half-colonel too for his brilliance!’
Blackwood smiled grimly. It was much as Lascelles had told him at the hospital. Fynmore had not allowed the grass to grow under his feet.
He asked, ‘What about the new companies?’
Harry played with the front of his shirt. ‘Ogilvie’s got one, and a Major Brabazon’s been given the other. He’s also second in command.’
Blackwood nodded. He had no right to feel disappointed, but he did. He was lucky to be alive, and that had to be enough. But to think of Fynmore being given overall command of some crack contingent was laughable.
Harry changed the subject. ‘Mother’s a marvel, don’t you think? All this worry and responsibility, yet she seems to ride right over it.’
Blackwood walked to a window, afraid Harry would see his expression.
She’s a whore with no thought for anyone but herself and her greed.