George stumbled
backwards,
trying to clear his head, but Sykes could smell blood and was on him in an instant, landing two more swingeing lefts to the side of the smaller boy’s head. The baying crowd groaned as George fell awkwardly to the ground, his face bruised and bleeding.
‘Give it up, Hart,’ hissed Watson, as he sponged away the blood. ‘Walk away now, while you still can!’
George heard these words through the buzzing in his right ear, but far from causing him to see sense, to give in to this
thug,
their effect was quite the opposite. He had been bullied long enough; it was time to make his stand. As he walked slowly back to the mark, distantly recalled episodes, some horrid and violent, others quite banal, rushed uninvited to the forefront of his mind, like the time Sykes and his cronies had forced his head down a lavatory before pulling the chain. The sense of injustice seemed to flow into his broken right fist. Before he could stop himself, he had driven that fist with all his strength into the point of Sykes’s chin.
I le must have blacked out with the pain, because when he
came
to, Watson was hovering above him again, concern etched on his face. ‘Are you all right, Hart?’
George nodded, though his right hand felt as if it was on fire.
Watson gestured towards the prostrate Sykes. ‘I don’t think he can carry on, Hart: you’ve won.’
George grimaced with the pain. As he staggered to his feet,
familiar
voice shouted, ‘Out of my way, you bloody fools!’
The crowd parted to reveal the tall, thin figure of Mr I lardy, George’s housemaster. ‘Back to school, all of you!’ he roared.
‘Now!’
As the crowd scuttled away, Hardy walked over to Sykes and examined his battered face. ‘Not a pretty sight. You’ll need that nose reset, and when Matron’s done with you, report to my study for ten strokes of the cane. You’re also demoted from prefect.’
‘But, sir,’ implored Sykes.
‘But nothing.
Fighting a boy three years your junior? What were you thinking? You might have killed him. It happened to .1
boy
at Eton in the twenties. Lord Shaftesbury’s son, if memory serves. Just be thankful I’m not sending you down.’
Hardy turned to George. ‘You all right, Hart?’
i
think my hand’s broken, sir.’
‘Off to the infirmary with you, then, and Hart …’
‘Yes, sir?’
Hardy’s craggy face broke into a half-smile. ‘That was a plucky effort, lad, very plucky. But don’t let me catch you lighting again.’
Michaelmas Term 1877
George clenched his fist and winced. Almost four years had elapsed since the fight; his broken bones had long since knitted, yet he could still remember the pain as if it were yesterday. It had been worth it, though. His gallant showing had been the talk of the school, with Sykes cast in the role of pantomime bully; small wonder that he and his cronies had kept a low profile thereafter.
It would have made his life easier, of course, if his mother had not been an actress, a most unusual profession for a woman of allegedly gentle birth (for she had always insisted her father was an Irish-born army officer and her mother a Maltese lady); and even more so if he had not been born out of wedlock and his father had survived his infant years. But such was fate, thought George, and hopefully the bad times were in the past.
He had got through Harrow, excelled at Sandhurst, and was about to join one of the finest cavalry regiments in the British Army. His appointment to the 1st King’s Dragoon Guards - or KDG, as it was generally known — was, he had to confess, something of a mystery. Its officers were typically very rich or very well connected. He was neither, and had put this choice posting down to the potential he had shown as a gentleman-cadet. He was determined to fulfil that potential, even if it meant curbing his fiery temperament. But tonight he could be himself. It was his eighteenth birthday and, to celebrate, his mother had arranged a grand dinner party for their closest friends. He could hardly wait.
George rose from his dressing table and peered at himself in the full-length mirror. His evening-dress suit had cost him a sizeable portion of his private allowance, but even he had to admit he looked well in it. It helped that he was over six feet, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, a natural clothes- horse. It helped, too, that his black tailcoat was of the finest twilled cashmere, with a low velvet collar and silk lapels. As he adjusted his white bow tie, he regretted again the inadequacy of his thin black moustache. He had only been shaving for a year, and his bristles were not yet thick enough to produce the necessary growth. The only other flaw in his classically handsome face, with its large hazel eyes and even white teeth, was a slightly crooked nose, the legacy of another fight. But that was no bad thing, he thought, as it gave his fresh-faced looks a mildly piratical air.
A knock on the door brought colour to his cheeks, as if his self-satisfied contemplation had been witnessed. ‘Come in!’ he said.
It was Manners, the old family retainer who had served his grandfather. ‘Begging your pardon, Master George, but your mother would like to speak to you before you go down.’
George sighed. The guests would be here soon. Couldn’t it wait?
‘All right, Manners, I’ll be down presently, and less of the “Master George”, if you please. I’m eighteen and a commissioned officer in the British Army. “Mr Hart” will suffice.’
Manners raised his eyebrows. ‘As you wish, Master … um … Mr Hart.’
George heard the door close and took a moment to try and smooth the unruly black curls at his temples; but no amount of water, patted on with his fingers, seemed to do the trick. He gave up and followed Manners down to his mother’s sitting room on the second floor, entering without knocking.
His mother was seated on the sofa in quiet contemplation. As he bent down to embrace her, George marvelled again at her ageless beauty. Clad in a gorgeous off-the-shoulder blue velvet gown, complete with train and elaborate overskirt, she seemed to him more striking than ever. Yet her expression was pained, as if she had something unpleasant to say. ‘What is it, Mother?’ he asked.
‘Sit down, Georgie,’ she said, patting the sofa beside her. ‘Now that you’re eighteen, there’s something I must tell you. Before I do, I want you to know that the day you were presented with the sword at Sandhurst was the proudest of my life. I never wanted you to join the army, but I made a promise years ago, and I’ve stood by it.’
‘What promise and to whom?’
‘To your father.
Darling, what I’m about to tell you will come as quite a
shock.
Try not to be angry with me.’
‘I could never be angry with you, Mother. Just tell me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘You know I’ve always told you that your father and I never married and that he died at sea. Well, the first part is true, but not the second. He’s very much alive.’
George’s jaw dropped. ‘Are you being serious? My father
alive\
Why
would you keep this from me?’
‘I had my reasons, darling, please believe me.’
‘What reasons?’
‘He made me promise, shortly after your birth, that in return for his anonymity I would receive money for your upkeep and, when the time came, he would arrange for you to become an officer in a cavalry regiment. I kept that promise. If I had not, he would have cut us off without a penny. Who do you think paid for your education?’
‘You, of course: you’re a famous actress.’
‘I
was
a famous actress, Georgie, but not any more. I’m thirty-six, for goodness’ sake, and well past my prime. I haven’t played a leading role for more than three years. It’s your father’s money that’s been keeping us afloat, but that stops on your eighteenth birthday - today. From now on we’re on our own.’
‘Mother, stop!’ said George raising his hands, palms outwards. ‘This is too much to take in. You say I have a father who refuses to acknowledge me. Why? What sort of man abandons his infant son?’
‘The sort that’s married,’ sighed his mother.
‘Mother.
I despair of your judgement sometimes.’
‘That’s not fair. I’ve had lovers, and have never denied it, but my priority has always been you. I’m sorry I lied about your father, but I really had no option. I’ve always wanted the best for you, and only he could provide it.’
‘Have you any idea, Mother, how hard it was for me at Harrow and Sandhurst? The fatherless bastard with a touch of the tarbrush, that’s what they called me. Now you tell me my father is alive but won’t see me. That’s almost worse. But it explains one thing that’s been bothering me: why a crack regiment like the KDG would accept a social misfit like me. My father must be a man of considerable influence.’
‘He is. I can’t say any more than that. If it had been up to me you would never have known of his existence. But there’s another reason why I let you become a soldier, .md why I’m telling you now. It’s because your father held out the promise of a sizeable legacy if you made a name for yourself. I don’t know the details, but if you want to find out what they are, I suggest you read this.’ She handed him a small cream envelope she had been holding. ‘It arrived this morning.’
The envelope was addressed to ‘George Arthur Hart, Esq.’ broke the seal and withdrew a single sheet of writing paper. It came from a firm of solicitors in the City of London that George had never heard of and its message was brief:
Dear
sir
,
My client, who has chosen to remain anonymous, has assigned you a considerable sum of money. Before any of his money can be made over to you, you must fulfil certain
( conditions
laid down by my client. I can only reveal the nature o/ those conditions in person. I would be grateful, therefore, if you could reply by return to arrange a personal interview.
Please accept my congratulations on reaching your majority.
I am your humble and obedient servant,
Josiah Ward
George handed the letter to his mother. ‘What can he mean? What conditions?’
‘I don’t know, Georgie. Your father said something about you achieving various goals by a certain age. What they are I’ve no idea.’
‘But why?
Why not just leave me the money?’
‘He fears you won’t take your career seriously. He has other sons in the military, and they’ve all disappointed him.’
‘So I have half-brothers?’
‘Yes. But don’t ask me about them. I promised your father I would keep his identity secret, and I intend to honour that promise. He’s not a man to cross, Georgie, even if you are his son.’
‘So I’m supposed to ignore the fact that I have a father and brothers living, and go along with this charade?’
His mother nodded.
‘Damned if I will,’ spat George.
‘Georgie, please, for me. I’ve been reliant on your father’s money, and now he’s stopped paying your annuity I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m already overdrawn at the bank, and if something doesn’t turn up soon I’ll be forced to sell the house. So please go and see the lawyer. Hear what he has to say.’
George stood up and walked over to the fireplace, resting his hand on the mantel. He remained there for some time with his back to his mother. His thoughts were confused. He had no wish to please a father he had never known, who had all but abandoned him, yet he was curious to know his identity. Moreover, he had enjoyed his military training thus far and did not require bribes to give of his best; if anything, they might cause him to do something foolish and send him to an early grave. Yet his beloved mother clearly needed some urgent financial support to save her house, and how could he manage that on his army pay?
At last he turned. ‘No good can come of this, Mother, but for your sake I
will
see this pen-pusher. You never know, Father’s conditions might be easy to comply with and we’ll both be rich. Now can we say no more on the subject, and enjoy one last evening of fine food and wine before the purse strings are tightened?’
His mother rose and embraced her son. ‘Of course, darling,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Thank you.’
George had always loved London, and he revelled in the bustling sights and sounds of the greatest urban centre in the world as his cab took him back in time from the vaulted splendour of Brunei’s Paddington Station to the Jacobean elegance of Gray’s Inn Square in the City of London. It was still early, with little horse-traffic on the streets, and the driver was able to take the more direct, but usually busy, northern route along Marylebone and Euston roads, down Gray’s Inn Road and into the square through an arched entrance topped with the image of Pegasus.
‘Whoa!’ shouted the driver, causing the cab to come to a jerky halt. ‘Number One, sir, as you requested.’
George was confronted by a beautiful red-brick townhouse, i he first of a terrace. To the right of the front door was a small brass plaque that read, ‘Ward Mills, Solicitors-at-Law’. A prosperous law firm if ever I saw one, thought George as he tapped on the door with his cane. It was answered by a stooped old cove in a dark suit and starched collar.
‘Yes?’