Victors and Lords Read online

  “Alex Sheridan?” Emmy stared at her in bewilderment. “I thought you had forgotten him long ago.”

  “No. Alex Sheridan is not a man one forgets. “There was an odd note in Charlotte’s voice, of excitement, almost of anticipation. “He is here, in this country somewhere, in the Turkish service. Phillip met a friend of his in Scutari—a colonel in the Indian army, called Beatson, I believe, who told him so. It is strange to think, is it not, that we may at any time meet Alex again?” Without waiting for Emmy’s reply, she led the way to the street door.

  Emmy followed her numbly, bereft of words. Phillip had told her nothing, had not mentioned Alex Sheridan’s name to her and Charlotte’s announcement had taken her completely by surprise. But she had recovered her outward composure when she reached the carriage—in reality a Turkish araba, well cushioned but poorly sprung.

  The lively and attractive Fanny Duberly, in a blue taffeta gown which became her admirably, was seated inside it. She greeted them both with evident pleasure and made room for Charlotte at her side. Her husband, who was mounted, bowed to them each in turn and, when Emmy had taken her place in the cumbrous equipage, he waved to the driver to proceed. The araba lurched down the narrow, rutted street and Captain Duberly cantered ahead of it, scattering the squabbling mongrel dogs with well-aimed flicks of his whip. The dogs made off with shrill yelps, watched sulkily by the old peasant woman, who had at last been roused from her sleep by the commotion they set up. In the carriage, the three ladies exchanged what news they had, Fanny Duberly telling, with a wealth of amusing detail, of a recent visit to the Cavalry Division of the Turkish commander-in-chief, Omar Pasha.

  “He was not in the least what I imagined a Turkish general would be like . . . really quite civilized and European-looking. He is a Croat, of course, not a Turk at all, and they say his wife is German. His dress was, to my idea, perfection—a dark grey frock-coat, magnificently embroidered in gold. It was fastened at the waist by a sword belt, the buckle of which, as well as the sword-hilt, was blazing with diamonds, if you can imagine it, Lady Cassell. He did wear a fez but even that was embroidered with diamonds, instead of the usual tassel. And when he had finished his inspection, he insisted on leading the Light Brigade charge . . . which made us smile. He was on a small Turkish horse and had to scramble, with spurs well in, to get out of the way of our long-striding English horses. But the men were delighted and cheered him loudly. And I was delighted, because he evidently noticed me there and asked if he might be introduced to’ the beautiful lady with the flaxen curls who rides so well.’“She laughed, in high good humour. “Or so Lord Raglan told me, after the introductions had been performed. To tell you the truth, I did not understand a great deal of what he said—he speaks a curious mixture of French, German and Italian and very rapidly! But he presented me with a souvenir, which I must show you both . . . an autographed copy of one of his despatches, in Turkish. It was all tremendously exciting.”

  “I am sure it must have been,” Charlotte agreed enviously. “I hope that we may also have the pleasure of meeting him while he is here.”

  “He has gone on to Shumla,” Fanny Duberly explained. “And Lord Raglan is to go there also, in the near future, to confer with him and to inspect his troops, I’m told. But I fancy he will come back . . . he enjoyed his visit to us and expressed great admiration for our cavalry. In fact, according to one of General Airey’s aides, he was heard to say that with one such regiment he would grind to dust four regiments of Russian cavalry at least! It is a pity that Lord Cardigan was not present to hear his compliments, is it not? He especially praised the turn-out of the Light Brigade.”

  “There is no word yet of Lord Cardigan’s return, is there, Mrs Duberly?” Emmy asked shyly.

  Fanny Duberly smiled at her. “No definite word, Miss O’Shaughnessy. But”—she looked from Emmy to Charlotte, her blue eyes dancing—“there is a new arrival in camp who may be able to give you tidings of Lord Dunloy. He, too, is a Turkish general—a brigadier-general in command of a force of Bashi-Bazouk cavalry, with which he helped to relieve Silistria. And he is not only European but British, although of the East India Company’s service, I understand. They say, although I cannot vouch for the truth of this, that he is to be at tonight’s affair . . . so that you may well have the opportunity of making his acquaintance. He encountered Lord Cardigan’s patrol on his way here, a few days ago, and Henry says there is a rumor that he gave Lord Raglan a report of the meeting which upset his lordship a good deal. I know no details . . . but ask Henry”—she gestured to her husband, riding jauntily ahead of them—“he has talked to several people about it, and they are all scandalized. Apparently Cardigan’s horses are in an appalling state, lame and with their backs galled, because he has used them too hard . . . .”

  Emmy listened, as Mrs Duberly continued to talk with great animation but she took very little of it in.

  Was it possible, she wondered, that the new arrival of whom Mrs Duberly spoke could be Alex’s friend, Colonel Beatson . . . the man Phillip had met and talked with in Scutari? And, if it were, would he have news of Alex, as well as of Phillip—would he know Alex’s whereabouts, what he was doing in the Turkish service? Might he, perhaps, even have seen him?

  She glanced covertly at Charlotte and guessed, from her heightened colour and eagerly parted lips that she, too, was asking herself much the same questions. A coldness gripped Emmy’s heart. Charlotte was married but . . . she was no longer in love with her husband, if she could flirt as outrageously as she had with the young Guards captain, in spite of her husband’s openly expressed disapproval. If she could care so little for his safety and well-being that she was prepared to leave Varna without waiting for his return . . . and what had she said, just before they had left the house to join Captain and Mrs Duberly?

  “Alex Sheridan is not a man one forgets. . . .” Despite the oppressive heat of the evening, Emmy shivered. As the araba came to a creaking halt outside the French commander’s marquee, she found herself praying that the stranger who had encountered Lord Cardigan’s patrol should not, after all, be Colonel Beatson.

  Captain Duberly handed over his horse to a French orderly and came around to assist his wife and her friends to alight.

  “It seems we are a trifle late,” he announced, offering Charlotte his arm. “The place is packed already.”

  From the interior of the brightly lit tent came the hum of voices, as if to bear out his statement and, as they were ushered inside, Emmy saw that the marquee was thronged with brilliant uniforms. The youthful staff officer who had invited them, came hurrying to greet them and then, flushed with importance, led them to be introduced to their host.

  Emmy had seen General Canrobert before but this was the first chance she had had of meeting and speaking to him informally. She quickly took to the small, brisk man with the twinkling brown eyes and neatly trimmed Imperial and, as he talked to her charmingly, remembered with interest the rumor which held that François Canrobert bore a closer relationship to the French emperor than his Imperial Majesty cared publicly to acknowledge. Certainly at close quarters, his resemblance to Louis Napoleon Bonaparte was striking, and the general—unlike his immediate superior, Marshal St Arnaud, the French commander-in-chief—had the impeccable, polished manners of an aristocrat, which suggested that there was a possibility of the rumor being true.

  Emmy’s French was good and Canrobert seemed pleased by this and kept her by his side for several minutes. Then, when he turned from her with flattering reluctance in order to greet a new arrival, she saw that Charlotte and Mrs Duberly had crossed the room and were engaged in earnest conversation with an immensely tall man, whose uniform of green and gold was unfamiliar to her. He made an impressive figure, standing there, dwarfing the French officers around him, his uniform outstanding in its magnificence, even when contrasted with the brilliance of theirs. But it was not only his uniform that impressed her. He was not young—Emmy estimated his age at about fifty—yet he was of so s
plendid a physique that he gave the impression of youth and of a strength and vitality few others in the crowded tent could match. His hair was fair and might have been turning grey, although this was not apparent, and he wore a beard, trimmed to a point, which grew luxuriously half way down his gold-laced chest.

  As Emmy approached him, his eyes met hers in friendly reassurance, banishing her shyness, and he extended a big, gentle hand to take hers.

  “And you, I feel sure, must be the little sister of whom Lady Cassell has been telling me? The one who rides so brilliantly and has no horse to carry her . . . which we must do our best to rectify. My name is William Beatson, Miss O’Shaughnessy.”

  “I . . . how do you do, General Beatson?” For all she had dreaded his presence here, Emmy found herself instinctively liking and trusting this huge, kindly stranger. Charlotte, having presumably obtained from him the information she wanted, had moved on and she and Mrs Duberly were now surrounded by a crowd of French officers, vying with each other to press wine and refreshments on them. Henry Duberly kept close to his wife, with an air of possessive pride and she had her hand on his arm but Charlotte, smiling radiantly, accepted the homage of the bowing Frenchmen gaily and as her due. She was enjoying herself, Emmy saw, with a pang but at least, if she did, perhaps she would be more reconciled to prolonging their stay in Varna than she had been earlier that evening. Perhaps she would even be willing to wait until Arthur rejoined them . . . .

  William Beatson, following the direction of her gaze, said politely, “Your stepsister is a very beautiful woman, is she not?”

  “Yes,” Emmy acknowledged, her voice, for all her efforts to control it, a trifle strained. “Yes, she is, General Beatson.”

  “I am only a colonel in the Indian army, Miss O’Shaughnessy,” he corrected. “But come . . . let us sit down and I will fetch you some refreshments.” He gave her his arm, led her ceremoniously to a chair and brought her a glass of red wine, setting a plate of sweetmeats at her elbow. “Now,” he said, “we can talk—if you will allow me that privilege, Miss O’Shaughnessy. You see, I have a commission to perform on behalf of a mutual friend. A friend”—he smiled—” who asked me to call on your sister and yourself, to see if there was any way in which I could be of service to you. I promised him that I would do so as soon as I reached Varna but, for various reasons, I have been delayed. I had, in fact, intended to present myself to you tomorrow morning.”

  “That is very kind of you, Colonel. And we shall, of course, be delighted to receive you tomorrow morning,” Emmy assured him. She started to explain the whereabouts of the house but he cut her short. “I know where the house is—I took the precaution of finding out.” He eyed her keenly. “Are you not curious as to the identity of our mutual friend?”

  “Oh, no . . . for it is Alex Sheridan, is it not? Indeed, it could be no one else.”

  “Yes, it is Alex.” Colonel Beatson’s blue eyes continued to appraise her. “He was with me when we set out from Silistria a week ago, and he renewed his acquaintance with your stepbrother, Lord Dunloy, when we came unexpectedly on a British light cavalry patrol, under the command of the Earl of Cardigan.”

  “So I had heard,” Emmy confessed. She waited, sipping her wine, whilst he told of their meeting with Phillip, feeling a strange sense of unreality creeping over her as she listened. He did not refer to Alex again and finally she said, forcing herself to ask the question with pretended indifference, “Did not Alex come with you to Varna, Colonel Beatson?”

  He shook his head. “No, Miss O’Shaughnessy. He undertook a mission of some importance which will delay his arrival. Nevertheless, it is his intention to seek employment under the British command and, if all goes well and his mission is successful, he should reach here within the next day or two.”

  “So soon? It scarcely seems possible!” Emmy could no longer pretend indifference and she smiled up at him eagerly. “That is wonderful news, I—” From the other side of the marquee, came the gay, uninhibited sound of Charlotte’s laughter and her smile abruptly faded. “Did you tell Charlotte—my stepsister—this, Colonel?”

  Again Colonel Beatson glanced speculatively in Charlotte’s direction. “Yes,” he confirmed,“I told her and she expressed herself delighted by the news.”

  “And so am I,” Emmy put in quickly. “I am so pleased to think that Alex is coming here and that we shall see him again. He is a very old friend of the family.”

  And she was pleased at the thought of seeing Alex again, she realized, in spite of her anxiety on Charlotte’s account, in spite even of his broken promise to herself. His promise had not been meant seriously . . . how could she ever have imagined that it was? He had made it because she was a child—a foolish child, whom he had not wanted to hurt, whose childish illusions he had been reluctant to damage. But it was Charlotte with whom he had been in love . . . perhaps it was Charlotte still although, for his sake, she hoped that it was not. Emmy set down her glass and essayed one of the sweetmeats. It was conceivable, of course, that all her fears would prove to be groundless. As she had realized earlier, Alex might be married, as Charlotte was . . . it was a long time since they had heard news of him, a long, long time since that day in Windsor, at the Royal Review, when they had last seen and talked to him.

  “Alex will be anxious to reach here,” Colonel Beatson said. “The more so, I don’t doubt, since Lord Dunloy informed him of your and Lady Cassell’s presence in Varna, Miss O’Shaughnessy. It will be good for him to meet old friends again. He is a fine soldier and he has served with great distinction, both in India and in Turkey but, like many fine soldiers, he is a lonely man .. . even a solitary one. I fear you may find him greatly changed.”

  “One expects changes, Colonel, after so many years,” Emmy responded gravely. “And we have changed, Charlotte and I . . . I, for example, have grown up. I was a child of fourteen the last time that Alex called at our house.”

  “The change in Alex Sheridan is fundamental. It lies in his attitude to life, Miss O’Shaughnessy,” the colonel told her. Emmy sensed something more behind his words, a warning, perhaps, and looked up at him inquiringly.

  “You say he is lonely, Colonel Beatson. Has he not married?”

  “No, Alex has not married. This is not an unusual state of affairs among the East India Company’s officers, you know. We spend so much of our time fighting that few of us marry until comparatively late in life . . . . We’re doomed to constant separation if we do.” He shrugged. “I myself was nearing forty when I married, Miss O’Shaughnessy, and I’ve seen little enough of my wife since. But Margaret is a patient and very understanding woman. She waits for me, if I cannot take her with me, and does not complain. She was a soldier’s daughter and knew what she might expect, if she married a soldier. Yet all the same, it takes a special kind of love and a great deal of courage for any woman to endure being married to a soldier . . . in India, particularly.” He talked on about his wife, with so much admiration and affection that Emmy warmed still more towards him.

  “Do you ever regret your choice of a career?” she asked him diffidently, when he was silent.

  Colonel Beatson frowned. “No,” he answered, after a momentary hesitation, “in all honesty, I must confess that I do not. It is the ideal life for a man who enjoys travel and yearns for adventure, and I have known no other since I was a boy of sixteen. It is a selfish life, perhaps. But fighting is my trade and I am content to practice it.”

  “And you love India, do you not, Colonel?”

  A gleam lit his keen blue eyes. “You are a young woman of remarkable perception, Miss O’Shaughnessy . . .yes, I do. But I will admit that there are certain disadvantages in being a professional soldier—some of which I have learned, for the first time, since coming here for the purpose of offering my sword to my own countrymen. The French, you see”—his gesture took in the officers crowded about them and the spry figure of General Canrobert, moving among his guests—” the French are professional soldiers. But the British
are not, they are amateurs.”

  “But . . .” Emmy stared at him in, astonishment. “I do not understand, Colonel.”

  “Ah!” The colonel’s expression relaxed. “This is rank heresy to you, I fear. But it is true! That is to say, the British army is officered by amateurs, with very few exceptions. Its men, its rank and file, are the finest and best disciplined troops in the world .. .” he started to explain to her and then broke off, flashing her an apologetic smile. “I am boring you, my dear, for which I must humbly apologize. You cannot be expected to understand and, in any case would, I am sure, much prefer the company of some of these good-looking young aides to that of an old man like myself. I have no possible right to monopolize you any longer.” He brushed aside Emmy’s protests. “They will not forgive me, even if you are willing. But, before I let you go, there is just one question I want to ask you and I trust you will pardon its seeming impertinence. Tell me . . .” for a third time, his gaze went to Charlotte who, her lovely face flushed, was still holding court at the other end of the marquee . . . “was Alex Sheridan betrothed to your stepsister at one time?”

  The question was unexpected and, for a moment, Emmy felt more than a little put out by it. But she answered it truthfully. “Yes, Colonel Beatson, he was. Their engagement was broken when Alex was compelled to sell his commission in the 11th Hussars. Lord Cardigan . . . that is to say, he—”