Victors and Lords Read online

  “But Captain Reynolds had his case reopened. Why should not you?”

  “The two cases are quite different. Reynolds was tried by court martial and cashiered . . . I was not. In any event, he’s had to wait nearly two years before being gazetted to the 9th Lancers. I could not afford to wait for so long.” Alex avoided her gaze. “Please, Charlotte, I did not wish to discuss this matter. It is all over and done with—I could do no more, even if I wanted to. And I do not.”

  “Because you are afraid, Alex?” Charlotte accused.

  “Afraid! Afraid of what, pray?”

  “Afraid to fight against the injustice that was done you . . . even for my sake?”

  He reddened, stung by this accusation. “Say rather that I have experienced the futility of trying to fight against it. When one has neither influence nor money, one’s hands are tied and one loses faith in one’s cause.”

  “Then why have you come here?” Charlotte demanded, with a swift flash of anger. “If you have lost faith in your cause and if you do not intend to fight to redeem yourself, then I cannot marry you, Alex. I . . . I should not want to and you can scarcely expect it. You cannot ask me to honor a promise I made to you in such . . . such different circumstances.”

  Alex Sheridan expelled his breath in a long, pent-up sigh.

  “I am not seeking to hold you to your promise of marriage now,” he told her stonily. “But I had hoped . . . that is, Philip and Emmy urged me to come because—” he broke off and took her hand gently in his. Her fingers were ice-cold against his palm and she turned her head away, refusing to look at him. “Charlotte, I love you with all my heart! You know that, do you not?”

  She gave him no answer. In the street below, a squadron of Heavy Dragoons went clattering by, the sun striking dazzling reflections from their plumed helmets. The 5th, Alex saw, and he stared after them miserably, the barrier of silence once more between himself and Charlotte, holding them apart, in spite of their two linked hands. Would she never understand, he wondered despairingly, could she not try to understand the lengths to which he had been driven and the bitter humiliation he had suffered at Lord Cardigan’s hands before, finally, he had rebelled? He knew that she could not when she said at last, her voice a small, chill whisper of sound in the shadowed room,“Was it for love of me that you sacrificed your career in the 11th, Alex?” Her eyes met his then and again they accused him. “I was in love with you when I consented to marry you. I was happy to think that I should have as my husband an officer of my brother’s regiment, whom he respected and admired. But all that is changed now and you have changed it, not I.”

  “Yes,” he conceded tonelessly, “I have changed it.”

  “Then why,” Charlotte asked for the second time, “why have you come? Why did you choose to come today—because you knew that my father would not be here? Or was it Emmy’s idea . . . did she persuade you?”

  “Emmy?” Alex shook his bead. “Oh, no, Emmy did not have to persuade me . . . and I have your father’s permission to call on you. He said that I might come in order to talk to you and to . . . to acquaint you with my future plans. You see . . .” He hesitated, uncertain how to tell her what he had decided to do and then, aware that there was no escape, said regretfully, “I am to sail for India at the end of this week, Charlotte. It breaks my heart but I . . . that is, I venture to hope that—”

  “For . . . India?” Charlotte put in. She stared at him in shocked disbelief, the last vestige of colour gone from her cheeks. “You cannot mean that, Alex . . . you cannot!”

  “Charlotte my dearest love. . .” he drew her to him and felt her tremble in his arms as they closed about her. “I do mean it. God forgive me, it’s what I have been trying to tell you ever since I arrived. I am leaving England for good, Charlotte. My uncle has procured me a cornet’s commission in the Bengal Native Cavalry, in the service of the East India Company. My passage is booked to Calcutta in the S.S. Ripon . . . she sails on Friday.”

  “But must you go to India? Must you, Alex? India is half the world away and you will be gone for years. I shall never see you again . . . .” Charlotte shivered, as realization of what his going would mean to her came swiftly and disturbingly. Until this moment she had not visualized losing him irrevocably and the knowledge that she might do so hurt much more than she had imagined it would. So long as he remained in England, even if she were not officially betrothed to him, there was always the chance that his case might be reopened. Her father was not without influence—if he interceded with Lord Fitzroy Somerset or perhaps approached the duke himself on Alex’s behalf . . . She said, her voice choked with sobs,“Oh, Alex, I beg you not to go. If you love me, please cancel your passage.”

  Alex heard the pain in her voice and released her abruptly.

  “My love, I must go. Do not make it harder for me.” The echo of her pain was in his own voice but he went on resolutely, “I am a soldier and soldiering is my life—it is all I know and understand. In India, in the Company’s service, I can become a soldier again. What else can I do, Charlotte?”

  When she did not answer him, he moved away from the window and from her and started restlessly to pace the room. His back turned towards her, he continued in a low, expressionless voice, seeking to make the reasons for his decision comprehensible to her. “I have sold my commission in the 11th, as I was commanded to by Lord Fitzroy Somerset. My military career in this country is at an end. The alternative to selling out was, as Phillip must have told you, to stand trial by court martial.”

  “But Alex”—Charlotte had recovered her composure—“would you not have been better off now, if you had elected to stand trial?”

  “I was offered no choice,” Alex stated flatly. “In any event, the result would have been a foregone conclusion. Cardigan would have seen to it that I was cashiered.”

  “But at least if you had stood trial, you could have defended yourself against his charges, could you not?”

  “No, my dearest.” He shook his head despairingly. “I had no defense.”

  “No defense! But everyone in the regiment knows how Lord Cardigan treated you!” Charlotte protested indignantly. “Surely you could have called witnesses to prove that he provoked you beyond endurance?”

  Alex sighed. Was this not precisely the course which the military secretary had feared he might follow, if afforded the opportunity of a court martial? It would not have saved him, of course but—had he done so—he might have brought Cardigan down with him. He had been bitter enough to want this but . . . he said, with weary resignation, “It was made clear to me, when I first requested a trial, that I should not be permitted to call any of my brother officers as witnesses. Nor should I have asked any of them to speak in my defense.”

  “Why not, Alex? They were your friends . . . Phillip is your friend still, is he not? He assures me that he is and he holds no brief for Lord Cardigan, of that I am certain.”

  “Charlotte my dear,” Alex told her quietly, “to have called Phillip to speak in my defense might well have ruined him too, in spite of the regard Cardigan has for him. You must understand . . .” He halted and came to stand looking down at her from beneath furrowed brows. “For any officer to challenge another to fight a duel is a breach of the Articles of War. It is quite unpardonable, whatever may have led up to it. My guilt was never in doubt—I could not deny it. Furthermore the man from whom I demanded satisfaction was at that time my commanding officer.”

  “But you did not fight with Lord Cardigan, Alex,” Charlotte objected. “There was no duel.”

  “No,” Alex returned grimly, “but that was scarcely my fault. I issued the challenge, in writing and in full awareness of the consequences. I had stood all I could stand and I lost my temper. But that is no excuse, Charlotte—rather is it a condemnation. No British regiment would accept me now if I did apply for another commission, since it’s widely known that I attempted to call Cardigan out, while I was serving under him. I’m finished in the British army, my love—did
not Phillip tell you so?”

  “He endeavored to tell me,” Charlotte admitted reluctantly, “but I did not believe him, I could not. I was certain that you would be given another chance. If you are not, then it is a cruel injustice . . . because you were not the only one. There were others, Alex.”

  “Yes,” Alex agreed. His face darkened. “There were a great many others. I should have heeded their example, it was before me for long enough . . . I knew what to expect.” He resumed his restless pacing of the floor.

  It was true, Alex Sheridan reflected wryly, that his had been by no means the only case of its kind in which his late commanding officer had been involved . . . and it would not be the last, for Lord Cardigan’s record as a regimental commander was one of the worst in the British army. In 1834, as Lord Brudenell, he had been removed from command of the 15th Hussars as a direct result of his mistreatment of one of its officers, Captain Augustus Wathen. A court martial had upheld Wathen and, in its findings, censured his lordship severely.

  Yet less than two years later, the wealthy peer had been permitted to purchase the lieutenant-colonelcy of the 11th, which was then a Light Dragoon Regiment stationed in India. Despite a storm in the House of Commons, when the appointment was gazetted, it was not revoked. At a time when the official price for a cavalry command was in the region of £6,000, it was rumored that Lord Brudenell had paid £40,000 for that of the 11th and his anxiety to seek active military employment was, in consequence, regarded sympathetically at the Horse Guards. It was held that he had learned his lesson and the storm abated when a number of distinguished and high-ranking officers came forward to testify, in glowing terms, to his lordship’s character and military accomplishments.

  But these were not so apparent to the officers and men of his new regiment—of whom he had been one Alex recalled—when, after assuming command, Lord Brudenell spent a short time with them in Cawnpore. However, he succeeded his father as Earl of Cardigan in August 1837, so that it was not until the following year, when the regiment returned to England and was posted to Canterbury, that its lieutenant-colonel revealed himself in his true colours. It was then very soon evident that the system of command he practiced had not changed; since it stemmed from his own arrogance, Alex thought with bitterness, he knew no other.

  The effect on his unfortunate regiment was disastrous. The 11th had served with distinction in India for seventeen years and, officered by experienced professional soldiers, possessed an exemplary record. But this was soon lost under Lord Cardigan’s command, during the first two years of which—when the regimental strength was 335 rank and file—no less than 105 courts martial were held and over 700 punishments ordered. Discipline became notoriously harsh. Extra drills, inspections and parades were a daily occurrence and minor misdemeanors were treated with the utmost severity, without regard for rank or length of service. Arrests, floggings and charges of insubordination were as commonplace as public insults and reprimands, delivered before the whole regiment or in mess, in front of the assembled officers.

  Any of Lord Cardigan’s officers who crossed, or otherwise displeased him, were subjected to a merciless persecution, calculated to break the spirit of even the most courageous. It had been all too easy to incur his lordship’s displeasure, as he had found to his cost . . . Alex sighed, his mind shrinking from the unpalatable details which he now wanted to erase from it. He did not want to discuss what had happened with Charlotte; he did not want to speak to anyone of what lay between Cardigan and himself. The experience had been too traumatic, the memories had been too recent and too humiliating for him to recall them without shame.

  Yet . . . his hands clenched at his sides. He could not forget. Others besides himself had suffered the same tyranny and many had, like himself, been driven at last to rebel against their commander . . . so many, indeed, that it seemed unbelievable that their united protests could continue to be ignored by the army authorities. But they were ignored or, at any rate disregarded in all but a few instances, when they could not be hushed up. In spite of countless rumors and scandals concerning his conduct and repeated public demonstrations against him, the Earl of Cardigan remained in command of the 11th, wielding so powerful an influence in high places that, it seemed, his position was unassailable. Whatever he did, the Horse Guards and the twin ramparts of rank and wealth protected him from the consequences of his actions. And, no doubt, these would continue to do so, Alex told himself, his mouth hardening into a tight, resentful line, for as long as the system of promotion by purchase was maintained in the British army. Certainly while aristocratic connections and the possession of money were considered greater military assets than merit, then junior officers who lacked both were expendable. This was a lesson he had learned and would remember. . . .

  As he had said to Charlotte, he had had the example of others before him. But he had not heeded it and, looking back, he knew that faced with the same situation again, he would still have acted as he had. There were some insults no man could swallow and still call himself a man. He had done what honor demanded, however futile his act of defiance had been and however high the price he was compelled to pay for it. But the price was high . . . Alex’s mouth relaxed in a mirthless smile. He had at least been allowed to retain the value of his commission; he had not been cashiered and broken, as he had fully expected he would be. He had simply been ordered to sell out and the military secretary, Lord Fitzroy Somerset, had evidently hoped that, by showing him this clemency, another public scandal involving his commanding officer might be avoided.

  This, he was cynically aware, was the sole reason for the clemency accorded him. The Harvey Tuckett affair and the Reynolds court martial had led to so fierce a storm of criticism against Lord Cardigan that those who controlled the army’s destiny had been afraid lest, on his account, it be repeated. And so he had escaped comparatively lightly but nevertheless he was ruined, and he had achieved nothing except his own downfall. The story had got about—he had no idea how—and now he was a marked man, a pariah to whom the British army would never again open its ranks. He was black-listed as an insubordinate young officer, who had dared to defy his regimental commander, and not one of his military superiors had the slightest desire to investigate the reasons which had led up to his insubordination. An investigation would have given him the chance to defend his actions and this at all costs—since it must lead to renewed criticism of Lord Cardigan—the Horse Guards had sought to prevent. They had not been entirely successful, Alex decided, judging by that performance in the street just now, and by the Globe’s publication of the derisive couplet, in which his name was mentioned. Yet by condemning him unheard, they had enforced his silence; by offering him a generous-seeming compromise, Lord Fitzroy Somerset had avoided any repetition of the Wathen court martial. He wished that he could have afforded to refuse the compromise and glanced then at Charlotte, for whose sake he had believed, at the time, that he would be accepting it.

  She was so beautiful, he thought, his heart contracting as his gaze rested on her small, tear-wet face and bent head . . . so young and sweet and gentle, this girl whom he loved and had once purposed to marry. In the gracefully draped gown she had donned in order to receive him, she looked even lovelier than he had remembered. Green had always suited her—it was a colour which brought out the highlights in her glorious auburn hair and accentuated the creamy whiteness of her skin, lending it, despite her tears, a subtle radiance that defied description.

  Alex took a pace towards her. He longed, in sudden desperation, to take her once again into his arms and hold her to him . . . to promise with his lips on hers that, for him, there would be no one else, however long the parting between them, however far away from her his destiny might lead him. But even as he reached out his arms to her, he hesitated.

  Charlotte asked, without turning her head,“What is it, Alex?”

  “It does not matter, Charlotte. I . . .” he mumbled something unintelligible even to his own ears and went back to his measured
pacing of the room, feeling like a prisoner, caught and held within the narrow confines of a cell from which it was impossible to break free.

  He had no future, he reminded himself. He was going into exile, from which there might be no return. How could he beg her to wait for him, as he had intended when he came here, when he could not tell her for how long she might have to wait? The East India Company, he was aware, did not entertain applications for home leave from any officer with less than ten years’ service.

  Ten years! Alex was conscious of sick despair. He had no right, in his present circumstance, to attempt to bind her to him . . . unless she herself expressed her willingness to remain bound to him. It had been on this understanding that he had been permitted to see her today. He had given his word, both to her father and to Phillip, that he would take his final leave of her now if this were Charlotte’s wish. Neither had insisted that their engagement was to be broken and neither had suggested that their parting was to be irrevocable, if Charlotte wanted it otherwise.

  But marriage was out of the question for them now—she had told him so and he himself was painfully aware of the fact. He could not take her with him when he sailed; India was a hard country for British women, the hazards of its climate only off-set by the provision of a well-appointed house and numerous servants, which were expensive. He had only the price of his commission behind him and a small allowance, made grudgingly by his elder brother to enable him to pay his mess bills in the 11th. This would stop when he joined the Indian army; he could scarcely expect or ask his brother to continue it. And a cornet’s pay would not be enough on which to support a wife—least of all one who, like Charlotte Mowbray, had always been accustomed to wealth and position.

  In any case, Charlotte had expressed no desire to accompany him . . . he looked at her, his face tense and questioning. Only Emmy had believed that her sister would agree to join him in India when, if they ever did, his prospects improved. Only Emmy had been confident that Charlotte would wait for him, forever if need be—and Emmy was a child with a child’s touching faith in all humanity. He had been a fool to listen to her and to allow himself, against all reason, to hope. The parting must come now and, for Charlotte’s sake, it must be final. She was young—too young, perhaps, to love him as he loved her. She would forget him once he had gone out of her life and it was better so, for both of them.