A Distant Hero Read online

  A Distant Hero

  Elizabeth Darrell

  © Elizabeth Darrell 1994

  Elizabeth Darrell has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1994 by Simon & Schuster.

  This edition published in 2018 by Lume Books.

  Table of Contents

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  1

  GENERAL SIR GILLIARD Ashleigh sat at the head of the long polished table, in a room where the painted eyes of ancestral warriors stared down from the gilt-framed portraits on the panelled walls. He was unusually silent during this ritual of port, cigars and old soldiers’ tales, contenting himself with his thoughts as he surveyed the guests who had braved the heavy snowfall to attend the Khartoum Dinner he held annually on January 22nd. This year of 1899 found no more than nine officers of the West Wiltshire Regiment at the table. Sir Gilliard’s elderly sisters, their husbands and numerous offspring had been prevented by a severe blizzard from travelling to Wiltshire.

  It was disappointing. The Khartoum Dinner was an occasion to which the head of the Ashleigh family looked forward with pride and pleasure. The latter was provided by the military guests who revived, for a few days, memories of a profession Sir Gilliard had served from his youth. His heart could not abandon it but, at eighty-nine, physical participation was limited to recounting past battles and glories. For most of the year his dreams had to suffice, but the Waterloo Ball, and this dinner to honour the memory of the family hero, provided an audience for Sir Gilliard’s recollections, making them more vivid. The guests tonight, however, were all younger serving officers; men to whom those famous old campaigns in the Crimea, China and India were no more than history. They were more interested in the experiences of a man who had recently returned from the Sudan than in the reminiscences of a past general.

  Sir Gilliard sighed as he sipped his port. Was he finally succumbing to old age? This memorial dinner had not stirred him tonight. He had made his usual speech prior to proposing the toast, yet the sense of drama had been missing. Nothing was the same these days. The family was breaking up. His sisters and their husbands were ailing octogenarians. They were no longer Ashleighs, anyway. He sighed again. The inheritance was still not secure; the continuation of the line still not assured. He must remain as master of Knightshill and its many acres until his heir produced a son. Only then could he relinquish command.

  His gaze rested on the young man seated at his right. Vere Ashleigh had become his heir on the death of the hero they honoured tonight. A sickly child, an invalid youth, Vere’s frail constitution had denied him a place at Oxford and a commission in the West Wiltshire Regiment — the path taken by Ashleigh males. He had instead run the estate, grown orchids for Bond Street florists and painted. Sir Gilliard even thought the word with disgust. He had no time for aesthetic frippery. He also had no time for anyone with a romantic nature.

  His thoughts digressed at that point to his own bride, whose face he had long ago forgotten. Caroline Ashleigh’s abscondence with an Italian poet while her husband was in India had created a scandal that almost ruined the promising young officer’s career. It had also taught Sir Gilliard never again to feel affection for a female. Roland, his infant son and heir left at Knightshill, had been reared by a nanny and doting servants until he followed the path of his ancestors into the West Wiltshire Regiment. Roland had dutifully sired eight children before dying of wounds inflicted in the second war against the Afghans. When his widow abandoned her five surviving offspring to marry a wealthy American, Sir Gilliard had set about moulding the three boys to his exacting standards.

  Vorne Ashleigh had been handsome, dashing, gifted and immensely courageous. That last quality had led him to make a bid to deliver an urgent message from General Gordon in beleaguered Khartoum to the advancing relief force. His Sudanese companions had murdered the young officer in the desert and made away with an empty dispatch case, leaving the mortally wounded Vorne to crawl a further mile and a half with the vital communiqué cunningly strapped to his body. His valiant attempt to deliver the appeal for help failed. Khartoum had fallen; the entire garrison was massacred. Lieutenant V. E. R. Ashleigh had nevertheless been awarded a posthumous D.S.O. and his name was spoken with reverence in military circles. At Knightshill, Vorne was the supreme example held up to his brothers by their grieving grandfather.

  Sir Gilliard glanced speculatively once more at the young man expected to follow that example. Vere finally wore the scarlet jacket sported by Ashleigh males, but was he even a pale shadow of the man they honoured tonight? Certainly not, for he had made his name as an artist rather than as a warrior in the campaign to regain Khartoum last year. Yet he had gone into battle several times, and survived deadly desert fevers to prove that his constitution was more robust than Dr Alderton had claimed. The old general’s blue eyes narrowed as he studied Vere’s sensitive face darkened by the desert sun, clear green eyes and the tall but slender build. Those gentle features were now marked by lines of experience, the eyes were sharper, missing nothing, and there was a new hint of command in his quiet voice … but could one feel assured of his fitness to fill Vorne’s place?

  The army had changed Vere. Sir Gilliard was not surprised by that, although he was hardly delighted that an Ashleigh was admired in military circles for his ability to create pictures. Nor was he pleased about his heir’s firm refusal to find a bride. The young fool had melodramatically rushed off to die in the desert over the Bourneville girl. As he had consequently survived, the affair should have taught him to find a partner who would produce his sons and demand nothing more from him than the Ashleigh name and Knightshill. There were numerous healthy young women eager for an advantageous match. An early marriage and several months of determined devotion to the creature would suffice. There could be a male infant to welcome in the twentieth century if Vere would only recognize the fact and knuckle down to his duty.

  The murmur of baritone voices faded as Sir Gilliard began once more to brood on the question of inheritance. When news of Vorne’s death reached him it had been a double blow, for Vere was then thought likely to go to an early grave. All hopes had been pinned on Valentine, a lusty, extrovert child with a gratifying passion for things military. The child had grown to splendid youth — tall, strong, filled with Ashleigh pride — and Sir Gilliard had watched his third grandson with relief and great satisfaction. Valentine would undoubtedly sire sons and continue the military distinction for which the family was renowned. Then, at the Khartoum Dinner two years ago, the boy had declared his desire to flout tradition by shunning Oxford and the West Wiltshires to enlist in the cavalry. Determined to curb this mutinous streak in a senior schoolboy ridiculously lionized for his sporting brilliance, Sir Gilliard had crushed the short rebellion by outlining to him the folly of attempting to defy an opponent who had the military and financial power to make him toe the Ashleigh line.

  Staring into the ruby depths of his port the old man asked himself yet again why the boy had become a black sheep and disgraced an honourable name. During his final term at Chartfield School he had been summarily dismissed for assaulting the wife of a member of staff. Sir Gilliard regarded Valentine’s failure to come home and take his punishment a greater crime than attempting to tear the dress off a female ten years his senior in a moment of youthful folly.

  He drained his glass, and someone refilled it while he continued to brood. The boy would come to a bad
end. If he had but returned to Knightshill the wild streak could have been drilled out of him. Left to develop unchecked it would bring about his ruin. After nine months of silence he had written from South Africa to tell his sister he was a corporal in the 57th Lancers — the regiment commanded by the uncle of the creature he had assaulted. A Corporal! Sir Gilliard’s pride rejected the notion of an Ashleigh in the rank and file. Then he reminded himself that, to hide his disgrace, V.M.H. Ashleigh had given his two middle names on enlisting and was known as Martin Havelock. As such he would remain throughout his service career, thank God, so his further downfall would not touch the Ashleigh name.

  These thoughts brought Sir Gilliard back to the sense of disappointment tonight. The Khartoum Dinner would never be the same again. With Vorne hacked to death in the desert, Valentine hiding behind a false identity in South Africa, and the sister to whom he had written living in sin somewhere with her lover and the two children of her marriage to a religious zealot, nothing would be the same again. It was a sign of the times. Old ways were being abandoned, old moral standards abused by a generation with little sense of duty or honour.

  The vivid eyes that had looked out on the world and seen so many of its wonders and sorrows over eighty-nine years turned once more to Vere. The Ashleigh name and all that went with it was the legacy of the artist soldier. A bride must be found for him as soon as possible. If he died without male issue, Knightshill, a vast fortune, and a distinguished military history would pass to a corporal calling himself Martin Havelock. That must be prevented at all costs.

  *

  The deep snow which had obliged the regimental guests to remain at Knightshill overnight prevented Vere from venturing far from the house the next day. An urge for contemplative isolation led him to seek the path cleared as far as his bailiff’s cottage half a mile beyond the formal gardens. Stopping short of the wicket gate, he turned to trudge back before turning again to head for the cottage. In an overcoat topped by a muffler, wearing warm gloves and a cap, Vere still felt unpleasantly chilled. His blood had thinned after months in the desert; he had been back less than six weeks.

  A few minutes later he halted to gaze at the home he had left almost two years ago believing he would never see it again. Rising to three floors, with a large wing on each side of the central section, Knightshill had been owned by Ashleighs for thirteen generations. Its interior reflected military influence in every aspect, but women deserted for long periods while their husbands served monarch and country in far-flung parts of the world had left their gentle, yearning touch on the formal gardens. Lonely wives rearing the next generations of warriors had found solace among roses and rioting perfumed shrubs; a refuge from the home dominated by portraits of uniformed ancestors and large canvases depicting battle.

  In summer, the gardens were romantic with soft colours, drifting fragrances and the calming music of small fountains. Paths wound through beds of love-in-a-mist and massed white pinks; rustic seats at every corner offered a view of the valley and distant Dorset hills. Sunny walks through ranks of rainbow lupins, delphiniums and foxgloves shut off sight of a house all Ashleigh wives must have found formidable. In summer, the shrubbery was a delight of creamy honeysuckle, dainty white jasmine and orange-blossom, pale lilacs, azaleas, and dark glossy leaves. The rose garden contained prize varieties in every hue which gladdened the senses twice over when reflected in the still water of the lily pool. It was all designed to induce tranquillity of mind and spirit.

  Vere surveyed these gardens now and saw winter beauty in shrubs piled high with snow, and in bordering trees whose branches bowed low beneath a white layer, yet he lacked tranquillity of mind and spirit. Knightshill would be his when Sir Gilliard lost his last battle. This lovely old grey stone house with its famous Great Window dominating the front facade had once comprised all Vere’s hopes and plans; as had his future with a girl whose grace and beauty had held him in thrall. When Annabel Bourneville sent back the Ashleigh rubies, ending their brief engagement, her words had driven him to the Sudan to die in the shadow of a hero he could never emulate. He had unexpectedly survived to discover the truth about the brother whose ghost Annabel had found so irresistible. He was now free from the spell she had cast, and of the burden of Vorne’s supposed heroism. Yet he was no longer fulfilled by the country life he had once loved. Sir Gilliard gave him no rest from his demand to provide an heir, but Vere had no intention of marrying simply to secure a bloodline. He had made a fool of himself over Annabel, and Floria Pallini, whom he had almost loved in Cairo, remained too poignant a memory. Until he met a woman who returned his devotion unreservedly, young Val would have to remain next in line despite the old man’s inflexible attitude towards a grandson as determined as himself. With that thought, Vere plodded on along the frozen pathway, still seeking the tranquillity which had grown so elusive.

  Reaching John Morgan’s gate, Vere turned towards Knightshill once more and stood stamping his feet for warmth. Last night, he had been offered a chance to travel to the other side of the world. He had turned it down this morning and was now wondering if he had been mad to do so. The Sudan had freed him from life beneath the shadow of Vorne. Was he now surrendering to that old captivity by refusing to join a body of men who would forever think of him as their hero’s brother?

  Filled with curious uncertainty, yet knowing his decision was irrevocable, Vere walked back to the house to break his news to Sir Gilliard and Charlotte. His sister would be deeply upset. He dared not guess at his grandfather’s reaction. Knocking the snow from his boots, he then discarded his outer clothes and walked through to the sitting-room where the family gathered for sherry before luncheon.

  Charlotte was there alone. She smiled warmly and rose to take his arm, a gesture he found increasingly irritating lately. The closeness he shared with his second sister had recently intensified on her part to stifling proportions. Self-imposed spinsterhood because of a lame foot left Charlotte with little understanding of the power of attraction between a man and a woman. Because of it she shared Sir Gilliard’s unrelenting opinion of their sister Margaret, and condemned Val out of hand for an affair she knew little about. All her affection was now centred on Vere.

  ‘Whatever have you been doing out there in the snow?’ she asked in reproof. ‘I was about to come and fetch you indoors. You have barely recovered from influenza, and there’s no sun to counter the bitterness of the temperature.’

  He released himself and went to the side table to pour sherry. ‘I’m no longer the invalid we were all led to accept,’ he reminded her. ‘If you had seen the conditions we faced in the Sudan you would never consider a stroll in the gardens a hazard.’ Handing her a glass he summoned a smile. ‘Reserve your concern for our guests who are battling their way back to the barracks in Salisbury.’

  ‘It was good of them to come in such weather,’ she said, returning to the chair she had vacated at his entry.

  ‘They know how much it means to Grandfather.’

  ‘To us all, Vere. You must have found the evening particularly affecting this year.’

  She little knew how Sir Gilliard’s eulogy to a supposed hero had affected him. He changed the subject. ‘You were wise to breakfast in your room.’

  Her nose wrinkled. ‘The smell of cigar smoke penetrated everywhere on the ground floor. I instructed Winters to remove all trace of it the moment the guests left.’ She-regarded him speculatively. ‘Perhaps it was to escape the smell of stale smoke that you tramped the path outside with such curious determination.’

  Recognising her attempt to draw a confidence Vere avoided it by commenting on the excellence of the dinner she had chosen last night. During their light conversation he once more regretted her foolish belief that the unsightly boot worn on her underdeveloped left leg must exclude her from romantic attachments. There had been attention enough from young men to prove her wrong, but her consistent discouragement had led them to accept the role she cast for herself. At twenty-eight Charlotte possessed
the striking Ashleigh looks, large clear eyes, and pleasing proportions, but in her the inbred Ashleigh determination was turning into implacability, and the well-known family charm was slowly dying beneath her increasing primness. Yet she would surely gladden many a male eye this morning in a gown of vivid green wool trimmed with ruched ribbons and beading, and with her pale hair arranged in a style emphasizing the clarity of her silvery-green eyes.

  Vere knew momentary guilt. With no more than the company of a grand old soldier in this house of warriors, Charlotte would grow old prematurely without experiencing life outside these narrow confines. He then remembered that she had imposed them herself by her refusal to seek love and friendship. There was no cause for his guilt.

  ‘Have you made a decision yet, Vere?’

  Her question threw him. How could she know of his night-long quandary? He sipped his sherry before asking warily, ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether or not you will sell that canvas of Winklesham Bridge to Mrs Blanchworth.’

  He relaxed. ‘There was never any question of my accepting her offer.’

  ‘It’s very generous.’

  ‘Too generous.’ He sat opposite her and leaned back against the mulberry-velvet chair. ‘I painted it four years ago. It’s quite charming and instantly recognizable to those who know Winklesham, but Mrs Blanchworth has little appreciation of art and has never set eyes on the bridge. She is simply one of the tiresome people coaxing me to sell my mediocre early work so they can boast of owning one of my canvases.’

  Charlotte tut-tutted. ‘You should be proud of it.’

  ‘My dear Lottie, it was the work I did in the Sudan which made my name in élite art circles. No connoisseur would hang my early rustic daubings on his wall, I assure you. Because I am now “fashionable”, every hostess must have a Vere Ashleigh in her house to impress guests.’