Scarlet Shadows Page 18

  Lord Blyth chuckled. “It is not likely, Agnes. Hugo was eighteen when he broke that horse. He was standing on it while trying to catch a young owl that had flown into the nursery.” He turned to Charles. “Do you remember the occasion, my boy? The owl flew out unscathed, but Hugo fell and cracked a rib. Ha, he always was one to get into scrapes. If your little lad turns out like him you are in for some anxious moments.”

  “I cannot think why he should favor Hugo when he is Charles’s son,” said Lady Blythe crossly. “You say some singularly foolish things at times, Augustus. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. I have made inquiries about a wet nurse should one be necessary, and I think we shall have a choice of two. Charity Verewood tells me Mrs. Crawley is expecting her fifth child in December, and so is Mrs. Bates. In that dear girl’s opinion there is some doubt about the survival of both the babes, and she should know because the rector has been delivering baskets of eggs every week to help nourish the mothers.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “The Lord has his reasons for everything he does. We have instructed Sir Christopher Mills to be in attendance during the lying-in, of course. Charity vows there is no better man in the whole of the country. Her cousin would have no other, and one must say her three babes are a credit to her.”

  Victoria felt her anger bubbling upward like a boiling potion in a cauldron. All three — her husband included — sat discussing the forthcoming heir, the symbol of their continued superiority, the living proof of the virile and noble line of Stanford, as though the woman who had conceived the child and now carried it inside her had had nothing to do with the affair. She knew only too well what she had gone through to provide Charles with his heart’s desire, what she must still endure to bring that desire into the world, yet they spoke as if they had created a miracle between them.

  She sat watching as they talked and saw them for what they were. A selfish, overindulged, eccentric woman, a man so steeped in wealth he worried himself to distraction over the flooding of a few pounds’ worth of meadow, and a younger man so conscious of his heritage it ruled his every thought. She was an outsider and would remain so even while producing others of their kind.

  “I must show you the list of names we have drawn up, Charles,” continued Lady Blythe. “Your papa and I went through the first one and struck out half as completely unsuitable. The remainder are family names, or those given to royalty over the past five hundred years. You cannot go wrong with any of those, although I must tell you we favor Henry, John, Richard, William and George. Any three of those would be ideal.”

  “Unless the child is a girl,” said Victoria in a tight, angry voice.

  Lady Blythe looked up in surprise, as if she had not realized anyone else was in the room. “I did not consider it necessary to make a list against that possibility.”

  “I suppose not, when the undoubted choice would be Charity.” She rose to her feet and faced them, trembling with overwrought emotion. “I am surprised Miss Verewood has not been consulted on every aspect of my forthcoming child. Her views are plainly considered to be of more value than mine. How unfortunate that it was not she that Charles chose as his wife. I am certain it would not occur to her to produce a girl to upset your plans.”

  The major rose quickly to his feet. “Victoria, there is no need for this.”

  “There is every need. It will explain why I am retiring to my room — not that I will be missed.”

  She had heard of women “sweeping out” of a room and knew she had done just that. Charles caught up with her and walked by her side in silence until they reached the apartment, where he dismissed Rosie.

  “I shall not apologize, Charles,” she told him quickly, on a rising note. “I have never seen a more marked display of bad manners.”

  He nodded curtly. “As you wish. It is perfectly plain that you are overtired and not responsible for your actions. It is bad for you to become so upset, my dear. Please sit in this chair until you are calmer.”

  He took her hands to lead her to the chair, but she gripped them tightly. “Let me return to Brighton with you, Charles. I have my cousins to visit and the ladies of the regiment. Please, do not leave me here alone. It is so lonely and quiet with no companions to help me pass the days.”

  “Hush,” he said, sitting her firmly in the chair. “Tonight’s display emphasizes your need for a place like Wychbourne. Visitors overtire you, walks by the sea expose you to injurious damp breezes and talk of the regiment taxes your brain with things suited only for gentlemen. Your friendship with Mrs. Markham has encouraged your obsession with such things. They are not subjects for gentlewomen…or the mother of my son.”

  “Our son,” she corrected sharply. “I do not see why you discourage my interest in the regiment. If you become its colonel I shall do a great deal better than that silly, empty-headed Mrs. Rayne, who thinks of nothing but new carriages and her pale-faced daughter. She might have breeding, but she certainly lacks brains. Her knowledge of regimental affairs is abysmal. Besides, I happen to think he is right.”

  “Who is right, my dear?”

  She caught up her words before they fell on his ears and said instead, “General Redvers. He does not believe in letting the Army stagnate.”

  Charles sighed heavily. “My poor child, no wonder you have reached such a state of exhaustion and bewilderment.” He bent and kissed the top of her curls gently. “Stop filling your lovely head with such nonsense and concentrate on your first duty, which is to our son.” He tipped up her chin with tender strength. “Do you not understand how important he is to me?”

  She gave in with listless resignation. “It would be an imbecile who did not, Charles.”

  *

  The major returned to Brighton, satisfied that his wife was in good hands. By the end of two weeks Victoria was at her wits’ end to know how she would last until Charles came again. Lady Blythe had retired into her apartments to recover from the shock of Victoria’s outburst, and Lord Blythe appeared awkward in the company of a young woman so visibly swollen and ungainly. After a few days Victoria decided it would be better for both of them if she took her meals in her room, and it was as well she did, for the sickness that had been with her so often returned in double measure, and the ache in her back was hardly ever absent.

  Miserable and unwell, she was thrown a great deal into the company of Aunt Sophy, who was the only person with whom she felt at ease. Many afternoons found her with the old lady, and they sat before the fire as she spoke about her youthful adventures that sounded quite scandalous to the modern girl. But sometimes she would relate tales about the two boys, Charles and Hugo. Then, Victoria would treasure every word as she built up a picture of a laughing, volatile brown-haired boy who had brought as much love to the family who took him in as they had given in return.

  Victoria could not know her face took on a glow, and her eyes became softly dark whenever they spoke of Hugo, nor that the old lady had known from the beginning that Charles had not captured the heart of the young girl he brought here as his bride. So it was a surprise, when the cracked old voice shouted at its usual volume, “If this child is a boy, do not let Charles have sole charge of his upbringing, my dear. He has an excellent character, no one would deny, but a man with no faults can be extremely dull at times. I almost pledged myself to a man like Charles, until I was introduced to a wild young man who never gave me a minute’s peace of mind. Our marriage was short — he was killed in a duel — and I so regret not having had his son.”

  Her bright eyes searched Victoria’s face and saw the answer she knew would be there. “If your child is a daughter, let her follow her heart, whatever the outcome. Too many females allow their lives to be planned by something called ‘society.’ Those few who do not suffer from it for the rest of their lives — but they have their moment of freedom that no one can take from them.”

  Victoria scribbled furiously on the pad and held it out with a smile.

  Aunt Sophy laughed and patted the girl’s hand. “I shall be honored if y
ou call her Sophy, my dear. She might end up like me — deaf as a post and a bit eccentric — but she will have had a full life and some treasured memories.” Her laughter died. “You are not much more than a child yourself, Victoria. Listen to the words of an old woman. You have the capacity to achieve much in your lifetime. Pray do not let them prevent you from doing so.”

  Victoria left Aunt Sophy that afternoon full of thought and new resolution. When she returned to Brighton she would redouble her interest in the regiment and try to understand the drill movements better. She would ride more and perfect her horsemanship. Her present condition had prevented any riding for several months and she had missed it. Her declaration to become patroness of the regiment one day might not be so foolish. Why should she not? If Hugo could pursue his ambition with relentless purpose, so could she.

  Before any of this could come about, however, she must somehow get through the next two months at Wychbourne and produce the child she carried, whether it was destined to wear a coronet or not. At this moment she felt the sickness and aching drag of pregnancy that seemed never to go these days. Her stomach was so swollen it made movement labored and difficult, the unaccustomed weight somehow adding matching weight to her thoughts and spirits. Without Aunt Sophy she did not know how she would reach the time of fulfillment with any kind of composure.

  For a short moment dread rose in her overwhelmingly, and she stopped to lean against the wall in sudden faintness. If this child were a girl, the whole dreadful procedure would begin again…and go on being repeated until the required male child arrived. She put her fingers to her temples. The noble Stanfords might be praying for a boy, but none as ardently as she.

  It was growing dim in the house now, and she could hear the servants moving about putting a light to all the lamp brackets in the long corridors. The sound of steps approaching from around the corner made her pull herself together and continue toward her room. It would not do to be seen quaking this way by one of the servants. The future Lady Blythe must keep up appearances at all costs.

  The man came around the corner quickly and had covered several yards before he knew she was there. When he did the shock acted quicker on his brain than on his feet, which carried him several paces nearer, even after a great sigh had escaped him. Victoria was not aware of the moment her feet stopped — of the moment when everything stopped. Every breath, every heartbeat, every drop of blood in her veins, every muscle, every blink of her eyelids froze as though she had been petrified in a spell cast by the vivid blue-green eyes that met hers.

  The seconds ticked past as they stood six feet away from each other, unable to speak. She saw the pain in his face as his glance flew straight to the skirt that spread out over the swell of his brother’s child. Outwardly, he was a paladin in a proud uniform; inwardly, he became unmanned and defenseless. Those eyes came up to search her face with hungry anguish, and still they said nothing to each other. An eternity stretched between them as battles were fought and lost, knights jousted and fell, kingdoms crumbled beneath the invader. She answered his pain with her own as her cheeks grew wet, but no words seemed adequate to repulse the force that stormed their defenses.

  She had faced him on that evening here at Wychbourne with innocent wonderment; she had stood helpless beside him as she pledged her life to Charles; she had almost collapsed at his feet after her honeymoon — but this was worse, far worse: Her swollen body must mock at him, must seem like her final sword thrust. Charles’s seal of ownership was there for all the world to see.

  “Why…why did no one tell me?” he said painfully, still rooted to the spot.

  There was no answer she could give. It had not occurred to her that Charles and the Markhams had had their own reasons for keeping him in ignorance.

  He took a step backward. “Have no fear. I shall leave at once.”

  “No!” The cry echoed all she had ever felt in her life. “If you go this time I shall feel completely deserted.” Her hands flew up to cover her treacherous lips.

  He was beside her immediately. “I thought it was what you would wish me to do. Forgive me.” He put an arm around her shoulders and led her to an alcove seat nearby. “Forgive me,” he said again. “The shock of coming upon you when I thought you were so far away has affected my wits.”

  She said through fingers that covered her face, “I thought you were in Ireland. It was as if your spirit walked along this corridor in some ghostly prank.”

  He could see she was trembling. Taking her fingers in his, he gently drew her hands away from her face. “I am no ghost, Victoria, merely a captain of Hussars on leave from a lonely and isolated garrison.”

  She gazed up at him, knowing she should tell him to go. “You have no idea how lonely I have been since Charles brought me here. Aunt Sophy has been my salvation.”

  “As she has been mine, at times. What are you doing here alone?”

  Her eyes evaded his. “I have been unwell. Charles felt the sea air did me no good. I am to remain here until…”

  His thoughts were more collected now. “I have this minute arrived and was on my way to pay my respects to Mama.” He dropped the fingers he still held. “When I have done that duty I should be pleased to entertain you and my great-aunt to tea.” He paused. “But only if you would like it, Victoria.”

  “I think you need not ask me that,” she said in an attempt at casualness. That was all that could be between them. “Will there be muffins?”

  His eyes still held remnants of shock. “I would not dare to ask you if there were not muffins.” He helped her to her feet and walked back along the corridor beside her until they reached her apartments.

  Still seeking reassurance, she said, “Hugo, you will stay?”

  He nodded slowly. “Until the end of my leave…or until you tell me I must go.”

  *

  Wychbourne was a different place with Hugo within its walls. Lady Blythe emerged from her room, Lord Blythe managed to forget his flooded meadow for a while and Victoria saw something of the affection between the Stanfords and the man they had chosen to be their son. It was a different bond from the one they had with Charles, but it was none the less stout for being self-made.

  Victoria felt relaxed and happy. The only tense moment came when she bade her parents-in-law good night, and Hugo was obliged to escort her to her room. They set off along the familiar corridors, striving to think of light conversation until Victoria said, “Have you brought Stokes with you this time?”

  It was the perfect subject, for Hugo was able to speak on it for most of the way. “You have touched upon the reason for my taking leave at this particular time. Stokes has just taken a wife.” His slow smile broke out. “Yes, poor Stokes met his match in the village in. which we are garrisoned. She is not Irish, however, but an English girl employed by a traveling circus. I defy you to guess her duties.” His sideways glance brought a happy shake of her head. “She rode the elephants. There…I knew you would find it amusing, and so did I, much to Stokes’s annoyance. I have seen the fellow take a huff before, but never the great gathering-up of his dignity that greeted my mirth at his request to marry an elephant girl.” He slipped his hand beneath her elbow to assist her up the stairs. “But marry her he did, and her name is on the roll-call.”

  “But not her elephants, I trust?”

  He laughed. “God forbid! Five horses and two dogs are enough to take around with one. Here is another amusing thing. Stokes would get no dinner if he did not cook it himself, for Mrs. Stokes knows nothing of housewifery.”

  She smiled. “Poor Stokes. What possessed him to take such a wife?”

  He looked down at her with a wicked expression on his laughing face. “Wait until you see Mrs. Stokes. You will get the answer to that question and understand why Stokes sleeps with his rifle handy.”

  They arrived at her door and all humor fled. Suddenly, good night was the most difficult thing to say. Hugo avoided it altogether.

  “Do you still play chess, Victoria?”<
br />
  “Yes, although I have not done so for some time.”

  “I challenge you to a game tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps I shall play better with only my own pieces on which to concentrate.”

  “Ah, but I shall also play better with my eyes uncovered.” He gave a mock bow. “Until tomorrow, when may the best one win, ma’am.” He turned and walked away, but she watched until he turned the corner.

  They played chess on the neutral ground of the conservatory, where Hugo won all the contests and replied, to her protest that he might have allowed her victory just once, that overwhelming defeat was the best spur for renewed effort.

  “Once a man begins to feel sympathy for his enemy he will soon find himself the loser, my dear Victoria. It is one of the first rules of battle.”

  She put her head on one side and studied him. “You are still studying the tactics of warfare in this time of peace?”

  He frowned. “Victoria, have you not heard of the declaration of war between Russia and Turkey only this week?”

  “I must own to have taken no account of the outside world since leaving Brighton. It is all too easy in a place such as Wychbourne to forget that the world moves on outside its walls.”

  He looked very serious. “Victoria, the Russians have been gathering for an invasion of Turkey for more than two years, but the heads of our fighting forces have seen no reason for alarm. This is what I have been predicting.”

  “How does it affect us or our fighting forces? Russia is such a long way from England.”

  He shook his head sadly. “Oh, Victoria, Victoria, you echo the rest of the complacent ones! Let me explain. Russia has her eye on the Mediterranean route, but, in order to get her ships through from the brand-new naval fortress at Sebastopol, it is necessary to capture Constantinople. With that port taken from the Turks, the way would be open to the Balkans and Egypt. Now do you see how this outbreak of war up in the Balkans affects us? We cannot stand by while a poor nation like Turkey is swallowed up by the greed of a greater power. But how can we rush to Turkey’s aid with an army that is half disbanded, completely out of date and lacking youthful vigorous leaders?”