A Distant Hero Read online

  Vere came from his visions to see a familiar face gazing at him with undisguised aggression. His sister’s reaction was such a disappointment he heard himself murmur in flat tones, ‘It’s impossible to convey to anyone who has not experienced it.’

  ‘Then why try?’

  He leaned back in the chair feeling drained. ‘To help you to understand why I need to get away on my own. I’m not the person I used to be.’

  ‘No. You have become a true Ashleigh male.’

  ‘I grew up being accused of the reverse,’ he reminded her swiftly.

  ‘Not by me. Never by me,’ she cried. ‘We were the different ones. We have always been close, understood each other perfectly.’

  ‘If that were true,’ he said gently, ‘you would not now be confronting me because I plan to chase my destiny.’

  ‘If it were true, you would not be walking out on your family and inheritance only four weeks after returning from your first desertion.’ She rose in agitation. ‘I know you acted under a foolish compulsion the first time, but if your fascinating desert made you a real man, as you claimed to Grandfather, it also made you abandon the qualities I so admired. Go on your solitary crusade; leave behind all you once loved with such passion! Learn about life, but if you ever return, Knightshill might not welcome you … and your loving sister might be a stranger.’

  Her uneven gait was emphasized by her emotional state as she crossed to open the door, then close it very firmly behind her. Saddened though he was by this second quarrel within an hour, Vere needed no stronger confirmation of the advisability of leaving a household offering no balm to a spirit still beneath the spell of freedom. Sir Gilliard would console himself with maps, books and the reminiscences which keep alive those of his ilk. But Charlotte, poor Charlotte, would have to seek out her own freedom as painfully as had Val, Margaret and himself.

  *

  The last time Charlotte had shed tears was on realizing that Margaret had left Knightshill forever, taking her two children, because her husband had announced his intention of moving his family to an isolated mission station in the heart of undeveloped Africa. For once, Sir Gilliard had been unable to intervene. The Reverend Philip Daulton had had the right to manage his own family.

  A black cloud of guilt had descended on Charlotte when her sister left. She could not forget Margaret’s plea for help to escape before the dreaded sailing date — a plea Charlotte had turned aside rather than become involved in something she did not really understand. Remorse and regret had haunted those dark days. She had wept during many restless nights. When Sir Gilliard’s private investigations revealed that Margaret had taken passage on a ship out of Southampton with Laurence Nicolardi, a man they had known for only a few weeks, Charlotte’s feelings had undergone a violent reversal. Whilst she had been weeping with remorse, Margaret had been happily in the arms of a man who had posed as a friend of the family. Coming so soon after the scandal of Val’s behaviour with a married woman, this news had turned Charlotte’s remorse to disgust, intensified by anger over her misplaced sense of guilt.

  The following six months had passed with leaden slowness. Sir Gilliard was invariably immersed in military studies or correspondence with other old soldiers. Charlotte’s only source of occupation had been the cultivation of gardenias which had replaced Vere’s orchids destroyed by a hurricane. There had been too many long, empty days during which she had counted the hours to her brother’s safe return. He had arrived unannounced at Knightshill a week before Christmas. She had believed he was home to stay and her heart had grown lighter.

  Sitting before a fire which did nothing to warm her, she hugged herself tightly while tears flowed. Only a year apart in age, they had grown up almost as close as twins, yet he had just now indicated that he wanted her company no longer. Did she mean nothing to him? Had he cut the bond she thought unbreakable? His words still hurt unbearably; she could not believe they had been those of the brother who had been her constant childhood companion. He claimed he needed to be alone for a year or more, but he would not experience the sense of isolation so familiar to the devoted sister he was leaving behind. He would be surrounded by interesting people, exploring picturesque countries bathed in sunshine. For a brief wonderful moment her imagination had had her sharing it with him; the most exciting experience in her life. Then he had cruelly banished her dream with words which suggested that she was the one at fault.

  After a time her weeping ceased, leaving her drained and sick with dread of the future. Dragging herself to her feet she crossed to the window. The scene outside was as bleak as her soul as she thought of the past. As a child she had worn heavy irons on a leg deformed by a difficult birth. Like Vere, she had been unable to run and play with the others. The irons had straightened her leg, but not lengthened it. From the age of sixteen she had worn a boot with a four-inch sole, which made her walk with a limp. Her one consolation had been the brother who understood what it was like to be denied the freedom enjoyed by Vorne, Margaret and Val.

  Riding presented no problems so she had spent countless happy hours on the estate, sitting beside Vere while he sketched or painted watercolours of the natural beauty around them. He had been more than satisfied with what he now called ‘rustic daubings’ during those companiable outings. They had sat against a tree or warm stone wall to eat a picnic, talking over Vere’s plans for Knightshill when Grandfather died and sharing amusement over village gossip or things Timothy and Kate had done. They both loved Margaret’s children almost as their own.

  All this had fulfilled Charlotte. She had believed it was the same for her dear brother until he returned from a visit to London singing the praises of a young woman he had met at the opera. Although the notion of Vere taking a bride had initially been disconcerting, Charlotte accepted that it was his duty to do so. Vowing to show warmth and friendship to Annabel Bourneville, she had been dismayed on meeting the person who had turned a gentle, laughing brother into her virtual slave. It had been apparent that the notion of being confidante and sister to this dazzling blonde beauty could be forgotten. Margaret had agreed with her suspicion that Annabel would cleverly extricate Vere from family ties to ensure that she was the only female at Knightshill when Sir Gilliard died. Both sisters had been secretly relieved when the engagement came to a sudden end, but they had not foreseen the cost to Vere. Broken in spirit and health, he had gone to London two months later without a farewell. His letter had informed them that he was to join a regiment in the Sudan, and they then realized that the loss of Annabel had made his life seem worthless.

  Charlotte gripped the gold brocade curtains as she stared at the wintry scene outside. How could a man love someone so much he wanted to die rather than live without her? Yet Vere had miraculously survived, and appeared to have forgotten that love. He also appeared to have forgotten other loves. For some minutes she remained gripping the curtain telling herself she could not go to the desert to die of unhappiness. Being a woman, she must remain in a house full of memories and endure it.

  Walking back to the hearth she sat again before the fire. Life had once been very good. Vorne had been the eldest; a man while they were all still children. After his death and Mother’s departure to America, Margaret, as the eldest, had become a substitute mother to the infant Val. So they had matured in natural pairs: Margaret and Val, herself and Vere. When her sister had married Philip Daulton, Charlotte succeeded her as the lady of the house. Those years had passed so happily with first Timothy, then Kate, adding to the close family circle.

  Thinking back, she realized the pattern had begun to change when Philip abandoned his work as curate at Dunstan St Mary to become a missionary. His obsessive piety had saddened Margaret and frightened the children. Then everything had gone wrong. Vere went off to die for Annabel, Val disgraced himself and ran away rather than face them all, and Margaret went off with a man she had known only eight weeks. All Charlotte’s hopes had then been centred on Vere’s return and the resumption of their warm bond
.

  The afternoon began to darken as she faced renewed loneliness ahead. Empty days, a silent house, an elderly grandfather with scant interest in her. With her brothers and sisters gone, the only visitors now were acquaintances of Sir Gilliard. Charlotte was not required to act as hostess when no other ladies were present, so she dined alone in her room as she had last night. Dear God, how she missed those days when there had been fun and laughter, warm companionship and the belief that it would go on forever.

  A tap at the door heralded Sarah Clark. The ageing woman who had been Charlotte’s maid for twelve years carried a tray, which she put on the table beside her mistress.

  ‘I thought some tea and daffy cake might be welcome as you had no luncheon.’ She moved about the room lighting lamps. ‘On a day like this ’tis best to close the curtains on the winter. Makes a body feel colder just looking at all that snow,’ she declared, suiting actions to words. There, that’s more cheery. I’ve told Foster to bring a basket of logs. You’ll want a nice bright blaze while you dress for dinner.’

  With lamps lit and curtains drawn the room certainly took on a brighter aspect, but no children would come in to say goodnight, no sister to exchange gossip or discuss plans for tomorrow.

  ‘Come along, Miss Charlotte, have a cup of tea and a slice of this cake,’ said Sarah, pouring from the silver pot. ‘Tisn’t no use going hungry when winter creeps around the house.’ The woman’s corseted figure straightened. ‘Which gown will you wear tonight?’

  As Charlotte replied, a thin girl entered struggling with the weight of a basket of logs. She bobbed a curtsy before crossing to the hearth to set it down. Minnie Foster was an orphan engaged three years ago as a maid of all work. The girl looked pinched and red about the ears, an unattractive creature in most respects save for a surprisingly lovely smile. Charlotte watched as the maid added logs to the fire after raking it with the poker. This girl must know the meaning of loneliness. Her life was a great deal harder and she had none of the advantages of education and wealth enjoyed by the family she served. How did she regard her future?

  Sarah went through to the adjoining room to lay out a rose velvet dress and accessories for the evening. Charlotte sipped tea while continuing to watch the girl Val had dubbed ‘Skinny Minnie’. Red hands knobbly with chilblains swept ash into the container she would take away to empty on to the mound in the coal yard. That done, the maid rose and bobbed respectfully prior to leaving.

  Charlotte delayed her. ‘Foster, do you ever feel lonely?’

  The question took the girl aback. Colour flooded her bony features. ‘Beg pardon, madam?’

  ‘You have no relatives, have you?’

  ‘No, madam.’

  ‘Then you must sometimes feel rather lonely and unhappy.’

  The girl’s surprising smile broke through. ‘I’ve not been lonely since I come to Knights’ill. There’s all the others y’see. It’s loike a big family below stairs, and Mr Winters ’e sees to us all very well. As to bein’ un’appy, that stopped when I was took on ’ere, too. It’s bein’ busy keeps you loively, ain’t it, and there’s a power o’ things ter do in this place.’

  ‘And on your day off?’

  ‘I goes walkin’, madam. Mr Winters ’e says it’s all roight s’long as I keeps away from the ’ouse and gardens. This is the most wunnerful place I ever see, up ’ere on the ’ill.’ Carried away with eloquence after her initial surprise, Foster smilingly confided that she enjoyed being around the stables, also. ‘Real beauties, them ’orses, madam. Specially Mr Valentine’s two greys. I can’t take my eyes off them.’

  ‘Nor off young Alfie Griggs,’ put in Sarah’s voice from the dressing-room. Foster blushed from her hairline to the high neck of her brown woollen dress, and fell silent. Charlotte said she was glad the girl was happy at Knightshill and nodded dismissal, but her tea cooled in the cup as she reflected on the short exchange. There were more people below stairs than above; a feudal family to provide companionship for orphaned Minnie Foster. To keep her happy there was occupation from the moment she awoke in the chilly early hours until she crept into her freezing narrow bed after an exhausting day. And there was young Alfie Griggs to admire.

  With Val in South Africa, Margaret God knew where, and Vere departing for Italy shortly there was little prospect of companionship for the lady of the house. The lame sister of beautiful, vivacious Margaret Ashleigh had never allowed herself to admire anyone the way Foster admired the stable-boy. The only hope left, then, was constant occupation from waking until sleeping. Vere had his art. Margaret had her lover and her children. Val had his precious cavalry regiment. Charlotte had always occupied her days caring for them all. She must now find an enthusiasm of her own or risk becoming one of the reclusive spinsters found between the covers of popular novels.

  2

  THE WATERLOO BALL held at Knightshill each June to celebrate the famous victory in which Ashleighs of three generations had fought, and of which the five-year-old Gilliard had been told by a mother in tears of thankfulness, was the second event of the year relished by a general clinging to his illustrious past. Held in a ballroom dominated by the renowned Great Window, it was always a lively, colourful occasion. As it was reported in the glossy magazines, an invitation to the Ashleighs’ ball was rarely declined. The house came alive with music, laughter and lights; the guest rooms were all occupied, the stables filled to capacity. The Stag’s Head Inn in Dunstan St Mary did good business for several days. In the village, preparations for the event almost equalled those at the mansion on the hill above it, and everyone was sorry when the excitement was over for another year.

  Charlotte watched the last guests depart on the second morning after the ball, then lingered on the terrace feeling deeply depressed. Without Margaret to assist with arrangements this year, she had been wholly engrossed in them for several weeks prior to the event. There had been no minute to spare once family guests arrived for the prolonged visit — two of Sir Gilliard’s octogenarian sisters, their husbands and various second cousins who travelled from homes in the northern half of Britain. The great-aunts were demanding; thankfully their husbands joined Sir Gilliard in his library for endless reminiscences, emerging only for meals. The other overnight guests were younger, more lively and eager to enjoy the enticements of spectacular gardens or panoramic views over the estate. Although the ball itself held little pleasure for a young woman unable to dance, Charlotte had usually enjoyed the wealth of company it attracted.

  Standing alone on the terrace to gaze at the extensive, now deserted sweetly perfumed gardens, Charlotte again felt desolation overtake her. The departure of that last carriage, the waves of farewell from laughing friends, signified the return to routine in a vast echoing house shared with an old man dominated by growing bitterness. The silence around her seemed oppressive. Many of the staff had been given a day off to compensate for the extra work demanded of them over the past fortnight. Benson and his twin sons were absent from gardens where they were normally to be seen pruning, tidying or planting. The faint sound of clattering pails from the direction of the stables told Charlotte essential tasks were being done by Ned Whitely, whose personality railed against idleness. He was with his beloved horses every day of the year. Even when a fall had broken his right arm, he had carried buckets with his left and remained on duty.

  Casting her gaze beyond the formal grounds, Charlotte was further depressed by the absence of movement in the meadows. For three days there had been groups of riders ranging across bridle paths leading to Leyden’s Spinney, where the family used to skate on the frozen pond and where Val had repeatedly defied warnings by swimming in its dark, gloomy depths during sweltering summer days. Other guests had ridden to the downland which ran for some miles behind Knightshill, providing excellent gallops. Vorne and, much later, Val had ridden there even in the worst weather, despite Ned’s warnings that they would break their necks one day.

  Vorne had not broken his neck and Val had run away intact to joi
n the army. Charlotte had crossed those downs many times with Vere, but only in good weather and at a safe canter. Vere was presently playing the bohemian in the Mediterranean, having discarded the sister who would now have to canter sedately alone.

  Her mental anguish increased as she recalled her brother’s departure. The rift between them had not healed. Although Vere had made several further attempts to explain why he was leaving, Charlotte’s cold fear of the future would not allow her to see his decision as anything other than desertion. He had gone without her good wishes or a bon voyage, and there had been no word from him. She had remained cocooned by angry self-righteousness until an ageing second cousin had approached her through waltzing couples on the night of the ball to say: ‘So Vere has run off again! Whatever do you do, my dear, to drive all the members of your family from home?’

  It had been an intended joke, but Cousin John’s words had begun to melt the ice within her to allow regret to surface and dominate every waking hour now the need to play hostess had ceased. Had her lack of sisterly understanding also prompted Margaret’s clandestine escape? Should she have offered greater support in situations beyond her comprehension? And what of Val? Had he refused to come home because he knew he would face inflexible condemnation from his sister, as well as from Sir Gilliard, as Margaret had claimed at the time? Had there been damning truth in Cousin John’s joking remark?

  Remorse, regret, unhappiness so overwhelmed her she could no longer endure it. Hardly aware of what she was doing, yet knowing the anguish must be relieved by action, Charlotte headed for the stables where Ned was washing down the cobbled yard.