Badge of Glory (1982) (31 page)

She was still watching him. ‘You can have a light supper in your room. I’ve spoken to cook about it. Nothing heavy just yet.’

Blackwood stood up carefully. ‘That would never do, would it?’

She ignored his angry sarcasm, if she even noticed it. In a matter of fact tone she said, ‘By the way, Philip, I had a letter from that girl.’ She picked an invisible hair from her gown. ‘What was she like, pretty?’

Blackwood stared at her with disbelief. ‘D’you mean Miss Seymour?’

She gave him a gentle frown. ‘Remember where you are, Philip, dear. This is not a man-of-war, there are servants about.’

Blackwood sat down again and tried to calm himself. She had actually written about him and his stepmother had not even thought it worth mentioning until now.

‘Well,
was
she pretty?’

‘Yes.’ Without noticing he had clasped his fingers together. ‘As a matter of fact she is.’ He tried not to plead. ‘What did she say? In her letter?’

She smiled. ‘Just how brave you were. That you saved her life, and that she hoped you would soon be in good health again.’

She had known about his fever and his injuries. All the time he had been in
Satyr
and she had been carried to safety in some place selected by her uncle, she had remembered him.

‘Is that all she wrote?’

‘More praise, is that what you want?’

He stood up and crossed to her chair. ‘Please. Tell me. Don’t tease. It’s important to me.’

She nodded gravely. ‘I can see that. She merely wanted us to know.’ She bit her lip in thought. ‘And to wish you well.’

‘I see.’

She looked up at him and took his hand playfully in hers. ‘Don’t look so tragic, Philip. She has her life now. You gave it back to her. She’s luckier than some.’

Blackwood looked at her and wondered if she was holding something back.

‘I’m glad she’s all right. It was a terrible ordeal.’

‘I’m sure it was. You must tell me about it one day. Now off you go to your room. I’ve told Oates to instruct your man
in his duties here. A very
strange
fellow is your Smithett.’

Blackwood realized he was still holding her hand, and as he made to release his grip she said quietly, ‘She said she was going to get married. I did not intend to tell you, but there, it’s in the open now. Best forgotten.’

Blackwood moved away.
If only I had known before.

It was absurd. What could he have done? He did not know where she was or anything about her. But she had cared enough to write.

‘I shall come up later, Philip. Try and rest now.’

At the door he paused and looked back at her, but she was already leafing through some sort of diary. She had changed everything, had made it her world.

He found Smithett waiting for him, a bath filled and ready.

Poor old Smithett, it must be worse for him. He might even see himself ending up like Oates.

He forced a smile. ‘All settled in, Smithett? If anyone starts to chase you about, let me know at once.’

Smithett stared at him in surprise. ‘Nothin’ like that, sir. Easy as fallin’ off a log, so to speak. When I’ve given ’em a bit er Colour-Sarnt M’Crystal’s spit an’ polish they’ll be ready to enlist theirselves!’

Blackwood allowed Smithett to help him out of his clothes, the steam from the bath making him suddenly weary.

Smithett watched him warily and got ready to hold the wounded leg clear of the water.

‘Bad, was ’e, sir?’

Blackwood tried to see his father as he had been before.

‘I hope I never get like that, Smithett. When nobody wants you. When it’s all gone.’

Smithett sighed as he remembered his own father. Usually fighting drunk and bashing his old woman about. Six kids too, all living in a place half the size of this one room. Officers? They didn’t know they were born, most of them.

He said, ‘All seem better in the mornin’, sir.’

During the night the snow fell more heavily, and in the small cottages the families were thankful for warm beds and ample food for the days to come.

In the big house the staircases and alcoves, portraits and weapons shone only slightly from the light of a few candles. All the fires had burned low, but before dawn the maids would be up and about, cleaning out grates and laying new logs from the barn ready for another day.

There were very few people still awake on the first night of Captain Blackwood’s return, and none of them saw the colonel’s lady as she walked slowly along a gallery, a single candlestick held before her slender figure.

She looked into her husband’s room and heard his breathing, uneven and heavy, his occasional meaningless words lost in his pillow.

Then she went to her stepson’s room and stood for several minutes looking down at him in the small, flickering light. In sleep his face had lost its strain and its hurt and displayed nothing but youth. She bent over and touched his bare shoulder and held her hand there until he stirred in his sleep. She withdrew quickly, her heart pounding, ashamed and disgusted by her own thoughts and longings.

She had tried to win, to break free from Hawks Hill and its influence. She paused and looked down at the hall from the minstrels’ gallery. A thousand shadows danced there. A masked ball perhaps?

Her own shadow moved on and, like the others, was soon swallowed up by the house.

The days and then the weeks of Philip Blackwood’s convalescence seemed to get longer and longer. The weather had not improved, so that he was even denied the freedom of riding around the estate as he had once done with Georgina.

Whenever he ventured from the house he was made very aware of the bitter cold and what his fever had cost him.

He was back at Hawks Hill, and yet he felt it had rejected him in some way, as if he did not properly exist.

Servants came and went about their business, a table was always set for one, so that at each solitary meal Blackwood could sense their polite watchfulness and nothing more.

His stepmother, after arranging regular visits by her own doctor and making certain his comfort was carefully regulated, left for London. When he mentioned it to his father he merely commented, ‘She’s more in London than here most of the time.’ Then his eyes came alive as he had said, ‘Now, where did we get to? You were telling me about the steam gunboats, and what use you think they’ll be in the future.’ If he was vague about his wife’s activities or chose not to discuss them, there was nothing wrong with his memory on naval and military matters.

Then one day a ruddy-faced man named John Rainbott came up to the house, and upon finding that Mrs Blackwood was away, introduced himself as the new steward of the estate. He seemed a bright and cheerful fellow, and spent over an hour discussing the affairs and the business of running the estate. A true countryman, he had come from a similar
position in the county of Surrey, once the home of the late Lord Lapidge.

His lordship had died, with nobody left to succeed him, and had arranged for his estate to be sold. Rainbott apparently knew Blackwood’s stepmother very well, so his transfer to Hawks Hill was no surprise, or so it seemed.

Later, as Blackwood sat alone in the library, he considered what the steward had told him, although he had been less than forthcoming when asked more direct questions. Rather like old Oates, he thought, but who were they protecting and of whom were they afraid?

One thing was clear. Marguerite Blackwood had not only changed her mind about selling Hawks Hill, she had also decided to take very firm grasp of the tiller. She sat at the meetings for farmers and tenants, discussed repairs to buildings, and the purchase of stock and machinery. She was not merely beautiful, she was also a very forceful lady when it came to management.

Blackwood knew she had plenty of money of her own, far more than his father, but he had never heard any mention before of the late Lord Lapidge.

Thinking about the various possibilities and relationships helped to pass the time, but not for long. Each day Blackwood read and reread the news reports of the West African campaign, and pictured all the familiar faces and wondered what they were doing. He yearned to be back with them, and would have accepted any appointment in Ashley-Chute’s squadron rather than endure his isolation.

Encouraged by the successes against the slavers and their armed camps, the Royal Navy was increasing its activities and had several more steam vessels employed up and down that wretched coast. The campaign must soon come to a head, he thought, while he would still be sitting out the hours and waiting for a reprieve. Around the world the Navy was involved in actions against everything from Chinese pirates to the growing illegal traffic in Irish emigrants to the USA. It was part of the aftermath of the terrible potato
famine which had raged throughout Ireland just a few years before.

Now, families desperate for a chance to find a new life in America were buying their passages to be smuggled illegally, sometimes in vessels which were little better than the hulks.

In addition, many of these same people had been robbed of all their possessions and property in the process.

Blackwood felt he was being left behind by the speed of events. His mother, for instance, had not gone to London by coach as was her custom, but by train, something which would have been impossible not so long ago.

Trains had caused a certain amount of trouble in the countryside, the noisy engines and belching smoke having much the same effect on the farmers’ cows as
Satyr
’s siren on African warriors.

Then his stepmother returned from her visit to London, and Blackwood was grateful for her company.

She rarely showed excitement about anything, but even as her maid had gathered up her parcels which had been brought in by Lloyd, the coachman, she exclaimed, ‘I took tea with an old friend of mine, Lady Ballison.’ She walked quickly to one of the mirrors and patted her hair into place, although to Blackwood it looked perfect. ‘She was full of news, but then things are
always
happening in London.’

Blackwood looked over her shoulder and saw the sparkle in her eyes.

‘I don’t think I know her.’

Her gaze shifted to his reflection. ‘You are silly sometimes. She’s a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty.’ She offered him her cheek for a formal kiss. ‘You’re looking much better. I hope you have been properly attended to.’ She hurried on, ‘It seems that our Queen has been taking quite an interest in the East African campaign.’

Blackwood sighed. ‘
West
African.’

She pivoted round and glared at him. ‘Well anyway, she has.’

Blackwood watched her as she moved across the floor, her
eyes everywhere as if to detect any idleness during her absence.

She said, ‘It will be in the
Gazette
tomorrow. Darling Harry has been
promoted
to first lieutenant for leading an attack by boat and routing a force twice the size of his own!’ This time she could not hide her elation. ‘Isn’t that wonderful, Philip? I knew he would do well, I just
knew
it, and my friend will ensure that Her Majesty is informed!’

Blackwood smiled. ‘I’m glad.’

He looked at the snowflakes which ran slowly down the windows like tears. Was he glad? Or was he jealous and stupidly hurt by the news of Harry’s success?

He added, ‘I just wish . . .’

She crossed the floor and touched his lips with her fingers.

‘Don’t say it. It will make it harder for you. You
know
these things happen. You are lucky to be alive.’

He looked down at her and wondered. ‘You think I shall be discharged, don’t you?’ He saw her smile fade and was suddenly angry. ‘Well, I’m not giving in so easily!’

She moved away to a mirror again. ‘Of course not, dear. But you must allow yourself time. And . . .’ she darted a glance at his reflection, ‘. . . if the worst should happen, you could soon learn to manage things here.’ She did not flinch under his stare. ‘And eventually settle down.’ She waited just a few seconds and added, ‘Your poor father is a burden and will become more so. I cannot do
everything
on my own.’

Blackwood stared into the fire. He was beaten before even a skirmish, but knowing it did nothing to help.

He heard himself retort, ‘You seem to do quite well, according to your Mr Rainbott.’

He looked up and was astonished to see the shocked disbelief on her face.

‘When was he here? What did he tell you?’

Blackwood walked across the thick rug and grasped her hands in his.

‘Forgive me. He came to see you about a farm matter. That was all. He had been in Winchester and did not know you
had gone to London. I – I suppose I was being stupid. I really am sorry.’

She regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment. ‘I have already forgotten it.’ She thrust her hand through his arm and swung him round. ‘Now come and see what I bought for you.’

Her change of mood was unnerving. She had not once asked about her husband’s health, or his either for that matter. The mention of the cheerful Mr Rainbott had been uppermost in her thoughts.

A maid stood hovering by the door, a silver tray in one hand.

Marguerite Blackwood asked, ‘What is it, Horrocks?’

The maid held out the tray to Blackwood and blushed.

‘Th’ post-boy’s just bin ’ere, Ma’am. ’Tis a letter for the captain.’

Blackwood felt the grip tighten on his arm.

‘Apparently someone else knows you’re back.’

But Blackwood was looking at the envelope, the neat, sloping handwriting. His stepmother had somehow mislaid the other letter from Davern Seymour, but in his heart he knew this one was from her too.

‘Thank you.’ He took the letter and stared at it.

‘I think you’d better go and read it, Philip.’ She released his arm and turned towards the drawing room. ‘Then come and tell me all about it.’

In the privacy of his room Blackwood slit open the envelope and sat quite still for several seconds. In that short time he felt all the emotions of a fifteen-year-old youth and not in the least like a man who had just escaped death.