The beginning was almost painful.
Dear Mr Blackwood
. . .
But after the opening formality he became lost in her words, as if he was hearing her speak, feeling her near like that terrible day at the mission, the stench of death and fear.
She was in London but only waiting for her uncle’s return to England. She did not say what she had been doing, or
where she was living, and Blackwood imagined it had taken a long time and a great deal of restraint to write as she had. She had come home in a fast packet, and ‘people had been very kind’. Blackwood got up and strode to the window and held the letter to the dull light.
She would never forget what he had done or the way his men had acted to make things better for her.
Blackwood folded the letter carefully and placed it in his pocket. The last sentence was burned on his mind like a brand.
As you may know, I am getting married shortly. I shall think of you often.
It was signed with equal formality,
Davern Seymour.
Blackwood paced about the room and tried to find a glimmer of hope when he knew there was none. She was thanking him, and would probably want to forget him altogether. Any memory of him would link her immediately with her father’s horrific death and everything which she had seen and suffered.
Eventually he went down to the drawing room and was surprised to see that his stepmother had changed her clothes. It seemed only minutes since he had gone to his room, but the curtains and shutters were closed and the place bright with the glow of lamps.
She looked up from some papers and watched him curiously.
‘Good news?’ She patted the sofa beside her. ‘Sit down and tell me about it.’
Blackwood sat and stretched his hands towards the fire.
‘It was nothing. Much the same as the one she wrote to you.’ She remained silent and he added, ‘Getting married.’
‘That sounds like
everything
, the way you say it.’ She put down the papers. ‘How old is she?’
He tore his mind away from the girl’s voice, the one he had heard in her letter, and replied, ‘Twenty-four, I believe.’
‘At that age she
should
be married. Not bustling around the world.’ She softened her tone as she saw his face. ‘No parents either?’
‘None. Sir Geoffrey Slade, her uncle, told me that –’
She grasped his wrist. ‘Slade? The man everyone’s talking about?’
She shook his wrist chidingly. ‘I had no idea.’
Blackwood looked at her and smiled. ‘Perhaps you don’t listen.’
She tossed her head. ‘I would have remembered that. I know Lady Slade well enough to speak with. A rather grand lady, but I believe
he
is a nice little man.’
Blackwood thought of Slade’s torn emotions. The concern for his niece, the need to hide his feelings from his subordinates.
He said, ‘He’s like stone when he feels like it.’
‘Perhaps.’ She was already miles away, her mind busy. ‘But it will not hurt to make his acquaintance.’
Oates shambled into the room and looked at them patiently.
Blackwood said, ‘Would you care for a drink before dinner?’ He suddenly needed one very badly.
‘If you like. Some sherry, I think.’
Oates glanced at Blackwood. ‘And a glass of brandy for you, sir?’ He moved away without awaiting an answer.
She said softly, ‘I think you’re drinking too much. Brandy before dinner indeed. I don’t know what the Corps is coming to.’
Blackwood lay back on the sofa and replied, ‘I’m going to London tomorrow.’
She took a finely cut glass from Oates’ tray and remarked, ‘I don’t know what Doctor Sturges will say about it.’ Then she smiled. ‘But it might do you good. I’ll give you an address, somewhere suitable.’
He barely heard her. ‘I’ll probably stay at the club.’
She tossed her head again and said disdainfully, ‘You should be at home there. More like a barracks than a civilized place.’
Blackwood was surprised she had not probed more deeply or tried to prevent him from going. Perhaps, like Major
Fynmore, she was too impressed by Slade’s reputation to care for other matters.
It was madness of course and he knew that he would suffer for it. But he had to know. She might not even be there, or refuse to see him. All at once he could not bear the waiting.
She asked wryly, ‘Another drink, Philip?’
He started. The glass was empty and he had not remembered drinking anything.
‘Sorry.’
There was the sound of a trolley being wheeled into the dining room, hushed voices as the evening ritual was begun.
She said, ‘Be careful. That is all I ask. You are quite a catch, you know, for any young lady.’
They stood up together and she patted his cheek as if to reassure herself.
‘We’ll go in to dinner, Philip. I feel so proud to have a fine young man to escort me.’
Blackwood glanced at her but her face gave nothing away.
He had sensed she had been in his room the night he had arrived home. That she had been standing by the bed. He had told himself it was a dream, but now he knew differently, and the realization disturbed him. He thought of the rebellious Georgina who had been sent away to be ‘finished’. Like mother like daughter.
He stared at the soup which had appeared before him. Perhaps his wound and the bloody fighting he had survived had also unhinged him in some way. He looked up and saw her watching him from the far end of the table. No, he was not mistaken. He could see it in her eyes like hunger.
He thought of his father upstairs in the large, silent room and the picture helped to steady him. Until the next time.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The butler was tall and impressive, like the house. ‘May I be of assistance?’
Blackwood looked beyond the butler to the quiet elegance of Sir Geoffrey Slade’s town house. The square in which it
stood was subdued and totally apart from the London which Blackwood had seen on his way here. The noise of wheels and clattering hoofs, the smell of horses and damp clothing, a bedlam of haphazard crowds, vehicles and tall buildings.
Now he had finally reached the house he was suddenly apprehensive and less certain he had done the right thing. Even the hansom cab which had carried him from the club in St James’s still idled at one corner of the square as if the cabby thought a young marine officer was out of place here.
He said, ‘I was wondering if Sir Geoffrey Slade is at home.’
The butler stood firm, like a sergeant of the foot guards.
‘Even if he were here, sir, I doubt he’d be free to entertain you without an appointment.’
Blackwood saw the man’s gloved hand move the door very gently towards him.
‘I will, of course, take a message, sir.’
Blackwood shrugged. It was hopeless. Perhaps he was really glad, that it was all better forgotten. Even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie.
The butler said persuasively, ‘If you would care to leave your card, sir?’ He was an old hand at this kind of thing.
Blackwood turned to look for the hansom cab but it had gone. Worse still, he was feeling slightly sick and dizzy. The journey by train had been exciting but taxing on his strength, and all the din and bustle of the London streets had not helped.
‘Is anything wrong, sir?’
Blackwood licked his lips. ‘No. This is the first time I’ve been outdoors for some while.’ Why had he bothered to tell him that? ‘But thank you.’
The butler seemed to loom over him. ‘Good heavens, sir! It’s Captain Blackwood, isn’t it?’ He held open the door. ‘Please come in and wait by a fire. Her ladyship will be back directly. I’m
certain
she will wish to see you.’
Blackwood walked into the house, dimly aware of two small maids who were watching open-mouthed from a dark hallway. They were probably more used to visiting diplomats and ministers than a lowly captain, he thought.
The butler led the way to a snug little room which overlooked the square. He was saying, ‘You must forgive me for not realizing who you were, sir. Unpardonable!’
Blackwood allowed himself to be helped into a deep chair, and wondered how to escape, what he would say when that ‘rather grand lady’, as his stepmother had described her, returned.
He asked, ‘Is Miss Seymour staying here?’ He saw the man’s shoulders stiffen. ‘I hoped I might see her.’
The butler plucked at one glove. ‘We have had to be so careful, sir. All the trouble she’s had, the wedding coming along.’ Then he smiled and looked less formidable. ‘But in your case, of course, sir.’
He turned as a maid called softly, ‘They’re ’ere, Mr Tomkins.’
Blackwood stood up, alone and suddenly nervous, as the butler left the room in three great strides. He heard the jangle of harness, the murmur of voices, the formidable Mr Tomkins saying something in a stage-whisper.
Lady Slade swept into the room, magnificent in a broad feathered hat and a long military-style coat.
She proffered her hand and said, ‘So charming of you to drop in, Captain Blackwood. Such a
surprise.
’
Blackwood took her hand and kissed it lightly. She was certainly grand and more beside. She must be a head taller than her husband. Her greeting was partly a rebuke for not announcing his visit, but he did not care. His eyes were on the girl who stood quite motionless in the doorway. She was dressed in dark clothes, Blackwood did not know what, for he saw only her violet eyes, her hands which had risen to her breast as if she was remembering, and hating him for his intrusion.
He said quietly, ‘I – I just wanted to wish you well, Miss Seymour. I apologize for coming in this fashion.’
Lady Slade sat down gracefully and folded her hands in her lap.
‘It is nothing unusual, Captain Blackwood. Young people
these days are always in too much of a hurry.’ Her face softened slightly. ‘Please be seated again. I was going to visit your, er, father after Sir Geoffrey returned home. But it was really you I wished to see, so all’s well that ends well.’ She settled back on the cushions and waited.
Blackwood held a chair so that the girl could sit near the fire. He could feel her warmth, the touch of her gown against his hand as she sat down, her eyes averted.
Then she said, ‘I wrote to you . . .’ She faltered. ‘I don’t know if you . . .’
‘Yes. I got it yesterday. I came to London today, by train.’
She lifted her face and studied him, her eyes misty as she said, ‘You look tired. I’m so sorry.’ She moved her hand as if to touch his but withdrew it.
Lady Slade said, ‘You came in some haste, Captain Blackwood.’
It sounded like an accusation, but when he looked at her, her eyes were warm and friendly.
She stood up before Blackwood could help and said, ‘I must see to the arrangements for a reception. I shall not be long.’ She looked at the girl and asked gently, ‘Unless you wish me to stay, my dear?’
She shook her head, her eyes still on Blackwood.
‘I shall be all right, Aunt Lydia.’
Lady Slade swept through the door but left it partly ajar, the requirements of etiquette satisfied.
He said, ‘She’s very nice.’
‘Yes.’ She watched him as if it was an effort not to flinch as he sat down beside her. ‘How are you,
really
?’
‘Well enough. My leg is a bit troublesome, but much better.’ He smiled. ‘But I am afraid I find the weather a bit demanding after Africa.’
She said, ‘I read about your brother today. Your family must be pleased.’ She looked at him imploringly. ‘Why did you come?
Tell me!
’
He tried to take her hand but she pulled it away.
She recovered quickly and said, ‘I’m so sorry. It’s just that I
can’t . . . I don’t know . . . I’m trying very hard. Please don’t be offended.’
Blackwood let her talk, feeling her pain as the words tumbled out of her.
She said, ‘I am going away. Start a new life. But I don’t want to hurt you.’ She looked at him, her gaze level. ‘You of all people. After what you did. Everything.’ Her hand hovered against her breast again and then fell to her lap like a dying bird.
‘I had to come. Why must you leave again so soon? You need time. Most wounds heal when given the chance.’
She reached out and grasped his hand in both of her own.
Blackwood watched his hand imprisoned in her two small ones, felt the longing course through him as she traced invisible patterns on the palm. Perhaps she was remembering that same hand gripping the sword which had hacked down her captors. The one which had touched her naked breasts as he had tried to cover her.
She whispered, ‘What are you saying?’
‘I am saying that I want you for myself.’
The sudden desperation was making him awkward and clumsy, and he knew that at any second she would leave him or their stately chaperon would return. Either way it would be finished, once and for all.
‘Forgive my blunt manners, Miss Seymour. I am too used to the ways of ships and men under arms. I am out of place in this kind of world.’
He tried again, his eyes fixed on her hands, the gentle movement of her fingers against his skin.
‘When I first saw you aboard the flagship I knew then there could be nobody else. For me nothing has changed, you must believe that. Given time you could learn to like me, I would make you!’
More carriage wheels rattled to a halt outside the house and Blackwood heard voices again, the butler’s resonant tones as he hurried to greet a visitor.
Blackwood persisted, ‘Please say that you will consider it?’
He felt her bracing herself to leave and knew he had failed.
She said in a low voice, ‘I shall never forget you. Perhaps it would have been better if you had not found my father’s mission at all.’ She stood up quickly and released his hand. ‘Goodbye, Captain Blackwood. I do not think we shall meet again.’
Without another glance she almost ran from the room.
Blackwood stood by the fire, unable to move, unwilling to accept what had happened.
The door opened and Lady Slade stood watching him, her face sad.
‘It was so good of you to call. My husband will be sorry to have missed you. He wrote to me of your valour. You are a very brave young man.’ She watched his despair and said, ‘Do not blame yourself. She imagines she is acting for the best.’