“If I were to be charged with such a thing, I should naturally, in my own defense, give the reason for your accusation,” he watched her carefully, waiting for the slightest sign of weakness.
She gave him nothing.
“Possibly,” she said coolly. “But that would be foolish, because you would then find yourself charged with slander as well. And who do you imagine would be believed-Lady Augusta Balantyne, dealing with a dishonest servant with ideas above his station, or the servant, bearing a grudge for having been discovered? Come, Max, you are, above all, not stupid.”
He stared at her with malignant hate swelling in his sensuous face.
She did not look down, but stared back at him with equal and undeviating steadiness.
FIVE
General Balantyne was very satisfied with the way his memoirs were coming along. The military history of his family really was remarkable, and the more he put his papers in order, the more outstanding he perceived it to be. There was a heritage of discipline and sacrifice of which anyone might be proud. But far more than that, there was an urgency, an excitement to it more real than the petty domesiticity and the polite fictions of his daily life in Callander Square. The early winter rain drenched the gray cobbles outside, but his imagination felt the rain of Quatre Bras and Waterloo nearly seventy years ago, where his grandfather had lost an arm and a leg struggling through the mud of Belgian fields behind the Iron Duke; scarlet coats and blues, the charge of the Scots Grays, the end of an empire and the beginning of a new age.
The heat from the fire in the grate scorched his legs and he felt in it the blistering sun of India, thought of Tippoo Sultan, the Black Hole of Calcutta, where his great-grandfather had perished. He knew the heat himself. The spear wound on his thigh was not yet totally healed from the Zulu Wars, only three years ago. It still ached in the cold to remind him. Perhaps that would be his last battle, as the nightmare of the Crimea had been his first. He was still frightened far back in the recesses of his memory by the dreadful cold and the slaughter at Sebastopol, the dead lying all over the place, bodies wasted with cholera, blown apart by shot, frozen to death in grotesque positions, some huddled like children asleep. And the horses! God knew how many horses dead, poor beasts. Foolish that the horses should worry him so much.
He had been eighteen at Balaclava. He had come up with a message from his own commander for Lord Cardigan in time to see that unspeakable charge. He remembered the wind in his face, the smell of blood, gunpowder, and the torn-up earth as six hundred and seventy-three men and horses galloped against the entrenched guns of the entire Russian position. He had sat his horse beside the craggy old men, bemused in the uproar, angry, while below them in the valley two hundred and fifty men and six hundred horses obeyed their orders and were slaughtered. His father was in the Eleventh Hussars, and was one of those who did not stagger back.
His uncle had been in the Ninety-third Highlanders, and held the “thin red line,” five hundred and fifty men between thirty thousand Russians and Balaclava itself. Like so many he had died where he stood. It had been he, Brandon, who had sat in the bitter cold of a trench to write to his mother to tell her her husband and her brother were dead. He could still feel now the agony of trying to find the words. Then he had gone on to fight at Inkerman, and the fall of Sebastopol. It had seemed then as if the whole tide of Asia were sweeping over them with the fetch of half the earth behind it.
Surely those not yet born would hear in their hearts the guns of these battles and feel the pride and the pain, the confusions-and the sweep of history? Could he be so inarticulate as to have lived it himself, and pass on nothing of the taste in the mouth, the beat of the blood, the tears afterward?
The young woman, Miss Ellison, seemed competent, and pleasant enough. Although perhaps “pleasant” was not the word. She was too definite in her attitudes and opinions to be entirely agreeable to him. But she was intelligent, that was beyond question. He was relieved of the necessity of having to explain anything more than once, in fact on occasion he had found she had seized the point before he had finished with a first instruction, which he had found faintly annoying. And yet she meant no harm, and she certainly gave herself no airs. Indeed, she appeared to be more than happy to eat in the servants’ hall, rather than put cook to the trouble of setting her a separate tray.
More than once she had actually made suggestions as to how he might proceed, which he had difficulty in accepting with grace. But he was obliged to admit that her ideas were quite good, in fact he had not actually thought of anything better himself. As he was sitting in the library now, he considered what he would write next, and what Miss Ellison might judge of it.
He was irritated to be interrupted by Max at the door to say that Mr. Southeron was in the morning room, wishing to see him, and was he at home?
He hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to be bothered with Reggie Southeron right now, but Reggie was a neighbor, and as such had to be tolerated. Not to do so would provoke reactions that would be endless, and cause all sorts of minor discomforts.
Max was waiting silently. His immaculate figure and calm smile annoyed him as much as the request he made. Wish Augusta would get rid of him and find someone else.
“Yes, of course,” he said tartly. “And you’d better bring something to drink-the Madeira, not the best.”
“No, sir,” Max withdrew, and a moment later Reggie came in, large, affable, clothes already settled in comfortable creases, although he could not have had them on for more than a couple of hours.
“Morning, Brandon,” Reggie said cheerfully, eyes glancing round the room, noting the fire, the comfortable, deep leather chairs, looking for the decanter and glasses.
“Good morning, Reggie,” Balantyne replied. “What brings you visiting on a Saturday morning?”
“Been meaning to see you for a while, actually.” Reggie sat down in the chair nearest the fire. “Not had a decent opportunity before; always something else going on, what? Place like a beehive lately.”
Balantyne had not, to this point, been paying more than nominal attention to him, but now he began to hear a note of strain in Reggie’s voice, and that in spite of his bonhomie, he had come about something specific that caused him an anxiety he was needing to share. Max would be back with the Madeira in a moment, and there was no point in approaching anything serious until he had gone.
“I gather you’ve been busy,” he said conversationally.
“Not me, really,” Reggie replied. “Those wretched police fellows, all over the damn place. Pitt, what’s-his- name, creeping around the servants’ halls, upsetting everything. Damnation, how I hate upheavals in the house. Servants all in a twitter. Great heavens, man, you must know how difficult it is to get decent servants and train them to the way you want them, to know your own tastes, and how to cater to them. Takes long enough. And then some damned fool thing like this has to happen, and before you know where you are, they’re all unsettled. It’s hard enough at any time to keep a good servant. Get ideas of bettering themselves. Fancy working for a duke or an earl, or something. Take an idea for foreign travel. Think they’re badly done by if they don’t get to spend the season in London, summer in the country, and the worst of the winter in the south of France! Wretched creatures take offense at the oddest things and before you know it they’re off! Deuce knows why, half the time; no loyalty. But doesn’t take a fool to know they’ll all go if this damned fellow Pitt goes on asking questions about their private lives and their morals, interfering and making suggestions.” His voice trailed off in exasperation as he anticipated a bleak winter of training new and unsatisfactory servants, cold rooms, burnt meals, unpressed clothes.
Balantyne did not think the eventuality in the least likely, although admittedly he did not especially value his creature comforts; but he did value his peace of mind. The domestic conflict such a crisis would provoke was truly appalling to contemplate. He did not like Reggie very much, they were as different as men could be; but he was sorry for the man’s obvious fears, unfounded though they might prove to be.
“Shouldn’t worry about it,” he said casually. Max came in with the decanter and glasses, set them down, and departed, closing the door silently. Reggie helped himself without being asked.
“Wouldn’t you?” Reggie demanded with a mixture of anxiety and offense.
“Not very likely.” Balantyne declined the Madeira. He did not like the stuff, and it was too early in the day. “No good servant is going to hand in notice because she’s asked a few questions, unless she’s already got another place to go to. And he’s pretty civil, this fellow Pitt. None of my household has complained.”
