The Brigadier's Daughter (27 page)

 

All that night she lay sleepless in bed, going over and over what Uncle Percy had said. She spent hours talking herself out of the growing insistence at the back of her mind that she must see Reid.

 

She awoke on Friday morning feeling overwrought, her head aching and eyes heavy from lack of sleep. She rose from the bed, dressed apathetically and went downstairs. Her father was already seated at the dining table, reading
The Times
, and not a word was said as she sat down, and a maid brought her a teapot and toast. They ate in silence, and then her father snapped his newspaper closed and departed, the atmosphere thick with tension. She sighed as the door banged behind him, and she poured her tea and sipped slowly from the cup.

 

Later that morning she went shopping on Oxford Street, purchasing new gloves and sketch paper, and chocolate peppermint creams from the confectioner's, returning home for an early lunch with her mother upstairs in her boudoir.

‘Your papa has gone out,' Olga murmured, dipping a crust of bread in her soup. ‘He is most distressed.'

‘Why?' Sasha asked with little interest, staring out as they sat at a small round table set in front of the window overlooking the green leafy chestnut trees of the square.

‘You know why, of course, Sasha dearest.' Olga waved her hand expansively. ‘All this—this commotion with Uncle Percy about Major Bowen.'

Her tone of voice reflected the dullness of her eyes as Sasha replied, ‘I doubt that, Mama. It's more likely he is worrying about a campaign somewhere.'

‘Sasha,' Olga reproved in her smoky voice, reaching for the peppermint creams and popping one in her mouth, ‘that is not a kind thing to say. Your papa worries very much about all you girls.' For a moment she studied her daughter, who sat so still and silent, gazing out at nothing, at least nothing that Olga could see, as she, too, glanced at the street below and the blue summer sky. After several considering moments, she spoke softly. ‘My dearest, darling Sasha, my beautiful girl, it hurts me to see you like this.'

Sasha turned her head to look at her mama. ‘Whatever do you mean?'

Olga smiled, her dark eyes fluid with emotion. ‘Do you think that no one sees? That
I
do not see? The light has gone out of you, ever since you came back from Russia with your Major Bowen.'

Sasha fiddled with a silver knife, her eyes downcast as she murmured, ‘He is not mine, Mama.'

‘What happened, Sasha?' Her mother spoke gently. ‘I thought it best not to ask, for you are a grown-up young woman and have the right to privacy, but I cannot bear to see you so alone and unhappy. Did he make love to you, Sasha?'

Sasha frowned, her head jerking up at this intimate enquiry. ‘Mama, what kind of question is that?'

‘Did he?'

Sasha sighed, her cheeks blushing rosy pink. ‘Yes.' As her mother gazed at her expectantly, she added, ‘And it was wonderful.'

‘You were alone together for many weeks, and Major Bowen is a very handsome and, ah, what is the word—?' She waved her hand about, even after all these years in England still occasionally struggling with the language.

‘Kind?' Sasha prompted.

‘No, no.' Her mother shook her head.

‘Strong?'

‘Yes, almost…virile!' Her dark black eyes snapped as she smiled, pleased to have grasped the right word. ‘A virile man, a manly man, as your papa would say. He would want more than just kisses, eh?'

‘Oh, Mother!' Sasha blushed even more, her eyes downcast.

‘What?' She shrugged with the expressiveness of her culture. ‘It is the truth. I think a man such as him, alone with a beautiful girl like my Sasha—'

‘I am not beautiful.'

‘You are, my dearest, not like Georgia, but beautiful in your own soft, quiet way. He has a place in your heart, has he not?'

She could not hide the truth from her mother, simply nodding her head.

‘I knew it! And you are in love with him?'

Tears suddenly spilled down Sasha's cheeks, as a surge of emotion, long suppressed, suddenly rose from within her heart and overflowed. She nodded again, unable to speak as the tears crowded hot and burning in her throat.

‘Then go,' her mother urged. ‘Go and see him. You could walk to Uncle Percy's house in ten minutes.'

Sasha shook her head. ‘No, I cannot.'

‘Why?'

‘He— He would be ruined. Disgraced. Court-martialled.'

‘What does that matter? Is not love more important? Love will always find a way. Go, quickly, before it is too late.'

Sasha looked up then, hesitating, yet in her mind's eye already seeing herself donning her cloak and running down the road, knocking on the door of the Earl of Clermount's mansion, being shown to the room where Reid would be, perhaps reading the paper by the fire, and he would rise and turn towards her… But then she shook her head, fearing the consequences of such an action. What would he say? How she regretted ever pretending to be Reid Bowen's wife! And now her penance would be to shun all thoughts of love and happiness, to live a quiet life and make amends for her disgraceful behaviour. She could never be with Reid. It was best just to let it go, let Reid go, and the memory would fade.

‘I can't, Mama.' Sasha rose from her seat and turned away, halting as her mother's hand clasped her wrist and stopped her in her tracks.

‘Why not, my love?'

‘Because—' Sasha hesitated, searching for the right words ‘—it would not be right. We behaved very badly, and now we must pay the price.'

‘Oh, pish!' Olga's elegant nose tilted to the ceiling. ‘Why, if I had not run after your father in the middle of a Russian winter as he was about to leave for England, we would not be married now. We would not have had all these wonderful years together, madly in love and blessed with our four beautiful girls.' She shook her daughter's wrist with insistence. ‘Go, Sasha, go to him. Quickly.'

With a regretful sigh Sasha freed herself from her mother's clasp. She went downstairs to the drawing room and forced herself to sit down at her embroidery frame. Carefully she opened her basket of threads and needles and selected one of each. It soothed her mind to concentrate on a matter that did not come easily to her. Several times she pricked her finger and had to undo untidy stitches. On the mantel the clock ticked gently, and chimed the hour with a delicate ting-ting-ting-ting-ting. Five o'clock. She glanced at the window—the light was still bright and clear. Just a few more stitches, she promised herself, then she would go upstairs and change for dinner. Yet her eyes flew constantly to the clock, and it seemed that each minute ticked by with agonising slowness. Would it never reach the half-hour? Why must time pass by so slowly? When she needed it to flash by with such speed that soon, quickly, she would be free from this torment that gripped her! The needle pricked her finger again, and this time she did not patiently grit her teeth.

‘Oh…damn!' Sasha exclaimed.

Suddenly she could bear it no more. She jumped to her feet and ran from the room. She wrenched open the heavy front door, quite forgetting her cloak, even her hat and gloves. Her soft leather slippers pattered on the stone steps leading down to the street, as she flew down them with a whirl of green skirts. She ran, as quickly as her legs would carry her, gasping for breath, all the way along the street and around the corner and down the next street, across the small garden in the middle of the square, across the rough cobbles of the street, until at last she came to
the shiny black front door of Uncle Percy's house. Raising her hand, she grasped the brass lion's head and rapped it firmly.

Her breath tore raggedly from her heaving ribs, and she waited, her heart pounding with more than just the exertion of running. She knocked again, several loud raps in quick succession, and then the door opened and she pushed past the butler, and into the hall.

‘Why, Miss Packard, good afternoon.' He closed the door, a little taken aback by the impetuous behaviour of this usually sedate young lady. ‘His lordship is not at home at the moment.'

‘I wish to see Major Bowen,' Sasha burst out, adding, ‘Please.'

He shook his head, with a regretful grimace. ‘I am sorry, Miss Packard, but both the Earl and Major Bowen have departed for Tilbury Docks.'

‘They've gone?'

‘Yes, miss.'

‘Already?'

‘Well, yes, miss.' He was a little puzzled by her question but stood politely and attentively. ‘Would you care to leave a message?' He indicated the pen and writing paper laid on a bureau.

A hot wave of colour suffused Sasha's cheeks and she turned back to the door, biting her lip with embarrassment. ‘No, thank you.'

The butler quickly moved to open the door for her, and watched with a slight frown as she descended the steps with shoulders bowed in defeat. He closed the door and stood pensively for a moment, deep in thought. Then, despite Sasha's denial, he stooped to the notepaper and wrote,
Miss Packard called
.

Unbeknownst to him, those three small words would change everything.

 

Returning home, Sasha went upstairs to her room and sat down on the edge of the bed, facing the window and staring blankly into space. The light was fading now, the shadows
stretching from the trees and across the street, casting her in their bleakness. Reid was gone. She would never see him again. And yet he was never far from her mind. Tears ran silently down her face, but she did not sob. It was over. She must face the truth of it and turn her thoughts, her feelings, her very life, elsewhere. For a wild moment she thought of what she could do to escape from the pain and desolation of her loneliness, envisaging herself following in the footsteps of Florence Nightingale and nursing sick soldiers in desperate conditions. Or perhaps going to Africa and bringing the Bible to the poor people there. Surely in those conditions, far from home, she would be able to forget?

Her father insisted the family always sat down to eat dinner together, and though she would have much preferred a tray in her room, Sasha dutifully descended the stairs and took her place at the table. Her parents conversed quietly, trying not to make it obvious that she was their cause for concern, but failing to hide the numerous glances that came her way. The fish had just been served when there was a sudden commotion, raised voices in the hallway, and the dining-room door burst open. The Earl of Clermount brushed aside Lodge as he rushed in, black cape whirling, still wearing his top hat and carrying his ebony walking cane in a most decisive manner.

‘Sasha!' He came at once to her side and with one hand grasped her upper arm, lifting her from her chair. ‘If we hurry, we may just make it in time!'

Her knife and fork fell from her hands, clattering with a jarring noise onto her plate. The Brigadier rose from his seat, exclaiming loudly at just what the hell was going on?

‘No time now, Conrad, old boy, got to get Sasha to Tilbury.'

‘But—' Sasha gasped, watching her starched white napkin flutter to the floor as Uncle Percy dragged her bodily from the dining room and into the hallway.

Here Lodge was ready with her cloak and helped her to don it whilst in motion.

‘Don't worry,' Uncle Percy called over his shoulder to the astonished onlookers of family and servants, ‘I'll look after her.'

Sasha hurried alongside him as they rushed down the steps, fearing that if she did not she would fall and injure herself, and then he was urging her into his carriage, one hand in the small of her back. She barely had a moment in which to sit down before he rapped his cane on the ceiling and with a lurch, a crack of the whip and a shout from the driver, they set off at great speed and Sasha clutched at Uncle Percy's arm, both in alarm and consternation.

‘Where are we going?' she gasped.

‘To the docks at Tilbury. With any luck we will get there before the ship sails.'

As the coach rattled onwards Uncle Percy frequently poked his head out of the window to harangue unfortunate pedestrians, coal-carts and hackney cabs, urging his coachman to hurry.

Sasha raised her voice above the noise of the thundering wheels. ‘Uncle Percy, I really don't think this a very good idea.'

‘Oh?' He glanced keenly at her from the corner of his eye, half hanging out of the window. ‘Why do you say that? You did come to the house to see Reid, did you not? I am sorry we were not there, but I had an unexpected invitation to the opera, so we left early.'

‘Well, yes, I did, but—'

‘Just as I thought.' He turned back to the window, raising his voice to bellow, ‘You there, get out of the way, can't you see this is an emergency?'

Sasha cringed, blushing with embarrassment and hoping that no one would recognise them. The Packards' reputation was hanging in the balance at the moment and she hated to think what her father would say if he knew about this mad dash through London. As they drew closer to their destination, Sasha, too, began to peer out of the window on her side of the coach, but it was not with eagerness, her emotions leaning more towards anxiety and wide-eyed terror. It had been several weeks since
she had last seen Reid, pretending a callous disregard for him and sending him away. What on earth would he say to her now?

The carriage drew to a shuddering halt, the coachman jumped down to unfold the steps, but Uncle Percy had already flung the door open and leapt out, urging Sasha to follow him and firmly grasping her elbow as they plunged onto the crowded quayside. The vast side of a ship loomed above them, and the quay was a dangerous obstacle course, the poor lighting from paraffin lamps making little impression on the gloom of dusk. More than once she bumped into the sharp corner of a trunk or knocked against the ankles of an urchin perched artfully on a bale or barrel. There was a dank smell of water, rotting timber and other odours she did not care to identify.