Soldier of the Queen (17 page)

Brosy was watching him carefully, as though trying to read his thoughts. ‘What about that Baroness you met at the Exhibition in 1867?’ he asked. ‘She was a goer, I’ll be bound.’

Colby smiled. He couldn’t remember much about the Exhibition but he could remember a lot about the Baronne Buffet de Maël. The French ballet dancer had long since disappeared into the limbo of old lovers, but Germaine Buffet de Maël, who had taken her place, was twenty-six, tall, ice-white with black hair and huge dark eyes, and, he hadn’t the slightest doubt, had taken him only as the last in a long succession of lovers. She had married her baron at the age of seventeen, only to lose him on Napoleon III’s ill-fated expedition to Mexico from the
vomito negro
which had decimated the French army list, and, inheriting his fortune, had joined that select band of emancipated woman who slept with whom they liked and said what they liked. But, while she was prepared to go to bed with Colby, she didn’t wish to marry him, which was a complete reversal of the order of things decreed by the Rector’s daughter.

As he thought about her, suddenly the mess seemed dreary, and the barracks with their surrounding mean streets and alehouses infinitely drab.

The afternoon was spent on the Common. The course was a stiff one with a variety of obstacles, including banks and drop fences, and an eye had to be kept open for NCOs who took a sadistic pleasure in contriving falls. Colby had no time for pushing his men too far. Going down the jumping lanes with arms and stirrups crossed was fine for grip and balance but to make a man do it facing the horse’s tail was a sure way to destroy confidence and was worse for the horse than the man.

There was a wind and the horses were lively when they returned, kicking and squealing so that their riders learned by the hard way that bestriding an animal was less of a problem than its care and maintenance. One of them regularly resented the ministrations of the curry comb and could kick the stars out of the sky when in the mood. On occasions it even came over backwards, and it was always wiser to pass it with care.

‘A horse, you’ll find,’ Colby pointed out dryly to the nervous recruit who was trying to handle it, ‘is not only uncomfortable in the middle, it’s dangerous at both ends as well.’

Claude Cosgro was sprawled in an armchair in the mess, peevish and unhealthy-looking with his plump, pale face and the taut lines at the corner of his mouth. The bugger had never been a beauty, Colby thought clinically, and marriage to Georgina hadn’t improved him any more than marriage to him had improved Georgina.

‘What’s this about my young brother?’ he said, looking up. ‘He says you’ve given him duty officer for the rest of the week.’

‘Yes,’ Colby agreed briskly. ‘He neglected his job.’

‘For God’s sake–’ Cosgro’s cheeks reddened ‘–
nobody
tastes the meat!’

‘The officers of my squadron do!’

Cosgro stared at him with the dull look of a goaded bull. He’d always had too much money to spend, and his father, a baron now among the new titles that were springing up in industry, was of the same mould.

‘He’s supposed to be dining at home,’ he grated. ‘It’s a family celebration.’

‘In that case,’ Colby said. ‘I have no objection to him being there.’

Cosgro’s expression relaxed and Colby went on. ‘Provided,’ he continued, ‘that he can find someone to stand in for him.’ He spoke with grim satisfaction because Aubrey Cosgro was no more popular than his elder brother and would have the utmost difficulty in finding a stand-in.

Cosgro stared at him, his eyes hot and angry. ‘Sometimes you go too bloody far, Goff,’ he said.

The colonel was dining in the mess and after the meal called Colby over, offered him a brandy and took him towards the side of the fireplace. One of the younger lieutenants appeared at the other side all smiles, but the look the colonel gave him sent him blushing to another corner of the mess.

Colonel Canning, Brosy’s father-in-law, was a short square man with a white moustache and long whiskers who had fought in India and he made it clear he wished to talk in private.

‘Been asked to detach you to the Horse Guards,’ he said quietly.

Colby’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes. Matter of fact, I thought Brosy might like the job but, though I’m fond of Brosy and he’s a good husband to Grace, he’s not the man.’

Colby frowned. ‘I’m not sure I want to be at the Horse Guards, sir. I’m not even sure I want to be on the staff.’

The colonel snorted. ‘Then you’re a damn fool!’ he said. ‘It’s what every good officer should seek. Without staff experience you’ll end up like me – just a colonel.’

‘Commanding the regiment was my ambition, sir.’

‘Then it shouldn’t be. You’ve got more to you than that. Not all of us have. You’ll be reporting tomorrow, so you’d better not drink any more of that brandy.’

The gloomy mood was still on Colby as he left the mess. Picking up a passing growler, he headed towards Hounslow, stopping on the way at an alehouse for something to eat.

But the alehouse was smoky and drab and the absence of anyone of his own type made him feel lonely. It was a pity, he thought, that there weren’t more women like Brosy’s Grace about the world and a few less Georginas. Grace was understanding and easy-going – perhaps too easy-going for a Goff but right enough for Brosy – and suddenly he wished he could find a wife like her.

He thought nostalgically of Germaine de Maël once more. She was beautiful and intelligent and a cut above Caroline Matchett. Spoiled? Yes, but she was damned good in bed, which was something the British Housewives’ Association didn’t seem to think very proper when a marriage had been entered into. He’d probably enjoy being married to someone like Germaine, he thought. But – he hesitated – she’d want to live in London or Paris, and he couldn’t imagine being away for ever from the beloved northern acres of Braxby – or for that matter, the 19th, which had become for him an ambition, a trust and an obsession all at the same time. She’d probably even want him to resign his commission and he didn’t fancy that either. Finally, she was dreadful on a horse, though she was kindly and understanding, made love with a healthy bouncing enjoyment, and had a habit of being sorry for the middle-aged men who offered their fortunes for the privilege of her affection. It might be an idea to follow up Brosy’s idea after all. If, he thought gloomily, this new job at the Horse Guards didn’t preclude leave in Paris.

As he entered her house, Caroline Matchett was sitting by the fire alone, with a glass in her hand.

‘You should be getting your beauty sleep,’ Colby pointed out.

‘It’s too late for that now,’ she said. ‘I’m well past beauty.’

She pushed the decanter towards him and, as he poured himself a drink, he looked at her in the firelight and realised that what she said was right. Her features were beginning to crumble and there wasn’t much left but the smile. As he always did, he swore to himself that when he left he’d not come back.

‘Have you been drinking long?’ he asked.

‘About as long as you,’ she retorted.

He struggled out of his coat and threw it over a chair. ‘I have to go to the Horse Guards tomorrow. I expect it’s some bloody awful job they’ve found for me.’

She was smoking, one of the few women he knew apart from Germaine who smoked regularly. As she brushed ash from her skirt, she seemed depressed.

‘Do women often sit alone drinking brandy and soda?’ he asked.

‘This one does,’ she said. ‘There are a lot of bogeys about Coll. One especially: old age.’

‘It worries me, too, sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘And they might even eventually give the regiment to that ass, Cosgro.’

‘Never!’

His head jerked up. ‘You know him?’

She paused. ‘He’s been here.’

Suddenly he was angry. The thought that he shared her favours with the man he most disliked seemed insulting. ‘Does
he
think he’ll get the regiment?’

‘He thinks he has enough influence.’

Colby scowled. ‘He probably has,’ he admitted. He swallowed his brandy and poured a second. ‘I’ll see you get another bottle,’ he pointed out. ‘You can’t afford to keep thirsty cavalrymen in drink.’

‘I get a little help here and there.’

‘From Claude Cosgro?’

‘He’s not mean.’

‘Christ–’ suddenly the brandy was affecting his temper ‘–to think–’

She shut him up. ‘You’re conceited, Coll,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t he come here? Why shouldn’t I encourage him? I’m not wealthy and I haven’t many more years before
nobody
will come.’

Her mood depressed him. What she said was right and he felt sorry for her and just a little drunk. A thought struck him. ‘I heard Claude Cosgro was visiting a farmer’s wife here.’

She didn’t answer, staring him out.

‘Is it a farmer’s wife? Or is it you?’

Still she didn’t answer.

‘God damn it, is it? It’s been going on for years.’

Suddenly she was angry, too. ‘What do you expect? He has more money than you. And he doesn’t disappear into the blue like you do. Why shouldn’t he be a friend?’

‘I thought
I
was your friend.’

‘I can’t afford to have only
one
friend! It needn’t make any difference. You can stay.’

‘No.’ He stumbled to his feet. ‘I’d better go. I’m not angry. I just called – I – just to say I wouldn’t be coming any more.’

She laughed. ‘Because of Claude?’

It
was
because of Cosgro, but he couldn’t say so. He felt deprived, cheated and ashamed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s not that. I’m thinking of getting married.’

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘You! The confirmed bachelor!’ She laughed. ‘You’ll have her doubling round the bedroom like the riding master.’

He frowned, irritated. ‘I’ll be off.’

‘I’ll see you again.’

Her very certainty infuriated him more. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ he said.

She didn’t move, simply reaching over to pour herself another brandy. The maid met him in the hall and opened the door. As he fished in his pocket and laid his key on the hall table, she called his attention to it.

He smiled and gave her a sovereign. ‘I shan’t need it any more,’ he said.

When he reached Whitehall the following day, Colby was still in a bad temper. The porter at the Horse Guards took his name and vanished, to return shortly afterwards with a young officer in mufti.

‘You’re for Sir Garnet Wolseley!’ He made it sound like a prison sentence.

Colby followed him along a bleak brown corridor to a small drab room filled with maps, papers and books. ‘This the same Garnet Wolseley who ran the Red River Expedition?’ he asked.

The young man’s supercilious expression slipped a little. ‘Of course. I was with him. Perfect example of expert staff planning. Know him?’

‘Met him in Washington during the Civil War.’ Colby looked round the shabby little room. ‘What’s he doing here? I’d have thought he’d have deserved something better than this after the Red River.’

The young officer looked indignant. ‘So he should,’ he said. ‘He had a right to expect important employment. Instead he was placed on half pay.’

‘The Soldiers’ Pocket Book?’

Everybody in the army had read Wolseley’s compendium for officers and other ranks. It was crammed with practical advice and information, but his opinions on such touchy subjects as the capabilities of officers had stirred up regimental messes like disturbed ants’ nests.

‘What he said needed saying,’ the young officer said stiffly.

‘And now?’

‘Cardwell, the Secretary for War, brought him back. To review court martial procedures.’

Colby smiled. ‘And to lead the Secretary for War by the hand with his army reforms. Professional knowledge added to political skill.’

The man who appeared a moment later was small and not much older than Colby, with a slight limp, greying hair, and a brisk manner. He didn’t look much like a soldier with his receding chin and knowledgeable manner but there was something brisk and powerful about him that caught the attention at once. Like everybody else in the army, Colby knew Wolseley’s reputation: commissioned without purchase, he had advanced to his present rank without spending a penny on promotion. With half a dozen campaigns and five wounds under his belt, he was full of decided opinions on all aspects of equipping, managing and training the army, and it was widely accepted that he had a tremendous career in front of him – provided he wasn’t asked to resign first.

‘You were to have seen the Duke of Cambridge,’ he said briskly. ‘But he had to go to the palace, so you’re seeing me instead.’

‘I’m no expert on courts martial, sir,’ Colby said.

Wolseley smiled. ‘Neither am I. Sit down.’

As he found a chair, Colby noticed that a map of Europe was spread out on the desk, weighted at the corners with books.

‘Speak German?’ Wolseley asked.

Colby shrugged. ‘A little, sir,’ he said. ‘There were a lot of Germans in the Northern forces I was with. Even a few in the South. I picked it up.’

‘Nearly did for your career, too,’ Wolseley observed bluntly. ‘Getting mixed up in that business.’

Colby said nothing and Wolseley went on quickly. ‘How about French?’

‘About the same, sir. There were Georgia Frenchmen from Roswell in Love’s command. I picked it up in equal quantities.’

Wolseley placed his fingertips together in a steeple and studied Colby. ‘You know France well, I believe?’

‘I rode across it, sir. Last summer. Though I didn’t stop long enough to study it much.’

Wolseley nodded. ‘I heard about that. How about Paris?’

The words brought a wave of nostalgia back. Of all the cities Colby had visited, Paris was the most exciting and he suddenly felt an itch to see it again.

‘I’ve spent a lot of time there, sir,’ he said. ‘I was there for the Exhibition.’

‘What was your impression?’

What the deuce was all this, Colby thought.

‘I noticed some very big Krupp guns from Essen,’ he said.

‘And the review? You saw the military review? What did you think of that?’