Speak Its Name: A Trilogy (8 page)

He could feel Darling’s gaze upon him, knew the thoughtful look that would be on his sergeant’s face. “Very much, my lord,” Darling said at last. “But would you give odds on our chance of seeing a peaceful life?”

“No,” Scoville said. “Not really.” Nor any life at all, he added silently. He caught a small movement off in the direction of General Burrows’ headquarters; his spyglass revealed the General’s messenger leaving the command tent, and he knew what the message would be.

“Won’t be long now.” Scoville put away the glass. Ten minutes of quiet remained, perhaps fifteen. Another few hours of life? It might not even be that long. “Sergeant?” He ducked into his tent with Darling on his heels.

Everything inside had been packed up; his camp-desk stood ready to throw on a pack mule. “I think we deserve a last drink, don’t you?” He unscrewed the lid on his hip-flask and filled the shot-sized cap for Darling. “Here’s to dying in our beds in 1950.”

“Yes, my lord. I’ll look forward to it.”

The brandy went down elegantly. Napoleon brandy, it was; Scoville had won the bottle from a brother officer in a card game in Herat. “Have another, Sergeant. No point in wasting it. The enemy will only pour it out if they get their bloody teetotalling hands on it.”

“Can’t have that, my lord.” Darling did his duty, handed the cap back and straightened his shoulders. “Shall I tell the men to make ready, then?”

“Yes. It’s time.”

Darling gave him a crisp salute. Scoville returned it, and they both went back out into the blistering sun.

The battle began slowly, as such things always did, men moving into position and advancing until the first shot unleashed the thunder. Scoville had never seen anything like it—hundreds, thousands of shrieking Afghans in their sloppy tribal attire, with their deadly efficient weapons raised high. The first row fell to British fire. The rest leapt over the bodies and kept coming, faster than the riflemen could reload. Within minutes the fight deteriorated into desperate hand-to-hand combat.

And then the battle rose up like a living thing and tore them to pieces. In no time at all Burrows’ forces were outflanked, their ammunition spent, the disciplined lines splintering apart as the tribesmen came on and kept coming, a seemingly endless flow of swords and knives and fury. The heat and dust increased a hundredfold; sanity fled in the dull roar of howling attackers and screaming wounded. The only constant was Jack Darling at his side as the two of them tried to maintain enough control of their men to manage an orderly retreat, using their rifles as clubs.

Scoville caught a movement from the corner of his eye—more Afghans cutting into their squadron from the right.

“Major, behind you!”

He started to turn. Then something slammed into him, and the world went dark.

Return to TOC

May, 1891

The Continental Express, transiting Germany

The sudden clash of steel woke Lord Robert Scoville from a troubled doze. His head jerked up, and for a confused moment he looked around for the enemy. Then he realised that the sound was not the clash of arms, but just his hired railway carriage rumbling over a switch point, the metallic rattle and rumble merely the wheels on the track and the links between cars. He was a decade and a continent away from that old horror, somewhere between Zurich and Salzburg, lounging about in a private car in which everything was modern and agreeable. The comfortable divan upon which he sat would, come evening, be transformed into an equally comfortable bed. His man—for not only had Darling survived, he’d accepted Scoville’s offer of employment—was in an adjoining compartment, ready to supply anything His Lordship might require.

The newspaper he had been reading was folded neatly beside him, and a small brocade cushion had been tucked between his face and the window against which he was leaning. Obviously, Darling had found him asleep and tidied up rather than waking him, as he occasionally did if Scoville dozed off in his study at home.

Darling was a treasure, without question. His unobtrusive competence allowed Scoville to maintain his town home with only a housekeeper and maid who went back to their families in the evening and additional hired help for the occasional party. The peace and solitude were balm for Scoville’s soul. He no longer wished, as he had in his childhood, to be poor enough that he didn’t require servants trooping through the house at all hours. One man was all he needed. The right man.

Scoville occasionally wondered about Darling’s origins; he’d never been able to tease the secret out of the man himself. It sometimes seemed as though Sergeant Jack Darling had materialised from the ethers in full uniform when the regiment first assembled, but Scoville suspected an investigation would reveal his gentleman’s gentleman as a gentleman in blood at least. He might be a younger son disgraced or strayed, or possibly the indiscretion of some nobleman who’d had the decency to see that the boy got a good education.

It would be possible to hire someone to investigate Darling’s past, of course, but that would be a betrayal of trust. Better to wait, observe, and see if he could eventually solve the mystery on his own. He hadn’t really made an effort in that direction, though. There weren’t many clues.

Darling had made the transition to civilian life without so much as a blink. His careful attention to uniform regulations and placement of insignia was transformed into a scrupulous exactitude regarding what a self-respecting gentleman was required to wear, enforcing his dictates with a deference that held a touch of gentle mockery. Always inclined to comfort rather than fashion, Scoville allowed himself to be bullied in matters of haberdashery. Darling’s taste in such matters was impeccable.

Darling himself was no chore to look at, either—strongly built without being bulky, thick dark hair neatly trimmed, eyes a surprisingly dark blue, a pleasantly shaped mouth in a pleasantly arranged face, and throughout it all a spark of intelligence and humour that belied the man’s less than lofty occupation. He moved with the grace of a dancer or an athlete; he would have looked perfectly at home sitting in Parliament or at the head of his own firm. Why he chose to devote his considerable talents to making Lord Robert Scoville’s life comfortable was another minor mystery, but his lordship was content to let that one lie. A pity he couldn’t just marry the man—Darling would have made a splendid life’s companion, without the trouble of children or feminine vapours.

Scoville warned himself off that line of thought. Discreet Darling might be, a pleasure to gaze upon, loyal as a bulldog, even willing to turn a blind eye to his master’s occasional male guest who stayed the night and shared His Lordship’s bed. That was more than a man of Scoville’s unconventional sexual habits could reasonably expect, and Darling had never given any hint that he might be willing to consider a more personal sort of service.

And that was just as well, wasn’t it? If that particular question were ever raised, it would forever affect their relationship, might even destroy it. The principle that Scoville always followed in the army,
A good officer keeps his hands off his privates
, was just as sensible a maxim in civilian life. One did not make advances to an employee whose livelihood depended on pleasing his employer.

Lord Robert had an ingrained awareness of his own privilege—not a sense of entitlement, but the sure knowledge that he’d done nothing to earn the good fortune that was his by birth. He had seen too many working-class heroes to think that his title made him better than the soldiers who had fought and died beside him, and he abhorred slavery, whatever its disguise. He might have paid for sexual services on occasion, but only in fair trade; he had never bedded an unwilling companion and never intended to.

Particularly not someone whose friendship he valued. If he looked at the matter squarely, Darling was perhaps the best friend he’d ever had. He could think of no one he trusted more or would rather have at his side in a tight spot. If he asked Darling for more than the man was willing or able to give, he’d lose him, certain sure—and he did not want to lose Jack Darling. How could one replace the irreplaceable?

This would all have been so different if they had met as equals. He could give the man a look, say, “Well, Jack, how about it?” and go from there—or go nowhere at all.

But at least that way he would know. As it was, the forces of social convention could be a straightjacket for a man with principles.

Still, there were things one couldn’t alter, so any invitation would have to come from Darling himself, and Scoville wasn’t about to hold his breath waiting. Darling had never given the slightest indication that he might dance on that side of the ballroom; he always seemed to have a flirtation going with some pretty housemaid or shopgirl, and he came home very late on his nights off.

Scoville couldn’t name the girl, but he knew there must be one. Sooner or later, his comfortable existence would have to make allowances for a Mrs. Darling and possibly a brood of little Darlings as well. It was a daunting prospect, but he could hardly deny the man a chance for a normal life. Perhaps a detached cottage in the back garden would suffice to quarantine wedded bliss away from bachelor comforts.

At any rate, Darling’s hypothetical love life and possible future were far afield from where Scoville needed to focus his thoughts. Although he was a gentleman of leisure, noblesse did require him to oblige at times by combining his genuine love of travel with the odd errand on Her Majesty’s behalf. These were usually minor chores, no real inconvenience, and this trip was no exception. Scoville had already intended to visit the newly opened conservatory at the University of Vienna. Years in the building, it was said to be the finest botanical conservatory on the Continent, and if it was true that they’d acquired tropical plants that no one in England had ever seen, he wanted to be among the first to lay eyes on them.

Half his duty to his country would be discharged when he had assured an unreliable member of a foreign court that England very much supported him even though the political climate required that the Queen’s public attitude was one of disapproval. Of course the Baron knew perfectly well that Her Majesty would chuck him under the train if necessary. Everyone knew their steps in this little dance, but the steps must be performed nonetheless. He could attend to that in a single afternoon.

It was the second part of his mission that was likely to produce complications. Mr. Smythe—of course that wasn’t his name, Scoville knew the gentleman’s name perfectly well, as did any Englishman who read the
Times
—had gently hinted that one of Scoville’s old acquaintances had been gathering useful information in Paris and would pass it along to his former Army chum in a little cafe in Vienna. The missive would be nothing much, only a few pages, small enough to tuck into a book or magazine. Not worth mentioning to any border guards, of course.

It would have been nice to know the chum’s name. “You’ll recognise him from your days in the Service.” Lovely. Scoville had known a number of men when he’d worn the uniform of the British Empire. Many of them were dead. And some of those still among the living were not men he wanted to see again. “Smythe” claimed he could not reveal the contact’s identity because he did not know it; Scoville translated that to mean that he himself was not to know who he was meeting until they were face to face.

That secrecy told him something about his current errand. Whatever this was about, it went well beyond what he had been led to believe would be expected of him back when he’d agreed to act as a messenger without portfolio. This was not just a matter of passing along “unofficial” official messages. When he started acting as a courier of secret materials gathered in foreign countries, presumably without the permission of the countries’ governments—that, however delicately one phrased it, was espionage. Espionage was not a healthful activity for a gentleman who preferred the quiet life.

The connecting door to Darling’s compartment opened with a discreet click. “Good afternoon, my lord,” his man said. “A pleasant nap, I trust?”

“Yes, thanks. All the better for it.”

“Would your lordship prefer to go to the dining car, or shall I procure a menu?”

Scoville yawned, considering, and decided he should be up and about. “The dining car, by all means. I need the exercise. You go on ahead and find a table for us, please. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Scoville rose and stretched. It had been a pleasant, uneventful trip and the scenery was interesting, a trip backwards in time. France had been charming in her springtime dress, but as they ascended into the Alps the land went back to winter’s drab white and brown. Now, with the train circling north of the highest elevations, spring was returning. He could see patches of land showing the first touches of green where the snow was beginning to melt away.

But it was all just pictures from here inside the car as it rolled steadily across the countryside. Scoville was looking forward to standing on a floor that wasn’t swaying. He loved walking outdoors, especially in this season, with the scent of warm earth and spring rain.

It did look fine outside, good weather for a postprandial cigar on the dining car’s rear platform. He patted his pockets, realised his cigar case was in his trunk in Darling’s compartment, and made a detour through the connecting door to fetch it. If the cuisine in the dining car was any portent of things to come, it wasn’t espionage that would put him at risk. The only danger he was certain to face was the tightening of his waistcoat if he lingered too long in the coffeehouses indulging in the fine flaky Viennese pastry.

When he awoke some time later with a blinding headache, that idiot optimism was the last thing he remembered.

~

As he made his way to the dining car, Jack Darling noted that two more passenger cars had been added during their stop in Munich, shortly after breakfast. All to the good, that. The additional corridors provided a few dozen yards more exercise to whet the appetite for a meal as good as or better than what they’d find at home. A word with the maitre d’ on their first afternoon aboard, with a sovereign tucked into the parting handshake, had ensured them a good table and prompt service. And, just as he’d expected, their usual table was ready and waiting.