Think of England (2 page)

Impressive
, Curtis thought, then frowned in an effort at memory. “Were you at Oxford?”

Holt smiled, pleased to be recognised. “Keble. A couple of years below you.”

“Mr. Holt took a boxing blue as well,” Lady Armstrong put in.

“Of course. I’ll have seen you in…Fenton’s?”

“On Broad Street, yes. I wasn’t in your league, though,” Holt said with cheerful frankness. “I was at your fight with Gilliam. Superb match.”

Curtis grinned reminiscently. “Hardest fight of my life.”

“You two may talk boxing all you like when I’ve completed the introductions,” Lady Armstrong put in. “Mr. Curtis, this is Mr. da Silva.”

Curtis looked at the gentleman indicated and decided on the spot that he’d rarely seen a more dislikable man.

He was about Curtis’s age and just a few inches shorter, close to six foot, but with nothing of his own bulk. A slender, willowy sort, and very dark, with sleek and glossy black hair, brilliantined to within an inch of its life, and eyes of such a deep shade that it was nearly impossible to tell pupil from iris. His skin was olive-tinted against his white shirt. In fact, he was quite obviously some kind of foreigner.

A foreigner and a dandy, because while his shirt was impeccable and the tailcoat and tapering trousers cut to perfection, he was wearing a huge green glass ring and, Curtis saw with dawning horror, a bright green flower in his buttonhole.

Da Silva walked a few steps over, giving Curtis just enough time to register that he affected a sinuous sort of movement, and offered him a hand so limp that he struggled not to drop it like a dead animal.

“Charmed,” drawled da Silva. Somewhat to Curtis’s surprise, his accent was that of an Englishman of breeding. “A military gentleman and a pugilist, how delightful. I do enjoy spending time with our brave boys.” He gave Curtis a curling smile and moved away, snake-hipped, taking Lady Armstrong with him as the party formed little groups.

“Well. Who’s that chap?” asked Curtis quietly.

“Dreadful dago,” said James, not quietly. “I’ve no idea why Sophie tolerates the man.”

“Oh, he’s terribly amusing, and so clever.” The pretty Miss Carruth smiled at Curtis. “I’m Fenella Carruth, in case you didn’t catch all those names. How do you know the Armstrongs? Through your uncle? He sounds like a wonderful man.”

They made small talk about that and Miss Carruth’s industrialist father, who had designed Peakholme’s telephone exchange, before they were called in to dinner. Curtis found himself seated between Miss Carruth and the drab Mrs. Lambdon, with his fellow Oxford man Holt on Miss Carruth’s other side. The younger lady was sparkling with witty repartee, daring without ever going beyond the bounds, and Holt returned some dashingly flirtatious comments. He was making his interest in Miss Carruth clear; her responses were flattering enough but neatly brought in both Curtis and James Armstrong, seated opposite, inviting them to compete for her attention. It seemed she liked to have a following of suitors.

Curtis couldn’t bring himself to play along. He could imagine his Uncle Maurice’s groaning despair at his lack of enthusiasm: Miss Carruth was a pretty, pleasant and wealthy young woman, just the sort he ought to be looking for, now he had no reason not to settle down. But he felt no desire to cut the other two men out and couldn’t have done it if he’d wanted to, since he had never been gifted at flirtation or banter and had no idea how people came up with quick, clever remarks and retorts. He managed a couple of appropriate responses, for the sake of appearances, but his concentration was on the tiresome demands of manipulating cutlery with his damaged hand, and on watching the company.

They seemed a normal country-house set. The Graylings and Lambdons looked to be unremarkable couples; the two single ladies were very pleasant. James Armstrong and Peter Holt were typical young men about town, James with more money, Holt with more brains. Da Silva stood out from the company as one of the “Bloomsbury” sort popping up in society like mushrooms, effete, artistic, disconcertingly modern to a solid Victorian soul like Curtis. It was quite clear why Lady Armstrong had invited the fellow, though. He had an astonishingly quick tongue, and his witty, waspish remarks set the whole company laughing on several occasions throughout the meal. Curtis didn’t find him any more likeable for it—he had spent three years at Oxford avoiding those poisonous decadent types, with their vicious remarks and knowing smiles—but all the same, he had to admit the fellow was amusing. Only Holt’s chuckles seemed rather perfunctory. Maybe he was concerned that da Silva would outshine his own conversation in front of Miss Carruth. Curtis didn’t think he needed to worry about a rival there.

There was nobody of Sir Hubert’s age present: his wife filled the house with guests of her own generation. Perhaps her husband felt younger for the company. It was hard to tell, since he made few remarks, but he beamed pleasantly enough on his guests, and the conversation flowed without difficulty until the ladies departed the table and their host called for port.

“I say, Curtis,” Grayling said, passing the decanter. “Do I understand you were in the war?”

“I was.”

“Injured?” Lambdon gestured at his hand.

Curtis nodded. “At Jacobsdal.”

“What was that, a battle?” asked Grayling. He was a little the worse for wine and trying to disguise it by attempting intelligent questions.

“No. Not a battle.” Curtis poured himself a glass of port, gripping the neck of the decanter with his finger and thumb, his left hand under it to support its weight.

“No, that’s right, it was the sabotage business, wasn’t it?”

“That was never proved.” Sir Hubert’s tone was intended to quell that line of conversation.

Curtis ignored the hint. He hated talking about this subject, hated thinking about it, but this was what he was here for, and there might not be another opportunity, not with Sir Hubert so evidently unwilling to discuss it. “My company was at Jacobsdal waiting for reinforcements when we got a shipment of supplies. Much needed.”

“The supply lines in the war were dreadful,” said Lambdon, with all the authority of a man who’d read newspapers.

“We were hoping for boots, we got a few crates of guns. A new sort. Lafayette manufacture. They were welcome enough, of course. We had a few days in hand and any amount of ammunition supplied, so we thought we’d best get used to them. We shared them amongst ourselves and spread out to give them a try.”

He stopped there, taking a gulp of port to disguise the sudden tightening of his throat, because even all these months on, the words brought back the smell. The scent of Africa’s hot dry earth, and the cordite, and the blood.

“And the guns were faulty.” Sir Hubert clearly wanted this story over with.

“Not the word, sir. They burst in our hands. Exploding all over the field.” Curtis lifted his gloved right hand, just slightly. “I lost three fingers when the stock of my revolver blew. The man next to me—” Lieutenant Fisher, that warm, laughing redheaded Scot who had been his tentmate for two years, falling to his knees, mouth open in bewilderment as blood poured from the shattered mess of his wrist. Dying, there on the field, as Curtis tried to reach him, holding out the bloody ruin of his own hand for a touch that would never happen.

He couldn’t speak of that. “It was a damned business. My company lost as many men in two minutes’ practice firing than in six months of war before it.” Seven deaths on the field; six more in the field hospital; two suicides, later. Three men blinded. Mutilations and amputations. “The entire crate of guns was deadly.”

“
Inappropriately
deadly,” da Silva murmured.

Lambdon asked, “Was anything ever proved against the Lafayette company, Hubert?”

“The inquiry was inconclusive.” Sir Hubert’s face had been serious throughout Curtis’s recital, hearing the story with distaste, but nothing more. “The manufacturing process was at fault, of course, the walls of the chambers were catastrophically weak, but nobody found it to be anything but an accident.
I
never believed it was anything else. Lafayette was mad for economy, all of us in the trade knew that. Always finding ways to squeeze an extra penny from a pound. There needs be no more to it than that he cut one corner too many.”

James Armstrong put on a knowing look. “But you didn’t like his politics, did you, pater? I thought you said he didn’t support the war.”

Sir Hubert gave his son a frown. “Nothing was ever found against him, and the man’s dead.”

“Dead? What happened to him?” Grayling asked.

“He was found floating in the Thames, a couple of weeks ago,” said Sir Hubert heavily. “He must have slipped and fallen in.”

James made a sceptical noise. “We all know what that means. Guilt, if you ask me.”

Sir Hubert frowned. “Enough of this. John, were you at Goodwood for the last race?”

Lambdon’s answer turned the talk to sport, and most of the company were soon exchanging remarks on their preferred activities. Curtis and Holt had a fair few boxing acquaintances in common, and the familiar talk relaxed him, driving the more recent memories away. The others discussed shooting and cricket. Da Silva did not join in the conversation, but sat with a faint, abstracted smile that radiated polite boredom, and sipped the excellent port with the air of a man who would have preferred absinthe.

What a bloody pansy
, Curtis thought.

It was a perfectly standard social evening, but in no way a fruitful one, and as he worked the studs out of his collar that night, Curtis had to admit to his reflection that he had no great idea how to change that.

Chapter Two

The next morning was a bright blue October day, the sun spilling yellow over the surrounding hills and peaks, and Lady Armstrong had plans for her guests.

“A march over the hills, to be followed by a picnic lunch, my dears.” She clapped her hands. “Blow away those cobwebs. We have plenty of walking things in all sizes.” She dragooned the company irresistibly, until she came up against two immovable objects.

Curtis was the first. “It sounds marvellous, but I can’t chance it. I took a bullet in the knee at Jacobsdal.” A stray round from a panicking colleague, tearing through his leg even as he stared at his ruined hand. “It’s much better these days but rough terrain is tricky, and train journeys play hob with it. I should rest it today if I’m to be up for the rest of the week.”

“Oh, but we can order the carriage—or a horse?”

“There’s no need to take the trouble. I’ve plenty of reading to catch up on.” Curtis spoke as firmly as he could, hoping she wouldn’t argue.

“I shall keep Mr. Curtis company,” came a silky voice over his shoulder.

Curtis repressed a grimace. Lady Armstrong frowned. “Now, really, Mr. da Silva, you must have some fresh air and exercise.”

“My dear lady, my constitution would scarcely survive such a thing. Simply
inhaling
in the countryside is as much exertion as I can bear. All that healthful freshness, so bad for the soul.” Da Silva shuddered dramatically. Miss Carruth giggled. “No; I shall apply myself to my labours. I must toil.”

“At what?” Curtis felt compelled to ask.

“The poetical art.” Da Silva was resplendent in a green velvet jacket this morning. He also, Curtis could not help observing, wore trousers far too close-cut for what most people would call decency, the cloth tight on what was admittedly, but all too obviously, a well-shaped form. Good God, could the fellow be any more blatant about his tastes?

“Poetical art?” he repeated, and saw Holt’s mock-despairing shake of the head.

“I have the honour to edit Edward Levy’s latest volume.” Da Silva paused invitingly. Curtis gave him a blank look. Da Silva raised his dark eyes heavenwards. “The Fragmentalist. The
poet
. You’re not familiar—? Of course not. Ah, well, genius is not often recognised. And you may prefer to draw your intellectual sustenance from Mr. Kipling’s barrack-room ballads, which are perhaps more to a man of action’s taste. They
rhyme properly
, I’m so very often informed.”

He waved a graceful hand at Lady Armstrong and drifted out, leaving Curtis staring open-mouthed.

“Of all the—” He stopped himself.

“Rotten dago queers,” James Armstrong finished for him, with more accuracy than good manners. “I bar that man. Honestly, Sophie, why you have to invite him—”

“He’s a poet himself, you know,” said Lady Armstrong. “Terribly clever. So modern.”

“He’s terribly good looking too,” Fenella Carruth offered, with a demure look at her companion. “Don’t you think, Pat?”

“Handsome is as handsome does,” said Miss Merton with severity. “Too flashy by half, if you ask me.”

The walking party set off fortified by a huge breakfast, leaving Curtis and da Silva in possession of the house. Da Silva announced his intention of settling in the library to commune with his muse. Curtis, feeling sorry for the muse, said that he preferred to explore the house and acquaint himself with its features.

He did plan to explore, but it was not modern amenities that he was looking for.

Sir Hubert’s study door was open. Curtis slipped in and turned the key in the door to lock himself inside. His heart was pounding and his mouth dry.