CHAPTER 8

Frances caught an early morning train to Grenville. She did enjoy train travel, watching the world pass by and wondering about the other passengers. Were they going home or visiting friends and relations? On business or on holiday? What were they hoping to find at the other end?

She was the only one who got off the train at Grenville, a sleepy village that probably saw more freight than passenger traffic from the neighboring farms. With her small bag, she found herself alone in the empty station, but then an older man, heavily bearded, approached her. He wore rustic clothes and walked with a slight limp.

“Lady Frances Ffolkes? I’m Tredwell, the general’s manservant. He sent me to fetch you. I’m afraid there’s no car or coach here, just a simple pony cart, if you don’t mind. It’s about five miles to the house.”

“Thank you, Tredwell. I am sure your cart will be most acceptable.” He easily helped her onto the seat next to him and cracked the reins. The horse ambled on, clearly in no hurry. Frances truly didn’t mind. They had had such a cart in their country place. When they were children, Charles would take the reins, but if she pleaded enough, he’d give her a turn.

“My brother served under General Audendale. Perhaps you knew him—Major Charles Ffolkes—and his great friend, Major Daniel Colcombe?”

“That I did, my lady. A fine man, your brother, by all accounts. An important figure in London, the general says. And I knew Major Colcombe, too, my lady.” He scowled, and his face grew black. “That was a hard day for the general. He doesn’t like to travel much anymore, but he came up to London for his funeral. He had too much respect not to. That’s the way he’s always been, my lady. He has always put duty and honor first.” Frances remembered the general at the funeral, walking with a cane and looking frail.

He stopped speaking, and Frances was sorry she had led him into such a painful subject. But Tredwell brightened when she asked him if he had been with the general long.

“I was a green recruit, and if you can keep a secret, my lady, the general was a young lieutenant who didn’t know one end of a rifle from another.” They both laughed at that. “Eventually, he took me on as his soldier-servant, my lady, what we in the army call a ‘batman.’”

They had been together ever since, more than forty years, through transfers and promotions and wars. A bullet in India had ended Sergeant Tredwell’s military career, but General Audendale kept him on as a sort of assistant/valet. They traveled together to South Africa for what would be the aging general’s last command.

“I have been blessed to have such a good master all these years,” said Tredwell. “It’s rare in this world to meet such a gentleman, my lady. I would do anything for him.”

“From what I see, he has also been blessed to have you.”

“That is very kind of you to say, my lady.”

As they approached Egdon Hall, the seat of the Audendale family, Frances thought back to what she knew of architectural history. The main section had gone up during the Stuart era, she guessed, in the seventeenth century, but the family had added on sections during the Georgian period that followed. Frances imagined a large central hall that had once held elaborate balls. She thought of the shocking tango—this house had no doubt held dances when even the waltz was considered risqué. But now, the house looked dark and a little unloved. The grounds were barely tended, the minimum done, with no flowers. Tredwell noticed her look.

“Yes, there are only a few servants left now. The general is alone here. Most of the house is closed up.”

Frances knew General Audendale had been a widower for a long time. He had one daughter, but she lived in India with her husband, who had a government appointment in Bombay. She was glad he and Tredwell had each other. They probably played cards and drank whiskey in the evening and relived battles past.

The main hall was indeed splendid, with some good oil paintings that could’ve used a cleaning. Sheets kept the furniture free from dust.

“Just follow me, my lady. We’ve set the general up right nice in a little apartment on the second floor.” The staircase was grand, but the carpet was getting worn. They walked along a hallway past closed doors before stopping at one. Tredwell knocked, then walked in without waiting for an answer.

They had done the general nice, as Tredwell had said. Here, at least, it was cheerful. The general had a little sitting room with a bedroom beyond. It reminded her of her own suite at Miss Plimsoll’s. It was well lit, and the walls were covered with framed pictures and photos, memorabilia of people and places in the far corners of the empire. She saw more photos and knickknacks on the table, including some exotic pieces. But despite the number of items, Frances was glad to see the room was clean and tidy.

General Audendale himself seemed to have become even more frail than she had remembered him from the funeral. He sat in a large comfortable chair and seemed to disappear into it. He wore a smoking jacket, and his legs were covered with blankets. He had become quite thin.

Still, he seemed to recognize her at once and smiled.

“You bring me a visitor, Tredwell, good man!” His voice was weak but still audible. “Lady Frances, I remember you as a little girl. I knew your father and commanded your brother. But you know that. Come, sit near me. Tredwell, be a good lad and see about getting this young lady some refreshment.”

But a maid had been alerted when they arrived and a moment later came in carrying a tray with a large pot of tea and some tempting baked goods. The maid and Tredwell set it up. Tredwell leaned over and whispered to Frances, “We’d all be most grateful, my lady, if you could get the general to eat something,” he said. Then louder, he said, “General, sir, we’ll leave you with your guest. We’ll be close at hand if you need anything.” And he and the maid left.

Frances poured for the general and herself, giving him plenty of sugar.

“My staff has outdone themselves today, dear lady. Please have something.”

“Only if you do first,” said Frances with a sweet smile. “Come, these buns look divine.” The general said he could refuse her nothing and joined her.

“So a young girl like you comes all the way here for a book poor Colcombe was writing?” asked the general. He closed his eyes, but just for a moment or two. “That was such a sad day. Funerals are always sad, but his . . . Anyway, as you can see, I don’t know how much use I can be. It’s just me and my memories.”

“But it’s your memories I want, General.” She gave him more details, telling him that Colcombe had written something but it had been stolen.

“Indeed. I am sorry to hear that. He was an intelligent man, as well as being a brave and resourceful officer. I am sure that book would’ve been a fine addition to military literature.”

“I think we may still find it, General. But that means figuring out why it was stolen. I think someone doesn’t want what Major Colcombe wrote to be publicly known. And that may refer to something that happened in South Africa.”

The general was looking at her intently. Even when sipping his tea, his eyes never left her.

“I think it may refer to Sapphire River, the last battle of the Empire Light Horse.”

“My God, dear Lady Frances. How did you ever hear about that? It seems like ages ago. Tell me, my dear, what do you know about the Crimean War?”

“We were talking about South Africa,” said Frances. Was the general’s mind getting frail? He smiled gently at her.

“Don’t worry, my dear. My mind is not that far gone.” She was a little embarrassed. “But you need to know. Back then, my man, Tredwell, was then a private under my command—I was a newly minted lieutenant. You see him as an old man with a limp, but I can tell you, he was the fiercest, most loyal man in our regiment. Crimea is ancient history to you, already old when you were born. Did you learn anything about it?”

“A bit. I come from a military and diplomatic family.” The conflict had been complex: England, France, and the Ottoman Empire trying to contain Russia. The politics had been a muddle; the battles had been horrific.

“Of course. Back then, things, and by that I mean battles, were done a certain kind of way. But we were already in the middle of change—the cavalry charge had passed its day. By the time South Africa came around, you see, war had taken on a different kind of cast. It’s odd talking to a woman about this,” he said.

“I heard enough from my brother,” she said, hoping he wasn’t going to become too old-fashioned to discuss it with her.

“I suppose so. You girls are so modern today. Where was I? Yes, back in South Africa. No worse than Crimea, you see, but different. We didn’t understand . . .” His eyes stopped looking at her and lost their focus.

“But you did understand, General. The Empire Light Horse was your idea, your plan for a different war. Charles said so.”

The general smiled, but now it was mirthless. “My idea. We thought it was good, but it was too good. We couldn’t understand that battle lines were gone, that everything we knew about war was over. That we were no longer necessary.”

“‘We,’ General? Who is ‘we’?” She felt on the cusp of something, even closer to finding out what had happened in South Africa—more than what Charles knew, what Private Barnstable knew. Frances felt her heart pounding. She felt she was getting close to those who wanted the manuscript stolen, people who didn’t want anyone to know what Danny was writing about.

“‘We,’ Lady Frances? It was all of us. Men in the government halls, men in Parliament, men from the War Office, the general staff. No one likes change. Why do you think I live here?” He raised an arm and waved it to show the entire house, with its dozens of unused rooms.

Frances didn’t want to get off the topic. “But one man, General. One man ordered the Empire Light Horse to change its tactics, to meet the enemy in a battle it couldn’t win.” One man who didn’t want that manuscript to come to light.

“One man? That man was me, Lady Frances. But you knew that. I was the commanding officer. I gave the order.”

Frances didn’t know much about how the army was organized, but she knew everyone answered to someone. Danny Colcombe had never said a bad word about the general. Someone had ordered the general to give new instructions to the Empire Light Horse. She thought of what Barnstable had overheard: “War Office.” The government department that supervised the army. She felt a chill. She had been so sure she could find one man who was responsible. But was it some shadowy committee? Was it some group who stole the manuscript and killed Danny? All the men with a stake in a concealment? She thought of Colonel Mountjoy and Inspector Eastley, servants of the government. What were their motives? Who were their masters? But she refused to despair. There must be an answer.

“But there was another man, General. Someone who gave you the order?”

He smiled at her again, this time warmly. “Like all the Seaforths, my dear—both men and women—you are interested in politics, but you are young and have much to learn. When you are older, you will understand how foolish that question is.”

He wasn’t unkind, and because of his age, Frances was prepared to forgive his patronizing tone—it was because she was young, not because she was a woman. She thought about what he really said: there were byways in London’s political circles, and somewhere there was an answer.

After a few moments, he spoke again. “As for me, if you find that manuscript and publish it, I will buy the first copy that comes off the press. For reasons I can’t discuss and don’t even agree with, Colcombe never got the recognition he deserved for his heroism. If he gets it posthumously, I’ll die a happy man.”

And Frances had to be content with that. She smiled at the elderly officer. “Then I shall redouble my efforts. You have provided an education to me, sir, and I thank you. Now, as I am here, you might like to ask me questions in return.”

He laughed. “Yes. That is kind of you. Except for the sad occasion of Colcombe’s funeral, I haven’t been to London in years. The pretty young girls—are they all wearing dresses like yours? I remember the ladies from the Queen’s Golden Jubilee, back in eighty-seven. How are they dancing today?”

She wondered what General Audendale would think of the tango.

“I will tell you all about it. But first, I will make you another cup of tea, and you will have one of these delicious cakes.”

The general was beginning to look tired. Tredwell reappeared as if he knew how the general was feeling—of course he would have a good sense of how long the general could last.

“I know I speak for the general when I say you are more than welcome, but we need to leave in the next thirty minutes to make the next train, and there’s not another for some hours afterward, if you have evening engagements, my lady.”

Frances thanked the general for the conversation. He replied he was sorry he couldn’t be of more help.

“Oh, but you have helped, General,” she said, and he seemed surprised. She bid him farewell and followed Tredwell out the door.

Frances wanted to think on what the general had said but decided to postpone reflection until later. Once more sitting in the pony cart, she decided to see if she could get anything out of Tredwell. He started the conversation by thanking her for her visit—not many stopped by nowadays.

“I’m glad I could. He seemed pleased when I told him the late Major Colcombe had been writing a book. He said he’d be interested in reading it, if it ever came to be published.”

“I’m not sure it would’ve made good reading, if you’ll pardon me, my lady. Nothing against the major, but South Africa was a mess, and I’m not sure we all want reminding. Things happen on the battlefield, and those who haven’t served might take it the wrong way. I know what happened at the Sapphire River, my lady. And it’s best left there. Let the dead rest. And the living.”

It was curious way of putting it, Frances thought. “I take your point. And I am not at all offended. You were there and I was not. But it was my understanding that Major Colcombe performed an act of extraordinary heroism. Don’t you think it should be recognized?”

Tredwell didn’t speak for a few moments and got that brooding look on his face again. “May I ask your ladyship how she heard of what Major Colcombe did there? It wasn’t supposed to be public.”

“I heard it from one of the soldiers the major had saved. He felt the major deserved recognition for his heroism. The general seemed to agree.”

Tredwell sighed. “The general is an old man, and I hope I don’t sound disrespectful, but he has been in odd humors. Perhaps you’ve had elderly relations, my lady, and when they reach a certain age, they don’t know what’s good for them anymore. But I will tell you this, sometimes things happen in battle, and you don’t tell anyone what happened later. It’s understood. I don’t know what Major Colcombe was putting in his writing. Maybe it was just for himself, not to be shared. But the soldier you spoke with shouldn’t have said anything to you, my lady. He had been ordered not to. And in the army, there are severe penalties for disobeying orders. Very severe. There are reasons things are kept secret.”

They drove in silence for a bit. Frances didn’t feel she could say anything more. But as they approached the station, Tredwell shook off his gloom and smiled. “But I’ll say this, my lady. He enjoyed your visit, and thank you for getting him to eat a little.”

On the way back, she mused over General Audendale’s cryptic remarks and Tredwell’s protectiveness. Considering that the general has probably spent more time over the years with Tredwell than his own wife, it was almost like a marriage. It was true that she had no idea what men in battle were like. She wondered if Colcombe had broken some sort of officer’s code. It wasn’t like him to do that; he was a man of honor, everyone said. She knew Charles wouldn’t talk more about it.

Time to put into effect another college technique: when an assignment wasn’t going well, put it away and approach it with fresh eyes later. Tomorrow she’d see about contacts in the War Office. Someone higher up than Major Raleigh.

The train made good time; it wasn’t even dinnertime when she arrived back at Miss Plimsoll’s to find a note waiting for her. Her heart fluttered when she recognized the crest on the heavy cream stationary.

Dear Franny,

Your most excellent maid told me you were expected home later today. I should’ve asked further in advance, but I would very much like to have dinner with you this evening. I was going to wait a decent interval, but I couldn’t bear it. Please say your evening is open.

She read it three times. He had enclosed his card with his telephone number. How convenient that was not to have to send servants running back and forth with responses. She went into the telephone parlor, and a few moments later she was talking to Gareth.

“That is very presumptuous of you,” she said. She lied and told him she had made plans to visit one of her tedious aunts, but that could be postponed, since Gareth had written such a nice note. But he wasn’t to do that again. He said he would come by at seven o’clock and begged her forgiveness.

Frances left the telephone room feeling a little light-headed. Then she remembered her conversation with Hal. Pull yourself together, she told herself. You have work to do. She called his offices, and the clerk said for her to come back at ten o’clock the following morning—Mr. Wheaton had something to say to her. She then walked briskly upstairs—just enough time to write a few letters and pick out a dress before dinner.

Mallow was determined the make the most of her mistress’s social life. “This dress, my lady? I thought it would go well with the hat with the feather . . .”

“That’ll work nicely, Mallow. I’m sure you know best.”

“It’s just that I’m not sure where you’re going this evening?” asked Mallow, making it half a statement, half a question.

“I don’t know either,” said Frances with a smile, hoping that would end discussion of clothing.

“Very good, my lady,” said Mallow in a very cool tone that was as close as she ever came to voicing disapproval. Imagine going out but not knowing where! “I just want to add that in my experience, gentlemen like seeing a well-turned-out lady.”

“Do they indeed? We’ll see what Lord Gareth says then,” said Frances with a wry smile.

Gareth arrived not in his car but in a hansom. “It’s not easy to bring a car where we’re going,” he said.

She had assumed they’d go to one of the fashionable restaurants but should’ve known better. Gareth guided the driver to another unfamiliar street, to a restaurant with a simple sign announcing its unpronounceable name. “This is a secret, dear Franny. Englishmen who have spent so much time in India that they have become Indian dine here when in London.”

Frances had expected something modest, based on the plain exterior, but inside the decorations were lavish, upholstery in red and gold and colored silks on the wall. The other diners wore dinner clothes like themselves, but the staff members were all from the subcontinent, with turbans and fierce-looking mustaches.

The headwaiter greeted them. Gareth pressed his palms together, bowed, and said a few words in a foreign tongue. The man smiled and led them to a table.

“Don’t tell me you know Hindi, too,” she asked.

“Just a few words in order to amaze impressionable young girls,” he said.

“I’m not all that impressionable,” she said with mock severity. She had thought herself worldly with her travels to America, her education, and her politics. But keeping up with Gareth was a challenge—exciting, but a challenge. Gareth started by apologizing for offering no wine with dinner. “The proprietor is a good Hindu and so will sell no wine or spirits. You can discreetly bring your own, but as for me, you are intoxicating enough.”

Frances blushed and was annoyed at herself for it. She quickly spoke. “Flatterer. But why does the Hindu not drink? I don’t believe the Muslim does either. I knew some Jewish girls in college, and they didn’t drink much, but wine was important in certain rituals.” And that led to a religious discussion. Frances had taken a basic theology course at Vassar, but Gareth was at least her equal.

They continued their talk over the food—strange, highly spiced concoctions she couldn’t identify, cooked with herbs not found in England, using methods unfamiliar to Western chefs. All the items were delicious, and in between their discussions, Frances caught Gareth looking at her as if he expected her to turn up her nose at the unusual delicacies. If so, she disappointed him.

During a break in their talk, Frances changed the subject. “Gareth, I was wondering about other evening. Don’t misunderstand me; it was delightful. But I have heard stories about the Heathcote set, that aside from your motives, their motives for inviting me to the event may have been more . . . commercial. I was wondering if it was in connection with a favor I am doing for a friend. I think you know what I’m referring to.”

Gareth usually responded to any comment or question quickly, but now he just toyed with his water glass for a few moments.

“I won’t deny it, Franny. There is a great deal of interest in the Colcombe manuscript. You may not realize just how important that manuscript is to some people. I mean politically.”

“Why shouldn’t I know it? Because I’m a woman and therefore must know nothing of politics?” She felt her anger rise—this is not what she expected from Gareth.

But he shook his head. “No, Franny. Of course not. It’s because you are good. You want to do good. But other people have other motives.”

“Like the Heathcotes?” asked Frances.

“They are powerful people, Frances. They have powerful friends. You want the manuscript to bring justice to the men who died at the Sapphire River.”

“You seem to know a lot,” said Frances.

“You’ve been in Society long enough to know how hard it is to keep secrets. There were plenty of men who knew what happened in South Africa. They talked no matter how many threats and incentives they were given to be quiet. But we need something like the manuscript to really make a change. You could make a difference.”

Frances looked at the earnestness in his eyes. He seemed very sincere, but Frances was from a political family. People rarely worked for free.

“And what do the Heathcotes want out of this?” she asked.

“A chance to do some political housekeeping before publication.”

Of course. The Heathcotes had favors to grant and return. The manuscript would allow them to do that before its content became public. Merely the threat of what it contained, of the political mistakes that led to the carnage, would be effective.

“And what do you want, Gareth? Are you merely a Heathcote agent?” She was sure Gareth could see how hard her heart was beating.

“I am merely a messenger. If you want to work with them, they can be powerful allies.” He shrugged. “But my commission is over. It is up to you to decide if you want to join them or play a lone hand, as they say.”

“And what do you want?”

He answered by leaning over the table and kissing her on the cheek. “Only what you want.”

Then all thoughts of the Colcombe manuscript went out of her head. Gareth signaled their waiter and paid. It was a nice evening, and Gareth suggested walking. Frances was unfamiliar with the neighborhood but felt safe with Gareth. She was realizing how little she really knew London—just the fashionable areas where she and her friends and family lived and the one grim corner of the East End where she worked at the soup kitchen.

Other couples and some young families, taking advantage of the evening, were walking on the sidewalks as well. Frances held onto Gareth’s arm. After the chatty dinner, they were silent now, and she concentrated on feeling him next to her.

The sun was setting as they turned onto a wide commercial street, where Gareth hailed a hansom cab. Frances was a little disappointed; she wasn’t ready for the evening to end. But her spirits soared when Gareth announced grandly to the driver, “Into the park and round and round until I tell you otherwise.”

As they entered the park, Gareth kissed her again, first soft, then insistent, and Frances found herself half-delighted and half-fearful, so overwhelmed by emotion and so unused to the delicious loss of control.

Gareth stopped and put his lips next to her ear. “I do so love you, sweet Franny.”

But she wasn’t completely gone—not yet. She pulled back. “Do you really?” She looked as serious as she felt. “Do not say that unless you mean it.”

He took her chin in his hand. “Are you now an old-fashioned maid, pretending you had no idea?”

“I knew you desired me. I didn’t know you loved me,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

“How stupid of me to forget how shrewd you are,” he said. “But how do you feel about me?”

She started to answer, but he quickly put a finger to her lips.

“No, don’t answer. I may be stupid—but I am smart enough to know you are too young and too inexperienced to know your own feelings.” He smiled to take away the sting, as if he were just teasing her, challenging her. And then he kissed her again, and it was divine. Eventually, the evening had to come to an end, and Gareth left her at the door of Miss Plimsoll’s, happy, dazed, and more than a little confused.