Blossom of War

May Woodward

Description

Blossom of War is an unforgettable tale of romance and mystery, lies and deceit, set against the horrors of the Crimean War.Following the story of Clemence, a young dbutante flung into the horrors of war, Blossom of War is a romance which features the Somerlee family, the Baronets of Eardingstowe and the Consett family, the Dukes of Ardenne.'So! You have no recollection of leaving the battlefield at Balaclava?' Sir Berkeley Mountjoy Q.C. boomed into a hushed courtroom in Westminster Hall.'No, sir,' mumbled the man on the witness-stand. 'There is much, still, I don't remember.''And yet you claim you are Aubrey Somerlee of Eardingstowe, Cornet 7460 of the Eleventh Hussars, last seen during the Charge of the Light Brigade on October the twenty-fifth, 1854! Remarkable memory, really, wouldn't you say?Could the stranger really be the vanished cavalryman, returned from the Valley of Death after sixteen years? Or was his brother Sir Richard right and he was an impostor?

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 20 novembre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789012958
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

BLOSSOM
of
WAR
May Woodward
Copyright © 2018 May Woodward

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.


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ISBN 9781789012958


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Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd



for Karen



AUTHOR’S NOTE
It has never been established who was responsible for the disaster at Balaclava. Nolan is the only one who probably knew the truth, but he died in the engagement. The behaviour of the grotesque crowd on Saupon Hill might have had something to do with it.
‘War tourism’ was quite common in the 19th Century. I have not invented Lord Raglan’s Gallophobic gaffes.
Any reader who regards the Smoky Mountain subplot as farfetched should check out The Believers by Adam Lebor. The Aubrey-plot, meanwhile, was inspired by the Tichborne case which gripped mid-Victorian England.
All the characters in this story are fictional apart from the well-known public figures. They include Timmy the Tortoise, the last surviving veteran of the war, who passed away in 2004 at the age of 165.
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
PROLOGUE
1849
‘Let me in! Oh, help me, Miss Honeywell! Let me in… please…’
The girl’s small fists hammered the huge front door.
‘Don’t leave me out here, Miss Honeywell! I’ll do whatever you want! But please let me in! Let me in! Please !’
Her screams were not answered. From indoors came no sound.
‘Miss Honeywell – I cannot breathe! I’m choking!’ She took gasping breaths. ‘Please hear me – ’
Her wails waned into hiccupping sobs. One more time she battered the door. Her nails scratched track-marks in the ancient, brass-studded oak beams. She slumped to her knees – then passed out upon the marble flagstones of the mansion’s colonnade.
High above, to the side of the jutting portico, a window snapped open. Out stuck a female head.
‘You may come in when you’ve learned your lesson,’ the woman called down. ‘Six months, now, you’ve been moping indoors, Miss Clemence. It’s not natural. Learn the hard way, Clemmie. Discipline!’
The governess wasn’t finished. Yet she halted – the doorstep drama had an audience.
Two men were striding up the carriage-sweep towards the grand façade of Eardingstowe. Aged in their early twenties, wearing belted Norfolk jackets and leather bluchers, hunting guns were slung over their shoulders.
‘What the devil…?’ said one. Face down in the porch the unconscious twelve-year old lay, flashing white pantalettes beneath a flouncy frock with its sash tied in a bow. ‘Dickon, what the devil’s this? That’s your sister, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is!’ Sir Richard Somerlee raised astonished eyes to where the woman stood framed in the window.
Both men dumped their guns. Across the remainder of the lawn they sprinted.
Slimmer and fitter than the baronet, Lord Brandon Fanshawe got there first. He laid gentle hands on the girl’s shoulders, then lifted a wrist and checked for a pulse.
Richard stopped at the base of the colonnade, one foot on the first step. He scowled up at the governess.
‘Miss Honeywell! Explain yourself, madam. What have you done to Clemence?’
‘Sir Richard.’ The female stood tall, chin up, ready to defend herself. ‘I thought this might cure Miss Clemmie of this strange affliction…’
‘Oh, my God! You foul creature! You could have killed her – ’
The baronet’s friend looked up.
‘She’s breathing, Dickon. But her pulse is slow. Shall I carry her inside and send for a doctor?’
‘Yes…’ Richard heaved a great sigh. ‘But the doctor won’t be able to help, Fanny.’
The other man cradled and rocked the slip of a thing. His face was horror-struck.
‘What on earth is wrong with your sister?’
‘We don’t know, Fanny.’ Richard ran a hand through his thick, fair hair. He glared one more time at the governess – worried, now, that she might be in trouble for this. ‘Don’t you realise how serious this is, Miss Honeywell?’ he snapped. ‘Clemence could die if she is forced to go outside the house. She cannot breathe!’
The woman wasn’t looking so sure of herself now.
‘Sir Richard – I only did what I thought best for the young lady…’
‘Yes, and damn near killed her, woman!’ Richard flung out an arm towards her. ‘Good God, suppose my little brother Aubrey had been here to witness this! I’d have him fretting with nightmares! You know how very close he and Miss Clemmie are. Get out of my sight, Miss Honeywell! I’ll speak to you properly later.’
Shoulders heaving, he mounted the steps. He crouched beside his companion and the little one in his arms.
‘Clemmie has not been outside the house since Pater died, Fanny. She took his death very badly – coming so soon after Mater’s.’
‘But that was January!’ Lord Brandon Fanshawe gazed around at flowerbeds buzzing with insects, parkland trees in full leaf, sparkling sun, and deep blue sky almost cloudless.
‘As I told that blasted governess… tormentress might be a better word for her, Fanny… it isn’t that Clemmie doesn’t want to leave the house. She cannot . One step outside and everything starts spinning, so she tells us . She says it is as if the whole world is closing in – suffocating her.’ The baronet swung his hands together like a trap. ‘Sometimes she cannot even breathe …’ Richard stroked a few strands of hair from Clemence’s face. ‘I’m going to dismiss that woman for this.’
Brandon looked from Richard to the girl. Her head drooped over Brandon’s elbow. Her ringlets, which were the same light blonde as her big brother’s hair, dangled on Brandon’s knee.
His eyes rose to the time-darkened wood – such a massive portcullis the great front door of Eardingstowe seemed if in front of it you were kneeling – and the scratches so lately grooved there.
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘That she is hysterical, of course. And agrees with Miss Honeywell that we should just shut her outside and snap her out of it.’
‘That’s barbaric, Dickon!’ As Clemence began to stir, Brandon caressed her brow with a finger.
‘I agree, Fanny,’ Richard said. ‘But then Dr Moffitt’s probably never encountered a case like it before. I don’t know anyone who has.’ The master of Eardingstowe leaned one arm upon his thigh and gave a nervous cough. ‘Clemence was like this once before. Trapped inside for over a year, then. But she recovered, eventually. We prefer to keep it quiet, Brandon. I’m sure I can rely on your discretion, can’t I, dear chap? You’re my good friend, aren’t you? We don’t want an affliction like this in the family being broadcast abroad. I mean… well… won’t do our reputation much good, will it?’
The other man tutted – sounded very like disgust to Richard. But he had cause to be worried, damn it. The Somerlee family was said to be cursed with mental infirmity. Some tainted ancestors passed on their syphilis; the Somerlees bequeathed their mad-blood. And these little frailties weren’t helpful when you were seeking a peerage. Or maybe they were! But should he think twice about dismissing Miss Honeywell… a lady in possession of rather damaging inside knowledge…?
Brandon Fanshawe got to his feet. He lifted the limp featherweight. Two blue eyes were struggling to open.

Had the wretched soul been meaning to sup from the cess-pool? Oh, Jeannie Mac …
The boy had at first thought the crumpled form, sprawled across his way on the riverbank, was a discarded sack; and then realised it was in fact an old starveling who had expired where he’d fallen.
Och, that was old Jarvis , the lad thought, as he looked closer and recognised the potato-sack cloak. Someday soon they’ll break yer man’s legs so we can toss him into the midden-pit and be rid of his stink. With a name like Jarvis I’m guessing he had English blood. Better off without him we are. Why could it not just be the likes of him who die and not those who are really missed, like my ma…?
The boy listened to the talk of the grown-ups, one of whom was his father. The two men were trying to catch something to eat. But there wasn’t much life even in the waterways these days.
‘Seamus! I’m offering you a neighbourly warning I am. The Somerlees are for throwing you out – all of ye, childer and all. And then you’ll be off to Americay like all the rest.’
‘Aye,’ the father of the listening youngster said. ‘Rather starve in a Yankee wigwam than an Irish hovel, so they would. And eaten by buffaloes if the coffin-ships don’t do for ‘em. I’ll take my chance with our Somerlee landlo