In Pale Battalions (15 page)

“When there is a choice between the distasteful and the dis-graceful, I know what to expect from a well-born young Englishwoman.”

They pulled up not ten yards from me. Leonora turned to face Mompesson. “I don’t understand you.”

“Yes you do. It’s just that you can’t believe what you understand.”

“It is hard to believe anyone could be so . . . vile.” She spoke almost dispassionately.

“You have a week to get used to the idea. I’m going back to London tomorrow. I shall return on Friday. I shall expect our bargain to be honoured then.”

“How can you call it a bargain?”

“Because that’s what it is to me. Something fine—at a cheap price.”

At that, Leonora’s self-control snapped. Her jaw set in an angry line and she raised her right hand to strike him. Then, before the blow could fall, she stopped. For a moment, she stared at him and at once I saw why: he was smiling, calmly awaiting in such an act her admission of defeat.

Such satisfaction she denied him. She returned her hand to her side, glanced away, then spoke again. “If John were here now . . .”

“But he isn’t, is he? That’s why you’ll be waiting for me next Friday.” He touched his panama hat, then turned and strode back towards the lawn. Leonora stood watching him go, then took a couple of steps and hung her head. I thought I heard her sob. I longed to rush out and comfort her, but caution held me back: as the eavesdropper, I had to remain hidden. Then Leonora decided the issue for me. She sighed and walked slowly away.

I couldn’t face being on hand for Mompesson’s departure next morning, so I struck out early to walk off my depression. The day held misty portents of autumn and, halfway down the drive, I met the postman cycling up. I asked him if he had anything for me and, after leafing through the bundle for Meongate, he handed me one letter. I recognized the Army envelope at once and ripped it open.

News from the Front held a strange comfort for me in that moment.

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But there was no comfort in the contents. It was from Warren, sergeant of my old platoon, who’d promised to keep me in touch.

“The lads have been badly knocked about lately, sir, and no mistake.

I have to tell you that, of your fellow subalterns, none of those who were here when you left is still with us, and most of them won’t ever be again, if you take my meaning. To be honest, sir, I don’t think things have been the same since Captain Hallows bought it.

That was a sad day . . .”

I crumpled the letter into my pocket. Poor Warren, and the rest of them, still mourning Hallows for the spirit he’d conferred on them and which had gone along with him, still out there somewhere, where the guns boomed and the shells whined, far from this smug, serene landscape where I was hiding but could find no peace.

I walked on slowly, seeing about me not the soft curves and green fields of Hampshire but the grey streaks and blackened stumps of a smashed land. And I a stranger in both.

A car horn split my reverie. I swung round with a start. It was Mompesson, leaving earlier than I’d expected and coasting up behind me in his sports car to cheat me of eluding him.

He grinned broadly. “Good morning to you, Franklin. Can I take you somewhere?”

“I was only going into the village.”

“Well, hop in.”

“I’d rather walk.”

“I’d appreciate a word before I go. And you can always walk back.”

What did he have to say to me? Curiosity overcame my distaste; I climbed aboard. “Making an early start?”

He grinned again as we moved off through the gates at the foot of the drive. “You said it. Sorry it I made you jump back there.”

“It doesn’t matter. I was lost in thought, that’s all.”

“Reckon you military men have plenty to think about.”

“Yes, we do.”

He glanced at me. “You resent me because I’m not involved in this war, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t . . .”

He held up a gauntleted hand. “Stow the courtesies. You do. It’s 100

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understandable. Maybe I would in your shoes. I’m a rich, free foreigner and no target for kraut bullets. But is that my fault?”

“Of course not.” We came to where he should have turned down into Droxford. Instead, he turned right and began to drive up a rough lane towards the tops of the downs. “This isn’t the right way,” I said.

“It is for what I want to show you.”

“Which is?”

“What you need to understand. You see, I know why you resent me. It isn’t just because the States are neutral. It’s also because you think I’m too much at home at Meongate, too familiar, too popular.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do. You think I’m intruding on Hallows’s property.

Isn’t that how it is?”

I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. “Not at all.”

He pulled off onto the grass verge and jerked on the brake.

Beyond the hedge, the ground sloped steeply away and we had a clear view across the escarpment towards the yew-fringed summit of Old Winchester Hill. Mompesson let the engine die and the tranquillity of the place disclosed itself in the silence that followed.

“Why have you brought me here?” I asked.

“So we can talk, man to man. Hallows once told me that hill was used as a fort by men thousands of years ago. You can still see the earthworks.”

“I dare say.”

“Hallows was hot on that kind of thing. Not that it did him much good.”

“What do you mean?”

“The trouble with your country, Franklin, is that it’s immersed in its own past, surrounded by it everywhere it looks. This hill, the house we’ve just left. Everywhere. That’s why you’re in this crazy war. That’s why Hallows died. That’s why Meongate needs to be saved from itself. And I’m the man to do it.” “You?”

“Why not? Unlike you British, I understand that you have to change with the times. My family learned that the hard way. The Mompessons owned land in Louisiana from way back. All that changed after the Civil War. It broke my father, but I saw where

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he’d gone wrong. In this life, you get nothing unless you go all out for it.”

“And what are you going all out for?”

“I intend to marry Leonora.” He must have read my expression as incredulity. “I’m only telling you because you were her husband’s friend and I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand the situation. I’d be good for her. And for Meongate.” So that was it. Olivia was just an amusing pastime. Leonora was the real target, one I suspected he already knew I’d considered aiming for myself. Our chummy drive on to the downs was a warning-off. Had it not been for the conversation I’d overheard the day before, I’d have been thunderstruck, but now his exchange with Leonora made a disturbing kind of sense. It spoke of some kind of hold he had over her, some way he had of forcing her to comply.

Otherwise, I felt certain, he’d never have told me so much. I tried to control myself when I spoke. “And what does Leonora say about this?”

“I haven’t asked her yet. Not straight out. But when I do, she’ll agree. Never doubt it, my friend.”

I looked at him and saw the face of a man whom doubt never visited. “It’s good of you to have been so frank.”

He smiled. “Don’t mention it. I wouldn’t want you to make a fool of yourself.”

Abruptly, I climbed from the car. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll walk back from here.” It was time to go, before I said too much. I set a brisk pace along the lane and did not look back. A few minutes later, I heard his car start and move off in the other direction, down towards the London road.

As I walked on towards Meongate, I wondered if, on his last home leave, Hallows had somehow sensed that Mompesson would try to usurp him, if that had been what he was driving at during our discussion at Hernu’s Farm. Maybe he had. Maybe he had hoped that, if it came to it, I would intervene, if only for his sake. But was I equal to the task? Unlike Mompesson, I carried doubt with me like a pack on my back. He’d have said it was the Englishman in me.

And he’d probably have been right.

four

Later that morning, I sought out Lord Powerstock in his study. He was reading
The Times
with grave concentration, back turned to the window and the world. But he seemed passingly pleased to see me, offered me whisky and said he regretted how little time we’d had to talk during my stay.

“I think Mr. Mompesson has attracted most attention of late,” I said pointedly.

He ignored the reference. “Encouraging reports in
The Times
from France—have you seen them?”

“No sir.”

“They’ve come up with some secret weapon called tanks.

Bringing great gains, apparently.”

Having served in France, I viewed newspaper reports with not so much scepticism as total disbelief. “Too late for most of my comrades, I fear.”

He put down the paper. “Like my son, you mean.”

“He asked me to come here, you know—in the event that he died. He was particularly concerned about Leonora—what would become of her.”

“Naturally.”

“What will become of her?”

“We will continue to look after her.”

“She has no family of her own?”

“Her parents are in India; her father’s a civil commissioner in

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the Punjab. But she doesn’t want to go back there. We want her to stay here.”

“In time, I suppose, she might re-marry.”

He looked as if he had never considered the idea. “She might, at that.” At least I knew that Mompesson had said nothing to his lordship so far. “After all, I did myself.”

“On that subject, I ought to apologize for misunderstanding you when you told me of Lady Powerstock’s contact with the art world.”

“Mmm?”

“I hadn’t appreciated that she was married to the painter Bartholomew.”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Slightly.”

“Few people have.” After that, he lapsed into a silence that gave fair notice he was not to be drawn on the subject of Mr.

Bartholomew, artist and drowned man.

The more I found out, the less I understood. Perhaps what happened the following morning should have told me that I was not alone in that.

Dawn came stealthily, trailing my awakening with its grey, silent tendrils. The room was still and quiet, the birdsong beyond reassuring me that I was yet safe, for another space of hours, from the kind of day to which I had too often woken.

I rose and pulled on a dressing gown. Then my sense of refuge was shattered. A livid scream from the room next door, three thumps in succession on the wall and some other choking sound. I hurried out into the passage and listened at the door: it was Cheriton’s room. Silence reigned again, throughout the house. I tapped on the panelling.

“Cheriton—are you all right?”

No answer.

“Cheriton?”

Again, no answer. For a less obviously nervous man I would not have been so concerned; I did not imagine myself to be alone in suffering bad dreams. But dreams might not be all. I knocked again and went in.

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Cheriton was sitting up in bed, holding his head in his hands.

He looked up as I entered and in his face I saw the expression of a broken man.

“Franklin!” He visibly recovered himself. “What’s the matter?”

“I was going to ask you that. I heard a scream. You didn’t answer when I knocked.”

“Sorry. Must have been a nightmare. You know how it is.”

“Yes. I suppose we all get them from time to time.”

“Do we?” The thought seemed to give him some small comfort.

“Do you ever . . . dream you’re back in France?”

“Often. Except when I’m there. Then I dream of England.”

He shuddered. “I’m to go before a medical board at the end of the month to see if I’m fit to return.”

“And are you?”

He looked straight at me. “I don’t know, Franklin. All I know is that I can’t go back. It’s unthinkable.” He reached for a cigarette and lit one. The match trembled in his hand.

“We all feel that. It won’t be so bad once you get out there.” He said nothing, just drew grimly on the cigarette. “You should try to enjoy life here while you can.”

He frowned. “Enjoy? God, sometimes I think this place is no better than the Front.”

“What do you mean?”

He seemed to have second thoughts. “Never mind. Sorry. Talking out of turn. As you say, it was just a nightmare. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I think I’d better take a bath: clear the head, what?”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” I turned to the door.

“Franklin.” I looked back. “I’d be awfully grateful if you . . .

didn’t tell anyone else about this. The Powerstocks, I mean.

Wouldn’t want them to think they’d got a loony on their hands.”

“They wouldn’t think that.”

“Even so . . .”

“I’ll say nothing. You have my word.”

“Thanks.”

I closed the door behind me, wondering just what Cheriton’s nightmare had been. The war, with its commonplace horror? Or something closer to home, but no less horrible?

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Leonora customarily took tea in the conservatory on fine afternoons, alone save for her cat, her books and her thoughts. It was the best chance I had of speaking to her privately, so it was the chance I took.

I walked in, almost apologetically, by the garden door. “May I join you for a moment?”

She put her book down. “Of course. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you.” I sat down opposite her.

“Then to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“We didn’t seem to see much of each other over the weekend.”

“I was here all the time.”

I feigned a smile. “Well, I think I was overshadowed by our American visitor.”