Bedford Square - Anne Perry [37]
“You fought in Abyssinia?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Was it very bad?”
He moved slightly, with just a flinch of the body, a gesture of denial. “No worse than any fighting. There is always fear, mutilation, death. You care about people and see them reduced to the least—and rise to the most—a man can be: terror and courage, selfishness in some, nobility in others, hunger, thirst, pain … fearful pain.” He kept his face away from her, as if to meet her eyes would make him incapable of saying what he felt. “It strips away all pretense … from others and from yourself.”
She was not sure whether to interrupt or not. She tightened her fingers on his arm a little. He stood silently.
She waited. People moved past them, some of them turning to stare for a moment. She wondered fleetingly what they thought, and did not care.
He took a deep breath and let it out silently.
“I did not wish to talk about battle. I’m sorry.”
“What did you wish to say?” she asked gently.
“I … perhaps …” He faltered again.
“I can forget it afterwards if you would rather I did,” she promised.
He smiled, a harsh curling of the lips. He remained facing forward, not looking at her. “There was one action in that campaign where we were ambushed. Thirty men were injured, my commanding officer among them. It was something of a fiasco. I was shot in the arm, but not badly.”
She waited for him to continue without prompting him.
“I have received a letter.” He said it with great difficulty, his words coming as if forced out of him, his face stiff. “It accuses me of being the cause of that rout … of—of cowardice in the face of the enemy, of being responsible for the injuries of those men. It says … that I panicked and was rescued by a private soldier, but that that fact was covered up to save the honor of the regiment, and for morale. It is not true, but I cannot prove that.” He did not tell her that such a charge, if known, would ruin him. He expected her to know.
And she did. Anyone would, especially just at the moment, with the Tranby Croft affair all over the newspapers and on everyone’s tongue. Even those who would not normally take the slightest interest in such people were now talking about them and awaiting the next development, eager for disaster.
She must answer with intelligence. Sympathy was fine, but it was of no practical use, and he needed help.
“What did they ask for?” she said quietly.
“A snuffbox,” he answered. “Just as a token of good faith.”
She was surprised. “A snuffbox? Is it valuable?”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter, raw, self-mocking. “No … a few guineas. It’s pinchbeck, but it is beautiful. Highly individual. Anyone would know it was mine. It is a token of my willingness to pay. Some would say it is a sign of guilt.” His hands clenched, and she could feel the muscles of his arm hard under her fingers. “But it’s only a mark of my panic … exactly what he accused me of.” The bitterness in his voice was close to despair. “But I never turned my back on the enemy of the body … only of the mind. Odd … I had not imagined I lacked moral courage.”
“You don’t,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “It is a delaying tactic … until we know the strength of the enemy and a little more of his nature. Blackmail is a cowardly thing … perhaps the most cowardly.” Her anger was so burning hot, she had not even been aware of using a plural that included herself.
He moved his other hand and very gently, just for a moment, touched her fingers where they lay on his arm, then turned away and began to walk towards the next exhibit, several pieces of ancient glass in a case.
She followed after him swiftly. “You cannot become involved in this,” he said. “I told you simply because … because I needed to share it with someone, and I knew I could trust you.”
“You can trust me!” she said urgently. “But not to stand by and watch you tortured for something you did not do. Not that I would stand by even if you had. We all make mistakes, are weak or frightened or stupid sometimes, and that in itself is usually punishment enough.