To Do and Die. Patrick Mercer
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can think of challenges that would make me rise more quickly than that ice-cube.’
The starched white collar was always tricky. No matter how many times he fiddled with studs and pins, no matter how much help his servant gave him, Morgan still found it difficult to shoe-horn himself into the simple black and white of evening dress without time in hand. Father had wanted him to wear his regimentals for his final dinner party, but he'd resisted, settling for Keenan's waiting at table in his scarlet. Father's friends would be attentive enough without his having to flaunt his gallantry.
In an unusual fit of competence, the servants had lit the drawing-room fire in plenty of time. Despite the damp peat, the blaze was almost too much for a spring night and the guests quickly migrated to the cooler, less smoky end of the room. Kemp was reserved, for he realized that the evening should belong to Tony and that there was little interest in wars past.
Billy Morgan had every intention of thoroughly lionizing his son. The glory that Tony would reflect upon his father could only be increased if attention were lavished upon him on this, his final night at home. The difficulty was that Mrs Amelia Smythe was one of the guests. Tony could quite see the attraction of the young widow whose husband had failed to return from the Cape last year, but he hadn't realized just how interested his father was in the woman. In fact, he could be excused for wondering just who the main guest of honour was.
Desultory enquiries were made of the young hero whilst they drank. His father's friends asked endless questions about weapons and horses, all designed to display their own militia experience, whilst Kemp restricted himself to opinions only upon the Russians and their antics on the Afghan border. The warlike talk cooled, though, as Billy concentrated the full force of his charm upon Amelia. Imperial ambitions soon gave way to domestic ones, sabre-rattling to numbers of acres, fleets of ships to stables full of hunters.
The silver had been polished almost entirely clean. Whilst the candles were a little uneven, at least they were all burning, shedding a gentle light on the only slightly smeared crystal. Perhaps Morgan's expectations had been raised too high by the standards required in the Mess, for his father seemed oblivious to the corner-cutting, purring over the display and making great play of finding Mrs Smythe's seat for her.
Sitting opposite Amelia Smythe, Morgan gazed at Mary who stood ready to serve her. The girl had on a muslin dress passed down from some lady guest and she had carefully rouged her cheeks whilst her hair, Tony was sure, had felt the deft fingers of Mrs O'Connor, the housekeeper. The ribbons and ringlets were strangely similar to those that adorned Maude Hawtrey who was sitting next to him – but there was little doubt upon whom they looked better. Whilst Mary made the impression that she intended, Tony tried to avoid her glances, but he couldn't fail to notice her smiles. From behind him darted the yellow cuff of Keenan's regimental coatee as plates and glasses were whipped away. The young soldier's movements seemed strangely in tune with those of Mary across the table.
Tony did his best with Maude and the bruised Charlotte. The little sallies that he tried with Miss Hawtrey seemed to tell, but her polite enquiries about the typical temperature in the East, whether he would have to keep warm or cool and how trying the indigenous snakes and flies would be were hard to endure. To her the ‘East’ was a definite place, populated by a distinct and loathsome tribe with the absolute intention of making his life as uncomfortable as possible. Try as he might, he could not convince her of the reality of the Russians, the certainty of their trying to kill rather than simply discommode him and the absolute gallantry with which he would confound them. No, to Maude war was no platform of valour, merely a plain of banality. On the other hand, Charlotte's accident at least gave Morgan something plausible to talk about whilst reminding Maude of another sort of gallantry.
The courses seemed endless. Billy stuck to the old custom of feeding early and feeding plenty no doubt hoping to impress their guests. Soup gave way to ices, savouries to meats, jellies to slices of offal on toast and finally puddings, the whole accompanied by the finest that the Morgan cellar could provide. There would have been every temptation to lighten the burden of his neighbours with drink, but with Maude at such close quarters he hardly dared.
Finally, the toasts. The Queen and Albert began the cavalcade, the army and the navy came next, respective regiments followed hard: then the Tsar and Pope (eyes well damned) brought up the rear.
Warming to his role, Billy called for silence again: ‘Friends, it's been some time since a Morgan answered the call to war.’ Father must have a wonderful memory, thought Tony. There had been no whiff of powder for the old captain and the West Cork Militia along Bantry Bay forty-odd years ago. ‘We don't know where this great war will take Tony, but we do know that it's made new enemies of old friends and new friends of old enemies. In my day you knew where you stood.’
A long way from danger, thought Tony. It was impossible not to like the man, but he made such a show of his militia service all those years ago that the guests could have been forgiven for thinking that it was Billy who was about to go and humble the Tsar, not him.
‘But in this pell-mellery all I can do is to show my son our admiration with a gift that we pray he does not have to use – at least, not against Christians.’
The last phrase drew a snort from the men, but had Tony not been concentrating so hard on the unexpected present he would have noticed a frown from Amelia. Finn, smart as paint in his bottle-green suit of livery, moved from the shadows and passed a slender mahogany box to Billy Morgan. Tony, quite forgetting napkin and chair leg half stumbled as his father beckoned him forward to accept the gift. A little brass plate let into the top was inscribed, ‘A. Morgan Esqre, Gren Coy, 95th Regt.’ The box contained a steely-blue, walnut-stocked Tranter with patches, powder and enough lead to quench the ambition of any Muscovite.
‘That's a fine-looking thing. May I?’ Now alongside the Morgans, Kemp's fingers took the pistol with an almost lascivious grace, coiling themselves around the chequered stock whilst gently tickling the trigger. Supporting it on his beefy left forearm he aimed at the curtain. ‘Only some of us had revolvers in the Punjab and they were nowhere near as fine as this. Remember, Mr Morgan, you'll have the advantage with a repeater, but don't go wasting shot at long range. Wait til' your man gets up close then stick the thing hard into his face before you fire. At Aliwal I had a pepperpot that Charteris – you remember him, Billy? – had urged me to try. All the barrels failed and I ended up using the wretched thing like a club. Oh, I do beg your pardon.’ Kemp cut himself short, realizing that he was marring Billy's moment.
The generosity and unexpectedness of the gift quite silenced Tony. He'd rehearsed a little speech that he expected to give once the toasts had finished – it was brief, self-effacing yet poignant with suggested danger and valour, honed to beguile both lady and maid – but in the event it was still-born. He tumbled out some almost adequate words before resorting to a toast to his father's and friends' health.
Extra peat had redoubled the effects of the drawing-room fire. A lacklustre enquiry or two from the vicar and his wife soon ran into the sand and Tony was desperately seeking another topic when Amelia Smythe appeared at his side. She was a shapely, almost pretty woman who suited the black dress and sparse jewellery that she wore. She was carefully groomed, her hair piled high, powder subtly applied, simple clusters of diamonds at her ears and throat, yet there was a sadness in her grey eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Morgan saw immediately that she was not bent upon platitudes, for she thrust her chin forward, strong opinion bubbling to be set free.
‘Mr Morgan, forgive my seeking your views, especially as we hardly know each other – oh, forgive me. Thank you for inviting me to your party, but have you thought what war will really mean? Are you quite sure that you will be able to send some other poor creature to eternity?’
‘Mrs Smythe, I'm a soldier – death is my trade.’ Tony immediately regretted his gauche reply, remembering how hollow the same phrase had sounded when Richard Carmichael had used it, trying to impress some miss at a ball in England. Why hadn't he managed a thoughtful reply to a serious question, for as he'd handled the pistol he'd wondered just the same thing? If he returned from this campaign would he and Keenan be full of that same lethal joy that he'd seen in Finn and Kemp? Could he rejoice over death