Windrush (Jack Windrush Book 1) Read online

  Jack gave a small bow. 'I'll try not to be, sir.'

  Welland lowered his voice slightly. 'Is there a young lady in your life, Windrush?'

  'Not yet, sir,' Jack wondered what was coming next.

  'Good,' Welland seemed satisfied with the reply. 'Keep it that way if you are serious about your profession. Don't even think about marriage, youngster, not until you are a major at least and you have to keep the family line alive. Women are for procreation, not recreation; they will only distract you.'

  Jack nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

  There is little possibility of any woman distracting me, Major Welland.

  With the General safe in his crypt, the mourners made their separate ways home, with only the Windrushes' private carriage rolling to Wychwood Manor, the ancestral home of the family since time immemorial. Snug beneath the Malvern peaks, it was a sprawling place, centred on a fourteenth- century manor house but with additions from half a score of builders and owners, marking the passage of architectural time. Lawns rolled green and smooth on either side of the entrance door, while centuries of English weather had all but obliterated the Windrush arms carved in the limestone arch above the main door.

  As grooms ran to attend to the horses, Jack stood in the outer hall with its soaring Corinthian columns and oak panelling. He glanced at the array of portraits and pictures that virtually related the story of his family over the past hundred and fifty years. Grim faced or solemn; his ancestors stared at him from above the scarlet uniform of the Royals. Some were alone, others painted against a backdrop of battle, but all had added to the lustre of the Windrush family.

  'Uncle George's still hidden,' Adam pointed to the black curtain that concealed one of the portraits. 'I'd have thought Mother would have released him by this time.'

  Despite the gravity of the day, Jack grinned. 'Poor old Uncle George; always condemned to be the black sheep of the family.' He glanced behind him to ensure his mother was not present, and carefully eased back a corner of the curtain. George Windrush stared out, resplendent in his regimentals and with a devil-damn-your-hide glint in his eyes that Jack had rather admired as a youth.

  'Best not let Mother catch you,' Adam advised. He tried to force the curtain shut again, but Jack pushed his hand away for a longer look.

  'Imagine joining John Company and marrying a native woman,' William pushed in. He sounded aghast at the audacity of his uncle.

  'Terrible,' Jack shook his head in mock horror. 'It's just as well that he was lost at sea.'

  'He was a blight on the family,' William snatched shut the curtain. 'Better his portrait is burned rather than just covered up.'

  'Oh indeed,' Jack fought to keep the mockery from his voice.

  'Here's mother now.' William stepped back from the portrait in case its very proximity should contaminate him.

  'Well, thank God that ordeal is over,' Mrs Windrush rolled off her black gloves and dropped them on the hallstand for a servant to put away. 'Funerals are such tiresome affairs.' Tall, slim and handsome despite her years, she stood erect and calm as she surveyed her sons. 'All right boys,' she said quietly. 'We have family business to execute. Meet me in the library in five minutes, if you please.'

  The library was the holy of holies, a room in which only the most important decisions were made and one which Jack had visited only a score of times in his life. He felt his heart begin to pound as he mounted the stairs with the nearly invisible servants shrinking from him as he passed. The forthcoming business must be vital, and he guessed what it was. His mother was calling them into the library to hand him his commission papers; there could be no other reason. By this time tomorrow he would be an ensign in the Royal Malverns; by this time tomorrow, he would be a man following his destiny.

  The room was broad and chill, with two tall windows overlooking the Herefordshire Beacon that thrust its terraced slopes through the low lying mist. Glass fronted bookcases lined two walls and crept into part of the third, while a large writing desk sat square in the centre of the room. Mrs Windrush lit the three candles that stood to attention in their brass candlesticks and waited until the light pooled increased. She did not say anything as she pulled back the leather chair and sat solidly behind the desk while her children stood in a row in front of her. Jack noted the determined thrust of her chin and the strange, nearly triumphant light in her eyes and knew she was about to announce something portentous. Save for the ticking of a long case clock in the landing below, and the occasional distant bleat of a sheep that sounded through the cracked-open window, there was silence as Mrs Windrush opened the top drawer of the desk and pulled out a small pile of papers.

  Jack felt his heart beating like the thunder of martial drums. He could see what looked like an official seal on the top document and guessed that it came from the Royals. That would be his ensign's commission which opened up his real life. Tomorrow he would catch the mail coach to London to purchase his uniform, and within a couple of weeks he would take ship for his new home; the only real home he would ever know: the Royals.

  'Stand still boys,' Mrs Windrush commanded and waited for only a second until they obeyed. 'With the death of your father, some things need to be said, and some matters must be addressed.' She allowed the last word to hang in the air for a few moments, sitting upright in the chair as she slowly pushed the top document to one side and opened the others, one by one. She placed them in a neat row in front of her.

  'Now boys; your father has left me instructions for each of you, but I fear that certain circumstances force me to modify them a little.' When she looked directly at him, Jack felt his heart beat increase further, the drums rattling the charge rather than a quick march. Modify them? What the deuce does that mean? He thought there was something nearly malicious in the glitter of her eyes, a hint of satisfaction that he had witnessed and dreaded on each occasion she had announced he was due for punishment. He jerked his attention back to his mother's face. She was watching him, and he knew she understood every thought that crossed his mind.

  'I will begin with your father's intentions,' Mrs Windrush said and lifted the sheet of paper closest to her. 'You, Jack, were due for a commission in the army; in your father's regiment. William: your father intended that you care for the family estate. You, Adam, were either to enter the army or to pursue a career in law. Neither your father nor I intended that any of you become a gentleman of leisure.'

  Jack permitted himself a small smile. He could not imagine his mother ever allowing one of her sons, or anybody else in her power, the luxury of leisure.

  'However,' Mrs Windrush continued, 'I have had to make some alterations.' Her voice hardened as she lifted the next sheet, looking directly at each of her sons in turn as she proclaimed their fate.

  'Jack: you will still enter the army, but not in your famous Royals.' She spoke the last word as if it was a curse. 'Instead, you will be commissioned into a different regiment.' There was triumph in her eyes.

  'What? Why is that, Mother, pray?' Jack felt the shock strike like a hammer to his heart. There was only the one family regiment. No other held any appeal for a Windrush.

  'Kindly permit me to finish.' Mrs Windrush chilled him to silence with a single look. He felt all his childhood fears return although the threat of physical correction was long past. 'Now, William, you are now destined for the army. I have ordered the family lawyer to purchase a commission for you in the Royals.'

  William bowed slightly from the waist, while his eyes flicked sideways to meet Jack's, before slowly sliding away. 'Yes, mother.' He accepted the alteration in his fortune so quickly that Jack guessed he had known about the decision in advance.

  'Mother!' Jack stepped forward, so he was touching the desk. 'How can this be?'

  'Silence!' That single word cracked like a huntsman's whip. 'Adam; you will now take over William's duties in the estate.'

  With a glance of mixed apology and sympathy to Jack, Adam bowed his acceptance. 'Yes, mother.'

  'Now you may speak,
Jack,' Mrs Windrush allowed. She leaned back slightly in her chair, placed her elbows on the desk and pressed the fingers of both hands together. Her eyes were unyielding as ice-covered granite.

  'Mother; I have to join the Royals. The eldest son has been commissioned into the Royals for two centuries; why should I be in a different regiment while the second son is in the Royals?' He glanced toward William, who stood with an expression of smug foreknowledge that Jack found extremely disturbing.

  'You made one valid point there, Jack, and asked one question, but both are intimately connected.' Save for the deep grooves around her eyes, Mrs Windrush appeared quite relaxed 'Your point was nearly correct when you said that the eldest son in this family had been commissioned into the Royals for two hundred years. You would have been more accurate to say that the eldest legitimate son has always been commissioned into the Royals.'

  For a moment Jack could only stare at his mother. 'Legitimate?'

  Mrs Windrush's smile contained only malice. 'And in this family, the eldest, or more correctly, elder, legitimate son is William, who we have indeed commissioned into the Royals.'

  'But, mother…' Jack was unsure what to say as his world collapsed around him.

  'I am not your mother.' The smile was tighter now, the gleam of triumph shattering the ice around the granite eyes. 'And you are not my son. Your mother was a kitchen maid or some such you are merely the by-blow of your father's youthful indiscretion.' The smile broadened as if this woman was, at last, revealing something that circumstances had forced her to conceal for many years. 'You are an accidental child, Jack, born on the wrong side of the blanket. In short, you are an unwanted little bastard.'

  A bastard?

  Jack gasped at the disgrace. Five minutes previously he had been destined for an honourable career with the finest line regiment in the British Army. He had thought of himself as the eldest son and the heir of one of England's most ancient and honourable families, but now he was merely the bastard son of a kitchen maid, and his future lay in utter tatters.

  'As a bastard, of course,' his step mother was talking again, relishing the roll of her voice around the dishonourable name, her words controlled but her tone full of justified satisfaction, 'as a bastard, you cannot be commissioned into the Royals, or indeed into any decent regiment.' She permitted herself a short snort of derision. 'No gentleman would agree to serve with you.' She paused for a meaningful glance at her elder son. 'However I did promise your father that I would see you commissioned, so I have purchased you a commission as an ensign into one of the few, one of the very few, regiments that would accept you.'

  Shocked at this downturn in his fortunes, Jack waited, saying nothing. Already he felt something alter within him and he wanted to give no more satisfaction to this woman who no longer acted as his mother. He felt sick; his legs were shaking so much he grabbed hold of the desk to steady himself.

  'Don't you want to know which distinguished regiment agreed to have you?' That was deliberate cruelty as Mrs Windrush watched him suffer.

  'Yes, mother; if you please.'

  'Don't call me mother, Jack. With the death of my husband, your father, we have no remaining relationship. Madam would be better, but Mrs Windrush might be acceptable.'

  'But mother…' Jack saw the slight, sneering smile slide onto his step mother's mouth and forced himself to stand upright, 'my apologies, Madam.' Determined to give this suddenly cold stranger as little satisfaction as possible, he gave a formal bow. 'I would be obliged if you could inform me into which regiment my father's money has purchased me a commission.'

  The smile vanished. Lifting the still sealed document from the desk in front of her, Mrs Windrush threw it contemptuously across to him. 'There is your commission, sir. My husband's money has bought you the necessary uniforms and my generosity had added a one-off sum of two hundred guineas. That is all. This family has cared for you for the past eighteen years but this is the last, and very generous, act of kindness we will do for you. From this minute you are on your own.'

  Lifting the commission, Jack deliberately did not open it. He had to strike back, for if he left like this, with his tail between his legs, he could no longer look in the mirror. 'This will be a terrible scandal of course, once it is known.' He allowed the words to hang in the air. He knew there was nothing his step mother dreaded more than a slur on her family name. 'People will talk, and your friends will close their doors once they learn how your husband cuckolded you.'

  He felt his step mother's anger as she half rose from her seat. 'The scandal will rebound on you,' she said softly.

  'I have less to lose.' Jack reminded. 'I am only a dishonourable bastard. But if I had, say, a thousand guineas a year in perpetuity, I would certainly have no reason to speak.'

  'That's blackmail.' Mrs Windrush sat down again.

  Jack lifted the commission; 'you have deliberately twisted the promise of my deceased father, which is as dishonourable an act as I can conceive.'

  'Two hundred guineas a year and you promise never to return.'

  'Seven hundred and fifty guineas deposited on the first day of February every year and I will never return to Wychwood Manor in your lifetime.' Jack faced her across the width of the desk, forcing himself to act with a strength he did not feel. 'Do we have a contract?'

  'The second you resign your commission or set foot on Windrush land again, your money stops.'

  'And the first time you fail to pay my money, I will be back.'

  Rising from her seat, Mrs Windrush pointed to him, her finger trembling in anger. 'Show this bastard out of our house, William, if you please. We will not see him again.'

  'I'll pack my things first,' Jack kept his voice cool-as-you-please. 'And take my money. When I have an address, you can send the rest of my belongings along.' He gave a slight, mocking bow. 'Good day to you, madam and I hope you can try and keep your next husband more faithful than your last.'

  It was a telling parting shot that did nothing to assuage the sick despair that engulfed him.

  Chapter Two

  Herefordshire, England, February 1851

  Gripping the commission in hands that seemed to have turned to claws, Jack squared his shoulders and stalked from the room. He ignored the stares of the servants and the scornful face of his step brother as he gathered such of his possessions as were readily accessible, swept a handful of gold and silver coins into his pocket book and swept through the entrance hall with its portraits and pillars, its memories and solid grandeur.

  Wychwood Manor had been the home of his ancestors for centuries, but now it was lost to him. He was as much a stranger here as any inhabitant of China or Hindustan or the South Sea Islands. The tears began to prickle at the back of his eyes, but he forced them away, for he had no desire to allow his mother or William the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he was hurt.

  It was hard to step through the front door beneath the worn Windrush coat of arms, hard to walk down the sweeping entrance stairway for the last time, hard to put on a swagger when all he wanted to do was huddle into his despair. At the end of the driveway he turned for a last long look at the scythe-shorn lawns, the turrets and towers that told of his history, but William stood in the doorway, master of Wychwood Manor, sneering at him over an uncrossable bridge of birth and blood. The sun had eased through the clouds, reflecting on two score windows and highlighting the ancient stonework of his one-time home.

  His father's amorous adventures had closed that door, and he was no longer welcome. It would be no good to run screaming back, to beg forgiveness for a sin he had never committed, to plead and cry and grovel, for his mother was as bound by convention as she was by law. As a bastard, he was not the legitimate heir, and that was unalterable.

  And then it was the sad walk out of the estate and on to the high road that led toward Hereford, with the Malvern Hills greenly familiar behind him and the countryside unfolding for mile after fertile mile. His countryside no longer: he had no place with the one-time tenan
ts of his father's estate, he would no longer fish the Cradley Brook, no longer sit on the green heights and dream of glory, no longer gallop his horse across the hills or shoot pheasant or wild fowl in the pleasant woods. His past was gone, and his future written in the piece of simply-sealed paper he gripped far too tightly.

  After half an hour the commission was burning a hole in his hand: he had to discover which regiment he was destined to join; he had to know where his future lay. If the famous Royals did not want him, perhaps he was destined for the Buffs or the Rifles; maybe the 24th Foot, a regiment known for hard fighting. They would suit. He must find out, but not here. If he stopped near the Malverns then sure as death somebody would recognise him and ask what he was about; he could not face the shame. He would wait until he reached Hereford, many miles away.

  The Inn was on Church Street, a few scores yards from Hereford Cathedral. Its creaking signboard proclaimed it to be The Gwynne Arms and the black and white exterior was as inviting as the convivial sounds of men and women talking together. Jack hesitated for only a second; his mother would not approve of him entering such a place. By God, that is as good a reason as any to go in. He pushed open the door. The noise enveloped him like a friendly arm, and he eased to a seat in a dusty corner and examined the seal of his commission. It was a simple red blob of wax without even an official crest when he had expected something much grander. Apparently, an ensign counted for less than he had thought, or perhaps some petty clerk could not be concerned to finish his work properly. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the parchment.

  At sixteen inches by ten, it was also much smaller than he had expected, and when he read the contents, he felt once more the sick slide of despair. Skipping over the heading that stated that 'the Commander in Chief of the Army reposed special trust and confidence in his loyalty,' he came to the 'do by these presents constitute and appoint you Jack Baird Windrush to take rank and post as Ensign in the 113th Regiment of Foot.'