The Soldier's Dark Secret

Jack was staring at the portrait as if it were of a stranger, just as she had stared at the miniature of her mother only the other day. She was still struggling to equate the beautiful woman in the portrait with the Maman in her mind’s eye. Art could obscure reality as well as portray it. Which was the real Blythe Marmion? Which was the real Jack Trestain? Had the regal, commanding officer in the portrait ever existed? Jack was asking himself the same question, judging by the expression on his face.

‘This likeness was taken less than three years ago,’ he said. ‘I left the army less than three months ago, yet it seems as if a lifetime has passed. I struggle to recognise myself. I can barely remember being the man in the portrait. I thought, you know, that if I re-enlisted, I might— I was fine then. Seeing this—I can’t imagine it now.’

He turned away, heading across the room to the farthest point away from the portrait. I was fine then. For the first time, he had admitted that he was not fine now. What had happened to him? More than ever, she longed to know, but Celeste bit back the questions she was desperate to ask, the answers she would have demanded only a few short days ago. Memories were painful things. Memories were private things. Some memories, as she had learnt only yesterday, were too painful to be shared.

It was like Pandora’s box, her memory. Every time the lid creaked open a fraction, it became more and more difficult to close. Things she wanted to forget wriggled free. Things that reminded her she had not always been the person she was so proud of now. She did not want to be reminded of that person. She would never again be that person.

And Jack? With Jack it was very different. The soldier in the portrait had been a respected and admired officer, one mentioned in despatches, whatever that meant. The man he had become was fighting a different battle now. He had his demons, just as she had her ghosts. No doubt she was just a foolish artist, but she admired this man’s bravery a great deal more.

She rejoined him in front of another full-length painting. ‘And who is this remarkable specimen?’ Celeste asked him brightly.

‘This is my father’s brother, also called Jack,’ he replied. ‘As you can see, aside from our name, we have precious little in common.’

The man was fat, fair and flamboyant in a claret-velvet suit, gazing winsomely out at the viewer, a silver jug in one hand, a book in the other. ‘Household Accounts,’ Celeste read in puzzlement. ‘How very strange. Usually when a man holds a book in a portrait it is to symbolise his learning.’

Jack smiled wryly. ‘In this particular case it symbolises his notorious thriftiness. This next lady now, my Aunt Christina, is my mother’s youngest sister, known as Auntie Kirsty. She is married to a real Highland laird and lives in a genuine Highland castle. Charlie and I used to love visiting them. It was a real adventure for us. My mother hated it up there, for it was freezing cold, winter and summer, and Auntie Kirsty is one of those women who hasn’t much of an opinion of soap and water. Frankly,’ Jack said, grinning, ‘Auntie Kirstie smells exactly like her deerhounds when they’ve been out in the rain. But she’s one of the best fishermen I’ve ever come across, and she can shoot better than almost any trooper I’ve ever trained. You can see the castle in the background there, and this dog here, that’s Calum, her favourite deerhound of the time, though most likely long gone.’ His smile faded. ‘I’ve not been there in many years.’

‘Now you are no longer tied to the army, you could visit her, if you wished.’

‘No. Auntie Kirstie is almost as bad as my mother was for basking in my exploits.’

‘You mean she was proud of you?’

‘They all were, and I was arrogant enough to think I deserved it.’ Jack reached out to touch his aunt’s face, the same gesture he’d used on the portrait of his mother. ‘I considered myself a good soldier.’

‘And the Duke of Wellington agreed,’ Celeste reminded him.

‘Yes, he did, but it all depends on your perspective.’

He spoke not bitterly, but resignedly. His expression was bleak, the despair not so marked as on that first, unguarded day at the lake, but it was manifestly still there in his eyes. She longed to comfort him, but how? The more he said about the army, the more she realised his relationship with it was complex, perhaps impossible for anyone who was not a soldier to understand. He loved the army, he clearly had loved being a soldier, but he spoke of those days as if it were a different person. As if it was not him. As if he would not allow it to have been him. And so perhaps they were kindred spirits after all.

The door to the portrait gallery burst open, and a small whirlwind of a boy came hurtling in, making a beeline for Jack. ‘Please will you take me fishing, Uncle Jack?’