The Soldier's Dark Secret

‘Robert, make your bow to Mademoiselle Marmion,’ Jack said, detaching the grubby little hand which was clutching the pocket of his breeches. ‘This, Mademoiselle, is my nephew.’

‘How do you do?’ The child made a perfunctory bow before turning his beseeching countenance back to his uncle. ‘Will you take me fishing? Only Papa was supposed to take me but I think he has quite forgotten, and even though Papa says he always caught the biggest fish when you were little...’

Jack laughed. ‘Oh, he did, did he?’

Robert nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, and Papa would not lie, Uncle Jack.’

Jack dropped down on to his knees to be level with the child whose eyes were the exact same shade of dark brown, Celeste noted, as his own. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you are quite right. Papa would not lie.’

‘But you mustn’t feel bad, because he told me you were the much better shot.’ Robert patted Jack’s shoulder consolingly, making Celeste stifle a giggle. ‘Papa said that when you were only six, which is just a little bit bigger than me, you shot a pigeon this high up in the sky,’ he said, standing on his tiptoes and stretching his arm above his head. ‘Only Papa said that it was very naughty of you, because you weren’t supposed to have the gun, and Grandpapa was very angry, and he gave you a sound whipping, and Papa too, even though he did not shoot the gun, and I think that’s not fair. Do you think that’s fair, Uncle Jack, do you?’

‘Well, I...’

‘Though maybe,’ Robert continued, having drawn breath, ‘maybe,’ he said, plucking at Jack’s shirt, ‘Papa was whipped because he is the eldest and did not show a good example? That is what he said I am to do, when Baby Donal is older. So maybe you would not have stolen the gun and shot the pigeon if Papa had told you not to?’

‘Perhaps,’ Jack said, his eyes alight with laughter but his expression serious, ‘though I was a very naughty boy when I was your age. I tended not to do as I was told, I’m afraid.’

Robert considered this, his head on one side. ‘Is that why you are not a soldier any more? Did you disobey orders?’

Jack sat back on his heels, the light fading from his eyes. ‘I did not, but I wish to God I had.’

Celeste caught her breath at this, but Robert had already moved on. ‘Uncle Jack, will you tell me about the time when you told the Duke of Wellington about that great big fort, and he said that it was a ruin, but you knew better. And there was a big battle and—and will you tell me, because when Papa tells me, he gets it all mixed up and forgets the regiments, and it is not the same as when you tell it.’

Jack winced. ‘Robert, the war is over now.’

‘But you were there and you saw it with your own eyes,’ the child continued, heedless.

‘Robert...’

‘Robert, I think perhaps your uncle...’ Celeste interjected.

Robert stamped his foot. ‘It is not fair! Why must I not ask you? Why won’t you tell me, when you have told Papa?’

‘Because Papa is a grown up. Because it was a long time ago,’ Jack said.

‘Well then, why will you not tell me about Waterloo? That was not a long time ago.’

‘Robert,’ Jack said, getting to his feet, obviously agitated, ‘I think it is best...’

‘But I only wanted to know what it was like,’ the child said, grabbing at his uncle’s leg, his face screwed up with temper, ‘because Steven, who is my best, best friend in the whole village, his papa fought under Sir Thomas Picton at Waterloo in the Fifth Infantry, and I said that you were much more important than even Sir Thomas Picton, and Steven said you could not be...’

‘Enough, child, for pity’s sake!’ Jack’s roar was so unexpected that Robert stopped in mid-flow, his jaw hanging open. Celeste, who felt as if her heart had attempted to jump out of her chest, was also speechless.

Jack pointed at the door. ‘Out! You would test the patience of a saint. No war stories, today or ever. Have I made myself perfectly clear?’ He glowered at the child.

Robert’s lip trembled, but he held his ground. ‘I hate you.’ He stamped his foot again. ‘I hate you,’ he said and burst into tears, storming from the room, violently slamming the door behind him.

Shaken, white-faced, Jack slumped on to the sofa which was placed in the middle of the room and dropped his head, pinching the furrow between his brows hard. He rubbed his forehead viciously, as if he were trying to erase whatever thoughts lurked behind it. ‘I frightened him,’ he said starkly. ‘He’s five years old, for goodness’ sake, and I yelled at him as if he’d turned up on the parade ground without his musket. What the hell is wrong with me?’

‘Jack, I don’t think he was so very frightened. It seemed to me he was more angry than afraid.’

‘What blasted difference does it make? He ran away, bawling his eyes out, and that was my fault.’ Jack jumped to his feet, his fists clenched. ‘I’ve never upset a child like that before. What on earth is happening to me?’

‘Jack, I—’