The Soldier's Dark Secret

Another sleepless night, this one thanks not to his dream but to his lingering and complete mortification. Jack had not actually been physically ill last night. He was trying very hard to see that as some sort of progress, but as he had lain sleepless and sweating in his bed, he replayed the entire hideous scene over and over, to the point where he had thought himself beyond embarrassment. If the dinner had been a test, he’d failed it spectacularly.

Unable to face anyone, knowing he must eventually face them all, he had been wandering aimlessly around the grounds for hours. Exhausted, hungry but unable to contemplate eating, he was instead contemplating retiring to his bed when the sound of voices drifted out through the long French window which gave on to Celeste’s studio.

‘Yes, yes, these are all excellent, Mademoiselle,’ he heard Charlie say.

His brother was giving his approval to the selection of sketches to be painted. They would all three of them be there. It was an ideal opportunity for Jack to make himself scarce, but he found himself instead positioned behind a trellis which obscured him, but also afforded a view into the studio. It was inevitable that the subject of the dinner would come up. What would their take on it be? Information was the best of ammunition after all. It seemed old habits died hard.

Charlie, unlike his wife, who had studied each of Celeste’s sketches with a great deal of care, gave each a fairly cursory glance, and seemed indiscriminately happy with every one of them. Standing beside him, Celeste, looking pale, with dark circles under her eyes, was struggling to give her patron her full attention. Her gaze drifted over to the window.

Jack froze, though she could not possibly see him. It was ridiculous to be hiding here. He should join them. His feet refused to comply. He wondered fleetingly if this was how Celeste had felt that day—which seemed like months ago—when she had watched him swimming.

Charlie was looking at a view of the lake now. No, he had selected one. Now he was dithering between two views of the Topiary Garden, and Jack could see Celeste making a huge effort not to try to steer him towards the one she herself preferred. She smiled when he opted for it, and pushed the pinery sketches towards him.

‘Yes. Excellent.’ Charlie rubbed his hands together again, a sure sign he was nervous. ‘I wonder if I may be so bold, Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘as to enquire how you find my brother?’

Jack’s hackles rose. Celeste looked wary. ‘I am not sure what you mean. He has been most helpful.’

‘Yes, yes. I can see that.’ Charlie pursed his lips. ‘It cannot have escaped your notice, Mademoiselle, that my brother is not quite— That he is not— That in short, he is rather out of sorts. On occasion.’

‘He has been wounded. I think his arm has given him a great deal of pain. What do you think of this vista, Sir Charles?’

Charlie ignored the proffered sketch. ‘It amounts to more than tetchiness, Mademoiselle. More than the residual pain from a wound now healed. Last night—for heaven’s sake, you witnessed what occurred last night. What in the name of all that’s sacred was that about, do you think?’

Celeste blanched. ‘I don’t know. I was as much— I don’t know.’

Charlie threw the sketch down. ‘The time has come to stop beating about the bush. My wife and I are at our wits’ end. We have tried but we seem singularly ill equipped to help him, Mademoiselle, indeed I think we unintentionally exacerbate matters.’

Jack strained forward. Charlie was leaning over Celeste. Celeste, hindered by the table, was bending backwards. ‘I am fain to embroil you in a private family matter,’ his brother said, ‘but it has struck both my wife and myself that you seem to be able to...well, to influence Jack in a way we cannot.’

‘Monsieur, Sir Charles, I do not...’

‘You do. He listens to you. Eleanor says that it was only at your behest that he finally consented to come to dinner last night.’

‘No.’ Celeste flushed. ‘That is, I might have— But it was very wrong of me. Jack was eager to please you too, Monsieur—Sir Charles. He is not— He— I should not have—’

‘What sparked such an extreme reaction out of the blue like that—that’s what I want to know. It can’t go on, that much is certain.’

Clearly agitated now, Charlie thumped his fist on the table. Jack felt his own fists curl. Appalled, sick to the stomach and furious, he forced himself to listen.

‘He used to be the most even-tempered of chaps,’ Charlie was saying, ‘and now one must constantly be treading on eggshells around him. He barely eats. He hardly sleeps. I don’t know how many times the chambermaid has reported some piece of broken china from his bedchamber. Then there is the way he— He— Our little boy, Robert.’

‘You remember, Mademoiselle Marmion was witness to one of those episodes in the portrait gallery the other day, my love.’

‘Lady Eleanor, I really do think that your son—’