The Trial of Marie Montrecourt by Kay Patrick Read Free Book Online

that during the battle for Majuba, he single-handedly charged at the enemy line and broke through. A lone Englishman in enemy territory, he evaded capture and survived for six months before rejoining his regiment in Pretoria. When the queen awarded him the Victoria Cross, she spoke for the nation when she said: ‘Deeds such as his are at the heart of the British Empire. Our spirit will never be defeated.’ Sir Gordon has been an inspiration to the nation ever since.
     
    The Illustrated News was quick to draw a parallel between the past and the present.
    Nineteen years after Majuba, as we fight once again our old enemy, the Boer, we remember Sir Gordon, whose spirit still inspires our fighting men who will, we know, avenge the defeat at Majuba and give the Boer the bloody nose they deserve.
     
    Evelyn bowed his head again as the queen’s carriage pulled away. If his mother had had her way, there would have been no memorial service. Without consulting him, she had planned to have his father laid to rest with no pomp or ceremony – just a simple service and a few close friends to witness his internment in the Mausoleum at Ardington. Evelyn had insisted that the nation would feel cheated if there was no ceremony and, fortunately, the queen had agreed with him.
    “Your arm, Evie, please.”
    He gave his mother the support of his arm and helped her into the carriage, taking his seat beside her. Lord Renfrew took the seat opposite. His sister, Harriet, and her husband, the Duke of Beddington, settled themselves into the carriage behind.
    He glanced at his mother. She hadn’t looked at him once during the service. In fact, they’d barely exchanged a word since his father’s death. It would probably be easier to prove himself to his peers than to persuade his mother to take him seriously. She insisted on leaving London for Ardington immediately after the service, so he returned to his father’s apartment at Carlton Terrace alone.
    He stood now at the apartment’s study window, twirling the whisky in his glass and watching a detachment of The Blues clatter down the Mall towards Buckingham Palace. At one time his father had wanted him to join that regiment. Evelyn had infuriated him by declining, saying he preferred a life of pleasure to one of regulation. Now he acknowledged the real reason for his refusal. He feared comparison to the Hero of Majuba, as he would surely be found lacking.
    He turned and looked around the room. Everything was in its place, in meticulous order, exactly as it had been while his father was alive. He could visualise Sir Gordon sitting at the walnut writing desk in the centre of the room, or smoking a cigar in one of the green leather armchairs set either side of the marble fireplace. He could imagine him straightening the regimented rows of books on the shelves that lined the walls. All were bound in green leather; their spines gleamed with gold lettering and the crest of the Harringdons was embossed on every cover.
    Not that Evelyn had been a frequent visitor here. He glanced into the large square mirror over the fireplace and ran a hand through his hair, which was long and unruly – so unlike his father’s. He had his mother’s eyes, but he had inherited the square jaw of his father. He was grateful he hadn’t also inherited his father’s patrician nose. It had given Sir Gordon the supercilious look of a man who disapproved of everything he saw.
    He studied the portrait of his father that was hung over the fireplace. It had been painted after the Battle of Majuba on his return from Africa. The newly won Victoria Cross was prominently displayed on his chest. His father had nearly died fighting the Boers and what had been gained from it? Nineteen years later, the country was fighting the same war all over again.
    “What a waste of lives, eh, father?”
    The eyes in the portrait stared coldly back at him. It was a perfect example of art mirroring life. There was a discreet knock at the door