A Ghost Story 21
Alicia Locke stood at window of her drawing room and studied the rise and fall of the sculpted parkland that surrounded Locke Manor. Two villages and a hamlet had been 'removed' to achieve the uncluttered vista so prized by the discriminating eyes of her husband's predecessors. She sighed, turning away from the reminder that characterised such meaningless uses of power.
All she had ever wanted was a family, no money or power could give her that. All fate had allowed her was a grandson she loved, but most certainly was not proud of.
And now a great granddaughter as well, but thanks to Roberts duplicity, that relationship could easily be derailed before it began. The mother could simply refuse to include her in the access, walk away with the child.
Perhaps true power really lay with those who had the ability to walk away. The villagers had been forced to build new homes out of the offended sight of their 'betters'. But the coming of the railways meant those new villages prospered, even as the Locke fortunes plummeted. Overextended loans and bad investments left only the house and park intact. Not till her husband's time had the family retrieved a measure of its former glory.
And in the end what did the Lockes have to show for their pride and arrogance?
Robert, a child, and some money.
The sound of a high-powered car drew her attention to the wide tree lined drive.
How might the next generation of this worthy family turn out she wondered.
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"Well, of course it's a bit cold at the moment; but I'll get Thomas the gardener to have a look, he'll have it fixed and running in no time. If not, well we can get new stuff installed, Granny won't mind." Rob shrugged when Letty shivered and hugged herself.
"It's nice…but…" She looked about her; there were places where her meagre furnishings would actually look quite nice. It was cute, like it should be made of gingerbread. The 'Big House' was far enough away for her not to be able to see it. That suited her. Truthfully, one night at her mothers had convinced her that living there was out of the question.
Upstairs Sophie danced on the wooden floors, loving the noise she could make with no neighbours to disturb.
This was all too easy.
Rob lounged back in the doorframe, his head to one side, considering his next move. "Of course there are other ways to…" In the small space, it was simply a matter of leaning forward; he was close enough to slide an arm around her waist. Next, his mouth was nuzzling at her neck.
Letty sprang away, almost colliding with the newel post. "Don't…you know that's not part of the deal!"She wiped at her throat.
"Oh, come on princess, you know I'm sorry about all the other stuff. " He complained, flicking a glance at the stairs. "And she is…" He chuckled and shook his head. "Everything I could wish for." He actually managed to make it sound almost sincere. Used that soft contrived voice, sigh in just the right place. "What would be so awful about us…" He moved to hold her again. "Being…like a family…"
"There is no 'us' Rob." She grabbed her bag from the stairs. "Soso, come down now, we're going for tea," she called.
"OK, OK. I'll back off." He swore softly as Sophie trotted down the stairs. "I'm sorry, Let, don't…"
"Oh, don't panic, we'll move in. It's perfect." Letty felt the anger at his fumbled pass lower to a simmer. She was in control. "But you, you only come here when invited. You see Sophie only when I'm here." Taking her daughter's hand she turned to the door. "And you never try that again."
'And you never try that again! What, are you a whipped cur that she speaks to you so?' The snide voice hissed at Rob. He slapped at his ear as if a fly buzzed there.
"What was that?" Letty froze.
"Oh, nothing, the plumbing's a bit noisy."
Shaking off the familiarly unpleasant feeling, Letty led the way up to Locke Manor for tea.
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"Well boy, want to stay there and freeze 'till they add your bones to that dung heap as well?"
Bridles jangled as horses grew restless, their breath clouding in the cold air.
The young man was dry eyed as he stood by the grave. His head pounded from the excess of wine he had consumed steadily since his wife's death. The passing of the child had almost gone un-noted, so befuddled had he kept his brain.
Now he had squandered even the home she had given him. Lost it in a game of Pitch and Toss, lost it to the man now beside him. The man who had promptly negotiated the sale of the house and lands, the rest of the debts could be settled he said, in service to him.
The young man's heart had been drained for the second time in his life. He had been deceived, happiness was a great lie. She had deceived him with her sweetness, her love, her bravery.
All was a lie.
His little brown bird was gone, their child was gone, their home was gone. His heart was gone with them.
With a clumsy, jerking leap, he mounted the fussing stallion, wheeling it about; he spoke one word to his sneering companion. "London?"
"Aye, London." The older man laughed. "London…and power!"
Mounts were turned directed to the road bound south.
Without a backward glance, the two men rode into legend.
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Every muscle burned, ached, and sang.
Sweat cooled on his skin as his lungs eased breathing to normal. Around him a small group of men dragged in air, groaned, joked, and rubbed at painful joints.
"Right, ladies, good to see you're all so…" The Colour Sergeant's tone was low, but carried years of authority. "Fit…" he sniffed. "But that, girls, was only five miles. By next week it'll be fifteen…fully loaded." He raised an eyebrow at the mumbles and moans. "For now…get your sorry arses back to those nice hot showers and lonely beds."
They didn't need telling twice, with calls of 'goin' now Colour!' they jogged away back to the welcoming lights of the Centre's billets.
"Bourne, a word if you please." Colour Sergeant Little frowned, he was not happy to have this duty fallen to him, but the man needed to be told. Adam Bourne had been in the first squad he'd led as a lance corporal, the man had been a green kid then.
Adam moved forward warily. "The exercise was telling, but not disappointing."
Colour Little scanned the heath they had just run across; it was even, not a difficult terrain. "You stumbled a couple of times out there. Balance or bad boots?" The senior man was searching for the words that would not offend or wound. They weren't there.
"I am out of practice, my enforced inactivity has…"
"Oh, I can tell you, its balance. I can see it as you walk. Not serious..." He spread his hands expansively. "…out there in civi world, no real problem."
"But on active service?" Adam heard the implication of the senior NCO's words.
"Not a chance. Two days I watched, waited to see it right its self. It did not happen." He sighed; telling a man he was out was never easy. "Loss of even one percent of your peripheral vision hinders your depth perception, spatial awareness. You know as well as I do, where you'd be going that spells 'dead man', whether you like it or not."
Adam snarled, "So I'm out of the service, retired?" He stood straighter, pride and anger vying for control
"There are other options. Man with your talents, knowledge. The private sector always…"
"A man without an honourable master…" Adam looked into the distant darkness.
"Honour is in your soul man, not the organisation you work for." The faint Scots accent rang with pride.
Breathing deep, Adam considered the freedom of owing allegiance to no man but himself. Was it possible?
"You were eighteen when you joined, nowhere else to go then. What about now, maybe it's time to change?" The older man rubbed chilled hands, shook his head. "For what it's worth, their making old buzzards like me redundant." He chuckled. "Redundant, that hurts! Nothing sadder than a useless old soldier laddie."
The Adam of the bone and sinew was lost. The Adam of the mind and soul coolly considered his liberty.