Drummond nodded, but as she turned to go, he caught her hand. ‘You will return though, won’t you? You won’t spend the whole evening hiding in your room?’
‘Or even lurking in a dark corner,’ she said, smiling weakly. ‘Do not fear, whatever the outcome of my—my other business, I intend to forget all about the harsh realities of life, and enjoy these festivities to the full, while I can.’
His grim expression softened. ‘A most commendable strategy,’ Drummond said, with a lop-sided smile. ‘With your permission, it’s an approach I’d like to share with you.’
Friday, 25th December 1818, Christmas Day
Christmas morning began, as tradition dictated, with a church service, then an elaborate champagne breakfast followed by a stroll to the village green, now carpeted with a thick blanket of snow. The local children had gathered, and were crowding excitedly around the huge horse-drawn sleigh which accompanied the Brockmore party. On Boxing Day, food baskets would be delivered to tenants and those in need, but today was all about distributing treats to the children of the estate. The Duke and Duchess, aided by some of their guests, handed out wooden dolls and horses, lead soldiers, tin drums, skittles, balls, skipping ropes, hoops, spinning tops and penny whistles, and soon the air was filled with whoops of glee. The frenzied beating of tin drums was soon interspersed with the shrill sound of penny whistles being blown, as if some miniature marching band were tuning up.
Percival Martindale was making a terrible hash of the gift-giving, Drummond noticed as he watched from the sidelines. The poor man got it wrong every time, handing dolls to small boys, skipping ropes to toddlers, and a tin drum to the perplexed mother of a swaddled baby. Heaven knew how he would cope with his new wards. Perhaps he would find a wife to help him bring them up. Or hand them over to a governess. Martindale was smiling gratefully now at Joanna, who had tactfully intervened, swapping Martindale’s choices for something more appropriate, earning herself a grateful smile and a pat on the arm.
For some reason, Drummond did not appreciate this over-familiarity. On impulse, he headed across the snow, waiting patiently until the last gift had been dispensed, then stepping quickly between Martindale and Joanna, offering his arm, and sweeping her away before the other man could protest.
‘I was not in need of rescue, you know,’ she said, as Drummond steered the pair of them away from the revelry. ‘Mr Martindale seems a pleasant but rather melancholy gentleman.’
‘I take it, then, that you are not aware that he has recently been obliged to take in his sister’s two children? Both their parents were killed in a carriage accident, apparently.’
Joanna’s smile faded. ‘I had no idea. How very tragic. But what then, is Mr Martindale doing here at Brockmore? Surely his place is with his new charges, especially at this time of year?’
‘According to Edward Throckton, who is a positive mine of information, the Brockmores were close friends of the deceased couple. They felt the chap desperately needed a break after all he has been through. Apparently, the children have been packed off to mutual friends who have a large brood of their own. They will be well cared for, I am sure, and most likely better able to cope with the loss than poor Martindale, for children, as you must know, are actually very resilient.’
Joanna’s mouth tightened. ‘I never knew my mama, she died giving birth to me, but I have known several children lose a parent, Drummond, and whether they are five years old or fifteen, what they need more than anything is security.’
‘Martindale strikes me as someone who knows his duty. I am certain he will do his best by them—better, perhaps, when he’s had this break to distance himself from his grief.’
‘I hope so, for the poor mites deserve nothing less.’
‘I’ve some experience in this field, you know. I’ve had lads—and I mean lads, Joanna, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—lose a parent. Sometimes, when we were on campaign, word came months after the death, and often it would fall to me to break the news. I happen to agree with you, security is what they need the most. In such cases, it is the army routine which provides that.’
‘And so as an officer, you also acted in loco parentis, just as a teacher does at times—though I do not mean for a moment to compare the two. For you, so far away from home, it must have been so much worse.’ Joanna pressed his arm. ‘Though not so bad as to have to inform a parent on the loss of a child.’ She covered her mouth, aghast almost before the words were out. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, what a tactless thing to have said. I cannot imagine...’
But it was too late. ‘No,’ he said, his voice sounding hollow, as if it did not belong to him. ‘No, you cannot.’ So many such carefully crafted letters, full of kind words and platitudes, glossing over the terrible reality of death in battle. And that one, last letter he had not been permitted to write, despite it being the most important of all. Drummond squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to dispel the memory.
Joanna’s face was pale, her expression horrified, but he felt as if he was looking at her from afar. It was the deafening silence he remembered most. The sudden, shocked silence like that which followed a cannon’s roar. The disbelief writ large on the faces of his men, that must have been reflected in his. Followed by a blood-curdling roar of anguish. His own voice, emanating from the darkest, deepest recesses of his soul.
‘Drummond?’ Joanna gave him a little shake. ‘Drummond?’
He dug his knuckles into his eyes, pushed his hair back from his brow. ‘Forgive me,’ he said.
‘It is I who should apologise. I did not intend to evoke whatever terrible event it was you recalled. I am so very, very sorry.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, relieved to hear that his words had a deal more conviction.
‘Do you want to tell me...?’
‘No!’ he barked, making Joanna flinch. ‘No,’ he repeated, more mildly. ‘Some things which happen during conflict are not for the ears of civilians—they would not understand.’
‘I am truly sorry.’
‘Forget it. We have talked enough about my occupation, tell me about yours. What is it you love so much about teaching?’
To his relief, though she hesitated, she accepted the crude change of subject. ‘Not beating Latin and Greek into my pupils, for one.’
‘Men teaching boys, that is a very different thing.’
‘Did they succeed?’ she asked, eyeing him quizzically. ‘Or might a gentler approach have been more effective?’
Drummond shrugged. ‘It is simply how things were, and no doubt are still. Masters on one side, boys on the other, the one pushing, the other resisting.’
‘You don’t think that a little encouragement, some interest in the subject matter would have helped bridge the gap? How can one expect to imbue a child with enthusiasm for a subject when it is patently obvious to the child that their teacher does not share it?’
‘A good point. Perhaps if my teachers had been more like you I wouldn’t have been so eager to finish school.’
‘I was lucky, I had an excellent example to follow. My father was a botanist as well as a tutor, and taught me to think of pupils as flowers, some blooming easily and showily, some needing to be gently coaxed. I have a weakness for those who need coaxed, I must confess,’ Joanna