Jack Windrush Collection - Books 5-8

Excerpt from Jack Windrush Collection - Books 5-8

Malvern Hills, England, October 1865

“It's beautiful.” Mary Windrush stood on the terraced slope of the Herefordshire Beacon, looking down at the pass through the Malvern Hills. She grabbed her hat as a gust of wind threatened to blow it from her head. “Is that the house in which you grew up?”

“That's the house in which I grew up.” Nearly 14 years ago, Jack left Wychwood Manor under a cloud of illegitimacy. Now, a married man with a son, he was a captain in the British Army with three campaigns and other operations under his belt. “That's where my half-brother now lives, with his wife and my mother.”

“Shall we visit them?” Mary threw Jack a quizzical glance. “Surely they won't still bear a grudge after all this time.”

Lighting a cheroot, Jack took a long draw as the memories crowded into his brain. “I don't know,” he said. “William is not the most pleasant of men and, as for my mother…” He gave a wry smile. “My stepmother, rather. She said that if I ever set foot on Windrush ground again, she would cut off my allowance.”

“We no longer need an allowance from your mother,” Mary said. “You're no longer a penniless ensign. You're a captain with property and some money of your own.”

“Our own,” Jack corrected.

Taking Jack's cheroot, Mary drew on it, blew out smoke and gave a sudden, devil-may-care grin. “Come on, Captain Jack, let's bell the cat.”

“What?”

“Oh, did you not get educated at your fancy school?” Mary laughed. “Let's beard the lion in his den, let's singe the King of Spain's beard. Let's go and see what brother William says.”

“Brother William won't be pleased,” Jack said.

“All the more reason to meet him, then.” Mary passed back the cheroot. “I've taken a great dislike to your half-brother, Jack.” Slapping Jack's arm, Mary lifted the hem of her skirt and mounted Katrine, her brown mare. “Come along, Captain Jack.”

“You might regret meeting them,” Jack pointed out.

“I might,” Mary agreed cheerfully. “We won't know until we try.”

They negotiated the slope down to the pass, with Mary a few yards in front and Jack following on Cedric, his stallion. He felt the old familiar mixture of apprehension and excitement as if he were going into battle rather than merely riding to see his brother. While sheltering in the bitter trenches outside Sebastopol, sweltering in the Burmese jungles, facing the Pandies at Lucknow or confronting the Pashtuns of the Frontier, Jack had thought of his boyhood home; now he hoped the reality would not destroy his dreams.

“Come along, Jack.” Mary spoke over her shoulder. “You're hideously slow back there.”

“I'm coming,” Jack said.

The gateway to Wychwood Manor was the same as he remembered, if a little the worse for wear, with weeds easing beneath the stone tigers that surmounted the pillars guarding the driveway. Out of old habit, Jack leaned from his saddle to touch the pillars, as he had done as a child.

“For luck,” he explained, seeing Mary's quizzical expression.

“It's strange to think that you grew up here,” Mary stretched to copy him. “I always think of you as belonging to India rather than England.”

“I do, in a way,” Jack agreed. “I am as much Indian as English, anyway.”

Riding slowly to allow news of their arrival to reach the house, Jack reined Cedric in as they negotiated the final curve of the drive. He caught his breath as Wychwood Manor came into view. Once, Jack had thought this place magnificent, the equal of any ancestral home in England, which to his youthful mind meant the equal to anywhere in the world. Now, after service in Malta, Crimea and across India from the Frontier to Burma, Jack could see Wychwood for what it was, the dwelling place of a minor country gentleman, no more and no less.

The manor's central wing dated from the 14th century. From then on, a succession of Windrush owners had added whatever took their fancy over the following generations. The result was a sprawling building of contrasting architectural styles. Lawns that Jack remembered as stretching for many acres now appeared cramped in comparison to the grounds of the Indian palaces he knew so well.

“Wychwood Manor seems to have shrunk,” Jack commented.

“No, Jack. You have grown.”

Jack eyed the weathered Windrush arms that challenged all comers from above the main door. For the first 18 years of his life, he had imagined he would own this house until his stepmother told him that he was illegitimate, and his half-brother William was the true heir. Now he was returning as a visitor with his Eurasian wife.

“If they're unkind,” Jack murmured as he dismounted. “We won't stay long.”

“I have had British people being unkind to me all my life,” Mary said quietly. “I have grown thick skin.” As Mary slid off Katrine, a woman emerged from the side of the house with a hat holding her dark hair in place. She was singing softly, the words familiar to Jack, the marching song of the Royal Malverns, the regiment of his brother, father and ancestors.

“Always victorious

Glorious and more glorious,

We followed Marlborough through battle and war

We're the Royal Malverns, the heroes of Malplaquet.”

The woman stumbled over the last word, repeated it with as little success, said: “Oh, damn,” and looked up. “Good morning,” she said brightly and stopped. “Oh, good God!” Her right hand rose to her mouth. “Jack.”

“Good morning, Helen.” Jack gave a little bow. “May I introduce you to Mary, my wife? Mary, this is Helen, William's wife and the lady to whom I was once engaged.”

Jack expected the awkward pause as the women sized each other up. On one side was Helen, the attractive daughter of Colonel Maxwell, daring, yet calm in a crisis, a woman Jack had known during the Crimean campaign. On the other was Mary, the half-Indian daughter of a British officer, a woman who had endured many adventures with Jack during the Indian Mutiny.

“Mrs Windrush.” Mary was first to dip into a curtsey.

Helen responded with a little twitch of her lips as she glanced from Mary to Jack and back. “How do you do, Mrs Windrush? Imagine, three Mrs Windrushes all in the same house. What fun.”

“You're looking well, Helen,” Jack said. “You've hardly changed.”

“Thank you.” Helen dropped in a slight curtsey. “You are looking very well yourself.” She eyed him up and down. “You got your captaincy, I heard. William is a major now.”

“Is William at home?”

“He's in the stables, I believe.” Helen had gained about half a stone, which suited her well. Her mouth was tighter than Jack remembered, and she had tiny lines around her eyes, yet Jack could sense the old devil-damn-you spirit under her matronly veneer. “I'll send a servant to fetch him.” Helen signalled to a young lad who was watching from a safe distance. “Get the master! Tell him we have guests!”

The boy scampered away.

After her first extended look at Mary, Helen concentrated on Jack, holding his gaze. “Won't you come inside? One of the boys will care for your horses.”

“Thank you,” Mary replied for them both. “That's most kind of you.”

Jack found it strange to return to the outer hall with its Corinthian columns, oak panelling and an array of portraits of long-deceased Windrush men in their bold scarlet uniforms. He noted that a black curtain still hid the picture of Uncle George. “He married a native woman, according to the story,” Jack explained when Mary frowned at the curtain. “In reality, he became a dacoit in Burma.”

“Oh.”

“One of my men, Sergeant Wells, killed him.” Jack remembered those desperate days when he had been a young ensign enduring his first campaign.

“So this is where you grew up.” Mary looked around her as if trying to catch the essence of her husband. “I can nearly imagine you here, running up and down the stairs, shouting and getting into all sorts of mischief.”