Darrell - Act of Valour

ACT OF VALOUR

Volume III of the Knightshill Saga

EMMA DRUMMOND

Elizabeth Darrell 1996

Elizabeth Darrell has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published in 1996 by Simon & Schuster.

This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

By the time he was twelve years old, Tim Daulton knew he was going to lead a charmed life. He passed examinations without too much effort, won sporting laurels with the ease of a born athlete, and made friends wherever he went. At fourteen, girls began swarming around him like bees at a honeypot and he discovered one of the pleasures of life was his for the taking. When he reached the age to embark on the military career he had wanted from childhood, there was just one desire left to fulfil. This was taken care of by the family solicitor and so, in that year of 1914, it was Second-Lieutenant Timothy Edward Verity Ashleigh who took his place with the West Wiltshire Regiment, eager to emulate his distinguished ancestors.

However, on a morning in late June when it was already hot, military distinction was not uppermost in his mind. A girl wearing a diaphanous ngilig had woken him offering tea on a tray, and he was wondering who she was. Blonde hair, wide, teasing blue eyes, peaches and cream skin? Well, they all had those unless they were the brunettes with dark, fiery glances and intense natures. Molly? Jeanne? Flora? His gaze travelled downwards from her face. Well, they all had those, too. No clues there to her identity but they invited him more than the prospect of tea. As he twisted free of the sheet and grabbed her he told himself her name was unimportant, anyway. She would get a new hat or a little pearl bracelet out of the encounter, and they would both have enjoyed it.

When the girl brought in fresh tea an hour later and told him in pouting manner that he was a lazybones, Tim then remembered he had a train to catch. Jumping from the bed, he snatched the cup from its saucer as he headed for her tiny bathroom. If he missed this fast train there was no other until tomorrow. Only by reaching Yeovil and taking a charabanc mainly used by farmers, then two different horse-drawn vehicles, could he then get home tonight and avoid family censure.

Returning to the girl, whose pout had deepened, he held out the cup to be refilled, then began pulling on his clothes that lay scattered around a room decorated with far too many pink, fluffy things.

Youre not going , Bobby! she complained.

Have to. Got a train to catch, Bobby replied.

Tim never gave his real name on these sexual jaunts. He could not risk one of his partners turning up at his barracks, or at Knightshill, to claim that she had been wronged. Thrusting his legs into evening trousers, Tim attempted to work out how long it would take him to reach his rooms, wash, shave and change his clothes, then take a cab to the station. It would be cutting it fine, but he would sooner miss that train and arrive late than walk into Knightshill looking like the contents of a horses nosebag. One glance in the mirror confirmed that description. Bloodshot eyes, thick blond stubble, tangled hair, swollen mouth and a bruise just below his right ear where little whoevershewas had nibbled in her excitement. Good God, if the Elders of Knightshill saw him in this condition they would urge him to change his name back to Daulton.

On reaching barracks Tim narrowly missed an encounter with his CO, Colonel Manners, who was a bachelor married to the army. Needless to say he came down hard on a promiscuous subaltern who enjoyed life to the full. A man did not have to be a monk to be a good soldier, and Manners would never have reason to fault Tim Ashleighs military performance, he vowed.

Shouting to his batman to fetch hot water and clean clothes, Tim burst into the quarters he shared with John Marshall.

I thought you had a train to catch, John murmured, reading a letter in his own room where the door stood open.

I have. Tim made for the bathroom. Could you lend me a fiver?

No.

Stripping off his outer clothes and dropping them on the floor, Tim called out, Its just until I get back from leave.

No .

I havent enough on me for the train fare.

Then youll have to walk to Wiltshire.

Cleaning his teeth vigorously, Tim went to the doorway. Id do the same for you.

John continued reading. You wouldnt. You never have any spare money.

Through the foam in his mouth Tim protested. Thats rot! Im as well heeled as you. Its been a particularly heavy month, thats all.

His friend glanced across at him then, dark eyes full of resignation. Youre such a high flyer, thats your trouble. Find a few waitresses or chambermaids wholl give it to you for no more than a hair ribbon or a frilly garter. The girls you choose want diamonds on them.

Their batman arrived with a can of hot water, clean underwear and a starched white shirt. Tim continued his pleading. Come on, old chap. Just a fiver until next week. The Elders will give me hell if I dont get there on time. You wouldnt want that, would you?

John took his notecase from his pocket. If I thought it would chasten you, yes. As he put a five-pound note on his small table, he added without much conviction, This is the last time.

Tim vanished into the bathroom to make himself presentable enough to face his family within the shortest possible time. He had been right in saying he was as wealthy as his friend, who was the son of a distinguished banker. It was simply that Tim found so much more than John to spend it on. Life was there to be lived and he had expensive tastes. He had been brought up to enjoy the best and saw no reason to change. He always repaid John or any other of his friends who helped him out when funds were low, and was meticulous over his Mess bill. Tradesmen seemed happy enough to wait, which was just as well because he never had sufficient left at the end of each month to settle the accounts of his tailor, bootmaker and wine merchant.

Dropping his razor in the bowl of soapy water, he peered at himself in the mirror. He could not do much about the bloodshot eyes, swollen lips and bruises, but he looked more respectable now. Ah, you handsome devil, he told his reflection with a grin, only the high flyers are good enough for you.

He caught the train by sprinting along the platform and jumping aboard the last carriage. Having had no breakfast, he made his way to the restaurant car, then found he could eat no more than coffee and toast. There had been a round of parties this week. A great deal to drink and a different girl each time. Even at twenty-five a man needed a breather to recoup his energy. What he should do was sleep before encountering Ashleighs en masse . He found an empty first-class carriage, stretched out, pulled his hat over his eyes and expected to go out like a light. To his annoyance a cavalcade of thoughts kept him awake.

He had been summoned home by his Uncle Vere, who was the head of the family and one of those Tim called the Elders, the others being Aunt Lottie and his own mother. These were the senior generation of Ashleighs who upheld tradition and family values. There was another Elder, of course the reason for the summons to Knightshill but he was something of an unknown quantity. Tim had last seen Val Ashleigh more than fifteen years ago, when the latter had been a sixth former at Chartfield. Separated in age by only ten years, Tim had then regarded his uncle more as an older brother, someone he greatly admired and envied, because Val had the Ashleigh name and was destined for a career in the West Wilts. Both these things had then been out of reach for the son of a churchman named Daulton.

Tim was fond of his family and proud to be a member of it, but he had always deeply resented being the child of a female Ashleigh who could not pass her name to him. The Reverend Philip Daulton had been a good father until he suddenly discovered a burning compulsion to bring heathens to Christ. The laughing, gentle papa had then become a tyrant. Overbearing to the point of violence, he had terrified little Kate, bred in Tim defiant hatred, and driven his wife into the arms of another man.