To All Eternity Page 14

  Berkeley ran up to their cabins, secured the carpet-bags and suitcases and handed them down to be placed on the raft; it was about twelve feet long and six wide, so there was sufficient room. Then came the difficult bit, getting Lukeman over the side. He came to, screaming in agony, but Berkeley and Lockwood got him down and stretched on the wooden slats. Then they handed Caterina down, before following themselves.

  They pushed the raft off as hard as they could; but it only travelled a few feet and now the Wanderer was settling fast.

  “Hold on,” Berkeley said, and lay across Caterina, toes and fingers dug into the slats. But actually there was less turbulence than he had anticipated. Two waves rushed at them as the steamer went under, and the raft rocked vigorously while water splashed over them. Then the sea subsided again, utterly silent.

  “What do we do now?” Caterina asked.

  “We wait,” Berkeley told her.

  *

  The sun rose out of a cloudless sky, and it was clearly going to be a very hot day. Without water! But as Berkeley had anticipated, when he rose to his knees to look west, he could see land on the horizon. That had to be Malta’s sister island, Gozo. And where there was land there would surely be fishing boats, hopefully sooner than later.

  Unfortunately, when he looked to the east he could make out the lifeboat, slowly approaching them, water glistening as it flicked from the oars.

  “I am dying,” Lukeman groaned. “Dying. Water! I must have water.”

  “You’ll have to wait a while,” Berkeley told him.

  “They will have water on the lifeboat,” Lukeman said.

  “I’m not having them alongside,” Berkeley said. He cupped his hands and shouted, “Keep away.”

  The lifeboat kept on approaching, so he drew his pistol and fired into the air. That checked them. There was a conference on board, but the oars had stopped pulling. They remained perhaps fifty yards away, rising and falling on the swell.

  “I will die without water,” Lukeman begged.

  “Ah, shut up,” Lockwood said. “Or I’ll bat you one.”

  Caterina moved, slowly and painfully, to sit up. “I am thirsty, too.”

  “We all are.”

  “All this water . . . can we not drink it?”

  “It’s not recommended. This water is salt, you see. It will only make you thirstier.”

  She regarded the sea for some minutes. He had been impressed with her serenity at their first meeting, and again with the way she had accepted her mother’s death. He was again now. She was in an utterly strange environment, in grave danger of her life, yet she seemed more curious than apprehensive.

  “Are we going to die?” she asked.

  “It is not my intention that we should.”

  She looked up at him. She was so beautiful, even with her hair scattered and undressed, her clothes torn and disordered.

  “I love you,” he said. “I ask your forgiveness for everything that I have done. I did it out of love for you.”

  “I know,” she said. “I think you are an honourable man, Berkeley Townsend. Mother thought so too. If we do not die, I shall be pleased to be your wife.”

  “But you still intend to fight the Austrians, and avenge your parents.”

  “Of course,” she said. “We will do it together.” She smiled. “After I have seen your home.”

  She had an agenda all mapped out. It would be up to him to change it. But he knew he would have to go very carefully. Survival was the first requisite.

  And there it was.

  “I see a ship,” Lockwood said, waving his arms.

  The Flight

  “I suspect you are really quite the most amazing scoundrel in the whole history of the British army,” General Gorman remarked.

  “I was given a mission, sir, and that mission has been carried out.”

  “You did not carry it out.”

  “No, sir. I did as I was instructed and infiltrated my way into Madame Slovitza’s home. But before I could implement my plans for conveying her to the Hungarian border she went off by herself, with some companions, and got herself shot.”

  “You are aware that she was robbing an Austrian army payroll when this happened?”

  “I have heard rumours, sir.”

  “I see. There is no chance you went along on this raid? The Austrians seem to have the idea that there might have been a foreign national involved.”

  “I was honeymooning at the time, sir.”

  “I see. That is another matter that disturbs me: you were sent to arrest Madame Slovitza, yet according to your report, you managed to marry her daughter.”

  “Well, sir, I had very little choice in the matter. It was Madame Slovitza’s wish.”

  “I am sure she had a reason.”

  “Yes, sir, she did.”

  “You have got to be the most ruthless, amoral rascal who ever walked the face of this earth.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And now, this business in Malta . . .”

  “It was actually off Malta, sir. The crew of the ship in which we were travelling attempted to rob us. We had to defend ourselves.”

  “In your well-known fashion, by shooting several of them.”

  “It was their lives or ours, sir.”

  “You understand that the Maltese authorities will require you to return there to give evidence at the trial of this Captain Lukeman, and his people?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, this young woman . . .”

  “Happens to be my wife, sir.”

  “I appreciate that. And I can believe that your marriage took place at the end of a shotgun. However, it took place without any permission from your commanding officer.”

  “I am applying for that permission now, sir. There really wasn’t time to do so before.”

  Gorman stroked his chin. “You do not think, in all the circumstances, that it would have been better just to leave her in Serbia?”

  “I’m afraid I could not consider that, sir.”

  “You’re not pretending that you have fallen in love with her? Or is she pregnant?”

  “I do not know if she is pregnant or not, sir. But I have fallen in love with her, yes. That is not the point, however. I went to Serbia to destroy her mother. Whether I actually caused it to happen or not, Madame Slovitza is now dead. Had I abandoned Caterina, she would merely have taken over where her mother left off, and no doubt come to the same end. I could not allow that.”

  “An honourable rascal,” Gorman remarked, sceptically. “And where is the young lady now?”

  “At the Hotel Cecil, sir, where I have taken a room.”

  “At your own expense, I hope. Well, I suppose I should congratulate you, not only on succeeding in your mission, however deviously, but, as usual, having fallen on your feet. Very good, Captain Townsend. I will put it to the Austrians that you completed your mission, if in a back-handed manner, and hope that we will hear nothing more of the matter. I will also give permission for your marriage. You are entitled to some leave. Take it and honeymoon. Spend it at your home. I will contact you when next we have an assignment for you. Failing that, return to London at the beginning of November and resume your duties at the War Office. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Berkeley remained standing before the desk.

  Gorman looked up. “Was there something else?”

  “The matter of my promotion, sir.”

  “Hm. Yes. I will have to take that under consideration. Much will depend upon if we can bury this business. Good day to you.”

  *

  “As you said, it is all flat,” Caterina commented, as the train made its way north. She had shown no interest in Berkeley’s visit to the War Office, or the outcome of his meeting with General Gorman. She appeared to think that he operated entirely on his own.

  “What did you think of London?” he asked.

  “So big, so noisy, so many people . . . and those machines!”

  �
�They call them automobiles, and they’re all the rage.”

  “Do you have one?”

  “Ah, no. A bit beyond my pocket. Anyway, I prefer a horse.”

  “Are we rich, or poor?”

  “We’re a bit of neither.” He hadn’t told her he still had a large part of her mother’s money in his satchel.

  “Mother was always rich.”

  “She always seemed rich, certainly. But actually, when she needed money, she simply went out and stole it.”

  “Only from the Austrians.”

  “Absolutely. A real female Robin Hood.”

  “Who was Robin Hood?”

  “An English folk hero who only robbed the villains. So they say. You know, you could become a wealthy woman in your own right, if you were to sell the house in Sabac. It is yours, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is mine. But how can I sell it? We will need it to live in when we go back.”

  Not a subject to pursue at this moment. Besides, there were more important matters rushing at him, at least from his point of view.

  Caterina had equally shown no great interest in the society into which she was going, the family into which she was moving; clearly she still regarded this as a transient as well as temporary part of her life. Berkeley, on the other hand had considered at some length the right approach to follow as regards his parents. But he really had had very little choice. He and Caterina had spent two weeks in Malta waiting for a passage to England. He had still, technically, been under War Office orders, which meant letting no one know where he was or what he was doing. The voyage home had taken another week, but he had still been under orders to contact no one until he had been to the War Office. Then they had spent the last two days in London while he had been waiting to see Gorman. He could have written to his mother and father from the Hotel Cecil, but he supposed he would have got home about the same time as the letter.

  And how could he possibly explain what had happened in a letter, again without betraying trade secrets, as it were?

  He looked across the compartment at his wife. She was wearing some of the clothes she had bought in Athens: a white dress with a matching broad-brimmed hat. She looked an utter delight. But . . .

  “You understand,” he said, “that my parents must not know the truth of it.”

  She frowned at him.

  “I mean that your mother was engaged in anarchism, that she killed people.”

  “There was nothing dishonourable in anything Mother did,” Caterina riposted. “She was fighting for her people, and to avenge her husband. Anyway, you helped her.”

  “Yes. The point is that people in England regard anarchists, regardless of their reasons or their cause, as criminals.”

  “They regard you as a criminal?”

  “No, because they do not know of it. Nor can they.”

  She considered this. “What will you tell them?”

  “As much of the truth as is practical. They think I was sent to Greece to buy remounts for the British cavalry. I will tell them that while I was doing this, I met your mother and yourself, and that when your mother died, I married you.”

  “Out of pity.”

  “Of course not out of pity. I married you because you are the most beautiful, the most delightful, the most enchanting woman I have ever known.”

  He was surprised to realise he had been actually telling the truth. Certainly Caterina was pleased.

  “You say the sweetest things. Will they think that of me, too?”

  “Yes. Providing they do not find out about your mother. Or your father,” he added.

  “You are asking me to live a lie.”

  “I am asking you to give my parents the opportunity to love you as I do. Then it may be possible to tell them the truth at a later date.”

  “Very well,” she said, “if that is what you wish.”

  He could read her mind; from her perspective it could only be a temporary measure, in any event.

  “Will they be at the station to meet us?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “They do not know we are coming.”

  She gazed at him.

  “There simply hasn’t been time to let them know,” he said. “And these things are difficult to explain, by letter.”

  “It will be more difficult for them, when I just appear.”

  “I hope it won’t be. But there is something else.”

  Her eyes were watchful; she was being given rather a lot to think about at short notice.

  “My parents do not speak German. You will have to do the best you can with English.”

  He had continued to teach her on the voyage home from Malta, and she could string one or two sentences together.

  “It will be amusing,” she said.

  Berkeley hoped she was right.

  There was a trap for hire at the station, and Lockwood loaded the bags while Berkeley and Caterina seated themselves. Lockwood sat beside the driver, and they trotted out of the town. It was a crisp, early October day. It had rained recently and there was a fresh northerly wind.

  “It is so cold,” Caterina remarked.

  “Doesn’t it get cold in Serbia?” Berkeley asked.

  “Of course it does. But it is a different kind of cold. This gets into the bones.”

  He put his arm round her shoulders. The village was only a few miles from the town and the drive took them less than an hour. Then they were turning into the short front drive of the Townsend house. Dogs barked and people emerged.

  “Mr Berkeley,” said Trant the butler. “Welcome home.”

  He looked at Caterina uncertainly.

  “This is Mrs Townsend,” Berkeley explained.

  “Good heavens. Welcome, madam.”

  Caterina looked just as uncertain, unsure whether to curtsey or give him her hand to kiss.

  Trant held the front door open for them. “Shall I announce you, sir? I’m afraid Mr Townsend is out, but madam is in the conservatory.”

  “We’ll announce ourselves,” Berkeley said. “Perhaps you’d give Harry a hand with the bags.” He held Caterina’s arm to escort her into the house.

  “I am nervous,” she confessed.

  “Don’t be. No one is going to harm you.”

  They walked through the drawing room, Caterina looking left and right with interest, and emerged into the glass-fronted conservatory. Alicia Townsend was seated with her back to them, doing some needlework. “Who was it at the door, Trant?” she asked without looking up.

  “Me,” Berkeley said.

  “Berkeley!” She put down her sewing and stood up, turning in the same moment. “Oh, you’re back for Christmas. I am so glad.” Then she stared at Caterina with her mouth open.

  “This is Caterina,” Berkeley explained.

  “Caterina,” Alicia said, slowly.

  “I am so ’appy . . . to . . .” Caterina glanced at Berkeley.

  “Meet you,” Berkeley prompted.

  “Meet you,” Caterina said.

  “I’m afraid her English isn’t all that good,” Berkeley explained. “But she’s learning.”

  “Ah . . .” Alicia looked from one to the other.

  “She’s my wife,” Berkeley said.

  “Your . . . Good Lord!”

  “You do not like me?” Caterina asked, watching her mother-in-law’s expression.

  “Ah . . .” Alicia looked at her son again.

  “She’s just a little surprised,” Berkeley said in German, and then reverted to English. “Ah, Trant. Is there any champagne on ice?”

  “There is champagne, sir,” Trant said. “It will be cool.”

  “Then let’s have a bottle. Now, come and sit down, Caterina. You too, Mother.” He seated them on the settee, with himself in the middle. Alicia continued to look utterly scandalised, Caterina apprehensive. “We met in the Balkans, you see, and fell in love; and married.”

  Alicia opened her mouth and then shut it again. “You’
ve only been gone two months.”

  “Yes, I know. It all happened rather quickly.”

  “But couldn’t you have let us know?”

  “There were no telegraph offices in the vicinity. And well . . . her mother died, you see, and there was a lot to do.”

  Alicia digested this. “Her mother died . . . before or after the wedding? I mean, you are married?”

  “Of course we’re married, Mother. I’ll show you the certificate. It was an Orthodox ceremony.”

  “But you’re Church of England.”

  “I know, but it was the only way to do it. I thought we could have a Protestant ceremony here. Caterina would like that.” He squeezed her hand, as she was looking more and more uncertain as she tried to follow the conversation.

  “What people will say . . .” Alicia muttered.

  “People can say what they like,” Berkeley said. “Caterina is my wife, and there is an end to it. Ah, Trant! Good man.”

  The butler presented a tray with three full glasses.

  Berkeley raised his. “Here’s to Caterina.”

  Caterina drank, and after a moment, Alicia did also.

  “I hear Mr Townsend,” Trant said.

  Alicia gave a sigh of relief.

  All the explanations had to be gone through again. John Townsend, having an eye for beauty like his son, was less flabbergasted than his wife. At least by Caterina; the event remained startling.

  He took Caterina in his arms for a hug and a kiss, looking at his wife over her shoulder while Caterina looked at Berkeley.

  “There’ll have to be an announcement,” John said. “We’ll have to throw a party.”

  “Do you think that’s necessary?” Berkeley asked.

  “It would be nice to ’ave a party,” Caterina said.

  “I think it should wait until after you have been, well, properly married,” Alicia suggested.

  Caterina looked at Berkeley, having caught only the gist of what had been said.

  “We are not married?” she asked in German.

  “Of course we are, my darling. But not under English law. We should do it again. Would you not like to do it again?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said.

  The parents were waiting, anxiously.

  “How soon can we have the ceremony?” Berkeley asked.

  “Well, there’ll have to be banns . . .”