Think of England by K.J. Charles
Dedication
For Natalie, who is brilliant.
Acknowledgments
Sir Henry Curtis and the Kukuana Place of Death are the creations of H. Rider Haggard in his classic 1885 romp King Solomon’s Mines. Archie is my unauthorised addition to the Curtis family tree. I felt it could take the shake-up.
With thanks to the TFR goons (for gun advice) and Alexandra Sherriff (for very serious psychology input).
Chapter One
October 1904
The train up from London took hours, a weary ride for a man who was too tense to sleep and too busy with his thoughts to read. He would have preferred to motor, but that was impossible now.
There was a car waiting at the station, the latest model Austin. The uniformed chauffeur stood by it with military bearing, but leapt to help as Curtis approached and hovered while he got himself into the passenger seat, solicitously offering blankets against the evening chill in the autumnal air. He waved them away.
“Are you sure, sir? Lady Armstrong gave instructions—”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“No, Captain Curtis.” The chauffeur touched his cap in salute.
“I’m not an officer either.”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
It was a long drive to Peakholme. They avoided the industrial areas of Newcastle, though he saw the black smoke thick against the darkened skies. It was only a few miles before they had left the city quite behind and were driving through the open country. Farmland turned to scrub and rose into the foothills of the Pennines, and at last they headed up an otherwise empty winding road onto a bleak and open hillside.
“Is it much further?” he asked.
“Nearly there, sir,” the chauffeur assured him. “See that spot of light ahead?”
Curtis blinked against the cold, but he did see light on the hillside, and soon made out a darker shape round it. “It’s a touch bare round here for a country house,” he remarked.
“Yes, sir. Sir Hubert always says, it’s bare now, but just you come back in a hundred years.” The chauffeur chuckled loyally. Curtis made a mental wager with himself how many times Sir Hubert would come out with that witticism during his stay.
The Austin purred through the recent plantations which would, in that much-anticipated century, become a magnificent forest surrounding Peakholme. At long last they pulled up outside the great new house, bright yellow light spilling from the doorway. A servant was waiting on the drive to open the car door. Curtis bit back the grunt of pain as his knee straightened. He flexed his leg a couple of times before crunching over the gravel to the stone steps where a footman waited to take his coat.
“Mr. Curtis!” cried Lady Armstrong, coming into the brightly lit hall to greet him. Her dress was a marvellous confection in blue, frothing around her bare shoulders and setting off her fair hair to perfection. She would have looked dashing in London, let alone this remote region. “How wonderful to have you here. It’s such a pilgrimage to reach us, isn’t it? I’m so happy you could come.” She held out both hands for his, her characteristic, charmingly informal greeting. He gave her his left hand, withholding the right, and saw a flash of concern or pity on her face, stifled almost at once. “Thank you so much for joining our little party. Hubert!”
“Here, my dear.” Sir Hubert had come into the corridor behind her. He was a stout, bald-headed man, a good three decades older than his wife, with a benevolent look that was at odds with his professional reputation. “Well, well, Archie Curtis.” They performed a pantomime handshake, Sir Hubert’s hand surrounding Curtis’s but barely touching it. “It’s a great pleasure to see you. How’s that uncle of yours?”
“In Africa, sir.”
“Good heavens, again? He always had itchy feet, Henry did. When we were at school he was forever breaking bounds, you know. I should be delighted to see the old chap some time, and that naval pal of his. I suppose they’re still jaunting around together?”
“As usual, sir.” Sir Henry Curtis had been left with the care of his youngest brother’s orphaned child when Archie was just two months old. Sir Henry and his inseparable friend and neighbour Captain Good had raised the boy between them, for years curtailing their trips to far-flung regions so that they were there each summer when he returned from school. He had grown up assuming that easy, uncomplicated companionship was the natural order of things. Now, it seemed a lost Eden.