The Gilded Scarab Read Online Free PDF

hair and dark eyes, although I’d wager they’d reconsider if they knew both came from my Anglo-Indian grandmother. Still, I was never at a loss for a partner at a ball, especially when I was in dress uniform. Many a lady—and her mother—had a soft heart when it came to a man in regimentals.
    I often wonder if all those people were blind. Because no matter how gallant I was to the ladies, not one of them noticed it went nowhere. Not one. Not even the commander who more than once had loomed over me at a ship’s ball or in the mess to make it clear he was on the watch for impropriety. Because if they had been watching, they might have seen I was indifferent to the ladies and very, very discreet about the gentlemen. I really am not a fool. I kept that passion very quiet and never allowed it full rein on board ship. Abercrombie would have burst a blood vessel.
    Which was a temptation.
    The one saving grace to enforced retirement was that I no longer needed to suffer silently another unwarranted slur about my character. It was hard to fold my copy of the signed papers one-handed and put it in my breast pocket, but I managed it. “You know, Commander, in general I don’t think rich dilettantes do a great deal of good in society, but Miss Nightingale is to be commended for her foresight in providing the right kind of diversion from the monotony of service life. The nursing service at least makes war a trifle more bearable.”
    The commander turned so puce that perhaps a breaking blood vessel was a certainty. Well, I no longer needed to care about staying on Abercrombie’s good side. If the man had one. So I smiled and saluted. I don’t believe there is a man in the service who could salute with as much insolence as I could. I’ve practiced that too. Abercrombie turned a fetching shade of burgundy and waved me out of the office with an audible “Good riddance!”
    Well, that cut both ways. I wouldn’t repine about the loss of his company, either.
    Next day every aeronaut on the ship escorted me to the starboard flight deck. They lined the entire route from my cabin to the deck, and my hand ached from the number of them catching it and wringing it. Every one of them said some variation of “We’ll miss you, Rafe. Good luck, old chap, and keep in touch.” I had a stupid cold, or something, and could barely speak a word in reply. My throat hurt.
    As I passed, they fell in behind me and marched along in my wake. I reached the flight deck at the head of a small army. Beckett was waiting for me there, and his nurses formed a lachrymose guard of honor as I walked to the aeroshuttle that would take me to Koffiefontein to catch the train to Cape Town and a regular aeroship service home. Some of the men lamented with them—possibly, as I commented to Hugh Peters, because I had made them all pay their gambling debts before I left. But there may have been other reasons, and more than one held my hand longer than the world would consider polite or seemly. Some missed opportunities there, apparently.
    I got a manly hug from Beckett. Hugh gripped my hand and wished me well. The poor boy had tears in his eyes, and he didn’t owe me a farthing. It was a fitting end to my military career, I suppose, that the last thing I saw of the Ark Royal was my batman’s grief and a nurse weeping into a capacious handkerchief about the size of a hospital blanket.
    I should have asked her if I could borrow it. My eyes stung fiercely that day. Dust, perhaps. Yes. That’s most likely. Dust.
    I kicked my heels in Cape Town for two weeks while awaiting transport, which at least meant the doctors there pronounced my arm healed and removed the damned cast. Cape Town isn’t a bad place to spend some time. I managed to get in a little walking around the city, and the scenery is quite spectacular. It wasn’t until 12 November 1899 that I arrived home, when my civilian-service aeroship landed at the aerodrome at Friary Park, north of Highgate. It was