A Question of Honor Read Online Free

also knew how difficult the terrain was, how fearsome the Frontier tribes were. Yes, Wade had had the courage to try. And yes, he’d very likely died in the attempt.
    It was what the Army had been forced to accept, and we could do no less. As the Lieutenant had no family other than his parents, there was no one to notify.
    The years passed, and there was no further news of Lieutenant Wade. Indeed, officially he’d been declared dead, and the Army doesn’t do that lightly.
    It was ten years later, in France, in the middle of a war, that I heard Lieutenant Wade’s name spoken again.
    It was like a visitation from the past, and not a welcome one.
    This man had not only killed, he had left a stain of dishonor on the Regimental Lists.
    And what touched the regiment touched my family.

Chapter One
    England, Summer 1918
    T he afternoon sun was warm on my face as I stepped out the door of Rudyard Kipling’s house in East Sussex. Simon Brandon, his expression unreadable, followed me, pulling the door shut behind him.
    I wasn’t sure why he wasn’t his usual steady self.
    As we turned to walk together around the house, toward the back lawns and the stream and water meadows beyond, I said, referring to our host, “He’s still grieving. Poor man.”
    As soon as war broke out in 1914, Rudyard Kipling had urged his only son to join the Army. Jack had been killed at Loos barely a year later. His body had never been recovered. He’d been eighteen, still a boy.
    “I remember Jack,” I went on. “Once or twice he visited Melinda when I was there.”
    “You can’t find a house in England that isn’t grieving. We’ve lost a generation, Bess. The best we have.”
    I knew that all too well. I’d watched so many men die.
    “Mr. Kipling is going to be on the Graves Commission. It’s fitting, don’t you think?”
    “He’ll know what words to put on the monuments,” Simon answered. “That will matter.”
    Melinda Crawford had asked Simon to drive her down to Bateman’s to call on Mr. Kipling. Worried about him, she made a point of regular visits. But this time her driver was suffering from a bout of malaria. Just home from France on a brief leave, I’d decided to come with them. I hadn’t been to Kent in some time—it was where Melinda lived—and on the long drive down to East Sussex we’d enjoyed each other’s company.
    As we rounded the house and walked on to the gardens Simon commented, as if it had been on his mind most of the day, “She’s talking about returning to India.” I didn’t need to ask who she was. “Once the war is over. She wants me to take her there.”
    Surprised, I stopped, staring down at the reflection of the summer sky in the quiet surface of the pools. “Is that a good idea? It’s such a long journey at her age.”
    Simon was looking back at the house. “I don’t know.” I’d always had a feeling that Simon didn’t want to return there. If anyone could persuade him, it was Melinda.
    Her father, like mine, had been an officer in the Army, and she had grown up in India, just as I had, although of course decades apart. Indeed she had been something of a heroine as a child during the Great Indian Mutiny of 1857, for she and her mother had been caught in the dreadful Siege of Lucknow. She had married another officer stationed out there and later lost him to cholera. Afterward, alone but for her Indian servants, she’d traveled the world while she grieved.
    I turned to look too, thinking as I had on other visits how really beautiful the Kipling house was. Someone moved past one of the upstairs windows, and I waved.
    Mr. Kipling had told Melinda that it was love at first sight when he came to Bateman’s. Born in India of British parents, he’d finally settled in England. The house couldn’t be more different from those in Bombay or Delhi or even Simla. Like Melinda Crawford, he’d put down roots in this cooler climate, but a part of his heart was still in the East. It showed most