Читать книгу The Moonlight Mistress - Victoria Janssen - Страница 8

LIEUTENANT GABRIEL MEYER WAS IN THE MIDST of testing his boy trumpeters on their fingering exercises when his fellow lieutenant and closest friend, Noel Ashby, entered the band room. Ashby, a lean man with cropped red hair and a slender mustache, leaned against a cabinet and crossed his legs at the ankles, outwardly casual, but Gabriel could read the tension in his normally relaxed posture, and he tensed, as well. Kern fumbled a pattern and stopped.

With a glance, Gabriel silenced the comment about to erupt from Wiley’s mouth. Wiley was inclined to rivalry. “No, keep on with it,” he said to Kern gently. “If you stop, you might stop there the next time, and make a habit of it.”

“Sir,” Kern squeaked, and lifted his trumpet again, aiming it at the regimental wolf banner that hung behind Gabriel’s chair. This time, he played more slowly, but accurately.

“Good,” Gabriel said. “Why don’t you two run along. I hear there’s cake for tea.”

When the boys had gone, Noel ambled over to Gabriel’s podium and leaned on his wooden music stand. “Reserves have been called up,” he said.

Gabriel rubbed his mustache with his forefinger. “So it’s happened then.”

“Soon,” Noel said. “I came here because we’re to be in the same company.”

“The same—you mean, the band—”

Noel gripped his forearm and gave it a shake. “I’m sorry. When it comes to war, your boys are to be trained as regimental stretcher bearers. There won’t be any band for you to lead.”

“Bloody hell.” Gabriel bowed his head, reeling from having his musicians snatched away from him. They’d be scattered across the regiment. Some of them weren’t old enough for active duty, and would have to be left behind. Kern and Wiley would be someone else’s responsibility now.

His stomach plummeted as another thought occurred. “Jemima,” he said. “She won’t be pleased.”

“Now’s a good time to break it off, then,” Noel said.

Without rancor, Gabriel said, “You’d marry to have children, too. You’ve said it a thousand times.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t marry Jemima.”

“She’s Jewish,” Gabriel said with a shrug. “You know I can’t marry a Gentile. Not unless I never want to hear the end of it.”

“You don’t really care about that,” Noel said.

Gabriel wasn’t up to resurrecting an old argument. “I’ll run down to the office and telephone her.”

Noel sighed, and cuffed his shoulder. “Good luck. I’m thinking I’d rather be shot at.”