An Ungentlemanly Officer

Welcome to An Ungentlemanly Officer which is a bonus short story for 2024. As always, it’s freely available on my website  and as a PDF so please share it as much as you like.

This story was written in the middle of a difficult time when I was really struggling to write at all. Since writing is what I love and often what keeps me sane, not being able to do so is never good for me. I was becoming a little desperate.

Eventually I decided to just sit down and write something.  The story came out of a conversation with some readers on Twitter about everybody’s favourite ongoing bad guy, Cecil Welby. Welby has featured in several short stories and has now made it into the main series of books. There have been several mentions about his history of poor behaviour and An Ungentlemanly Officer expands on one of these tales.

For those of you reading the books who like to know where every short story fits into the chronology, this would slot into the first half of An Unconventional Officer (Book One). Paul van Daan spent the winter months in Yorkshire on secondment to the 115th Foot and has already met Anne Howard, the redoubtable daughter of a Yorkshire textile baron. As far as he knows in this story, he’s unlikely to see her again but all that is about to change.

This story is not released to celebrate any particular event apart from, hopefully, the return of my ability to write again. It is however a gift to those many, many readers who have posted and messaged me with their support and good wishes. You’re all wonderful and you make everything I do worthwhile. Thank you with all my heart.

 

An Ungentlemanly Officer

Lisbon 1808

The invitation to the ball was lying on the table, as it had been for three days. He had opened it and set it aside, not troubling to reply. No response was required anyway; in Lisbon society in the aftermath of the French withdrawal, both Portuguese and British officers were welcome guests at any entertainment. Lieutenant Jaime Ataíde had spent the past weeks avoiding as many as he could.

The room was small, situated above a barber’s shop and inclined to be damp. There was a leak in the ceiling which required a bucket beneath it when it rained heavily. It had a rusty iron bedstead, a rickety washstand with a cracked mirror, and a battered table and chair. Ataíde, late of the Portuguese Legion, did not care about any of this. It was a room of his own where he could bolt the badly-fitting door and shut out the world and he was passionately grateful for it.

Jaime had arrived back in Lisbon after long exhausting weeks on the road from Northern Spain. Much of it had been spent travelling at night, dodging French patrols. He lived on what little he could steal or scavenge because he did not dare to approach villages or farmhouses openly to ask for help.

 Spain had, until recently, been allied with Bonaparte’s France and although it had now officially changed sides, Jaime knew that there might be some French supporters among the locals. Even more likely was that the villagers would betray him out of fear of French reprisals. He had no wish to put anybody at risk so he went hungry until he reached the safety of his own country which was currently, if somewhat precariously, under the protection of the British.

There was, Jaime found, little for him to do. He arrived to discover the remains of the disbanded Portuguese army in chaos while the British, having recently won two stunning victories against the French at Rolica and Vimeiro, had then made a disgraceful peace allowing the enemy to return home with full honours and chests full of Portuguese looted treasures. Jaime was furious. Seething with frustration he reported to the authorities and was allocated a billet, rations and the chance to rummage through piles of discarded kit and uniforms to replace his threadbare garments. Other than that he could only wait, rest and try to recover from his long ordeal.

By the time Sir John Moore led a British army into Spain to meet the French in early November, Jaime would have been ready to march with them but it was not possible. No Portuguese troops accompanied the army. What little organisation there was centred around garrison duty and the officers were bored and restless. They gambled away their pay, grumbled about the lack of orders and accepted every possible invitation from the British garrison while awaiting news.

Jaime was not sure that he was ready to socialise again. The long weeks of isolation and hardship seemed to have robbed him of his pleasure in drinking, dancing and gossip. For a while he hid in his billet and read, but his fellow officers refused to leave him alone. They persecuted him until he began, reluctantly, to accompany them to the endless balls and parties given by local dignitaries to entertain Sir John Cradock and the British officers.

He had almost dug in his heels this evening, purely because of the weather. It was raining; an autumn downpour which would mean he would arrive in the ballroom wet and grumpy. There was no wheeled transport to be had and Jaime sent a civil refusal to his friends. He was not entirely surprised when they arrived anyway, fresh from a tavern, laughing and shaking raindrops from their hair.

“Stop being such a misery, Ataíde,” Captain Peso said. “Everybody there will be wet, including some of the ladies. We’ll soon dry out. Old Barroso always lays on a good supper, all the prettiest girls will be there and…”

“And they will all be dancing with the English officers,” Jaime said. “I have a good red wine here and an excellent book and I would rather…”

They bundled him out of the door laughing and he went, in the end, willingly enough. Recovery was taking too long and he knew in his heart that it would not be found in his solitary room. For a while he had told himself that he was refusing to re-join society as a protest at being unable to fight for his country, but he was beginning to wonder if it was actually because he was afraid. There would be more fighting in his future and he could not afford to give in to fear, so he donned his second-hand dress uniform and shared a battered umbrella to the Palácio de Barroso where the cream of Lisbon society mingled with British officers in scarlet coats and Portuguese officers in whatever uniform they had been able to scrounge.

Even in his shabbiness, Jaime did not feel out of place. The orchestra was excellent and the palace boasted a series of elegant reception rooms leading into a mirrored ballroom. It was already crowded when Peso led his small band to greet his host.

Barroso was a genial man in his fifties, married to a rather younger second wife. He came from a minor branch of an aristocratic family who had made a fortune before the war in wine, olives and the spice trade. Jaime knew he was an enthusiastic supporter of the British, probably for business reasons. He had two sons, one of whom served in the army. Jaime knew him slightly and stopped at the end of the receiving line to talk to him.

Vasco Barroso was around the same age as Jaime. His regiment had been disbanded the previous year but, unlike Jaime, he had not been drafted into the Portuguese Legion and marched off to fight for the French. Instead he had joined one of the volunteer units and remained in the vicinity of Lisbon, harrying the French whenever possible and providing valuable intelligence to Sir Arthur Wellesley upon his arrival in Portugal. Jaime was envious of Barroso who had not been required to make a dangerous escape from French service. He was also envious of his immaculate uniform.

“I’m glad you came, Ataíde,” Barroso said warmly, waving for a servant to bring wine. “You’ve been like a hermit these past weeks.”

“I was very tired after my journey.”

“I’m surprised you survived your journey. You make it sound like a walk in the park, but those of us who stayed safely in Lisbon have nothing but admiration for those of you who managed to get back to us. A lot of the men made it too but it must have been more difficult for the officers.”

“It took me a long time to find the opportunity,” Jaime said. The memory of his weeks marching under a French banner was a bitter taste in his mouth. “They raged about the loss of men, but it was impossible for anyone to keep an eye on them all the time. None of the Portuguese officers tried, of course. The French hunted them into the countryside where they could, but there were not enough of them and if they left the column unguarded, more disappeared. It would have been funny if it had not been for those they shot.”

Barroso handed him a glass of wine and took one for himself. “Were there many?” he asked soberly.

“To be honest, no. They were trying to convince us that we were comrades, not prisoners. That we were fighting for the glory of a new, liberated Portugal under the benign rule of the Emperor. It is difficult to do that if you shoot every man who leaves the ranks. They kept executions to a minimum and tried to disguise them as punishments for looting or attacking an officer. Though none of us were fooled. We all understood that it was a warning.”

“How did you get away?”

“Once we were past Salamanca there were fewer desertions. I think the men were becoming resigned. It would be a long, dangerous journey home from there and the food and conditions were good. One or two of the officers were already supporters of Bonaparte and his reforms and they did a good job of telling the men how much better Portugal would be under his rule.”

“Treacherous bastards.”

Jaime flinched internally. One of the officers concerned had been an old and valued friend and the memory was still painful, but he knew that Lieutenant Calisto had genuinely believed what he said. He made no response to Barroso’s contempt but continued his story.

“From Salamanca we marched north towards the border, along the great road towards Bayonne. There is a fortress called Burgos and after that the country becomes more mountainous. The men were less and less likely to desert in such difficult country and the locals do not even speak Spanish as we understand it but some barbarous dialect which sounds rather as though they are choking. No incentive to leave. That is when I left.”

Barroso looked startled. “Mother of God, I had no idea. How far…I mean, how many miles did you have to walk alone to get back here?”

“I did not know, of course, but Colonel da Cunha had a map and he told me later that it was around five hundred miles. I did not actually cross into France. I doubt I could have escaped after that.” Jaime felt his mouth twist into a small, bitter smile. “I got rid of my French jacket as soon as I could. I was afraid that the French would shoot me as a deserter and the Spanish would shoot me as a Frenchman. I stole clothing and food when I was able to do so. Ate nuts and berries and fruit from orchards. Sometimes I managed to catch rabbits or fish in streams. It was a long way. At times I wished I had not done it.”

Barroso raised his glass. “You are a true patriot and a brave man, my friend.”

Jaime acknowledged the toast awkwardly. “And now I am virtually unemployed.”

“Not for long. There are all kinds of rumours but the army will be reassembled and it will be different this time. Most of the old fools who were willing to surrender to the French without a fight have fled to Brazil with the Royal Family. Sir John Moore has just marched out to join with the Spanish patriots against Bonaparte’s forces in Spain and rumour has it that our army will be reformed with the help of the British. New officers, new equipment and better discipline. Men like you will be needed.”

“You too, Barroso. Don’t think I’m not aware that you were leading partisan volunteers against those bastards while I was taking the long walk home.”

Barroso laughed, flushing a little. “I did what I could. Let us drink a toast, Ataíde. To the new Portuguese army and death to the French. Come, drink up and then I will introduce you to some of our prettiest girls. My sister has friends here tonight and they have all heard of your heroic escape.”

Jaime drained his glass obediently. “Your sister? Didn’t she marry?”

“She did. Four years ago. He was fifteen years older than her and he drank himself to death, leaving her a very wealthy widow.”

“A widow?” Jaime said, startled. “Then how…I mean I am surprised she is here tonight. When did he die?”

Barroso’s lips tightened into a thin line. “More than a year ago,” he said briefly. “She is her own mistress and goes where she chooses. We had expected that she would live modestly at home, as a widow should, until my father found another husband for her. Instead she parades around as though she cares nothing for her reputation. She’s making a complete fool of herself – and our family. Another man would ban her from the house but you know how soft my father is. And she was always his favourite.” Barroso took another swig of wine and shrugged. “The only benefit of her poor behaviour is that she always has a gaggle of pretty unmarried friends with her. I’ll introduce you.”

He did so, leaving Jaime bewildered in a sea of names. He managed to focus on one he knew; a dainty child of sixteen from the Espada family, whose cousin had served with him several years earlier. She accepted his invitation to dance with shy gratitude.

Afterwards, Jaime found himself incorporated into the party. There were one or two Portuguese militia officers, younger than he and slightly overawed by his reputation. The story of his remarkable journey back to Lisbon had spread throughout the city. It had never occurred to Jaime that it might make him something of a hero. He had no intention of trading on it too much, but once the room began to fill with British officers in red coats it ensured that he was still never without a partner.

He took a short break for some wine and found himself standing beside Barroso’s sister. Jaime remembered meeting her before her marriage, although she had been much younger then. She must be around twenty-one now, several years his junior. He did not remember having been particularly struck by her beauty back then but either her looks or his taste had considerably improved. Ebony hair was partly covered by a wisp of black lace which looked nothing like a mourning veil and her eyes were almost as dark. She had warm olive skin and the relatively modest neckline of her black gown hinted at an excellent figure.

Knowing her widowed status and the obvious disapproval of her family at her appearance at such a public event, Jaime had kept his distance after their initial polite introductions, but he could hardly ignore the girl now. He gave a little bow and summoned his best company manners.

“Allow me to offer my condolences on the death of your husband, Dona Inés. I’m afraid I am rather late with them but they are sincere.”

She acknowledged him with a regal nod. “My thanks, Lieutenant. It has been more than a year but I am well aware that you have been heroically occupied for much of that time so you have no need to apologise. I was not sure if you remembered me.”

He smiled. “A little. You were much younger then and I think I was a very self-important young officer who was going to change the entire Portuguese army from the inside out. I was probably barely civil.”

To his pleased surprise she laughed out loud. “You were actually very kind. Far more so than most of my brothers’ army friends. I’m sorry you didn’t have the time to effect the necessary changes. You would probably have done a better job than those who were actually in charge.”

“At least I would have made different mistakes.”

The orchestra were playing the introductory bars of the next dance. Jaime hesitated. He had not seen her dance yet and was well aware that to do so would be a shocking thing for a young widow but he was not sure that this particular widow would care all that much.

“Do you dance this evening, Dona? If so, I would be very honoured.”

She rewarded him with a warm smile. “Thank you. I have every intention of dancing, sir, even though it will infuriate my family. I am waiting for a particular friend however and have promised him my first dance. If you ask me again later…”

Jaime bowed, conscious of a flicker of disappointment at the news of a favoured suitor. “I will be sure to do so, Dona. In the meantime, I will keep you company until his arrival.”

“There is no need, Lieutenant, because I see him now. Ask Senhorita Guida to dance, she looks lonely.”

Jaime recognised his dismissal and complied. As he obediently made his way onto the dance floor with the young Guida girl he was surprised to observe that Dona Inés’ suitor was not the Portuguese grandee he had been expecting, but a tall dark British officer with a dramatic moustache and a lordly manner. He bowed over the woman’s hand with an arrogance that raised Jaime’s hackles and towed her onto the dance floor.

It was one of the traditional Portuguese dances. In recent years, many hostesses had begun to incorporate more modern French dances into their balls but Jaime liked these slower dances as it was easier to talk to his partner. Senhorita Guida was a graceful dancer and a pleasant conversationalist. After a while, Jaime saw her glance over at Dona Inés and her partner which gave him the opportunity to indulge his curiosity.

“Who is the gentleman dancing with Dona Inés, Senhorita?”

“Oh that is Captain Welby, Lieutenant. He arrived in Lisbon recently with reinforcements to join his regiment. Cavalry, I believe. Unfortunately Sir John Moore had already marched out so he is awaiting orders about where to proceed to join him. In the meantime he is very popular with the ladies of Lisbon.”

“So I see,” Jaime said dryly, watching as the cavalry officer danced with Dona Inés. “Especially that particular lady. I cannot help wondering…but it is none of my business, of course.”

“Her family are furious,” Senhorita Guida said mildly. “They were angry enough that she refused to remain in seclusion but of course they could do nothing about that, because her husband has no other heirs and he left her everything. I believe he intended to write a clause into his will about her father taking control of the money but for some reason or other he did not do so. I suppose he did not expect to die so soon. He was not so very old.”

“But a good deal older than her.”

“That is very usual in such marriages, Lieutenant. We all know it.”

Jaime shot her a curious glance. It had already occurred to him that this girl was rather old to be unmarried in a society in which girls married very young. He thought she must be at least twenty.

“What of you, Senhorita Guida?”

Her lips curled in an understanding smile. “I am sure you are wondering, Lieutenant. My situation is very different to poor Inés. I have neither great wealth nor great beauty. I also have a widowed mother who is happy to have me at home just now so she is not eager to push me into marriage with the first man who applies for my hand. There was a gentleman…an officer of militia. He was killed during the French invasion. We were not formally betrothed, it was merely an understanding, so I do not have to wear black and stay at home. Though I often wish I could.”

Jaime felt his heart twist at the little break in her voice. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“You did not. At least, not into my affairs. You were asking me about Inés. In response to all the questions you were too polite to ask, I think her family believe she has fallen in love with Captain Welby and they are very unhappy about it.”

“Do you think she has?”

“I cannot be sure. Inés and I have been friends since we were children but she is hard to read. She seems to like his company and flirts with him at every opportunity. But sometimes I wonder if she is doing that because she knows she should not. She was very angry with her family, you see, for making her marry. She was barely seventeen and he was not a kind husband. She was so unhappy for a few years. Now, quite unexpectedly, she has all the money she wants and all the freedom she lacked. Girls very seldom have that. I can see why it might have gone to her head. But I wish she would not.”

Jaime decided that this surprising girl was very shrewd. “Do you disapprove, Senhorita?”

“Not of her going to parties. It is ridiculous that she should be shut away at twenty-two until her father or brothers find another man for her to marry. At the very least, given what she has been through, she should be allowed to make that choice for herself this time. And there would be no shortage of eligible suitors.”

“But you do not approve of her chosen suitor.”

She looked up at him. He realised that her somewhat mousy hair was offset by glorious amber coloured eyes.

“I do not like her chosen suitor,” she corrected him crisply. “The two things are not at all the same. I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I have spoken far too freely about things that I don’t really understand. It is all your fault. You are so easy to talk to.”

The dance was coming to an end with a flourish. Jaime stepped back and bowed.

“So are you, Senhorita Guida. Thank you for the dance, it was delightful. May I ask if you are free for the supper dance?”

She laughed. “I am always free for the supper dance, Lieutenant, though since I am an unmarried girl, you should probably ask my mother’s permission.”

“Of course. If you will introduce me.”

She was still laughing. “I was teasing you, Lieutenant. She isn’t here, I came with the Cuesta party.”

“Then I will be happy with your permission instead. I’ll come and find you.”

He delivered her back to her party and went in search of his friends. He found them sharing wine with Vasco Barroso. Jaime had the impression that they too were discussing the matter of the lovely Dona Inés and the cavalryman. They greeted Jaime cheerfully and Lieutenant Javan complimented him on having dried out so well. Jaime aimed a mock punch at his friend, wondering if his improved mood was that obvious. Barroso did not seem to be sharing the jovial atmosphere. He was staring glumly at his sister who was dancing for a second time with Captain Welby.

“I’d like to kick him down the stairs,” he said. “He must know the damage he’s doing to her reputation. How is she going to make a good second marriage after this? He treats her like…”

He stopped as though suddenly realising he had been about to say something highly inappropriate about his sister. Jaime was glad he had restrained himself but he felt a painful sympathy. Watching the couple on the dance floor, he knew exactly what Barroso meant. It was not just Welby’s arrogant possessiveness, although that was irritating enough. There was something disrespectful about the way he detached Inés da Sousa from her companions and he very obviously did not care at all that he was making her conspicuous. At one point, Jaime was fairly sure he saw Welby’s arm about the girl’s waist as he led her to find more wine.

Jaime badly wanted to punch the man. He wondered if any of the British officers present had noticed but decided that even if they had, they probably would not care. If Inés had been an unmarried daughter, Barroso could have prohibited her from attending parties while Welby was still in Lisbon, or even complained to a senior officer about his behaviour. Given Dona Inés’ unusual position in society there was little anybody could do even if they cared enough.

Jaime danced several more times with friends of the Barroso family. The supper dance was approaching and he glanced at his pocket watch then looked around the room for Senhorita Guida.

“Have you managed to get a partner for supper, Ataíde?” Peso demanded. “You lucky dog. We’ve all been cut out by the blasted English. That’s what comes of being a hero of Portugal. I wish I’d been marched off with the elite of the Portuguese Legion.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d spent a week hiding in caves in the Pyrenees, sir,” Jaime said with a laugh. “I’m escorting Senhorita Guida.”

“Joana?” Barroso said. “Very good choice, Ataíde, she’s a lovely girl. I’ve known her since she was small. Not much of a dowry of course, and she can’t hold a candle to my sister for looks but she has a lot more sense. In fact I suspect she is more clever than I am.”

Jaime grinned. “I thought she seemed very intelligent. She didn’t seem all that impressed with Captain Welby either.”

“Good God, no. I believe she told my sister to her face that she thought he was making a fool of her but there’s no talking to Inés when she’s in this mood. He’ll take her into supper and I’ll have to sit watching while he drools over her like a mangy cur with a juicy bone. I can’t stand it.”

Jaime was impressed with the other man’s eloquence. He realised Barroso had been drinking a lot and hoped it would not push him into some social faux pas with his sister’s suitor. He continued to search the room for his chosen partner and saw her finally in a group around General Sir John Cradock who was currently the military governor of Lisbon.

There was a new arrival; a tall, fair officer in a red coat who was talking to Cradock and several other senior officers. He had his back to the room but as Jaime smiled at Joana Guida, the officer turned and surveyed the assembled company with an expression of amused interest.

He was clean-shaven and had a memorable face with striking blue eyes and a ready smile. Jaime thought that he was probably close to his own age, though he wore the insignia of a major which placed him several ranks higher. His height and build were not dissimilar to Captain Welby but Jaime, who found faces interesting, thought that this man gave a very different impression. He was used to the hierarchy of army life but he thought that he had never seen quite this air of unconscious authority from such a young officer in such a glittering setting. He found himself wondering if this man could carry it onto a battlefield as well. If so, it must make him a formidable leader.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Barroso turned to look. “The one with the fair hair? Oh, that’s Major van Daan of the 110th. Have you not met him before? Probably not; he’s not been out much recently. He got left behind when Moore marched out, poor bastard. Half the battalion came down with camp fever and Van Daan’s young wife along with them, so they left the Major in charge here.”

“Did she survive?” Jaime asked. He knew how quickly camp fever could devastate an army.

“Yes; I’m told she’s finally on the mend. He lost a few of the men, mind. Must have been bloody frustrating for him as well. He’s a favourite of Sir Arthur Wellesley and played a big part at Rolica and Vimeiro but of course they’ve packed off Wellesley to London along with Burrard and Dalrymple, to answer for that appalling peace treaty at Cintra. Then he didn’t even get to march with Moore. He must feel like the man they left behind. Come on, I’ll introduce you. Though he doesn’t speak much Portuguese.”

Van Daan was engaged in conversation with two senior officers but he broke off as Barroso approached and came forward with a smile and a salute.

“Lieutenant Barroso. It is good to see you.”

He spoke in halting Portuguese, with a dreadful accent. Barroso made the introductions very slowly and Jaime bowed. He wished he spoke more than a few words of basic English, because he realised that he very much wanted to have a conversation with this man although he had no idea why. Barroso smiled, bowed and moved on, leaving Jaime to extricate himself from a somewhat awkward situation with no common language. Van Daan studied him with considerable interest.

“Lieutenant Jaime Ataíde,” he said thoughtfully. Unexpectedly he switched to fluent, idiomatic French. “I do beg your pardon for speaking the language of the enemy at a social occasion, as well as for my assumption that you’ll understand it. But I’ve heard of you and I’m very glad to meet you. Am I right?”

Jaime had never been so pleased to hear French in his life. “You are right, sir,” he said, in the same language. “I was taught it as a boy in school but my fluency improved considerably earlier this year.”

Van Daan laughed aloud. “I’ll just bet it did,” he said. “Look, let me make my excuses to Colonel Barry here and we will find a drink and somewhere peaceful to talk.”

“I would love to, Major, but I may not until after supper. I have promised to escort a young lady.”

“Of course you have. Forgive me. I’ve left my own lady at home; she’s still recovering from an illness. I’ll have a bachelor supper with my fellow officers and find you afterwards. Unless…”

Jaime realised that Van Daan was looking across the room. He turned to follow the other man’s gaze and saw that he appeared to be watching Captain Welby. The cavalry officer was raising a glass to Inés da Sousa, who was laughing up at him. Jaime thought uncomfortably that she might be a little tipsy and felt for her family’s helpless rage.

“Isn’t that Barroso’s sister?” Van Daan asked in sudden interest. “We met a few months ago, I believe.”

“Yes,” Jaime said glumly. “The gentleman with her is a Captain Welby, I am told. Of the…”

“Of the 9th Dragoon Guards,” Van Daan finished for him. As they watched, Welby reached out a hand and ran a finger very delicately over the pale skin at the base of the girl’s throat, then down towards the modest bodice of her gown. Inés seemed to sway towards him. Jaime felt himself go rigid with anger.

Behind them a voice said:

“Paul, don’t you bloody dare.”

Van Daan spun around. His good-looking face was alight with laughter. His friend had spoken in English but Van Daan replied in French, obviously for Jaime’s benefit.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Swanson. What possible harm can I do? I’m on very good terms with her family; they’ve been keeping my wife supplied with luxury food to tempt her appetite. And I’m a respectable married man. Everybody here knows that.”

The Lieutenant said a word under his breath that even Jaime was able to translate from English. Van Daan lifted his eyebrows and waited. After a moment the other man rolled his eyes, stood to attention and saluted smartly. Van Daan grinned.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Go and find yourself a partner and join us. Mr Ataíde here will help.”

“You’re going to get cashiered. Again.”

“I was not cashiered. Your memory is going, it must be the fever. Excuse me, Mr Ataíde. Save me space at your table, I’m bringing a guest.”

Jaime watched as he crossed the room to join Inés and Welby. He clapped the cavalry officer on the shoulder so heartily that it must have hurt, stepped neatly between him and the woman, took Inés’ hand and bowed over it with surprising grace. Jaime saw her look of surprise, followed by recognition. Then she was smiling, blushing a little. Jaime supposed she understood some French. Most girls learned it in the schoolroom. Certainly she understood whatever elegant compliment Major van Daan had just paid her.

The Major kept hold of her hand with a casual possessiveness which managed, unlike Welby, to appear completely respectful. He turned to Welby and spoke. Welby did not move. Van Daan spoke again. Welby snapped to attention and saluted.

Van Daan kissed the girl’s hand again and relinquished it. He put his hand on Welby’s shoulder again and steered him firmly away, speaking very quietly. Jaime had no idea what he was saying and would have paid to find out, but when he released Welby and returned to Inés, the man did not follow. Van Daan smiled at the girl, placed her hand on his arm and looked around for Jaime.

Jaime remembered his instructions and collected his partner along with an unattached girl for Lieutenant Swanson. He discovered that Van Daan had already found a spacious table.

“Come and join us, Mr Ataíde. Senhorita Guida, it’s good to see you again. I believe we danced together at Sir Arthur Wellesley’s ball. Mr Ataíde, we have a confusion of languages here. I’m going to have to rely on you to translate where necessary. After supper, we’ll talk.”

Jaime handed Joana into her chair. He felt very disoriented but thought at this moment that he would probably have obeyed an order from this man to charge the enemy cannon without the slightest hesitation.

***

It was the early hours of the morning by the time Major Paul van Daan left the Palácio de Barroso and made his way through the darkened streets to the villa he had rented on his arrival in Lisbon earlier in the year. It had been a sudden decision to bring his wife with him and her recent illness had caused him bitter regrets at times. They had agreed that she would follow him out as soon as she received word that Lisbon was secure and she had been delighted with this elegant villa which Paul had managed to hire from the agent of a Portuguese grandee who had fled to Brazil with the Royal Family.

Rowena was shy in company but she had tried her best in the weeks after Wellesley’s victories, as Lisbon celebrated with parades and parties, lauding the British as liberators and heroes. Paul was happy that she was with him. Their marriage had not always been easy and he was bitterly aware of his infidelities and failings as a husband but he was genuinely resolved to do better.

The outbreak of camp fever had prevented him from joining Sir John Moore’s march into Spain. The rest of the 110th had marched out under Colonel Johnstone while Paul was left in command of around two hundred men too sick to march. Most of them came from his light company and it was not long before several of the officers came down with the illness. When Rowena sickened, Paul had been utterly terrified. He remained by her bedside, blaming himself and longing for the chance to tell her how much she meant to him.

Her recovery had been slow, but seemed assured now. Most of his men were also on the mend although too many had died. Paul hated losing men to sickness, though it was the most common cause of death in the army. He felt restless and shut out, waiting both for news from the rest of his battalion in Spain and from Wellesley in London about the result of the Cintra inquiry. For weeks he had not felt much like socialising, but Senhor Barroso had personally asked him to attend the ball and Rowena had told him to go.

“You cannot sit by my bedside constantly Paul, and I am so much better. I’m looking forward to the day I can attend a ball with you.”

Paul reached out and placed a hand on her forehead. “You’re having a relapse,” he said gravely. “I’ve never before heard you say you were looking forward to a party.”

“I always look forward to dancing with you.”

“I’ve missed dancing with you too, my angel. I will go. Barroso is a good old stick and has been so generous to us while you’ve been ill. I think he’s a bit in love with you to be honest. I’d like to catch up on the gossip. I miss Wellesley. Anything could be happening and I wouldn’t know about it. It’s so frustrating.”

She gave a little laugh and reached out her hand. He took it, noticing how thin she had become. “Poor Paul. Don’t worry about it. I predict that Sir Arthur will be gloriously exonerated and sent back to save Portugal.”

“I admire your optimism, love, but he’s just as likely to be sent to South America. Never mind. Get plenty of rest and I’ll tell you all the gossip in the morning. It’s a sign that I don’t have enough to do that I’m genuinely curious about this story that poor Barroso’s widowed daughter is disgracing herself with a British officer. I wonder who it is? Nobody I know, that’s for sure.”

“As long as it isn’t you, Paul.”

Paul felt a little frisson of surprised guilt. Rowena never taxed him with his occasional lapses and although her tone was joking, even the fact that she had mentioned it bothered him. He leaned over and kissed her fully on the lips.

“I promise, angel. Go to sleep and get well. I need you. You know that.”

Walking back to the villa much later, Paul reviewed the evening. He had a slightly guilty feeling that he had behaved badly but he decided he did not care. He did not really have much interest in the beautiful but wayward Widow da Sousa apart from a sense of gratitude to her father and stepmother, who had proved an unexpected source of support during Rowena’s illness. The opportunity to annoy Captain Cecil Welby of the 9th Dragoon Guards, however, was always irresistible.

Welby was four years older than Paul. They had met at Eton and for two years the older boy had done his best to make the lives of Paul and his friends miserable. He had not really succeeded. Paul had received a few beatings but had quickly learned how to defend himself and became an expert at getting some of the more amiable older boys on his side. A practical joke gone wrong had led to the expulsion of both Paul and Welby and their paths had not crossed again until an unexpected meeting at a reception in London. At that point they had been of equal rank; both captains although Welby’s was of longer standing.

Paul had often found that past antagonisms faded with time. That had not been the case with Welby. By that time, Paul was on his way up, high in the favour of Sir Arthur Wellesley. Welby’s career in the cavalry seemed to have stalled, with one or two unsavoury rumours about his conduct following him from one posting to another. Paul loathed army gossip, having been on the receiving end of it himself on a number of occasions, but he was prepared to make an exception in Welby’s case. The man had no redeeming qualities that he could find.

They had met a few times after that, in the shifting world of army life. Paul had not even thought of Welby when he received his promotion to major, purchased over more experienced men at an exorbitant cost. He had not regretted it though and thought he was doing a good job. The sight of Welby, still bearing the insignia of a captain, was a purely childish pleasure. Still, he would not have bothered to make the most of it had Welby not been behaving so badly with Senhor Barroso’s daughter.

Paul wondered about Lieutenant Ataíde. He had seen the man’s face at Welby’s behaviour and suspected that he had an interest in the girl. Paul thought it a pity. He had talked for a long time after supper with Ataíde and was very impressed. Wellesley had spoken with him about the management of the Portuguese army and Paul thought that Ataíde had just the right blend of courage and intelligence to ensure a brilliant future. He intended to make sure that whoever took over the task of commanding and training the disorganised Portuguese forces knew all about Jaime Ataíde.

Unfortunately, Paul did not think that Dona Inés would be much of an asset to a young officer eager for promotion. Still, that was not his business and he had no intention of making it so. The best he could do for his new acquaintance was to make sure that Welby could do no further damage to her reputation. After that, Ataíde was on his own.

A combination of a late night, weeks of stress and more wine than usual meant that Paul awoke late the following morning. Rowena was curled up in his arms, still deeply asleep. He lay holding her, thinking back over the previous night, and felt an overwhelming sense of content. The emotional storms of the past year had left him brittle and unsettled but lying here holding Rowena, he felt simple happiness and an enormous relief that she had been spared.

Apart from his regular visits to barracks and to the hospital ward where the remaining sick men from his battalion were slowly recovering, Paul spent the next weeks at Rowena’s side. Her recovery seemed to be faster now. She spent more and more time out of bed, dined with him each evening and insisted on going out for gentle walks to regain her strength.

Paul fussed over her in a way that many women would have found irritating but Rowena seemed to enjoy it. He consulted with the cook about dishes to tempt her appetite and hired a gig to take her driving in the fresh air. He continued to ignore the growing pile of invitations until he received a visit from Lieutenant Carl Swanson who was his boyhood friend and one of his most trusted officers.

“Are you going to the headquarters reception tomorrow, sir?”

“I wasn’t planning to. I thought I’d drive along the coast road with Rowena and then have an early dinner at that place on the quay. They serve superb seafood and it will be the first time we’ve eaten out since…why? Should I be there?”

“It depends on whether the situation with Welby bothers you. He’s back with Dona Inés – all over her in fact. I feel sorry for her father and brothers. They’re furious but they’ve no idea what to do. He’s a British officer.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! How did that arsehole suddenly become my problem?”

“It’s really not, sir. It’s just that there’s nobody to intervene. He has no commanding officer in Lisbon, while he’s waiting for orders. I think Barroso would like to complain but has no idea who to speak to.”

“Given that the woman is her own mistress, her father can’t really complain at all. If I thought the matter was just down to stupidity, I’d be inclined to allow nature to take its course, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“Why is it?” Carl asked. “Because it’s Welby?”

“Carl, I only have to look at Welby to want to punch him. That’s hardly a secret. But he doesn’t serve in my battalion and isn’t really my business. It’s just that…”

“Sir?”

“I took her into supper that evening just to annoy Welby. He can’t punch me, I’m a senior officer. But I very quickly realised that she was very drunk. I think he pours wine into her on every possible occasion and I’m afraid it’s clouding her judgement. I’m all in favour of a woman making her own choices, but to do that successfully she needs to be stone cold sober. I don’t like the look of this. I’ve just been trying to ignore it.”

Carl looked appalled. “Christ, Paul, are you serious? Do her family know?”

“I doubt it. She doesn’t live with them. They think she’s just doing this to defy them and I think there’s something in that. I had a long talk with Ataíde and he seems to think they shovelled her into a marriage with an unpleasant older man. She probably has reason to be furious. But if she thinks she’s going to solve the problem with bloody Cecil Welby, she’s very much mistaken. If he’s planning marriage, she’ll be miserable. If he’s planning seduction, she’ll be ruined. And don’t even bother to ask me why I care.”

His friend was smiling. “I don’t need to, sir.”

“Oh fuck off, Swanson. I want to be with my wife.”

“I can see that, sir. I don’t blame you. Look, I’d try to help, but Welby is senior to me and…”

“No, don’t. You can’t go near it. It has to be me.”

“It doesn’t have to be you. Sergeant O’Reilly and Private Carter are bored to tears. Just find out where he’s billeted and I’m sure they would…”

“Stop!” Paul put his hands over his ears. “I’m not listening, Swanson. And as a parson’s son, you should be bloody ashamed of yourself, putting that idea into my head. All right, I’ll go to the blasted reception but I don’t want to leave Rowena on her own. Do you think you could…?”

“I’ll take her for a drive, sir. As long as Captain Wheeler goes to the reception to make sure you behave yourself. Although he’d probably rather swap.”

“Don’t tell him. He can pull rank on you. Carl…am I over-reacting to this? Because of Welby?”

“I don’t think so. I know how much you dislike him. But I genuinely think he’s trying to take advantage of that poor woman.”

“For some reason I’ve been thinking a lot about Will Cathcart these past weeks. I suppose it’s meeting Welby. Remembering our school days. I can recall the first time I saw Cathcart. His face was in the mud on the west field, with Welby’s foot on the back of his head. I remember running at Welby so hard with my head in his midriff that he couldn’t speak for fifteen minutes. We never really got on after that.”

Carl laughed aloud. “Paul, you’re not thirteen any more. You don’t need to do that.”

“No, I know. At least, the methods are different. I still can’t believe Will is dead. I was in Naples when I got the news. Fucking yellow fever. He was one of the best men I knew. Still, if he was here now, he’d tell me to stop making excuses about the girl and deal with Welby. Whatever her problems, no woman deserves that. I just hope it doesn’t end with her marrying Lieutenant Ataíde. He can do a lot better. All right, Lieutenant. You’re in charge of my wife for the evening. Don’t run off with her.”

“I’ll try to remember that, sir,” Carl said seriously. Paul looked around for something to throw at him but his wife was clearly feeling better and had tidied up.

***

British army headquarters was located in the Palácio de Calhariz on the corner of the Rua do Loreto. The original palace had been mostly destroyed during the earthquake of 1755 and had been rebuilt on elegant lines. The reception rooms were already crowded when Jaime arrived and he paused to speak to several Portuguese officers before making his way into the throng.

During the past weeks, with no formal duties, Jaime had spent time working on his language skills. His English was improving and he spent long hours studying. It seemed clear that however the war progressed, Britain and Portugal were likely to be allies, hopefully fighting together, and he wanted to be able to speak freely to his fellow officers. It gave him something to do and he was delighted to test the results as he moved through the crowd, picking up snatches of conversation.

Major van Daan had been noticeably absent from most social events over the past few weeks but Jaime had been surprised and very flattered to twice receive an invitation to dine with him privately. Mrs van Daan had not been present and the Major received his guest’s concerned enquiries about her health with a grin.

“She’s very much better, thank you. Her absence is not due to ill-health, it’s because I wanted to talk to you properly and her French isn’t up to the job. Also she’s hiding; she hates entertaining. I do want to introduce you at some point though. You’ll like her. How’s your English coming along?”

They conversed in a mixture of both languages and Jaime appreciated the opportunity to practice. The conversation ranged over a wide variety of topics, both military and political. Jaime was somewhat dazzled by his host’s knowledge of current affairs both at home and throughout Europe. He realised that Van Daan’s background of both trade and aristocracy, his friendship with the absent Wellesley, and his circle of acquaintances in and out of the army gave him an understanding of what was happening in Portugal which outstripped most of the local grandees.

Jaime was delighted with his new acquaintance and tried hard to hide how flattered he was. He was not sure what had made Paul van Daan’s attention light upon him but he had a suspicion that it could only be good for his future career and the faintly envious teasing of some of his friends suggested that they thought the same thing.

He had given up expecting to meet Van Daan in public while his wife was not well enough to accompany him but he was pleased to see Lieutenant Barroso at the centre of a group of officers and several of the younger ladies present. As Jaime approached them, he saw that Joana Guida was there and he made his way to her side, bowing over her hand. He had become firm friends with the outspoken Senhorita Guida during the past month.

Joana returned his greeting pleasantly but Jaime was immediately aware of a strained atmosphere. Barroso’s face was thunderous and there was a whisper of gossip among some of the others. Jaime looked at Joana and raised his eyebrows.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes. I am not sure. Lieutenant, would it be possible to take a turn about the room with me? We cannot speak freely here.”

She spoke in an undertone, not much above a whisper. Jaime offered her his arm.

“Of course. Let’s walk through to the terrace. Nobody will be there, it’s too chilly.”

They made their way through the rooms, stopping to speak to others only when obliged to. As Jaime had suspected, the terrace drawing room was deserted. During the summer, when the long glass doors were open, it was a favourite spot for courting couples or men wanting a place for quiet conversation. In December, the windows were firmly closed against a grey cloudy sky and the room was unoccupied apart from two elderly Portuguese generals by the door who seemed to be engaged in reminiscing about better days. They gave Jaime and his companion a disapproving glance but moved to the other side of the door as though they suspected the worst.

“That is General Leandres, my Godfather,” Joana said. “He will probably report back to my mother that I am making assignations with handsome young officers.”

Jaime was startled. “I’m sorry. Should we go back? I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

“Oh don’t worry, she won’t take any notice. She will pretend not to believe him but to be honest, she would probably be pleased to hear that I am taking an interest. I’m sorry to have kidnapped you, Lieutenant Ataíde. I’m worried about Inés.”

Jaime was aware of a flash of irritation; not with his companion but with her flighty friend. It seemed to him that Joana spent far too much of her time worrying about Inés da Sousa and he would have preferred to talk about something more interesting. Still, he had never known Joana to be overly dramatic and it was clear that something was bothering her.

“Has something new happened?” he asked. “I could see that her brother looked as though he wanted to shoot somebody. Honestly, that girl is a nuisance. I’ve never been keen on the custom of young widows being expected to stay at home but in her case it would have been a blessing. Is it Welby again?”

“Yes. And when I am less anxious, Lieutenant, I would like to have a conversation with you about why it is always the woman’s fault when something like this happens. Has it not occurred to you that Captain Welby should bear some responsibility?”

Her voice was frosty and Jaime realised he had blundered badly. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean…at least, I probably did mean it. It’s what I was always taught. But I think you are right. Certainly Major van Daan seems to think that it is Welby’s behaviour that is at fault here.”

“It is a pity we see so little of Major van Daan, since he appears to be the only man able to see what is happening and willing to take appropriate action. She is not at all herself, Lieutenant and I’m very worried about her. But today…”

She broke off, studying him from those beautiful golden eyes. They reminded Jaime of a rather lovely cat. He realised that he was staring into them like an idiot and not responding like a sensible man. It was obvious to him that in the absence of Major van Daan, he was the best Joana had managed to come up with in her choice of an ally and he wanted to impress her so he tore his gaze away and asked:

“What has happened, Senhorita? Are they here? I did not see either of them as I came in.”

“She was with me earlier. I thought she seemed different. More subdued. I was beginning to hope that they had quarrelled. And I think they might have. Only then he arrived and took her away and now I cannot find either of them. She cannot have left with him, I am sure. She always brings a companion to these events, to chaperone her.”

Jaime had never seen any sign of a chaperone and said so. His companion gave him a look.

“She employs an older cousin to live with her. Dona Luisa is usually to be found in a quiet room with her own friends, lamenting the wild behaviour of young girls today. You will note that she makes no attempt to prevent such wild behaviour, she just complains about it. Dona Luisa is still here but I cannot find Inés or Captain Welby. Lieutenant Barroso is beginning to talk very ominously about challenges and shooting the Captain dead. His father is not here today fortunately, he is laid up with the gout. Otherwise I am afraid there would already have been a scene. I need to find them but I don’t know what to do. Lieutenant, I know this is not your problem and you must be very bored with me by now, but…”

Jaime took her hand and kissed it. “I don’t think I could ever be bored by you, Senhorita. I am very bored with Dona Inés and her unpleasant suitor, but I will help in any way that I can. Not for their sakes but for yours. Do you seriously think she has sneaked off with him somewhere?”

Joana did not speak for a moment. Jaime realised her cheeks had gone very pink. She withdrew her hand gently from his.

“I don’t think they will have left the palace, though they might be in the garden I suppose. She has behaved very foolishly a few times recently but I think that has been because she is…because he…at times I believe she has been under the influence of too much wine. That cannot be true today unless he has brought it with him. There is never much to drink at Sir John Cradock’s receptions.”

“For today at least, I think we may be grateful for Sir John’s parsimony,” Jaime said gravely. “Let me take you back to your friends, Senhorita, then I’ll begin to search. I didn’t notice them in the public rooms but then I wasn’t looking for them. I’ll do another walk through and if they’re not to be found I’ll try the garden. It’s not very big, they can hardly hide out there.”

“May I come with you?”

Jaime hesitated. “Senhorita, I would welcome your company but I’m a little concerned about your own situation. Presumably you are here with a chaperone of your own, but…”

She gave a brief smile. “I am here with the Cuestas as usual so Dona Isabela is my nominal chaperone but she will be found with Dona Luisa and the rest of the old cats and will not care at all what I do. If we find them, Lieutenant, it will be far easier for me to intervene and draw her away than for you. The Captain may not like me – indeed he loathes me – but he can hardly challenge me or try to provoke me to challenge him. Please.”

After a moment Jaime nodded and held out his hand. She took it with a look of pure gratitude which unexpectedly made this whole exasperating affair worthwhile.

They went through the reception rooms with military precision, checking every distant corner but there was no sign of the errant couple. From there, Jaime led her down a deserted corridor and through a dusty conservatory into a small but lush garden. It had begun to rain again, a fine misty drizzle. Jaime left Joana in the conservatory  with instructions to remain dry and jogged up and down the maze of paths, peering between shrubs and trees. The place was deserted. Jaime was not surprised. A Lisbon garden on a wet December day was not the place for either romance or seduction.

He re-joined Joana, brushing raindrops from his uniform. “Nothing there. I can’t work out where they’ve gone but if they’ve left, one of the sentries must know. Look, Senhorita, I realise that asking questions might cause gossip but I am beginning to feel genuinely concerned. I thought we would find them holding hands in some dim corner but if he has really persuaded her to leave with him, this is a lot more serious. You’re her friend. I’ll abide by your wishes, but if it was my sister, I’d want somebody to do something at this point.”

She looked very pale but there was a determined set to her jaw. “Yes. Yes, of course. You are right, Lieutenant.”

“Should I involve her brother?”

“Not yet. The sentries are English. I speak very little but I know you have been studying hard. Do you think you will be able…?”

“Yes, I think so. As long as they don’t ask any difficult questions, which they probably won’t given that I wear an officer’s uniform. I wasn’t expecting this to be the first real test of my English lessons, but let’s try. Come on.”

There were four sentries on the outer door of the palace and two more on the inner door, which led to the first reception room. Jaime approached one of these with a thumping heart and recited his carefully rehearsed question about his missing friends. He tried to make it sound light-hearted, as though the whole thing was in the nature of a practical joke.

It seemed to work, as the tall sergeant relaxed a little though he did not exactly smile.

“I think I understand, sir. Wouldn’t want the young lady to get into any trouble. I don’t think I’ve seen them leave, but with your permission, I can ask my lads on the side door. I wouldn’t have seen anyone going through that way. Just one moment.”

Jaime waited, giving Joana a reassuring smile. He did not think she had understood much of the exchange. He was pleased at how well he had managed and silently thanked Major van Daan’s patient willingness to allow him to practice.

The Sergeant’s voice raised in an impressive bellow and after a moment, a younger man appeared from the far side of the broad staircase. He was dressed differently to his Sergeant, in the dark green of the Rifles. Jaime wondered how he came to be under the command of an NCO from another regiment. He looked back at the Sergeant’s red jacket with pale grey facings and realised suddenly that the uniform was familiar and that the Sergeant must be from the 110th. Van Daan had told him that with limited troops in Lisbon at present, all regiments took turns at sentry duty.

“Private Carter, I’ve a question for you. We’ve a missing lady and an officer in a red coat and this gentleman would like them found before there’s a scandal. Seen anything?”

There was a significant pause. The Sergeant put his head on one side and gave a deep sigh.

“Carter, don’t piss me off, it’s been a long day and I’m already bored with it. It’s not your job to play patsy for some randy bastard chasing a bit of Portuguese skirt.”

“Not even if it’s the Major, Sarge?”

“Especially if it’s the Major, you cheeky bastard. What do you know? Spill the beans or I’ll crack your head for you.”

Private Carter seemed entirely unabashed. He grinned. “Nothing to do with me, sir, but I did see an officer slipping what looked like a large tip to one of the servants earlier. Wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but I recognised him.”

“Who was it and what was it for?”

“Captain Welby, sir. I thought at the time that it’s a good thing the Major’s not here. It wasn’t hard to work out what he was after because his Portuguese is almost as bad as mine, and I don’t speak a word. He wanted the boy to unlock the library door for him.”

“The library?” the Sergeant said. All laughter had gone. “Where is this library?”

“On the next floor, Sarge. Up the main staircase and left, but you can get to it from the servant’s stairs, down this way.”

“How do you know all this, Carter?”

“I’m nosy, sir.”

“Good man.” The Sergeant turned towards Jaime, who was already moving, his eyes on Private Carter.

“Can you show me?”

“Yes, sir. What about the lady?”

Jaime looked at Joana. “Senhorita, you should remain with the Sergeant until…”

“Do not be ridiculous. I am coming with you, it is why I came in the first place. Hurry, Lieutenant.”

Jaime froze in agonised uncertainty and looked from the Sergeant to Private Carter. Carter came to attention and executed a perfect salute.

“Didn’t understand what she said, sir, but I can tell you she’s got no intention of staying here. You can just tell, like.”

Jaime nodded and gestured. Carter sped down a dim service corridor and up a wooden staircase, his long legs taking the steps two at a time with Jaime and Joana racing to keep up.

Carter stopped beside a door in the corridor above. “That’s it, sir. I think they’re in there, I can hear voices. I’ll step back now, but I’ll be just at the top of the stairs. Call if you need me.”

He melted away and Jaime put his hand on the doorknob. Before he could open it, Joana pulled his arm away.

“No. I will go first. We agreed.”

“We do not know what is happening.”

“We are about to find out. The door will be open, you can come to my rescue if necessary. I am a woman; he will not attack me. Please, Lieutenant. Step back.”

Jaime obeyed reluctantly. Joana took a deep breath and opened the door wide. Jaime could see nothing but he could hear every word.

Welby spoke first. Jaime did not recognise the word but he knew it was an oath and probably extremely vulgar. Joana probably recognised the fury in his voice but she did not hesitate.

“There you are, Inés. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I’m sorry to interrupt, but you had better come back downstairs. Your brother is in one of his great fusses and very soon he will start shouting at Dona Luisa which will make her cry. Goodness, whatever have you done to your hair? Did you go out into the garden earlier? It’s very windy out there. I went out for two minutes with Lieutenant Ataíde, but it was far too wet and cold. Here, come and sit down and let me tidy you up before we go down. Oh, Captain Welby. How do you do?”

Jaime was lost in admiration of her artless prattle, since it was something she would never normally have done. He could only imagine the scene she was trying to cover up and silently thanked God that whatever Welby had intended had clearly not gone too far. He also thanked God for Joana’s courage and common sense. If he had burst into the room to find Inés da Sousa in an apparently compromising situation he would have felt obliged to either issue a challenge or at the very least, inform her brother to give him the chance to do so. Joana’s superb social skills looked likely to avert the entire scandal.

Welby swore again. Jaime wondered how much of Joana’s speech he understood. He could hear the murmured voices of both girls now, talking nonsense about hairstyles and bad weather, as though nothing unusual had occurred. All Welby needed to do was leave and the thing was done. Jaime slipped silently back behind the open door where the cavalry officer would be unlikely to notice him as he left. He heard Welby’s boots on wooden boards and saw his tall shadow in the doorway. Then Welby stopped and turned. He spoke in surprisingly fluent French.

“Have it your own way, Inés. There’s a name for a woman who invites a man to a private room with her and then turns coy at the last minute and by the time I’ve finished with your reputation there won’t be a house in Lisbon where you’ll be received. After all, just because this little bitch walked in on us this time, who’s to say there haven’t been others?”

Inés gave a little sob of protest. Jaime felt his entire body go rigid with anger. Before he could respond, Joana spoke.

“You are not a gentleman, Captain Welby. Please leave and be thankful that Dona Inés’ brother was not present. Do not approach my friend again.”

Welby gave a crack of laughter. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, you whey-faced little tart and I don’t suppose you understand me any better. Who knows, I might have a try at you next, once the dust is settled. You don’t have her face or her fortune but your figure isn’t bad and you’d do well enough with the lights off. It’s the only chance you’re likely to have to find out what to do with a man, you…”

It had taken Jaime that long to reach him. He swung his fist and the other man reeled backwards, taken completely by surprise. Blood spurted from his nose. He put his hand up to feel it, looking astonished, then he straightened and raised his fists.

“You filthy little Portuguese bastard. I’m going to make you wish you’d stayed with fucking Bonaparte. By the time I’ve finished with you…”

He advanced on Jaime who stood ready to defend himself but the blow never materialised. Instead a tall, wiry form inserted itself between them and a raised arm absorbed Welby’s attempted punch.

“Captain Welby, I think you’re forgetting yourself,” Private Carter said. He spoke at the top of his not inconsiderable voice. “Come on now, sir, you can’t start a brawl at headquarters. You’ll get yourself court martialled; all the senior staff are downstairs.”

“Get out of my way, scum!” Welby roared.

“Step aside, Private,” Jaime said. He was utterly enraged and desperate to hit Welby again.

“I’m not moving, sir and I can hear Sergeant O’Reilly on the stairs now. It’s our duty to keep the peace at headquarters today and we’re going to do it, one way or another. Lieutenant, think about it. It’s your job to get the ladies out of here as quietly as possible. Get on with it, will you? There’s a good gentleman.”

Jaime took a deep painful breath and turned. The two women stood just inside the room. Both looked terrified. Inés da Sousa had been crying and her dishevelled appearance chilled Jaime and brought him abruptly to his senses. He realised with cold shock that he and Joana might possibly have interrupted something rather more serious than a clumsy attempt at seduction.

“Of course,” he said, stepping back. “Senhorita Guida, I know this is unorthodox, but I think perhaps I should take Dona Inés home, if you would accompany us. She cannot go back to the reception like that.”

“Thank you,” Joana said with passionate gratitude. “I will run to find Dona Isabela and tell her Inés is unwell. She will lend us her carriage and I can send it back afterwards.”

“Good girl,” Jaime said, with a poor attempt at a smile. He could see the tall Sergeant coming along the corridor towards him. “Come along, Dona Inés. We’ll find somewhere quiet for you to wait.” 

He glanced at Carter who was waiting patiently and summoned up his English again, reflecting that this was not the practice he had expected today. “Private Carter, is there a room where the ladies can wait while I arrange their carriage?”

“There’s a little anteroom that’s private, sir,” Carter said. He had not taken his eyes off Welby. “My Sergeant can take over here now and I’ll show you.”

“Thank you, Private. You are a credit to your regiment.”

“Thank you, sir. Maybe you’ll mention that to the Major when he bawls me out for getting into trouble again. I’d be grateful.”

Jaime took Inés’ arm and Joana went to her other side. The girl was shivering violently with what Jaime suspected was shock. Joana seemed remarkably calm and he thanked God that she had probably not understood much of Welby’s threats to herself. They took a few steps down the corridor and the Sergeant moved to stand between Jaime and Welby. Private Carter saluted and moved ahead to lead the way.

“Ataíde,” Welby called out. He had reverted to French. “You’re a lily-livered coward and a traitor. I’ll just bet you didn’t leave the French army of your own accord. I’ll bet they kicked you out once they realised how useless you were. As for that little bitch you’re running around with, you’d better keep a close eye on her. I’ve a score to settle.”

Joana spun around. “If you come within an inch of me, Captain Welby, I will stab you myself,” she said in surprisingly clear schoolgirl French. “Good day.”

Jaime was so surprised he let go of Inés’ arm. He stared at Joana. “I did not realise you spoke French. If I’d known…”

“Not very well, Lieutenant. But well enough to know when I am being threatened and insulted by something I would be likely to scrape off  my shoe on a hot day.” Joana shot a scornful look in the direction of Welby. “Let him try it,” she said very clearly, once again in French.

Jaime could not take his eyes from her. He had completely forgotten about Inés da Sousa. “I don’t think he would dare,” he said frankly. “I know I wouldn’t.”

Joana took her friend’s arm again. “Come, Inés. Let’s get you home.”

They were halfway down the corridor when Welby shouted after them.

“Ataíde, you’ll meet me for this. I’m calling you out, you cowardly bastard.”

Jaime glanced back. “At a time and place of your choosing,” he said, surprised at how easily the words came. “Send a message.”

***

Paul arrived at the reception into the middle of a swell of excited rumour which was spreading through the room and had clearly already reached General Sir John Cradock.

Cradock was a civilised man of around fifty who was making the best of his rather tenuous position commanding the Lisbon garrison while Moore advanced into Spain. Paul liked him on a personal level but disagreed with his pessimistic view of the British chances of success in the Iberian peninsula and thought that Cradock was only too aware that he was going to be replaced as soon as possible by a man with more determination. Paul was very much hoping it would be Wellesley, but his chief first had to shake off the threat of the Cintra inquiry.

Cradock must have been on the lookout for Paul. He summoned him with a gesture before Paul had been able to get any sensible account of what had happened earlier. Paul saluted and Cradock led him through into a private parlour, closed the door and stationed a sentry to refuse entry to all.

“Have you any idea what is going on, Van Daan?” he demanded.

“None at all, sir. I only arrived fifteen minutes ago and if I’d known I was walking into this, I’d have stayed at home with my wife,” Paul said promptly. He was faintly indignant at the implication that the current scandal had anything to do with him and decided to conveniently ignore his own very public intervention in Captain Welby’s love life at a previous party. “What happened?”

“I can get no sense out of anybody and I am furious that it should have occurred at my headquarters and involves an officer of this army.”

“Well I understand your point of view, sir, but nothing is ever going to surprise me about Cecil Welby. Do I gather Lieutenant Ataíde was involved?”

“I believe so, although he has already left. I was then faced by the woman’s chaperone who became hysterical and her brother who was threatening to shoot people. I have never experienced such a thing in my long career. Shocking how little self-control these Latin people have over their emotions.”

Paul managed not to point out that the instigator of the trouble was in fact wholly English. He tried to look sympathetic as Cradock continued to rage but cut in abruptly as something caught his attention.

“Sorry, sir, what was that about the sentries? How were they involved? My men are on duty here this week.”

“That is possibly true, Van Daan, but common soldiers are hardly likely to have any understanding of either French or Portuguese so they will not be able to…”

“That depends on who was involved. May I speak to my Sergeant, sir?”

Cradock waved an irritable hand. “Do so. And get hold of young Ataíde and Welby. You know both of them. Make sure they understand that I will have no duelling under my command.”

Paul managed not to give an unhelpful reply, saluted and left in search of his Irish Sergeant.

He found O’Reilly with Private Carter at the end of the service corridor. Both sprang to attention and saluted.

“Where can we speak privately?” Paul demanded.

“Through here, sir. It’s where we’re putting all enraged officers and outraged ladies this week.”

“Don’t try to be funny, Sergeant, I’m not in the mood.” Paul closed the door and surveyed them. “What the hell happened? Do you know?”

“We’ve something of an idea, sir. It was Carter involved at the start. We’ve been talking about it, trying to put it all together. Some of it’s guesswork. Neither of us speak any French. I understand a bit of Portuguese now, sir. On account of Carlota.”

“Is that the brunette or the redhead?”

“The redhead, sir. The brunette was Maria.”

“Don’t tell me. My head hurts.”

“As if you’ve never got confused,” O’Reilly said darkly. Carter gave a small splutter of laughter, hastily suppressed. Paul glared at both of them.

“Tell me.”

“Well sir, from what we can tell, Captain Welby bribed one of the servants to let him use the library upstairs for a romantic tryst with a lady. Somehow the young Portuguese gentleman…Ataíde, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Somehow he found out and was searching the whole of headquarters to find them. Carter here had seen the Captain handing over the bribe in exchange for the key earlier. He told Lieutenant Ataíde and showed him where the room was.”

“Good decision, Carter. I’m curious though – how the hell did you all manage to understand one another?”

“Mr Ataíde managed it in English, sir. He did quite well. Must have been practising. Once the Lieutenant and his friend broke into the room though, it all got a bit confusing. I could hear French, English and Portuguese and I think all of it involved a lot of cursing. I came to find out what was going on. Mr Ataíde had punched the Captain and the Captain was about to start a brawl. I got between them and then the Sergeant came up and we managed to get them separated. Mr Ataíde took the ladies home and the Captain stormed off.”

“How noisy was it?”

“Too noisy,” O’Reilly said briefly. “We were able to tell people honestly that we had no idea what it was all about as we couldn’t understand their language but some of the servants heard enough to realise that a challenge had been given and accepted.”

“Bugger,” Paul said distinctly. He eyed Carter thoughtfully. “Are you all right, Carter? You said you got into the middle of it.”

“Yes, sir. My arm’s a bit numb where Welby…I mean the Captain punched it. But I didn’t hit anybody, I swear it.”

“I don’t much care if you did. Welby can hardly bloody complain, given the rumpus he’s kicked up. Christ, what a mess. The worst of it is that he doesn’t even have a commanding officer here at the moment and blasted Cradock seems determined to land this whole thing on me. He must have been taking lessons from Wellesley. I wonder if they’ve been corresponding? I can just imagine it now. ‘Should any particularly difficult problems arise during my necessary absence in London, feel free to place them in the lap of Major van Daan. He is entirely accustomed to this.’ Stop laughing O’Reilly, this is not bloody funny.”

“He wasn’t laughing at the time, sir,” Carter said soberly. “Nor was I.”

Paul paused, studying the other man. “Was she all right?” he asked, suddenly conscious that he had not enquired.

“No, sir.”

Paul felt a little chill. “When you say she wasn’t all right, exactly what are we talking about here? I thought we were discussing a romantic tryst.”

“I don’t know how far it went, sir, but I’ve come across women who’ve been through that kind of romantic tryst in my time in the army and that’s not the word I’d use. Nor you, if you’d seen her. The other lady made a good job of tidying her up, mind, but she’d been pulled about a fair bit and I don’t think she enjoyed it, poor lass.”

Paul’s temper exploded. “I should have fucking known!” he roared. “Fucking Welby! When I get my hands on him, I am going to rip his fucking head off! Stand down, Sergeant O’Reilly, Private Carter. My thanks for your intelligent assistance in this.”

He threw open the door. As he expected, he heard his Sergeant’s voice raised in protest.

“Sir, calm down. I think Sir John Cradock wants you to solve the problem, not make it worse.”

Paul did not bother to turn back. “I am going to solve the problem, Sergeant,” he snapped, over his shoulder. “And I know just where to start.”

***

Welby was not in his billet. Paul spent a fruitless two hours searching every tavern he could think of and interrogating Welby’s known friends but he found no trace of him. Eventually he went home to Rowena, his mind fretting at the problem. Tomorrow he would visit Lieutenant Ataíde to see if he could shake any information out of the young Portuguese officer. Paul perfectly understood Ataíde’s desire to end Welby’s life, but he was not prepared to see Ataíde ruin his future career in such a pointless cause.

He was also a little concerned about what might happen in such a duel. Welby was an excellent shot and not a bad swordsman. Paul could not work out who had challenged whom but he was very sure that if Welby fought at all he would be willing to kill his opponent. Paul liked Ataíde and was worried about him.

There was nothing more he could do tonight and he tried to set the problem to one side and focus on Rowena who was fretting to return to her normal activities. They drank wine and played cards for fabulous imaginary sums until he saw her eyelids drooping. Then he led her firmly to their room and she fell asleep almost immediately, curled up in his arms. He lay for a while, appreciating the miracle of her recovery and drifted into sleep more easily than he had expected.

It was still dark when he awoke and he lay still for a moment, his heart pounding. The sound came again; a gentle but definite tap on the door. Paul got up and went to investigate. Stepping into the corridor, he found Jenson, his orderly, wrapped up in his old greatcoat against the cold night.

“Sorry to wake you, sir. Mr Swanson is downstairs. He says it’s urgent.”

Visions of a new outbreak of the deadly camp fever in barracks filled Paul’s mind. He swore softly and slipped back into the room to dress. Rowena stirred in her sleep and murmured his name and he went to kiss her.

“I’m needed in barracks, angel. Go back to sleep.”

When he was dressed he went down into the kitchen where Carl Swanson waited with his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. Jenson brought another cup for Paul. He sipped the bitter liquid, trying to clear his foggy brain.

“What’s happened, Carl? Is somebody ill?”

“No, sir. Everything is fine in barracks. Look, I wasn’t sure if I should wake you or not but I had a feeling you’d want to know. Nick Barry came in from a night on the town with the news that there’s a duel being fought at dawn today, in the parkland beyond the cathedral.”

Paul was suddenly wide awake. He set down the cup and went to the water jug. Pouring cold water into the bowl he splashed his face, scrubbing at it with his hands to try to drive the remnants of sleep away.

“Where’s Jenson?”

“Gone to the stables, I think.”

“Good. Thank you, Mr Swanson. You can stand down now. Go back to bed.”

“I’m coming with you, sir.”

Paul shook his head decidedly. “Not a chance. I’ve no idea what I’m going to find when I get there but this has the potential to be a very messy scandal and I want the rest of my officers a long way away from it. Jenson will come with me in case I get lost in the dark. Back to barracks, Mr Swanson. That’s an order.”

It was quiet in the streets of Lisbon. The rain had stopped and there was a faint pearly light hovering above them which suggested the first hint of dawn. Paul walked his horse over unpaved and cobbled streets. An occasional lantern lighted a doorway but for the most part it was inky black. He could hear the clinking of harness from Jenson’s horse, riding a little behind him. After a while he realised he could hear something else. He reined in.

“Jenson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“How far back is he?”

Jenson twisted his body in the saddle. “I can just about see him, sir.”

“Well I can’t yell from here, I’ll wake up the entire neighbourhood. Ride back and tell him to get up here, will you?”

Jenson obeyed. Within a few minutes, Lieutenant Carl Swanson appeared out of the darkness and walked his horse to where Paul waited. Paul saw his hand move in a salute. He growled.

“Don’t bother, Lieutenant. I can’t fucking see you anyway. Take the lead. Your night vision is better than mine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Swanson? When we get there I want you to stay back out of sight. This might be a false alarm and nothing to do with me, but I want you out of it. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

“You are such a bloody liar, Swanson. You’re going to ignore everything I say. As usual.”

The parkland lay just beyond the dark outline of the cathedral. It was not a large area and was heavily wooded, with mostly oak and beech trees. A winding path led between the trees and they went in single file with Carl in the lead. Here there were no lights at all but it was becoming easier to see, which suggested that dawn was not far off. There was no sign of anybody else and Paul wondered if this whole thing was a wild goose chase and if the duel was happening somewhere else or not at all. As he drew closer to a copse of tall pine trees however, he heard a noise and reined in. The other two men stopped on either side of him and they listened.

“It sounds as though Barry was right,” Carl said in matter-of-fact tones.

“Yes.” Paul dismounted and handed the reins to his orderly. “Wait here, both of you. I’ll yell if I need you. Otherwise stay out of sight. I mean it, Mr Swanson.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul walked through the trees, making as little noise as possible. Just before the tree line he stopped and took out his pistol, checking methodically to make sure that it was properly loaded. He was hoping he would not need it but he had no idea what he would find.

As he drew closer he realised that it did not matter how much noise he made. The duel was fully underway. They had chosen swords and the clash of steel on steel was obscenely loud in the still morning air. Paul began to run. They had not waited until full dawn and he wondered how on earth they could see what they were doing in this light.

He broke through the trees and stopped. There was a wide open area, still deeply shadowed. Two men in shirt-sleeves moved swiftly across the damp grass, feet slipping slightly in the dew. He could not see either of them properly but knew them from the height and breadth of the Englishman and the slighter wiry form of the Portuguese. They were both breathing heavily. Neither appeared to notice Paul’s appearance.

Paul did not move. On the far side of the clearing, several horses were tied to the low branches of an oak tree. There were two other men present, both wrapped in heavy cloaks. Paul supposed they must be the seconds, necessary for any affair of honour. There should also have been a surgeon. Paul could see no sign of one, which bothered him, because even in the pre-dawn light he could see blood on one shoulder of Jaime Ataíde’s shirt.

It suggested that there was no agreement that the duel should end at first blood. Paul watched for a moment, trying to work out the best way to intervene. He could fire his pistol into the air, but if one man stopped and the other did not, it could end in murder. He could not shoot at either of the combatants in this poor light or he could end up murdering one of them himself. Exasperated he uncocked his pistol and put it away. He stood poised for a moment, trying desperately to think of a way to end it. Before he could do so however, one of the two spectators looked up and saw him.

Paul made a frantic gesture for silence but he was too late. The man started, opened his mouth and yelled.

“I say, Welby, stand down. Senior officer on the parade ground. You’ll get us all cashiered. It’s over, man.”

Both combatants paused for a moment, but it was Ataíde who looked around. Welby saw his advantage and pressed it without a moment’s hesitation. Paul saw the younger man stagger back and fall as Welby’s blade struck home. There was a spreading stain on the front of his white shirt.

Paul gave a bellow of rage, drew his own sword and leaped forward as if charging a French outpost. Welby was standing over his victim, his sword arm raised as if to strike another blow. He was given no chance. Paul’s blade clanged against his, striking it up. Welby spun around shocked, but he managed to fall into a defensive stance and parry Paul’s second pass. Paul leaped lightly over Ataíde’s body and moved forward, blade extended.

Welby backed up rapidly. It was becoming much lighter now and Paul could see the sheen of sweat on his face and the fear in his eyes. It was not the first time they had fought, though the previous bouts had been many years ago. Theoretically at least, they had been sporting bouts although even in boyhood, Paul had been a far better swordsman. The difference now was greater than ever and Welby knew it.

 He parried once and then twice but had neither the speed nor the skill to manage a third time. Paul’s sword twisted around his and Welby released the hilt with a cry of pain. He fell backwards to the ground, looking up into Paul’s face with an expression of sheer terror. Paul placed the point of his sword at Welby’s throat.

“Check Ataíde,” he said. It was the tone he used on a battlefield and at least one of the two seconds would recognise that it was not to be disobeyed. “Is he alive?”

There was a flurry of movement behind him. Paul remained still. He could hear Welby’s breath coming quick and heavy. He looked as though he was trying to press himself back into the earth to avoid that lethal point.

Nobody spoke for a long moment then Welby croaked:

“Van Daan. It was a fair fight…”

“If you make one more sound, Welby, I’m going to cut your windpipe.”

Welby did not make another sound. After what seemed forever to Paul, a calm voice behind him said:

“He’s alive, sir. Could do with a surgeon, mind, but Mr Swanson is stemming the bleeding. Best come and have a look at him yourself.”

“Presently, Jenson.” Paul lowered the point very gently until it pricked Welby’s throat. A tiny red spot appeared. Welby whimpered.

“I hope you’re praying, Welby, though right now you need to do it silently. In a minute I’m going to let you up. You’re going to get on your horse, ride back to town and arrange your passage home. No need to speak to Sir John Cradock, I’ll let him know and he can decide what to pass on to your commanding officer.

“Of course all of this depends on Lieutenant Ataíde staying alive. His future career has some value to me, which means that you might possibly get to salvage yours. I’ve no wish for him to lose his commission because you’re a spiteful bastard who doesn’t know how to behave. If you’re unlucky and he dies, I’m coming after you. Now get to your feet.”

He watched as Welby staggered up. His friend came forward nervously to help him on with his jacket and coat. Paul said nothing until Welby turned towards the horses. Then he raised his voice again.

“One more thing, Welby. As far as I’m aware, you frightened the life out of that poor woman. Thanks to Ataíde, it wasn’t worse. You owe him for that. But if I find out at any point that I’m wrong and that you did more to her than I think you did, I’m coming to find you and you won’t need a court martial because I am going to cut off your balls and feed them to you for breakfast. And you really need to believe that I will. Now fuck off and don’t let me see your face again.”

The sun was making an appearance now, with streaks of pink, orange and gold streaming across the sky. Paul went to where Carl was holding a wadded handkerchief to Ataíde’s chest. It was stained red but Paul thought that the bleeding seemed to be slowing. He hoped no internal damage had been done. Ataíde was conscious and breathing slowly as if he was trying to minimise the pain.

“Where’s the bloody surgeon?” Paul muttered.

“There isn’t one,” Carl said grimly. “Welby was supposed to arrange it, or rather his second was. Either they didn’t do it or the man didn’t show up. That poor lad is one of Ataíde’s friends in the militia. He’s terrified and speaks no English or French but Ataíde has just asked him to ride for help. I can’t see how we can get him out of here discreetly though.”

“I’d settle for alive,” Paul said. “Jenson, in case the boy runs like a rabbit, would you…”

“There’s a carriage coming, sir.”

Paul turned and watched as the vehicle made its way slowly up the track and stopped at the edge of the clearing. A groom went to let down the steps and opened the door and a woman in a dark cloak erupted from the carriage and raced across the grass. She dropped to her knees beside Ataíde and took his hand in hers, speaking to him soothingly in Portuguese.

Paul observed for a moment but realised that his caution was wholly unnecessary. There were no hysterics. After what sounded like a brief practical interrogation, the young woman got up and began calling instructions to her servants to carry the young officer to the carriage.

It was only then that Paul recognised her. “Senhorita Guida?”

She turned to him with astonishing calm and to his surprise addressed him in simple but understandable French.

“Major van Daan. Thank you for taking care of him for me. I am so angry that he did this. Fortunately I had paid his servant to inform me if he did anything so foolish. When he is well enough I shall give him my opinion of a man who fights a duel without a doctor present.”

Paul studied her and realised that he had been wrong on a number of counts. All of them delighted him.

“I wish I could be there to hear you,” he said wistfully. “Will you send a message when he is well enough to receive visitors? And please assure him that no word of this will spread through my agency. You might want to think about what kind of illness keeps him to his bed for a week or two.”

“I expect it is the winter fever. It is rife at Christmas time and he lives in a damp room with no heat. My mother insists that he is our guest until he recovers.”

She had thought it through and did not need his advice. Paul felt a growing appreciation for this girl. He bowed.

“An excellent idea. I’ll visit when he’s no longer infectious. My congratulations, ma’am. I’m so glad my friend turned out to be as intelligent as I thought he was. He’s made an excellent choice of wife. Does he know it yet?”

Amber eyes flashed with amusement. “Not precisely,” she said. “But I think he soon will. Good morning, Major. Thank you for everything.”

***

London, 1809

They dined in the quiet elegance of Sir Arthur Wellesley’s London club. The news of the successful outcome of the Cintra inquiry had spread rapidly and various gentlemen, both military and civilian, stopped to murmur their congratulations both on his exoneration and the news of his appointment to command the British forces in Portugal. Some of them also took the time to commiserate with him on the loss of Sir John Moore, who had died on the field at Corunna after a disastrous winter retreat had wreaked havoc on his army.

Wellesley had summoned Paul from his family home in Leicestershire, where he had been busy re-equipping the survivors of Moore’s campaign and recruiting men to replace the dead. There were too many dead.

They talked for a while of the coming year; of plans and logistics and the political situation in Europe. Despite the misery of the past months Paul was excited by the prospect of a new campaign. Listening to Wellesley describing some of his meetings at Horse Guards, he was reminded of something.

“What about the Portuguese troops, sir? You said that you’ve turned down the command of their army.”

“I have. I cannot possibly do everything, it would be ridiculous.”

“I agree although I’m astonished to hear you say so.”

Wellesley gave him a look. “I have recommended Beresford for the job. He’s been in Madeira but I believe he’s on his way to Lisbon now. He’ll do well on the diplomatic side, he’s a damned good soldier and I can work with him.”

“He’s an excellent choice, sir.” Paul paused, giving Wellesley a thoughtful look. “I presume he’ll have his own men in mind for his staff. All the same, I was wondering…”

Wellesley looked surprised and then gave what looked suspiciously like a smirk. “Major van Daan, are you about to ask a favour for a friend? That is very unlike you.”

“It is, isn’t it? Generally I can manage my own nepotism, I don’t need to ask for your help. On this occasion though, the gentleman is a Portuguese officer. He’s a lieutenant at present, about my age and he should have a captaincy at the very least. I’d say he would be a very good combat officer and he can’t wait to get back to his company, but there’s a lot more to him than that. He’s formidably intelligent, a good diplomat and speaks fluent French, some Spanish and has been learning English very successfully. He’s also courageous and resourceful. He was carted off by Bonaparte with the elite troops of the Portuguese Legion last year but managed to get away in the Pyrenees and got himself back to Lisbon.”

Wellesley’s interest had sharpened. “Why have I not met this man?”

“Because by the time he was back and fit enough for company, you’d been packed off to England.”

“What is his family background?”

Paul managed not to roll his eyes. Lineage would always matter to Wellesley although he was gradually learning to occasionally respect talent in men of more humble birth.

“Minor aristocracy. As is his wife. She’s even more formidable than he is; personally I’d employ both of them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Major. What possible use could a well-born female be in an army camp? What is his name?”

“Ataíde. Lieutenant Jaime Ataíde.”

Wellesley reached into his pocket for his note tablets and pencil and scrawled the name. “I have to write to Beresford tomorrow; I have a list of questions and instructions. I will tell him about this paragon and that your judgement is to be trusted in such matters as this. Now. Tell me about your recruitment. How many companies can you pull together for me?”

 

Happy New Year from Writing with Labradors for 2021

Castletown Fireworks from Energy FM site

Happy New Year from Writing with Labradors for 2021

I generally do a short post at the beginning of each year, but for some reason this year I feel moved to do it at the end. This is probably to do with the extraordinary nature of 2020, where the world turned upside down for so many people. The internet is full of memes and jokes about how happy we’ll all be to see the end of 2020, and it’s certainly a year that very few of us will forget in a hurry.

Those of you who follow me on Facebook and Twitter or read my blog posts, will know that with very few exceptions, I stay firmly out of contemporary politics. This doesn’t mean that I’m not aware of what is going on around me, it just means that I find the climate of political debate both toxic and pointless at times. There are people out there who can have a rational discussion on a public forum, but they’re few and far between. Overall, I prefer to keep conversations about the rights and wrongs of Brexit, Lockdown and the teaching of Black History in schools to my close family and friends.

This year it’s been harder than ever to do that, watching the flood of information and misinformation rushing through both traditional and social media. It has felt at times as though the whole world has gone mad, and the values of tolerance, acceptance and understanding that I was raised with have got lost in the compulsive collective need to prove a point, put down other people and above all, to be right. But it isn’t all doom and gloom.

What 2020 has confirmed for me is that there are people out there whom I’ve met both online and in person, who are simply great. They come together both online and in person, drawn by a love of reading, writing, history and good fun. They’re excited by new books, new ideas and photographs of cuddly Labradors. They speak to each other with respect and affection and acknowledge their differences with humour and tolerance. They are not all the same. Some are highly educated and well-respected in their field. Others are self-educated and come to the discussion full of questions, often bringing new ideas. The thing that they all have in common is an enthusiasm for learning about people both fictional and in real life. They are entertaining, they are generous with their time and knowledge and they are kind.

A lot of you will recognize yourselves in this, and you are all my people. While there are people like you in the world, the madness will never win. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart for everything you’ve done in 2020. Every review, every humorous comment, every mad exchange on Twitter and every time you’ve answered a call for information with more than I could ever have hoped for, you prove the pessimists and the doomsayers wrong. Let’s all keep doing it.

Groudle Beach

For me, 2020 has been a very mixed year. The pandemic has closed down the world and left me marooned on this little island in the middle of the Irish Sea, with none of the freedom to travel that I used to enjoy. At the same time, it’s made me appreciate where I live more than ever before. Watching how the people of the Isle of Man have dealt with this chaos makes me proud of my adopted homeland.

In family matters, it’s been a happy year. My son is very settled with his lovely girlfriend, who has become a member of our family. If all goes well, I doubt he’ll still be living here this time next year, a thought which makes me happy and a little sad. My daughter has embarked on her second year in York with great panache, coming out with firsts so far and treating quarantine and lockdowns as a minor inconvenience. The man I married has utterly failed to miss travelling to London for work and is becoming more Manx by the day.

“You’re going all the way to Peel for the evening? Are you staying over, then?”

It’s seven miles.

It took a long time to adjust to the loss of Joey, and it still catches me every now and again. Oscar has proved a worthy successor to my two old fellas, and when we can find a suitable puppy, we’ll be bringing in reinforcements for him on the staff of Writing with Labradors. I can’t wait.

Professionally, it’s been my most successful year to date, although the stress of the first lockdown and the pandemic generally definitely slowed my writing down a lot. Sales have been good, and reviews have been excellent. For the second year in a row, I had a book shortlisted for the Society for Army Historical Research fiction prize, this year with This Blighted Expedition. I was invited to take part in the amazing Waterloo Remembered online celebrations earlier this year, and I’ve been interviewed on various podcasts and blogs through the year.

 

 

I completed and published book six of the Peninsular War Saga, An Unmerciful Incursion. I’ve begun research and planning for two new books. I also found a new editor, who is oddly enough an old friend of mine, and who is working out brilliantly so far.

Things I didn’t manage to achieve. Well obviously, my annual research trip was cancelled this year, as were all the conferences and historical events I hoped to attend. I didn’t manage to finish getting the books out in paperback, for which I apologise. The work is still ongoing, and it will happen, I promise you.

I have big plans for 2021. Next year I aim to publish two books at least. One will be This Bloody Shore which is book three in the Manxman series, and the other is An Indomitable Brigade, which is book seven of the Peninsular War Saga. I’m currently working on both and still haven’t completely decided which is going to come out first. I’ll let you know when I’m certain.

I also aim to get all the books edited and available in paperback, and I’ll be writing my usual three free short stories for Valentine’s Day, Halloween and Christmas, with a possible extra one in the summer. And if the current two books go well, I would love to get off book three of the Manxman as well, although that might be asking a bit too much. We’ll see.

When I’ve finished this, I am off to organise the house for the New Year’s Party we’re hosting this evening for our young people. I’m so conscious of how privileged I am to be doing this, at this moment in time, when other people are buckling down for another lockdown and more restrictions. Even tomorrow’s clear up won’t seem so bad this year, as I’ll feel lucky to be doing it.

Well, maybe not that lucky.

Happy New Year from Writing with Labradors for 2021. I hope you’ll all manage to celebrate in whatever way you can, and I look forward to hearing a lot more from you all in the coming year.

With love from the Isle of Man.

Lynn and Oscar

Wellington and Worsley

This blog post was written in response to a very silly article in the Mail Online.

At any given moment, it is possible to find dozens, possibly hundreds of historians who will frantically argue any given point of history. Some of them become very angry about it. Some of them are rude and abusive and call each other rude names. The ones I mix with are lovely and argue like grown-ups.

I’m a historical novelist, not a historian, and certainly not a massively popular BBC TV presenter like Lucy Worsley, but this article made me cross. I don’t have access to her original article in History Revealed without paying for it, and I’m not going to do that, because whatever this article really said, I strongly suspect that Lucy Worsley has written something that’s trying to be controversial about Waterloo and Wellington that isn’t particularly scholarly or particularly accurate.

However, I’m also well aware of how badly things can be misrepresented. I honestly don’t think Lucy Worsley said everything she seems to have said in this article. I do think she was probably paid to write something that would stir people up.

In the novels that I write, the Duke of Wellington, or Lord Wellington as he is in my current place in time, is a major secondary character and I love to write him. When I first saw this article, I thought how funny it would be to write a typically scathing Wellington response to it, something I often do.

The trouble with getting to know a character, is that you can’t unknow them. I couldn’t write the piece I wanted to write, because once I began, my Wellington was angry and also hurt. He remembers sitting down writing the Waterloo Despatch, while news of the death and injury of his friends was still coming in. He remembers the letters he had to write to the family of men who were killed and maimed. He remembers that afterwards, he wishes he’d said things differently, given more praise, listed more men and more regiments of all nationalities who were extraordinary on that day. He remembers that sometimes, he wrote what he knew the politicians in London wanted to hear. He worries about why he did that. He worries that he was human.

I originally started this post just as a laugh for my friends. I’m sorry it wasn’t as funny as I meant it to be. Today, my Wellington did what my characters sometimes do and displayed his humanity when you least expect them to. It’s lucky that I’m only a novelist, and not a serious historian, so very few people are going to read it.

For those that do, know that Wellington is really, really pissed off…

Dear Madam

With regard to your recent comments on the victory at Waterloo which were quoted in a publication apparently entitled MailOnline, there appear to be a number of errors which I feel it is my duty to correct!

Let me begin with the headline, which claims, if I have correctly interpreted the somewhat garbled wording, that Waterloo was not a British victory because I made little of the contribution of my allies on the Continent. Nobody should be surprised that I am accused of failing to give due credit in one of my despatches home, since my officers spent the years of the war in the Peninsula complaining about it, but why that should have any effect on the British part in the battle is baffling to me. Of course, it was a British victory! It was also a victory for the Prussians, the Dutch, the Hanoverians, the Brunswickers and any number of other nationalities, including a lone Spaniard, who as usual spent any quiet interval complaining that his stomach was growling and asking about dinner! Every one of the men who risked their lives on that battlefield can claim this victory as their own and I consider it damned impertinent that a tabloid journalist and a popular historian should suggest otherwise!!

You claim that I glossed over the role played by the Prussian army. To quote the article: “Worsley said that Wellington’s first cable back to London all but whitewashed their involvement.” I sincerely hope that the ‘journalist’ (a Mr Elsom, I believe) has misquoted you on this occasion. It is shocking that a man writing for a national newspaper is unaware that the first cable was not laid until 1850, but it would be frankly appalling if a person claiming to be a historian made the same schoolroom error!

As to the claim itself, I refer you to the following direct quotations from the despatch I sent to London immediately following the battle. Unfortunately, I was unable to send it by cable, as it had not yet been invented, but my ADC, the Honourable Henry Percy carried it, along with the captured French eagles. He must have been exhausted, poor fellow, I would not have wished to make that journey myself at that moment and at such speed.

“The Prussian army maintained their position with their usual gallantry and perseverance against a great disparity of numbers, as the 4th corps of their army, under General Bülow, had not joined; and I was not able to assist them as I wished, as I was attacked myself, and the troops, the cavalry in particular, which had a long distance to march, had not arrived.”

“I should not do justice to my own feelings, or to Marshal Blücher and the Prussian army, if I did not attribute the successful result of this arduous day to the cordial and timely assistance, I received from them. The operation of General Bülow upon the enemy’s flank was a most decisive one; and, even if I had not found myself in a situation to make the attack which produced the final result, it would have forced the enemy to retire if his attacks should have failed, and would have prevented him from taking advantage of them if they should unfortunately have succeeded.”

In the same letter, I believe I made reference to many of the other leaders of our Allies. I am also very sure there were many I left out. I felt that it was urgent to send the news of our victory to London, but had not yet even comprehended the manner of it myself. There were many names, many regiments and parts of the army, British and Continental, who might have had cause to complain that they had not received the praise they so richly deserved. At that time, the news of those I had lost to death and serious injury was still coming in, and if I was at all capable of writing all that had happened with any degree of accuracy, I would be very surprised!

Still, there is one point in the ‘article’ which is indisputable. The Battle of Waterloo is called the Battle of Waterloo because I wished it so. Several representations were made from our allies that it should be named “La Belle Alliance” after one of the other villages in the area, and I declined. I spoke of it then, as I speak of it now, as Waterloo, and since I was there at the head of my army – an Allied army, it is true, but still at that moment, my army – I ask no permission to call it whatever I like! I also urge those who dislike it to do the same. Why should they not? If you visit the site of my great victory at Salamanca, you will find that my Spanish allies refer to is as Los Arapiles, after a small village in the area, and I applaud their choice! If you do not like the name I give to something, do not carp and complain about it, call it something else, we are not sheep!

With regard to the appallingly inaccurate statement that Britain was “badly bruised during the Napoleonic Wars and badly needed a national victory” I have very little to say. The British Army, firstly under Sir John Moore and then myself, fought in Spain and Portugal from 1808 onwards, alongside our Spanish and Portuguese allies, pushing forwards with victory after victory until we crossed the French border. Elsewhere, Bonaparte was opposed by Austria, Russia and Prussia at different times, but it is not arrogance to point out that Britain was never invaded. We were no more bruised than anybody else and far less than some poor souls!

I can barely bring myself to comment upon Siborne’s ridiculous model of the battle in 1830. He tried to depict every stage of the battle at once, it was overcrowded, badly conceived and made no sense. There were indeed too many Prussians on the battlefield, there was too much of everything on the battlefield. Utter nonsense!

The final sentence in this article is almost too dreadful to write.

“His downfall signalled the end of the hundred years war between the English and the French.”

The Hundred Years War between England and France took place between 1337 and 1453. I am unable to comment further on this, as neither Bonaparte or myself were present.

In conclusion, Ms Worsley, without access to your original article, I hope that this appalling piece of nonsense does not actually reflect either your views or your knowledge of the Battle of Waterloo. 

I personally was always willing to sacrifice popularity for my personal beliefs, however wrong-headed they may seem to later generations. While I did not always get things right, and hindsight and history are both marvellous things, I maintained my sense of personal integrity to the end of my days. I sincerely hope, when you are grey-haired and your grandchildren are reading or watching those things you put your name to, you will feel no embarrassment.

And if you have been wholly misquoted and misrepresented by this charlatan, you have my sympathy, it happened to me often, and has continued down the years. I have an immense respect for intelligent women and recommend you follow my example and tell these fools to publish and be damned!!!!!!!!!

Yours

Wellington

 

Quietly, the door opens.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“I am perfectly well, General van Daan. Why?”

“You were shouting, sir, and you’re alone in the room.”

“My dog is here.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Yes. I was temporarily angry.”

“What about?”

“Nothing of importance. An opinion, from somebody I do not know, and who does not know me.”

“About what?”

“Waterloo. They look at the politics and I see the dead.”

“We all see the dead, sir. Those of us who were there. Leave it alone, they’re entitled to their opinions.”

“They complain about the letter I wrote. To London.”

“They’re complaining about the Waterloo despatch?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell, sir, they can’t have read the rest of your letters. Do you remember the one you wrote to the officers after Burgos?”

“Now that was wholly necessary.”

“What about the one you wrote to the Spanish government in 1812?”

“I needed to make my position clear!”

“Sir, I’ve even got a letter from you complaining about a delay in laundering your shirts.”

“Get out of here, General. I will see you at dinner.”

 

No actual history was harmed during the writing of this post…

 

 

+7

 

The Heretic Wind by Judith Arnopp

The Heretic Wind by Judith Arnopp is released this week and I’m delighted to welcome Judith as a guest on Blogging with Labradors to give us some information about her latest book.

Judith’s novels concentrate on strong female characters from English history. Her trilogy of Margaret Beaufort, The Beaufort Chronicle, provided Margaret with a credible voice. She does much the same in this novel of Mary Tudor, Queen of England. Mary, due to the violent punishment she inflicted on heretics has come to be viewed as little short of a monster. In this novel, Mary isn’t white-washed; she is simply allowed to tell her own story. Judith says:

‘I always think it would be awful if, after my death, I was only remembered for the very worst thing I’ve ever done. Everyone is guilty of something, and people like Mary, and her father Henry VIII carried out horrible deeds. Unfortunately those actions have come to define them. Burning anyone to death seems terrible to us but it was the standard punishment for heresy in the 16thcentury. It would be wrong to look upon Mary as some half-mad monster, glibly sending Protestants to their death. There was much more to her than cruelty. She was kind, generous and terribly well-meaning. She adored her people but her reign wasn’t as benign as she intended. My study of Mary Tudor revealed a sad, isolated and desperate woman whose intention was to be a good and loving Queen. The fact things turned out rather differently were mostly due to exterior forces. In The Heretic Wind, the mortally sick and embittered Mary looks back on her life and explains to some extent, the reasons why things happened as they did.

Short blurb

Adored by her parents and pampered by the court, the infant Princess Mary’s life changes suddenly and drastically when her father’s eye is taken by the enigmatic Anne Boleyn.

Mary stands firm against her father’s determination to destroy both her mother’s reputation, and the Catholic church. It is a battle that will last throughout both her father’s and her brother’s reign, until, she is almost broken by persecution. When King Edward falls ill and dies Mary expects to be crowned queen.

But she has reckoned without John Dudley, the Duke of Northumberland, who before Mary can act, usurps her crown and places it on the head of her Protestant cousin, Lady Jane Grey.

Furious and determined not to be beaten, Mary musters a vast army at Framlingham Castle; a force so strong that support for Jane Grey crumbles in the face of it, and Mary is at last crowned Queen of England.

But her troubles are only just beginning. Rebellion and heresy take their toll both on Mary’s health, and on the English people. Suspecting she is fatally ill, and desperate to save her people from heresy, Mary steps up her campaign to compel her subjects to turn back to the Catholic faith.

All who resist will face punishment for heresy in the flames of the Smithfield fires.

Judith Arnopp is the author of twelve Historical Fiction novels:

The Heretic Wind; the life of Mary Tudor, Queen of England

Sisters of Arden

The Beaufort Chronicles: the life of Lady Margaret Beaufort (three book series)

A Song of Sixpence: the story of Elizabeth of York

Intractable Heart: the story of Katheryn Parr

The Kiss of the Concubine: a story of Anne Boleyn

The Winchester Goose: at the court of Henry VIII

The Song of Heledd

The Forest Dwellers

Peaceweaver

To discover more, visit Judith’s website or author page

www.judithmarnopp.com

mybook.to/thw

author.to/juditharnoppbooks

 

 

 

Iris Bryant

Iris Bryant would have been 89 today. 

I try to imagine what it would be like to still have her with me. These days, it’s not unheard of for a woman to live to that age, and to be sound in mind, if not always in body.  She’d have loved to have seen her grandchildren grow up and she’d have been desperately proud of both of them. She’d have been proud of me too. She was one of the first people I allowed to read one of my unpublished books and I was very nervous about it. Mum was a voracious reader who haunted the public library and was on first name terms with all the staff there. She was also honest. She handed me back the manuscript of A Respectable Woman with a casual air, as if it didn’t mean much to her.

“If I’d got that from the library, I’d be looking for more books by that author,” she said, in matter of fact tones. “Better get writing some more.”

It was one of the best tributes I ever had as a writer.

Mum was born in 1931 in an old weavers’ cottage in Bessy Street in Bethnal Green, East London. Her parents, Herbert and Hilda Taylor had seven children, although the youngest, Joyce, survived only a few days after birth. My Mum used to tell us that she could remember them using a dressing table drawer as a crib for the baby. The family later moved to a small terraced house in Hartley Street, close by.

My Uncle Herbie was the eldest, followed by Hilda, Violet, Jimmy, Mum and then Ronnie. The family was poor, in a way that it’s hard for us to imagine now, but fiercely respectable. There were iron-clad rules about cleanliness and tidiness and if you wore white socks they had to BE white. My Nan washed down her front steps every morning until she no longer had her own front step, net curtains were bleached  and windows were cleaned even when there wasn’t much to eat. I never knew my grandfather, but I’m told he ruled the family with a rod of iron, and for all the humorous stories told about him, I’ve always suspected that all of them felt a sense of freedom along with their sadness when he died in 1946 when my Mum was just fifteen.

Wartime came, bringing the Blitz to the East End and the family separated. Herbie went into the army, Hilda joined the ambulance service and the youngest four were evacuated to Norfolk. It wasn’t a good experience, and as an adult, my Mum spoke very little of her time there. We never knew why they were brought home, right back into the middle of the bombing, but it was clearly bad. For a time they remained at home. Vi was old enough to leave school and start work, and the youngest three attended the local school, dodging air raid wardens on their way home and collecting shrapnel from bomb sites. They were still in London in June 1943 when the tragedy of the Bethnal Green Tube Disaster took the life of one of their cousins and they could remember the falling of the first V1 flying bombs. 

Mum, Jimmy and Ronnie with Mr Wiggins

At some point, probably in 1944, they were evacuated again to a farm near Tamworth. This second experience was very different to the first. Mr and Mrs Wiggins were an older, childless couple, who probably chose the Taylors because the two boys could help on the farm, but they were very kind, if old-fashioned, and took good care of the children, inviting my Nan to visit and sending farm produce home to her when they could. My Mum was very attached to them and remained in touch after the war. I can remember the excitement of visits to the Wiggins farm as a small child.

The letter urging my grandparents to let Mum take up her scholarship

After the war it was back to London and a short time back at school before Mum left at 14. She was already something of a rebel, and rejected well-paid jobs in local factories to travel up to the West End to work in an office. Her father was furious, believing that it was her duty to contribute as much as she could to the family budget, but Mum was determined. She was clearly bright, although it was many years later while sorting out some old family papers, that she discovered that she had been offered a scholarship to carry on with her education at the local girls grammar school. The headmistress of her school wrote a very eloquent letter begging her parents to let her go, and assuring them that the scholarship covered all expenses, even the uniform. Mum had never known about this, and I think it was a shock even after all those years, with both her parents dead, to find out that they’d refused it on her behalf without even telling her about it.

Mum did well at work, taking every opportunity she could to learn new skills. War ended in Europe and then Japan and Mum accompanied her elder sisters to the celebrations proudly wearing home made blouses sewn from parachute silk. Hilda and Vi married and soon afterwards, Hilda emigrated to Australia with her new husband.

Mum in her Land Army uniform

Life changed in 1946 when my grandfather, who had been ill for many years with chest problems, probably an industrial illness, contracted pneumonia and died. My grandmother was ill in hospital with the same thing, and with elder sisters married and moved on, Mum was on her own with the two younger boys until her eldest brother arrived, rushed home on compassionate leave from the army. With her father gone, there were suddenly new freedoms for my Mum and she made the most of them. At the age of seventeen, she surprised everybody by announcing that she had signed up to join the Women’s Land Army.

Mum had very happy memories of her Land Army days near Cambridge and we loved her stories when we were children. The women’s land army finally received a veterans’ badge and acknowledgement for their service in 2007. I can’t tell you what Mum said about that, but she was actually very proud of it. I still have the badge she wore at the time. Mum’s stories made even the worst tasks sound like a laugh and talked fondly of dances at the local American and Canadian air bases. She had several boyfriends during those years, light-hearted romances with a Canadian pilot and an Irishman from an army base, called Paddy, but then towards the end of her time there, she met Kurt, a former German POW who had chosen to remain in the area after the war, working on a farm. Kurt was different, it was serious, and for a time I think she genuinely thought she might marry him, but the prospect of him possibly wanting to move back to Germany one day made her hesitate.

She was still undecided when she left the Land Army, and went up to Cambridge at weekends to visit Kurt, hitching lifts on Army lorries to save the train fare in a way that would terrify us today. Perhaps she would have taken the risk eventually, but in 1950, working as a telephonist in a City office, she was asked to be bridesmaid at a close friend’s wedding. The best man was the best friend of the groom, a young builder’s apprentice by the name of George Bryant and my Mum had been dodging him for months, knowing that Violet and Bobby were trying to set up a date. She later found out he had been doing the same thing, as he was still recovering from a broken romance. They couldn’t avoid the wedding though, they met, and my mother’s life suddenly became a lot more complicated.

It took several months for her to decide. Unusually, she was completely honest with both Kurt and my Dad, and she continued to go up to Cambridge at some weekends. Others were spent getting to know my Dad. They were both broke, so dates often consisted of long walks along the Embankment. Dad was from South London, not far from the Elephant and Castle, and wasn’t seen as a very good prospect by my Mum’s family. He was very quiet, very shy and came from the wrong side of the river, with no education. Her brothers, all as confident and full of it as she was, used to tease him unmercifully. Dad put up with it, got used to it, and won my Nan over very quickly by offering to decorate her house in his spare time. He was very good at it, ignored Jimmy and Ronnie’s tormenting and quietly waited.

At some point, he must have decided that it was decision making time. I’ve never known how that was worked out, but Mum went up to Cambridge to talk to Kurt and promised my Dad that she’d give him a definite answer on the Sunday evening when she got back. The ensuing story is a family legend, with something farcical about it which could never happen in these days of mobile phones and messaging. Mum’s train was delayed and she missed their rendezvous which led Dad to think she’d decided to marry Kurt. He went home, miserable, but then decided he still wanted to speak to her so went back out and got the underground to her house. She, meanwhile, got the underground to his house, only to find he wasn’t there. In their mutual upset, it took two more cross London train journeys before they finally managed to meet up. They were married in 1952 on Christmas Day.

Mum’s last job was as Matron’s secretary at an Old Folks Home.

Theirs was a traditional life. They lived in rented flats and houses all their lives, worked hard, saved their money and raised two daughters. Both worked their way to better jobs, my Dad spending a lot of his working life working for the Post Office and then British Telecom, my Mum doing a variety of office jobs, then staying home with the children until I went to secondary school when she took a job in a bank. There was nothing remarkable about Mum’s life, and yet in her own way, she remained quietly different.

Mum was fiercely independent to the end of her days. Although her education was severely cut short, both by the war and by her parents poverty and limited viewpoint, she was self-taught. Like my Dad, she was a reader, good at arithmetic and passionate about history. My childhood never took me on foreign holidays but I grew to know the winding back streets of London in a way that few of my schoolmates did. We walked for miles every weekend, fed pigeons in Trafalgar Square, went to every royal event, saw the Changing of the Guard regularly and got locked in the park after the firework display for the Royal Wedding, my sister and I having to hoist Mum and Auntie Vi over the fence to get out.

Never too old to crawl into a Thomas the Tank Engine tent…

She supported me through school days, very hands off unless I asked for help with a problem, but willing to step in if necessary. She valued independence and would probably seem almost neglectful in these days of helicopter parenting, but she was always there, rock solid, if I needed her. She supported me through university, through working life, through marriage and children. She adored her grandchildren and was very hands on, a favourite playmate, even though my choice of late motherhood meant that she was not as active as she would have liked.

 

In later life, she had a variety of health problems and wasn’t always patient about it when they got in the way of real life. She and my Dad enjoyed retirement, took up sequence dancing, got more adventurous about holidays and finally got a dog. We talked sometimes about them moving to the island after we came to live here. Dad seriously considered it, he loved the countryside and being by the sea. My Mum loved them too and visited three or four times a year, but she refused to consider a move. Mum was a Londoner, and a city girl. As with her ventures into rural life as a girl, she enjoyed the outdoors, but her roots were in London, in the East End, and along the banks of the Thames where she’d done her courting and fallen in love.

When they finally moved to the island it was too late. Dad had cancer and died only a couple of months after he got here and Mum, by then, was already showing signs of dementia. She’d smoked all her life, long after Dad gave up, calmly asserting that it was her one vice and she knew the risks. We gave up arguing about it, we knew how stubborn she could be. Vascular dementia was the legacy of that vice, a series of small strokes over the years, which gradually took her away, until she no longer knew who I was.

Even in the home, with declining faculties, she was something of a legend. She found a friend who clearly reminded her of my Dad, and they managed to make themselves the centre of the day room, passing acerbic comments on whatever was going on around them. She was funny to the end, reminding me heartbreakingly of the mother I adored with the occasional sharp comment. She outlived my Dad by six years and was buried beside him on a quiet hillside in Braddan, a long way from her home town. Mum wouldn’t have given a damn about that, it was the living she was interested in.

At her funeral, the weather was appalling, and my sister and I were wholly unsuitably dressed for it, tottering over to the graveside in heeled shoes and our smart funeral outfits. The wind howled, the rain came down, and our flimsy umbrellas were instantly wrecked. The vicar, clearly Manx, was well-prepared with a big solid umbrella, and there was something slightly smug about him as he stood reciting the final words of the funeral as the coffin was lowered into the grave. There was a sudden huge gust of wind which caught his umbrella just the wrong way, and took him off his feet, knocking his glasses off and nearly sending him into the muddy open grave. 

Mum and her girls, an early holiday. I’m the little one…

Suddenly she was there with me, laughing. I looked at my sister and I knew she was hearing it too. We stood there on that rain lashed hillside, holding each other up laughing, as we’d once had to hold Mum up, hiding behind the car at a family funeral when her much-loathed posh hat blew straight off her head and into a puddle before she even made it into the church. We cried laughing that day, despite our grief, and we did it again at Mum’s funeral, knowing that she’d never really leave us.

 

 

Happy Birthday to Iris Bryant, nee Taylor, an East End girl to the end of her days. I’ll go up in a bit and put daffodils on the grave, they were your favourite flower and both your grand daughter and I love them just as much. You’re laughing somewhere at me doing that, telling me not to be daft, to take the flowers home and enjoy them myself. I’ll get some for me as well. I always do on this day.

You were a remarkable woman in an unremarkable life, and I will never stop missing you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas 2019 #OscarWalks

Christmas 2019 #OscarWalks is a special edition to give Oscar the opportunity to with you all a Merry Christmas from everybody at Writing with Labradors. This is a special festive edition of #Oscar Walks. A combination of the weather and the Christmas season has meant that walks have been short and sweet for a few days, but that doesn’t mean Oscar hasn’t been having an adventurous life and I know he has a few things to say.

 

 

It’s been a very different Christmas for me in one way; the first one in thirteen years where I’ve not had Joey walking behind me. Toby was never very interested in Christmas until the turkey appeared, but Joey was a big fan. He loved having loads of people around to make a fuss of him and was always prepared to let us dress him up for the occasion. I missed him very much this year.

Luckily, Oscar seems to share Joey’s enthusiasm for the season and has been full of the Christmas spirit over the past week, so I’ll hand over to him to tell you what’s been going on.

What’s been going on? What’s been going on? I’ll tell you what’s been going on. Persecution, that’s what! Persecution, false accusations and fake news!

You sound like a combination of Sir Home Popham and Donald Trump, Oscar. What’s upset you?

You know very well what’s upset me, Mum. That man. That person. That individual who came into the house on Monday.

You mean the dog trainer, Oscar.

Yes.

I’m sorry you’re offended, but I did explain that I need a bit of help with teaching you to walk nicely on the lead. And to come back when I call you.

I am very good on the lead. I always respond when you say heel.

You do. It’s just that I have to say it four thousand times in a ten minute walk, it’s exhausting.

Exaggeration. And defamation of character. I could sue.

Anyway, you liked the dog trainer. He gave you loads of treats and played with you and you’re already getting better.

You told me I was already perfect.

You are, Oscar. I just need you to be a little more obedient. And to come when I call you.

I already do that.

Except when you see another dog.

Well, obviously, I have to be civil to them.

Or when you’ve found an interesting smell.

That can be very distracting. It might be food.

Or when you see anything new or interesting.

Except sheep. I always come back if there’s a sheep.

That’s true, you’re the opposite of most dogs. Still, a bit of extra training will benefit both of us.

Bah.

Anyway, this was supposed to be about Christmas. Your second Christmas, Oscar. How’s it been so far?

Fantastic. Excellent. Wonderful. Know what I like about Christmas? 

No.

Everybody’s here. None of this going off to work, or school, or University nonsense. Everyone’s here, mostly in the same room, we all get to eat really good food at weird hours of the day and night, watch TV, play some silly games and snuggle up by the fire.

Yes, that pretty much sums up Christmas.

And visitors. Loads of people in and out of the house all the time. They bring cards and presents and most of them give me cuddles and feed me treats. And some bring dogs. I met Roy. I liked Roy. He reminded me a bit of Toby only much smaller and different colours and different fur.

So not that much like Toby at all?

Well he was grumpy with me and growled at me a few times but didn’t really seem to mind when I teased him. Toby was like that to start with but then he got used to me and would let me play with him. Of course Joey let me climb all over him from day one.

He was soft with you. Like the rest of us.

That’s what the dog trainer said. And I got presents. Loads of treats and two new toys. Three, if you count the reindeer you gave me on Christmas Eve. No FOUR if you count the duck that Rachael brought home for me. I LOVE my new toys. And there are lots of pretty lights around, and indoor trees with things hanging off them that I’m not allowed to touch. But they look nice. And the fire’s always lit, which is my favourite.

I’m glad you approve of Christmas. 

Mind you, it’s a bit tiring. What’s happening next, Mum?

Well, next week is New Year and Jon and Anya are having a party, so there’ll be lots of your favourite people here that evening. And after that it’s back to work and Anya and Rachael will go back to University.

Boo. Don’t like that.

I know, Oscar, but they’ll be back. And I’ve got lots of exciting walks planned so you can practice what you’ve been learning from the dog trainer before we see him again.

Can I show him my new toys?

You’ve showed them to everyone else, Oscar, so I expect so. Right, say Happy Christmas to your fans, and we’ll brave the rain for a quick walk now.

Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year, everybody! Is that right, Mum?

Close enough, Oscar. Merry Christmas, baby boy.

Merry Christmas, Mum.

Christmas photo of Oscar on his hind legs getting cuddles, in direct contravention to Dog Trainer’s instructions #ahwellitsChristmas #willdobetter

 

Next week it’s back to work on book 6 of the Peninsular War Saga with Oscar’s expert help and advice from his sofa in my study. For more history, humour, fiction and Labradors why not follow me on Twitter, Facebook and Medium.

 

 

 

 

Salamanca

The Battle of Salamanca was fought on this day in 1812 across the rolling plains around the small Spanish village of Los Arapiles. In this excerpt from An Untrustworthy Army, Wellington’s men are marching close to the French army while both generals try to decide whether or not to risk a battle. Wellington had almost decided to retreat on this occasion, when on the afternoon of 22 July, he spotted a gap in the French line and ordered the attack.

After a little more than a fortnight at Rueda, it was a relief to Paul to get his brigade moving. Night marches could be difficult, depending on the terrain, but most of his men were very experienced and followed each other through the darkness, relying on the voices of NCOs and officers to guide them. The clink of horses and the thudding of hooves followed the progress of the cavalry who were advancing with the light division. Paul rode up the long column to find General Charles Alten in conversation with his big German orderly. Peering through the darkness he recognised Paul and waved him forward.

“Colonel van Daan, I am sorry to have interrupted your festivities this evening.”

“It’s a relief, sir, I’ve had enough of waiting. French on the move?”

“It seems so, although I know very little, just that we are to advance with the cavalry and await orders.”

Paul pulled a face which Alten could probably not see in the dark. “When we get there, why don’t we play a hand or two of ‘lets all sit around and guess what the hell Lord Wellington is doing now’, sir?” he said. “I should have gone up to see him instead of prancing about with the Rifles for the evening.”

“Where is your wife, Colonel?”

“I left her in camp for the night with half a company of the KGL to guard the baggage and supplies. They’ll pack up early and follow us up. Where are we going?”

“We will halt behind Castrejon and await Lord Wellington.”

“That’s always a treat,” Paul said gloomily. “I hate marching around for no apparent reason and I’ve got a feeling that’s what we’re doing.”

Alten gave a soft laugh. “There is usually a reason, Colonel. It is simply that you hate not knowing what the reason is.”

Paul acknowledged the truth of this over the next few days of monotonous, repetitive marching interspersed with several fierce skirmishes as Lord Wellington and Marshal Marmont began a cautious facing dance which each day failed to result in a battle. There was nothing urgent or frenetic about their movements. Facing each other across the river and the rolling plains around Salamanca, the two armies manoeuvred in perfect timing, attempting to outflank each other without forcing a pitched battle on any ground of which the two commanders were unsure.

“It’s like a pavane,” Anne said, on the third day. She had ridden up to join Paul and was looking over the lines of Wellington’s army and then beyond to the distant columns of Frenchmen on the opposite bank. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Nor have I,” Paul said. “What the devil is a pavane?”

“It’s a dance. A bit like the Allemande but slower and more stately; it’s very old.”

“What is an Allemande? No, don’t tell me. How do you know all this?”

“There was an Italian dancing master,” Anne said, and laughed aloud at his expression.

“Your stepmother should have locked you up,” Paul said grimly.

“If she had, Colonel, we probably wouldn’t be where we are now.”

“True. But it’s a lesson to me about keeping an eye on my daughters as they’re growing up. I’m shocked at how young girls behave.”

“You did not say that to me in a shepherd’s hut in Thorndale,” Anne said serenely. “How long is he going to keep this up?”

“I don’t know,” Paul admitted, looking out over the lines. “He’s not saying much even to me. I don’t think he’s sure.”

Anne followed his gaze. The countryside was a vast plain with low rolling hills and the river snaking between the two armies. An occasional shot was fired when the two came too close but for the most part, the forces moved watchfully along, ready to fall into position at a moment’s notice. They passed villages and small towns and the people came out to watch them sombrely. There was none of the excitement and joy of their entry into Salamanca. It was as if the locals knew that the generals were contemplating battle and dreaded the consequences for their crops, their homes and their families.

We visited the battlefield during our tour of Portugal and Spain in 2017. The Salamanca battlefield site is immense; not in actual size since it probably isn’t the widest battlefield Wellington fought over, but in the sheer amount of information available. I was halfway through writing book five which is based around the battle of Salamanca and the Burgos campaign, so this visit was particularly useful as it was made ahead of the writing.  I had read about the small interpretation centre in the village of Los Arapiles to the south of the city of Salamanca, but had not really looked it up until we were about to go there.  I was hugely impressed to find that it was open two days a week, Thursday and Saturday, and we had set aside a Thursday for this trip.

 

I was so glad we did.  This is definitely the best small museum we visited.  For one thing, everything is in both Spanish and English which wasmuch more useful than our desperate attempts to translate interpretation boards in other places.  For another, it is amazingly detailed and accurate.  From the advantages and disadvantages of the different infantry formations of line, square and column, to the best way to load a musket, somebody here had done their research and very well.  

The other joy was the map we were given of a series of interpretation boards around the battlefield site.  There are ten in all, each with information about the battle as it unfolded, and each board has a QR code which can be scanned by a smart phone.  A short dramatised account of that section of the battle, in English, can be listened to at each point.

The routes on the map are marked for walking or cycling.  The good news is that in good weather all tracks are passable in a car.  A 4 x 4 would be best, some of them are very rough, but we managed it on dry roads without.  It took about three hours to do the whole thing.  Honestly it would have been less if it were not for my pedantic insistence that we do the boards in number order so that we got the chronology right for the battle as opposed to working out the shortest circular route which might have taken half the time.  That day, the man I married gave the word patience a whole new definition.

With the help of the museum, the interpretation boards, which are excellent, my trusty battlefield guide and a map, the Battle of Salamanca became suddenly very clear to me.  Driving from board to board and then climbing hills and rocky outcrops to view the various vantage points of the battle it was very easy to visualise how Wellington was able to split the French line and send their army fleeing within a few hours.
After exhausting ourselves scrambling over battlefield sites, we drove to Alba de Tormes, across the river.  This is the route that a lot of the fleeing French army took, and no action took place there in real life.  In my book a significant skirmish takes place there so I wanted to check if my story worked with the location.  I was delighted to realise that with a small adjustment it will work very well.

We went back into Salamanca for dinner.  As we are English this involved almost two hours of wandering around this beautiful university city, musing about how it is possible to be in a major city at 7pm and find nobody open for dinner.  It always takes some time to Spanish dining hours.  But time wandering in Salamanca is never wasted, it’s so lovely, especially the university  buildings, which feature in An Untrustworthy Army, since both French and then English used them as barracks and storage buildings.

Given that my fictional regiment fights as part of the Light Division, Salamanca had the potential to be a bit of a disappointment for me, since Charles Alten’s men did not play a significant part in the battle. Since I know that Colonel van Daan is easily bored, I chose to give the third brigade a skirmish of their very own out at Alba de Tormes. The battle is included in the book, seen through the eyes of Lieutenant Simon Carlyon who is on temporary transfer to Pakenham’s staff.

A great deal has been written on the battle of Salamanca. For me, the best book on the subject by far is Rory Muir’s book which explores the battle in depth. I highly recommend a tour of the battlefield and interpretation centre; as long as you have transport it is one of the ones it’s perfectly possible to do without a guide.

An Untrustworthy Army is book five in the Peninsular War Saga which follows the fortunes of the fictional 110th infantry and Paul van Daan, the man who rises to lead it, through the long years of Wellington’s wars in Portugal and Spain.

An Unconventional Officer - love and war in Wellington’s armyAn Irregular Regiment

An Uncommon Campaign, 110th at the Battle of Fuentes d'Onoro

 

 

 

 

 

 

M J Logue: The Uncivil Wars and the Major Russell Books

With M J Logue, you get two series for the price of one. The author, who writes historical novels set in the English Civil Wars and the Restoration, has created a family of characters who move from one series to the other, with a collection of excellent short stories and novellas popping up in between.

I first discovered the Uncivil Wars series just over a year ago, when I was in hospital and then convalescing after a foot operation. It should have been a fairly miserable time, but it passed in a bit of a blur for me, as I read my way through the series. Part way through, I contacted the author for some clarification about the best order to read them in. That conversation has been going on pretty much ever since, discussing everything from writing to cats and a few other topics to odd to describe.

The hero of the Uncivil War books is a Parliamentary cavalry officer by the name of Hollie Babbitt. Hollie isn’t your typical dashing officer type, to be honest. A former mercenary with an attitude problem, I imagine most of his senior officers must have spent a fair bit of their time with their head in their hands. Hollie, to tell you the truth, is a bit unpredictable at times, and it’s that which makes him such a fabulous character to follow through the bloody chaos of the Civil Wars.

Battles, hardship, history, romance – these books have everything. They just don’t have them in quite the same way that a lot of other books do. Hollie’s love story with his unglamorous Essex housewife is down-to-earth, unromantic and extraordinarily touching. Equally well drawn are his relationships with the scruffy collection of reprobates he commands, particularly his two junior officers, Luce Pettit and Thankful Russell. These three characters form the backbone of the series, with Luce’s wide-eyed idealism and Russell’s scarred, drunken disillusionment making them part of a perfect triple act with their irascible commander.

There are no heroes in these books, and yet every character is a hero in his or her own, undistinguished way. Be warned, once you start reading them, it’s very difficult to stop.

The same can be said of the author’s Restoration novels. Major Thankful Russell is back, serving the restored monarchy, a soldier reaching middle age, and finding himself in trouble and in love, with his former commander’s straight-talking daughter. Thomazine is twenty years his junior with a mind of her own and is determined to join her husband in every mad-brained scheme that  his work as a government intelligencer gets him involved with. These books are currently being reissued, with the first book, An Abiding Fire, due out in January.

The Russell series can be read on its own as an excellent historical mystery and adventure series, although I think reading the Uncivil War books first, brings an extra dimension to understanding the characters. Both series are funny, emotional and exciting, bound together by an extraordinary knowledge of the period and an exhaustive amount of research. They are among my favourite historical novels.

M J Logue’s books are currently available on Amazon kindle. If you’ve not tried them yet, I really suggest you do, but be warned, you may find you get very little else done for a while.

Toby

Toby was the result of a snap decision after spending some time with friends who had a young black labrador. It was a decision that changed our lives.

 

 

We had lost our beloved cats, Reggie and Ronnie, over a year earlier. Both lived to be more than twenty and we couldn’t imagine finding cats with their enormous personalities to replace them. We were living on the Isle of Man by then with two young children, both of whom had fallen in love with Tavey, our friends’ dog during our visit. On the way home, Richard said suddenly:

“Shall we get a dog?”

“A labrador?” I asked hopefully. I’d spent a huge amount of time many years earlier staying with the family of a university friend. They always had dogs, black labradors and a springer spaniel. I adored Worthington and Henry and had always thought that if I could have a dog, that’s what I’d like.

“Well they’re good with children,” Richard said.

The conversation might have rested there, but when we arrived home, I picked up the free paper from among the mail and flicked through it. With our conversation in mind, I glanced at the classifieds and to my surprise, there it was, a small advert.

“There’s somebody advertising labrador puppies here, in Ballaugh,” I said.

Richard looked at me. “Ring them,” he said. “We can go and have a look. We don’t need to get one. Don’t let the children know, in case we decide not to do it.”

Looking back on that piece of naivety makes me howl with laughter.

There was one puppy left when I rang, a black boy. It was a small litter, only four puppies, the mother a family pet. We arranged a time to go up when the children were at school, having told them nothing.

The house was chaos, puppies confined to a large pen but still taking over the room. Richard sat down next to the pen and someone deposited a black puppy onto his lap. “This is him. We call him Homer, he’s the biggest of the litter. Look at his paws.”

We looked. It was hard to miss those paws, they were enormous. I stroked the puppy’s ears. It had climbed up Richard’s chest and was licking his face. “What do you think?” I asked.

Richard didn’t answer. He’d obviously lost the ability to think, he was too busy falling in love.

Toby came into our lives like a small black tornado. He was lively, he was bouncy and he ate everything in sight. He ate our shoes and our clothes and our kitchen. He resisted all forms of training or discipline and made puppy training classes a nightmare. He clearly knew his name but had no idea why it mattered since he had no intention of responding to it. He was a new full time job and we adored him from day one.

My memories of Toby are a series of snapshots through the years. Toby as a puppy, failing to look guilty as some new piece of destruction came to light. Toby taking forever to learn ‘sit’, ‘down’, ‘heel’ and ‘come’, but then unexpectedly learning ‘turn’ and ‘paw’ without effort.

Stars of Blogging with Labradors
Blogging with Labradors, starring Toby and Joey

Toby first learning to swim down at Groudle Beach and then refusing to come out of the water because he loved it so much.

Toby as a young dog, taking pride of place beside Richard in our little red Mazda with the top down, ears blowing in the breeze as they headed off for the beach or the plantation.

Toby at two and a half, when we introduced Joey, the new puppy, patiently letting him jump all over him and then batting him halfway across the room when he got bored.

Toby at a barbecue, stealing a sharp kitchen knife off the worktop and racing out to greet an arriving guest to cries of “Hilary, watch out, he’s got a knife”

Toby refusing to come back to the car when it was time to go home, not once but many many times, making me late to collect the kids while I was coaxing him.

Toby at Silverdale, meeting an elderly man unexpectedly on the path and eliciting the remark: “Bloody hell, it’s the Moddey Dhoo!”

Toby taking the descent down Peel Hill too fast, rolling to the bottom and ending up with an operation and weeks of hydrotherapy to get him walking again.

Toby curled up on the beanbag with Anya when she was practicing her reading, listening to stories about dolphins and mermaids, loving the cuddles.

Toby on our “dog training for awkward dogs” intensive course, earning the nickname “Mr I will if I feel like it” after his determination not to walk to heel on the lead defeated experts in the field.

Toby getting older, his beard and eyebrows going grey, still handsome, very distinguished.

Toby sitting beside Jon and then Anya through their GCSEs and A levels, headbutting their books and laptops to get attention when they were trying to study.

Toby with arthritis, too stiff to move fast or go for long walks anymore, but loving the garden or a mooch around the beach.

Toby meeting Oscar, the new puppy. Standoffish at first, then interested, but very much in charge, very much the senior dog. All the little steps of acceptance; the first time sharing a bed, letting Oscar lick him, licking him back. Toby watching Joey and Oscar play fighting and then finally joining in, a bit stiff and awkward, but having fun, his tail wagging.

The boys enjoying the sun this afternoon

Toby sunbathing in this warm weather on the tiled front porch with his brothers, his fur warm to touch, snoring gently.

I’ve started to cry again as I write this. There is so much to say about Toby that I can’t write it all. He was my friend, my beloved dog for fourteen years, and I struggle to believe that I won’t see him again.

There was a day, a few weeks back, when we took the dogs to Groudle Beach. I’d not seen Toby go into the water properly for a long time but he clearly wanted to show Oscar how it was done. It brought tears to my eyes to see how happy he was, splashing about. He looked like a dog who was discovering some of his lost youth and seemed to be enjoying it.

A week ago we took the three of them to Derbyhaven Beach in the evening. He was less keen to swim that day but he paddled, and sniffed the rocks and walked around on the sand looking so happy, his tail wagging, a big grin on his face.

On Monday 23rd he joined in a huge playfight in my study, trashing the place and making work impossible until I kicked them out. They all fell asleep in mid-game, slept for about four hours and woke up to eat dinner, then sat outside with us watching the lights come on.

The next morning I found him apparently sleeping peacefully in the kitchen. There was no sign of illness or distress or any kind of trauma. Joey was sleeping next to him; Oscar nearby in his cage. He’d died in his sleep, almost as if he’d decided that this was as good as it was going to get. He refused the inevitable declining health and mobility; the misery of a family trying to decide when was the right time to let him go.

He went kindly and with dignity and that kind of death was a gift that many pet owners don’t get. I was in shock and then distraught and I cried when we buried him and didn’t know how I would ever stop. Our family has lost a beloved member and I hate that he’s not curled up next to me. There’s an empty bed; an empty space on the porch in the mornings and an empty space in my heart that will always be there for Toby.

There’s been an outpouring of sadness and sympathy online, not only from friends and family who knew Toby but from people who have got to know him online through following Writing with Labradors. I’ve been so touched at all the messages. It doesn’t make losing him any easier but it does help.

It’s only been a few days, and grief still catches all of us unawares. We all deal with it differently; the girls talk and cry a lot, the boys are quieter, sadder. Joey spent the first day wandering from room to room, knowing he was missing, which made me cry more. But we were so lucky to get Oscar, the perfect puppy, when we did. His company has settled Joey very quickly. It would have been much harder without him.

I’m never going to stop missing my big boy and I’m horribly aware that Joey isn’t that much younger than him. But the pain and the grief of loss when a pet dies is worth every moment for all the years of love and fun we’ve had with him. He was a fabulous dog, loving, funny and daft, and I don’t regret any of it.

Rest in peace, Toby Dawson. You were so loved.

 

 

 

 

 

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