An Unsuitable Arrangement

Welcome to an Unsuitable Arrangement, my Valentine’s Day short story for 2023. As always, it’s free so please share as much as you like.

The story is set in the city of Santander in 1813. Most of the ports in northern Spain were occupied by the French until 1812, when a Royal Navy squadron under the command of the inimitable Sir Home Popham was sent to co-operate with the Spanish irregular forces along the coast to distract the French while Lord Wellington advanced to Salamanca, Madrid and then on to Burgos. Popham managed to keep the French busy and liberated several of the coastal towns but he was recalled towards the end of 1812 as Wellington’s army made their miserable retreat from Burgos back to the Portuguese border. The story of that retreat is told in An Untrustworthy Army, book 5 of the Peninsular War Saga.

Santander was briefly reoccupied by the French, but as Wellington marched to victory at Vitoria in 1813, the garrison was withdrawn again, leaving the Spanish inhabitants to cope with the burden of being a major supply depot for the army. Managing these difficulties was a major headache for the officers of the quartermaster’s department and there is no evidence that Lord Wellington was sympathetic about it.

Some of the more eagle-eyed readers among you might recognise that I have borrowed from the true story of Lieutenant William Waldron Kelly who eloped with a high-born Portuguese girl and had to leave Portugal because of threats from her family. Regular readers will also recognise a number of characters from previous books or short stories.

For those of you who prefer not to read online I’ve attached a pdf of the story below.

An Unsuitable Arrangement

Happy Valentine’s Day everybody.

An Unsuitable Arrangement

Santander, July, 1813

It was past noon when the Lady Emma, an English merchantman out of Southampton, dropped anchor off the Spanish port of Santander. Captain O’Halloran, an Irishman who had learned his trade the hard way as a pressed man in the Royal Navy, invited his passengers to drink a glass of wine in his day cabin while arrangements were being made for the cargo and the passengers to be unloaded. Elinor Spencer suspected that he was keen for the passengers to go first. It had not been an easy voyage.

Elinor had no experience of travel by sea, but she had heard horrendous tales from her uncle about sea-sickness and the danger of French privateers. She was relieved to discover that she was a surprisingly good traveller and the French made no appearance; but the rest of the voyage was a nightmare from start to finish.

There were five passengers aboard the Lady Emma. The two British officers were returning to duty from sick leave while Elinor was accompanied by her younger sister Juliet and their maidservant. Juliet and Eliza had been sick for the entire voyage and Elinor had found herself nursing both of them. She had seen nothing of the two gentlemen, but had been told by Captain O’Halloran that they had been similarly affected. Elinor thought it was rather a shame that most of her first voyage had been spent below decks dealing with the unpleasant results of other people’s sea-sickness. The times she had managed to get away to dine with the Captain and take the air on deck had been very pleasant.

After a little persuasion Juliet had agreed to accompany her sister to the Captain’s impromptu gathering. Elinor was not surprised when she brightened considerably at the sight of the two young officers. Within five minutes they were vying for her attention, leaving Elinor to sip her wine and talk to the Captain. She had struck up a firm friendship with him during the voyage and was aware that he was concerned about two young ladies travelling so far without a male escort.

“Your sister seems much better, ma’am.”

“She will be fine once we are ashore although I imagine she’ll be dreading the voyage home. She shouldn’t have come. I would have managed perfectly well on my own and…”

“Neither of you should have made this journey, it’s a disgrace,” the Captain said. Elinor had not expected him to be quite so frank. She stared at him and he gave a little smile and bowed. “Your pardon, ma’am. I shouldn’t have said that, but I’m a blunt-spoken man. Having met you, I perfectly understand why your fiancé didn’t want to wait until the end of this war for the wedding. But he should have asked for leave and waited for it to be granted. I can make allowances for a man in love, but this is ridiculous. The towns along this coast have only recently been taken back from the French. The Spanish authorities are struggling to organise themselves and are sinking under the weight of demands for supplies and accommodation from both the British army and the Navy.”

“You don’t think there’s a risk that the French will attack the town, Captain?”

O’Halloran shook his head. “No, ma’am, I think you’re perfectly safe from that. Lord Wellington is very much in control now and I don’t think Bonaparte has the men. But this is a difficult situation and I think you and your sister would be better at home. However, it’s not my decision. We’ll get you ashore as soon as we can and I’ve asked Mr Beattie to escort you. I’m sure your fiancé has arrangements in place but if anything were to go wrong Beattie will know what to do. We’re picking up a contingent of wounded men going back to England. We’ll be here for at least a week and possibly longer given that we’ve a few repairs after that storm. Don’t hesitate to send a message, ma’am, if you need to.”

Elinor felt the prickle of tears at his kindness. “That’s very good of you, Captain, but we haven’t paid for passage home. And I’m sure Mr Beattie has other things to do. I understand he is acting as your clerk temporarily?”

“It’s not his job, ma’am, he works for the owner. But I’ll admit he’s been useful. As for the passage home, I don’t care. We’ve space and if you run into trouble, we can sort out the details later. I don’t like the idea of two English ladies going ashore without a man to protect them. It’s not right. But Beattie will look after you and hand you over to Major Welby, never fear.”

O’Halloran finished his wine, then excused himself and went back to his duties. Elinor glanced over at her sister and decided that she would be very well entertained, so she made her way up onto deck and took up a position at the rail. She watched the bustle of activity on shore and on the water, as small boats rowed out to the ships with supplies, passengers and messages. Santander was an attractive town from this distance; a jumble of tiled roofs and white painted houses interspersed with church towers and spires. Above it all rose the rocky slopes of the Peñacastillo mountain. The sky was a clear blue and the sun reflected diamond sparks off the water. There was a fresh breeze which made Elinor shiver a little in her warm pelisse.

She had come here to be married. The thought was still strange to her. She had been betrothed for such a long time – almost two years now – and she had not seen her fiancé since his hasty departure for Portugal only a month after the match was arranged. Elinor barely knew Major Welby, who was fifteen years her senior. He served in the 9th Dragoon Guards, which was her uncle’s old regiment, and the Colonel had arranged the match with very little reference to Elinor.

The ceremony was supposed to have taken place during the autumn of 1811 but the regiment was recalled to duty very suddenly and Elinor was faced with the daunting prospect of an immediate marriage. She had hoped for time to become accustomed to the idea and was immensely relieved when Major Welby wrote to inform her uncle that it would be impossible to delay his departure long enough to travel to Northamptonshire for the wedding and that, regrettably, the marriage must be postponed.

Life had gone on very much as before. There were times, living under Uncle Edward’s bullying rule, when Elinor longed to escape, even into marriage with a stranger. At other times she hoped that one of Major Welby’s infrequent letters would contain the news that he had thought better of the arranged marriage and wished to be released from his obligations. The more time that passed, the harder it was for Elinor to remember exactly what her fiancé even looked like.

She had been shocked during the previous winter when her Uncle informed her that Welby had written to suggest that Elinor might join him in Portugal to be married there. For a few weeks Elinor lived in a state of carefully concealed terror but a winter cold which had settled on Uncle Edward’s chest made travel impossible. Elinor breathed again and finally admitted to herself that her initial anxiety about the match had settled into cold dread. She did not wish to marry Major Welby and she needed to say so.

Uncle Edward was furious when she made the disclosure and as always, his anger took physical form. Elinor was locked in her room bruised and sore from six stripes from his riding whip, and Juliet joined her a day later after trying to speak up for her sister. The stripes healed and Juliet was released but Elinor remained there alone, forbidden to see or speak to either her aunt or her sister until she gave in. Whatever her doubts about marriage to a man she barely knew and did not particularly like, she realised that she could not continue to live under her uncle’s roof. Anything would be better than this and at least she would be able to offer a home to Juliet.

By the time travel arrangements were made, Uncle Edward was ill again. This time he refused to cancel.

“You don’t need me or your aunt to be there,” he wheezed when Elinor obeyed his summons to his bedside. “You need to be married before I’m dead. That way, he can arrange a suitable match for your sister as well. Can’t leave this to a pack of silly women. You’ll need a man to take care of you. Welby’s got a respectable fortune, he’ll see to it. At least he still wants you. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Sir, I don’t want this marriage,” Elinor said trying to keep her voice calm. “I don’t know him, it will be like marrying a stranger. And if you are ill, it should not be left to my aunt to manage. Let me write to him. He will easily find another lady. I…”

“Enough!” her uncle roared with surprising energy. “Get yourself out of here and get yourself packed. You’ll depart in that carriage when it arrives and you can take your sister along with the maid. Once you arrive in Spain he’s to meet you in Santander and the wedding will take place almost immediately. It’s settled, I want to hear no more of your whining.”

Elinor had complied because she could not think of anything else to do. She had no money and no other family that she could run to. She had often thought that it might be possible to find work as a governess or a companion but she had never found a way to apply for such a post. She could neither send nor receive letters without her uncle’s supervision and she had no friend who might help her do so. It occurred to her that in novels, the heroine always managed to find a way out of such difficulties. In real life, a respectable woman with a younger sister to take care of needed to set impractical schemes to one side and make the best of her situation. She had tried to find a way out and had failed. Her only other option was to go to her wedding as cheerfully as she could manage and to try not to think about what might happen next.

Now that she was here and ashore, Elinor was thankful for the calm presence of Mr Beattie. She was a little confused about his position aboard the merchant ship, but he seemed willing to act as their escort and determined not to leave Elinor until she was safely inside her hotel. She was passionately grateful to him, given that neither she or Juliet spoke a word of Spanish, while Eliza was so overwhelmed by the noise and bustle of a foreign sea port that she seemed to be struggling even to speak English. The quayside was crowded as several ships seemed to be either loading or unloading their goods. At least two of the ships at anchor in Santander Bay were Royal Navy and there was a collection of blue-coated officers going about their business on shore. There were also a large number of red coats in evidence. Elinor found that she was surreptitiously scanning faces for her betrothed and she felt a slight sense of panic in case she did not recognise him. It had been two years and all she could clearly remember was a bulky figure and a set of perfectly trimmed military whiskers. He had sent her a miniature during the first year of their engagement, but it was poorly executed and could have been anybody.

“I thought he was going to meet us,” Juliet said. She had been full of high spirits as they left the ship but had gone very quiet as Mr Beattie organised a hired cart and found a porter to load up their luggage. “Your…Major Welby. I thought he’d be here.”

“I’m sure he will meet us at the hotel. He may have been delayed by his military duties. Don’t worry, Juliet. It will be all right.”

She reached for her sister’s hand as the cart jolted forward. Juliet squeezed hard and gave a wan smile. Elinor returned it. She was not sure which of them was more terrified in this busy, noisy, alien place but she reflected that Juliet’s fear would be assuaged once Major Welby appeared to take charge. Elinor still had to get through her wedding night.

The hotel was reassuringly elegant, situated on a wide boulevard away from the noisy port district. Mr Beattie handed them down and ushered them into a tiled entrance where a portly Spanish gentleman came forward with an enquiring smile. Beattie appeared to speak fluent Spanish and Elinor stood back and watched him with awe. She did not think she would ever be able to speak that quickly in any language.

It was clear that the clerk was not happy with the hotelier’s response to his enquiries. The Spaniard spread his hands wide as if disclaiming any responsibility for the problem and Beattie rapped out a series of what sounded like questions. Eventually he turned to Elinor, who was beginning to feel very sick.

“Is there a problem, Mr Beattie?”

“A minor one, ma’am. I’ve asked this fool to order some refreshments and you can sit down while I sort this out. Let us go over to a table. Here, sit down. Your maid…I’m not sure…”

“Eliza, come and sit here,” Elinor said briskly. “This is not the time to worry about propriety. What has happened, sir? Is our room not reserved? And what of Major Welby?”

“I can discover nothing about the Major ma’am, but you can be sure I will do so. As to your accommodation, it probably was reserved, but the army has moved in and taken over this entire hotel. Transports arrived yesterday with a battalion of infantry along with two hundred cavalry reinforcements. They’ve billeted the men on a couple of local farms, poor souls and they’ve told Senor Talledo to cancel all reservations as they need the rooms for their officers for at least two weeks until they’re ready to march out to join Lord Wellington. The poor man is beside himself.”

“Can they do that?” Elinor asked, appalled.

“Oh yes, ma’am. They’ll have to recompense him of course, but given how the army manages its pay chest it could take him a year to get the money back and it won’t be the full amount. In the meantime, we’ll need to find accommodation for you.”

“But this is dreadful,” Juliet said. Elinor could hear the panic in her voice. She felt panicked as well but forced herself to speak calmly.

“Mr Beattie, this is so kind of you. I’m sorry you have been put to so much trouble. I’m sure when Major Welby arrives it can be straightened out. You must have a hundred things to do without having to trouble yourself with our difficulties.”

“Can’t be helped, ma’am. I’m just glad the Captain suggested that I escort you. A rare pickle you’d have been in without a word of Spanish between you. Don’t you worry. Look, here comes the maid with some tea for you. And it looks like some bread and cheese as well. You have something to eat. I’ve asked Senor Talledo to find the officer in charge here. It’s a problem through the whole district now. They’re being asked to find accommodation and provide supplies and transport since the army started using this place as its main transit port. The locals aren’t set up for it. They’re doing their best, but they were struggling when I was last here earlier this year and it’s got worse since then.”

The bread was hard and baked with olives and the butter was made without salt and rather tasteless, but Elinor was surprised at how much she liked the soft cheese. They drank strong tea with what she suspected was goat’s milk and ate some beautifully juicy grapes. The hotel lobby was spotlessly clean and if she had not been so worried, Elinor would have rather enjoyed their vantage point, watching the coming and going of officers in red coats. A number of them looked curiously at the three women. One or two stared rather more rudely and Elinor touched Juliet’s arm to remind her to look away. She felt very conspicuous and wished she knew what was going on.

After what seemed a long time, Mr Beattie reappeared. He was accompanied by an officer who was definitely not Major Welby. Elinor was both relieved and confused. Her only way out of this embarrassing situation would be the arrival of her betrothed, but she was dreading it. The situation had all the elements of a Drury Lane comedy but she was not finding it funny.

She rose as the two men approached. Beattie gave a little bow and threw a malicious glance at his companion.

“Miss Spencer, allow me to introduce you to Lieutenant-Colonel Galloway. As far as I can work out he’s the Assistant Quartermaster General for this district and is the man responsible for cancelling your rooms and leaving you to sleep on the streets tonight. He’s here to explain why that’s considered acceptable by His Majesty’s army.”

Galloway shot the clerk a look of utter loathing. “It’s very good to see the merchant service is employing clowns as administrators. That probably explains the chaos of the supply system here.”

“I thought everything was the fault of the Royal Navy according to your boys, sir. Still, it’s good to know you’re extending the blame to merchant shipping as well. You might want to throw in a bit of a complaint about Neptune and the mythical sea-serpent. I’m sure they’re both Bonapartists.”

Elinor was not sure, but she thought she heard Colonel Galloway grind his teeth. While she appreciated Beattie’s wit, she was not sure that he was the man who could get her a hotel room. With an effort, she summoned a smile and held out her hand.

“Colonel Galloway, thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

Galloway paused for a moment, looking uncertain. Then he took her hand and bowed over it.

“Miss Spencer. Forgive me, you have nothing to be sorry for. This must be very upsetting for you.”

Elinor studied him. He was probably around thirty or so with short dark brown hair and warm brown eyes, but he currently looked like a man driven to the limits of his patience. Elinor had been raised on stories of military glory but she had never thought for a moment about the men like Galloway who worked behind the scenes in difficult circumstances to make a campaign happen. Elinor was a woman accustomed to managing a household on a tight budget with difficult people and she felt unexpectedly sorry for him.

“Why don’t you sit down, Colonel Galloway and perhaps Mr Beattie could ask for some more tea? I’m afraid we are putting you to a great deal of trouble here.”

“Tea?” Galloway said hopefully. His eyes were suddenly riveted to the cups and plates on the table. Elinor looked at Beattie and saw that he was masking a grin. She wondered how often Colonel Galloway forgot to eat.

“And some more bread and cheese if you can manage it, Mr Beattie. I suspect Colonel Galloway missed breakfast. Sit down, Colonel and allow me to introduce you to my sister Juliet. Also our poor maid Eliza who has never been more confused in her life.”

Galloway bowed politely. “She has all my sympathy, ma’am,” he said.

***

Accommodation for the ladies was obtained by the simple expedient of bundling three junior officers into one room. They were cavalry officers which meant their complaints were loudly expressed, but Toby Galloway silenced them effectively by demanding to know which of them wished to explain to Major Welby when he returned that his fiancée had returned to England because no accommodation could be found for her.

With the two ladies established in a spacious room overlooking the square and the terrified maid wedged into a cubbyhole on the top floor which made her cry with relief, Galloway went in search of a senior cavalry officer who might have news of the missing Major Welby. On stating his errand he was shown into an untidy little parlour which was littered with paperwork and half-unpacked boxes, where a thin irritable captain of the 9th Dragoon Guards was glaring at the merchant shipping clerk. Galloway sympathised. Fifteen minutes of Mr Gareth Beattie’s sarcasm had made him want to shoot the man.

Captain Cahill saluted punctiliously. Galloway thought he looked relieved at the sight of a senior officer who might take Beattie off his hands.

“Colonel Galloway, come in. I’ve just been explaining to this gentleman that I am unable to give out information about our officers.”

Galloway eyed Beattie and decided that he might just qualify as a gentleman, though he suspected the honorific had been acquired along an interesting career path rather than having been his by birthright.

“Mr Beattie is trying to assist a lady, Captain. At least I think he is. He might just have been sent here to piss me off. Where can I find Major Welby?”

Captain Cahill did not actually clutch his head but he looked as though he wanted to do so. “Major Welby is not here, sir.”

“Clearly he isn’t, Captain, or I’d be able to see him. Where is he?”

“No, I mean he’s not in Santander. He has left.”

Galloway felt a cold sense of dread. He had been hoping to hand this problem over to the man who had caused it within the hour, but he could see that possibility slipping away from him.

“Where’s he gone?” Beattie asked. His tone was grim. Galloway looked at him with interest. He had been far too busy being irritated with the clerk to think much else about him but something in Beattie’s tone suggested that he was extremely unimpressed with Major Welby’s actions and was quite prepared to say so. This did not entirely fit with Beattie’s apparently humble position as captain’s clerk. Despite himself, Galloway was curious so he caught Cahill’s eye and nodded permission to answer.

“Several officers of the quartermaster’s department have ridden out towards Bilboa, sir. They’re trying to source supplies. We’re bringing as much as we can in from England, but…”

“Captain, I am an officer of the quartermaster’s department. I know the abysmal chaos that is military supplies in this place. These poor townspeople. I’ve only met the Mayor three times and I think he’s cried at two of the meetings. The town can’t possibly cope and it doesn’t help that some of your officers are already throwing their weight around demanding free provisions from whichever poor bastard they’re billeted on. And now I’ve got a young Englishwomen and her companions dumped in this town in search of a missing fiancé and you’re telling me the feckless bastard has gone off on escort duty?”

There was a long silence.

“Well, yes sir,” Cahill said apologetically. “I mean none of us knew she was coming. He didn’t say anything, sir.”

Galloway closed his eyes and counted very slowly to ten in his head. Eventually he opened them again and fixed Cahill with a glare.

“Who is his commanding officer, Captain?”

“That will be Colonel Fraser, sir,” Cahill said with palpable relief.

“Where will I find Colonel Fraser, Captain?”

“Well…he’s not here, sir.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Galloway bellowed. Cahill visibly jumped. Beside him, Galloway heard a strange spluttering sound which he was fairly sure was the clerk of a merchantman trying not to laugh out loud.

***

When he could manage to ask questions without swearing, Galloway obtained the address of Lieutenant-Colonel Stratton who was the most senior officer of the 9th Dragoon Guards actually currently in Santander. He left Cahill’s office with a list of duties running through his head. Dismally he thought of how much catching up he would need to do once the matter of the Englishwomen had been settled, but he could hardly abandon them. It was obvious after half an hour’s conversation that Elinor Spencer had never been out of England before, spoke no Spanish and could not be left to cope alone in a strange place.

“There’s something off about this,” a voice said in matter-of-fact tones. Galloway turned to find the clerk had caught up with him. Beattie was slightly shorter: sharp-featured with bright copper hair and intelligent blue-green eyes. Galloway was torn between curiosity at his remark and an overwhelming desire to tell the man to go back to his ship and mind his own business.

“Why do you care?” he asked finally, continuing his walk.

“Captain O’Halloran charged me with seeing the lady safely to her fiancé. I’ve been trying to do it.”

“Don’t you have duties at the ship? Supplies to unload, manifests to check? There must be something?”

“I’ve an assistant who’s perfectly capable. Anyway I’m curious, aren’t you?”

“No, just overworked.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Too long.”

“Seriously. You can’t have been here with Popham, he didn’t have the army did he? Though he managed to kick up enough of a dust with the Spanish and a few marines…”

Galloway stopped dead and turned to glare. “Beattie, who the hell are you? And don’t give me this nonsense about being the captain’s clerk aboard some merchant ship. You don’t sound like one, you don’t dress like one and you don’t look like one. Stop pissing me about, I don’t have time.”

Beattie held up his hands laughing. “Stop yelling at me. It’s not me you’re angry with and I’m trying to help. I’m acting clerk aboard the Lady Emma. She’s a merchantman under contract to the army. We sailed in with army supplies and a few passengers and we’ve a week or so to hang around to pick up a contingent of sick and wounded men going back to England.”

“Acting clerk? What’s your usual job?”

“Suspicious bastard. I am confidential secretary to a gentleman by the name of Van Daan. He owns the shipping company along with a lot of other business interests. Very big man in the City and married into the aristocracy. I started off as a ship’s boy at the age of ten and worked my way up through the company. I don’t go to sea much now, but Mr van Daan wanted me to assess the situation in Santander. If it’s to be the main supply port for Wellington’s army now, we’ll be in and out of here all the time.”

“I imagine there have been a fair few reports written on that subject,” Galloway said mildly. “I’ve read a few of them myself. Sir Home Popham tended to generate a lot of paperwork.”

“I read them too and could think of a practical use for some of them.”

Galloway could not repress a splutter of laughter. “To be fair, the man’s clever. But I know the Van Daans aren’t especially fond of Popham since he got involved with Paul van Daan’s court martial.”

Beattie’s eyes widened in surprise. “You know him then? Old army friend?”

“Old school friend before he got himself kicked out, but we’ve stayed in touch. I have had the privilege of listening to Paul van Daan on the subject of Sir Home Riggs Popham. It tends to go on a bit.”

“When that man has an opinion, it often tends to go on a bit. Punctuated with the worst language I’ve heard since I was a boy on an East Indiaman.”

“That’s probably where he learned it.” Galloway surveyed the other man with a more tolerant eye. “All right, I’m willing to accept you’re trying to help here rather than trying to dodge your duties aboard ship. You can come with me to see Colonel Stratton.”

“Are you going to shout at him as well?”

“That depends on whether he can tell me where the hell Major Welby has gone off to and whether they can get him back quickly.”

“I’d no idea that the officers of his Majesty’s Army had the freedom to wander off whenever they felt like it. I thought there was a war on,” Beattie said. “Let alone importing young women by the dozen. It makes joining up a lot more appealing, I can tell you.”

Galloway tried not to grind his teeth. “If you’re coming with me, Mr Beattie, I’d recommend you save your sense of humour for the voyage home. I’ve had a really long week.”

Beattie gave him an irritatingly understanding smile. “Yes, Colonel. Lead the way.”

***

A comfortable room and a good dinner made both Elinor and her sister feel much better. The evening was pleasantly mild after a short shower of rain and Elinor suggested a walk through the main part of the town. They attracted a good deal of attention from the British officers who strolled along the wide avenues and lounged outside taverns in the pretty squares but most of it was respectful. Elinor found herself wondering if her fiancé would object to her wandering about without a male escort but she decided that given his failure to arrive to meet her as agreed, she did not really care.

Arriving back at the hotel she found Colonel Galloway and Mr Beattie awaiting them with news, although there was still no sign of Major Welby. Beattie, who seemed very resourceful for a humble ship’s clerk, had reserved a table in the courtyard garden at the back of the hotel and ceremoniously handed Elinor and Juliet onto a wooden bench and poured wine for them. Colonel Galloway made polite enquiries about their accommodation and their dinner. It was all very civilised and Elinor was torn between a desire to scream at the two men to get on with it and an illogical wish to prolong the pleasant sense of a social occasion. She was wholly unused to socialising and had never in her life sat on the terrace outside an elegant hotel. Exotic flowering shrubs perfumed the warm air and there were lanterns strung between the trees which gave the scene a fairy tale appearance. It was beautiful and Elinor could not believe how much she was enjoying both the setting and the attentions of two gentlemen.

Fairy tales were not real though and Elinor sipped the chilled white wine, took her courage in her hands and asked:

“Have you discovered why Major Welby was unable to come to meet us, Colonel?”

Galloway looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, yes, ma’am. At least, I can tell you where he’s gone although not why he…I’m sure he must have mistaken the date. Ships can’t give the exact time of their arrival after all…”

“Messages are sent ahead. He’d have known roughly when we were expected to dock,” Beattie said. Elinor shot him a grateful glance. She had the sense that Galloway was trying to protect her feelings but at this point she just wanted information.

“Mr Beattie?”

“He’s gone off on escort duty, ma’am. A party from the quartermaster’s department wanted to do a bit of a tour of the countryside, working out where they might be able to buy supplies. Major Welby was placed in charge of the escort.”

“I see. I suppose he could not help that.”

“He could have written you a letter,” Juliet said. “Or arranged for somebody else to meet you. I wouldn’t expect that man to be attentive, but there’s such a thing as basic good manners.”

“Juliet, please.”

Beattie looked amused. “You don’t approve of your sister’s fiancé, Miss Juliet?”

“No,” Juliet said bluntly and Elinor blushed.

“Juliet, this is not appropriate.”

Juliet turned angelic blue eyes onto her. “I have been listening all my life to people telling me what is appropriate, dear sister, and I am tired of it. These gentlemen have wasted an entire day chasing around looking for Major Welby. It is very good of them, but I think they have a right to know that I am hardly shocked at all. You were bullied into this betrothal by our uncle and then bullied again into this badly organised journey, without even our aunt to support you, just because my uncle fancied himself ill again. Which he always does when there is something he does not wish to do. And Major Welby knows all this and does not care one whit about you or your comfort or safety. I do not think we should have come and I do not think you should go through with this marriage. He will not be a good husband.”

Elinor could feel her face burning and she was close to tears. “Juliet, stop it at once. You are embarrassing me and making these gentlemen feel uncomfortable. I do not…”

“I don’t feel in the least bit uncomfortable,” Beattie said briskly. He was looking at Juliet. “Thank you, Miss Juliet, that was extremely brave of you. You’re a good sister.”

Colonel Galloway was studying Elinor. “Is all of that true?” he asked quietly.

Elinor rose. “No, of course not. At least…it is much exaggerated. Will you please excuse me, I’m tired and I wish…”

The tears had forced their way through. She put her hands to her hot cheeks, thankful that the lantern light would probably hide the state of her face and turned towards the door of the hotel. Halfway there she realised she could not possibly leave her younger sister unchaperoned with two strangers and stopped, trying hard to compose herself. A hand took her by the arm.

“Walk with me,” Galloway said quietly. “There’s a path down to the river from here. It’s well lit and public enough but there won’t be many people about tonight. Don’t worry about your sister, Beattie will take care of her. Come on.”

Elinor obeyed because she could not think of anything else to do. He placed her hand on his arm and guided her down a narrow path which led out onto a broad gravelled promenade which overlooked the river. Lights twinkled on the opposite bank and there were several boats with lanterns making flickering patterns on the dark surface of the water. Elinor could hear music and laughter. Further along the bank she could hear the whispered voices of a man and a woman, their arms wrapped about each other. She wondered with immense sadness how it might feel to walk by the riverside with a man she loved and who loved her.

There was a small wooden jetty with lanterns hung on long poles to guide the boats back in. Galloway paused beside it and turned to look at her. Elinor looked down at the ground.

“Forgive me, I can see how upset you are,” the Colonel said gently. “Your sister was tactless, but Beattie is right. She clearly cares about you. How much truth was there in all of that?”

“I’m ashamed to tell you.”

“Why, for God’s sake? If that tale was true, there’s no fault to you in any of it. And it had already occurred to me that you should never have travelled all that way without a male relative to support you. I cannot believe your uncle allowed it and your fiancé acquiesced to it. Anything might have happened.”

Elinor looked up, slightly warmed by the indignation in his voice. “Well yes, I suppose so. Although as a matter of fact, these terrible things that they warn us about seldom do happen, you know. I am aware that your impression of me so far must be very poor, Colonel. I was rather bewildered on my arrival. But generally I am perfectly sensible and more than competent. I haven’t travelled abroad before, it’s true, and I don’t speak any Spanish but my French is quite good and I’ve taken care of my aunt and uncle’s household for years. I think that was why Major Welby allowed my uncle to make this match for him. He told me he wanted a sensible woman to look after his house and give him children and not enact him a Cheltenham tragedy because he was seldom there.”

“Was that his proposal?” Galloway asked. Elinor peered at him suspiciously. It was difficult to tell in the dim light but it almost sounded as if he was laughing at her.

“He said he wanted to be honest with me.”

“I can almost hear him saying it. That man has neither charm nor wit.”

“You know him?”

Galloway gave a faint smile. “Yes. I knew him at Eton though he was a few years older than me. And since we both ended up in the army we’ve run into each other occasionally over the years. I’ve not seen him for a long time though. I will be honest with you, ma’am. I don’t like him. All the same, I wouldn’t allow that to colour my opinion of this marriage. If you showed the least desire to see the man I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that after the first shock, you weren’t upset that he wasn’t here. In fact, you seemed rather relieved.”

Elinor turned away to hide her tears. “You cannot possibly know that, sir. You know nothing about me.”

“I know that you’re a brave young woman trying to make the best of an appalling situation,” Galloway said. He took Elinor’s hand and placed a neatly folded handkerchief in it. Elinor, who had only just realised she had left hers in her reticule on the table, took it gratefully and mopped her streaming eyes.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Elinor thought how peaceful it was, with just the faint sounds of merriment coming from the hotel terrace and from the boats on the river. She stirred reluctantly.

“I must go back. I shouldn’t have left Juliet.”

“I wouldn’t worry about her, ma’am. Beattie will take care of her.”

Elinor lifted her eyes to his face. “Does nobody out here have a sense of propriety? She’s nineteen and he’s…I’m not actually sure what he is, but he’s a man she doesn’t know and…”

“He’s thirty two, unmarried and works for an extremely wealthy London businessman as his confidential secretary. He’s out here on business for his employer and given that I know the family, I’d be astonished if they’d employ a man they weren’t very sure of. More to the point, he’s so angry about what’s happened here that if left to himself I think he’d take you both back to the ship and back to England on the next tide, leaving your fiancé to go to the devil. My apologies for my language.”

Elinor could not help smiling. “You seem to have done a very thorough job of investigating him, Colonel.”

“It wasn’t hard, ma’am; the man likes to talk and I checked his story with the Captain. I’ve complete faith in his good intentions. And if you want to go, I’ll happily convey the news to your fiancé when he takes the trouble to reappear.”

“It may be that he genuinely had no choice but to leave, Colonel.”

“Oh I accept that he had to do his duty. But as your sister said, he could have left a letter for you. And made perfectly sure that I’d not requisitioned your rooms. He must know how chaotic it is here at the moment. And also…”

Elinor studied him. Galloway had a nice face, not exactly handsome, but reassuringly kind. His eyes were his best feature, a mellow brown. Despite his harassed expression since he had first laid eyes on her, she thought it was a face used to smiling a lot. She wondered if he was married.

“Also?”

He hesitated and Elinor touched his arm. “Colonel, if you have anything to say I’d rather you said it to me in private. You’ve seen what Juliet is like. Until I know exactly where I stand I would rather not give her any more ammunition.”

Galloway laughed unexpectedly. “Yes, she does seem to have a tendency to go off like Congreve’s rocket when she’s annoyed. I’m glad she did though. You might not have spoken to me properly if she hadn’t blurted it out and I needed to know. Very well. It bothers me a little that neither of the officers I’ve spoken to about him seemed to know anything about a betrothal, let alone a prospective wedding. He probably was called away suddenly. And a letter could have gone astray. The postal service isn’t reliable here yet; I lose at least two letters a week. But I don’t understand why they didn’t all know you were coming. A man about to take a wife usually mentions it to his friends. And he’d have to make arrangements. I don’t even know if there is an English chaplain in Santander at the moment. There are usually one or two with Wellington’s army, but he’s about a hundred and fifty miles away and although you wouldn’t think it standing here listening to guitar music, there is a war on. Unless…I didn’t think to ask but you’re not Roman Catholic, are you?”

“Heavens no. My uncle is a stalwart of the most English kind of Anglicanism. I think he would die of shock if I married in a Catholic church. I’m not even sure if it’s possible.” Elinor studied him for a long time. “Colonel…are you saying that you believe Major Welby might have changed his mind? Or might not have ever intended to marry me?”

Galloway said nothing. He looked away from her, his eyes on the lights flickering across the water. It was growing colder with a sharp breeze picking up. Elinor was suddenly chilled and a little frightened.

“You haven’t answered me.”

“You don’t need to worry about it, ma’am. You’re not alone here, there are two of us looking out for you and between…”

“That is not good enough!” Elinor snapped. “I asked what you think. Treat me like an adult.”

Galloway visibly jumped. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I should tell you. It’s only a suspicion and you’re a young girl a long way from home. I don’t want to say something that…”

“What do you suspect, Colonel?”

The crisp tone of her voice seemed to reach him. He studied her face for a moment from worried brown eyes, then said abruptly:

“Ma’am, Cecil Welby doesn’t have the best reputation with women. There was a scandal a few years ago in Ireland and then when he first came out to Portugal there was a Portuguese lady. Very high born. Her family were furious and threatened to murder him. It’s the reason he was sent back to England; his father got him a post at Horse Guards until it all blew over. I didn’t even know he was back with the regiment until now.”

“How do you know all this?” Elinor whispered. She felt suddenly very sick and a little light-headed.

“Army gossip is ruthless and I’ve been out here from the start. I was with the guards for a while and fought at Rolica and Vimeiro. I came back out with Wellesley but I was badly wounded at Talavera. It took me a long time to recover. I took an administrative posting in the meantime and it turned out I was very good at it and quite enjoyed it. So I stayed. I also got promoted a lot faster. But I have a lot of friends in other regiments and they all share gossip about Welby because I knew him as a boy at school. He was universally disliked there as well. I’m sorry. I could be wrong about this. For all I know his intentions might be completely honourable.”

“But this is insane,” Elinor said. Her face was burning and she put her hands on her cheeks to try to cool them down. “My uncle is a retired colonel. My cousin is an officer in the Light Division although I’ve not heard from him for several years. I’m not some unprotected girl who…”

“Do you have the money to pay for a passage home, ma’am?”

Elinor did not speak immediately. “No,” she said finally. “I have very little money. It’s why I…Major Welby agreed to take me without a dowry. He also said Juliet could come to live with us. Of course I thought we would not marry until the end of the war.”

“Was it his idea or your uncle’s to bring the wedding forward and for you to travel out here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did Welby know your uncle and aunt couldn’t accompany you?”

“I think so. I’m not sure.”

“Did he know your sister would be with you or did he think you’d be alone with your maid?”

“I don’t know.” Elinor’s voice was a whisper. “He can’t have intended…his reputation would have been ruined.”

“Not as quickly as yours would,” Galloway said bluntly. “I’ve no idea why that bastard agreed to marry you in the first place, ma’am. We all thought he’d be after an heiress or at least a fashionable marriage to add a bit of a shine to his very tarnished character. It’s been well discussed in army circles. I don’t know what he intended. I’ll admit I tend to think the worst of Cecil Welby. For all I know there might be a letter winging its way back to Northamptonshire telling you that the wedding is off and to stay right there. He might have no idea you hadn’t received it. But I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because he hadn’t cancelled your room at the hotel. I did that when I requisitioned it for the officers. I checked.”

Elinor closed her eyes. Unexpectedly his voice sounded a long way off. “I’m sorry,” she said and was surprised at the spinning blackness in her head.

“Oh bloody hell,” Galloway said and she felt his arms go about her. “It’s all right, I’ve got you. Take a few deep breaths. I’m so sorry, I’m an imbecile to blurt all that out without warning. Just breathe. I’d rather not have to carry you dramatically across the terrace unless I have to.”

Elinor obeyed and was relieved when after a few minutes the dizziness passed. She realised that he was still holding her and that her head was resting against his chest. It felt wonderfully comforting and she moved reluctantly.

“I’m sorry, Colonel. I’m not usually that missish. Please don’t say anything to Juliet about this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I might be wrong. But forgive me, I am going to talk to Beattie. I want to make very sure that ship doesn’t sail without you if it turns out you need to go home.”

“Home,” Elinor said. The word sounded hollow. “If I go home unmarried, Colonel, I don’t know if my uncle would take me back.”

“Isn’t that an interesting thought, ma’am? I wonder if Major Welby realises that.”

Elinor stared at him for a long time. “What am I going to do?” she whispered.

“You’re coming back to the terrace and you’re going to drink a glass of wine to put some colour back into your cheeks. You look like a ghost. A remarkably pretty ghost, but definitely spectral. After that you’re going to bed, you need to rest. Tell your sister as much or as little as you like. Don’t make any attempt to find out about Welby. If anybody asks, tell them your cousin’s name and make something up about visiting him. You’re a clever girl, you’ll come up with something.”

Elinor took his proffered arm. “I can’t even pay my shot,” she said.

“Well at present the army can take care of it. Officially, your room is being occupied by Lieutenants Swann and Betteridge. I kicked them out to make space for you. If we run into trouble later on, I’ll pay your bill myself.”

“I couldn’t allow that.”

“I can’t see how you can stop me. Stop worrying. You’re not alone and you’re not going to be.”

Elinor looked up at him. “I’m never going to be able to repay you for what you’re doing for us, Colonel. And I’m not talking about money.”

He smiled. “I’m just glad I was here.”

“What if…what if Major Welby turns up at the hotel? What should I say to him?”

“He’s unlikely to do so, ma’am. I’m going to speak to his senior officer. He’ll have to report in on his return. My intention is that unless you want to, you’ll never have to speak to him again.”

They were approaching the terrace. Elinor thought about his words and recognised the enormous sense of relief that had nothing to do with Galloway’s startling revelations of this evening.

“I must have been mad,” she said softly. “Even to consider this, when I disliked him so much. I should have remained locked in my room. After all, my uncle would have had to let me out eventually.”

Galloway stopped and looked at her. Then he continued walking. “I’d like to meet your uncle one day, ma’am,” he said. “Now that’s enough for tonight. I want to hear nothing apart from social chit chat, is that clear?”

“Yes, Colonel. Good gracious. Is that Mr Beattie playing chess with my sister?”

Galloway stared. “Yes. How odd. I wonder where he got the board.”

“I wonder who’s winning,” Elinor said. “She’s very good at chess.”

The Colonel chuckled. “Is she? Let’s join them then; I’ve a feeling Beattie doesn’t like to lose. I might enjoy this.”

***

After a restless night considering what to do, Galloway decided to be frank with Beattie. He had made enquiries from Captain O’Halloran on the previous day and had confirmed Beattie’s credentials. Galloway asked the Captain how long he would remain in port and whether he could find space for the ladies on the return if it became necessary and the Irishman shrugged.

“That’s up to Beattie, Colonel. I might captain this ship but Beattie has the trust of the man who owns it. If he says we wait, we wait.”

Reassured, Galloway spent the morning catching up on paperwork, then attended a painfully difficult meeting with members of the Council of Santander who had a list of questions about requisitioning which he could not really answer. After that he took himself off to the inn where Beattie had managed to find a room. It was a simple establishment, reminding Galloway of the little roadside posadas he had stayed in throughout Spain, but it looked surprisingly clean. He found Beattie writing letters in the single bar room, a tankard of ale beside him.

“Have you had dinner?” Beattie asked. “I was going to order something here. I think the choice is mutton stew or mutton stew.”

Galloway grinned. “I’ve bespoken dinner at the hotel with Miss Spencer and Miss Juliet. I was hoping you’d join us.”

“Willingly. I’ve demanded a return match. I’ve never been that humiliated by a slip of a girl in my life. Apparently her cousin is an army man and taught her to play chess. I wonder if his military strategy is as good?”

“I want to talk to you before we walk over there. I had a long conversation with Miss Spencer last night and I’ve had several conversations with Welby’s fellow officers. I’m not happy about the story of this betrothal.”

Beattie put down his pen and neatly capped the ink pot. He shuffled his papers together into a neat stack. Galloway thought it was the first time he had seen Beattie look even remotely like a clerk. He fixed his gaze onto Galloway with ominous concentration.

“Tell me. And don’t leave anything out. I told you yesterday I could smell something off about this and I always trust my nose.”

“I can’t prove any of it but I can tell you what I think.”

“Thoughts will do for now. Carry on.”

Galloway told his story. He had a strong suspicion that a good deal of it was not new to Beattie who had clearly made good use of his time alone with the younger Miss Spencer. He did not react at all when Galloway spoke of how Elinor had been bullied into accepting Welby’s proposal and then into making the journey to Spain unescorted.

“That’s the most unlikely thing about all of this,” he said when he had finished the story. “Why in God’s name did her aunt and uncle let those girls travel out here alone? No guardian who gave a damn would do that.”

“That’s not what’s puzzling me,” Beattie said. “The old man was desperate to get her married off. Clearly he didn’t care how. What I don’t understand is why Welby offered for her in the first place. If he’s all that you say he is…”

“I think I’ve solved that. I spent a tedious hour in the 9th Dragoon Guards’ mess room earlier. Thank God my father would never let me join the cavalry. He could have afforded it, he just said he was fond of me and didn’t want to lose me to sheer stupidity. I begin to understand now.”

“Stop talking nonsense and get on with it.”

“None of the young idiots know anything about Miss Spencer but they were happy to discuss Welby’s exploits with the ladies over a bottle or two. It seems that at the time of his engagement, Welby was in trouble over a young woman he’d taken up with in London. Her family were making noises about breach of promise and Welby paid them off with a hefty bribe and took himself off to the country. The timing is right. I think he provided himself with a respectable fiancée to dissuade them from taking it any further. No point in pushing a man to marry your daughter if he’s already wed.”

“But he didn’t marry her. Why didn’t he end the engagement?”

“God knows. Perhaps he just couldn’t be bothered. Perhaps her uncle threatened to spread the word that he’d jilted his niece. It’s not the done thing after all and Welby’s reputation didn’t need more of a battering.”

“I wasn’t raised in quite the same social circles as you, Colonel, but I’ll take your word for it. So why did he send for her?”

“I don’t think he did. I think the uncle was beginning to smell a rat with the engagement that never ended. Or perhaps Miss Spencer gathered her courage and told him she wanted none of the Honourable Cecil. Whatever the reason, he pushes Welby into naming the day. Welby responds by saying she’ll have to come out here. He probably thought that would stop it dead, but he reckoned without that old bastard Manson. Welby was probably on the verge of writing to tell him it was all off and be damned to the scandal. Now that he’s back with the army, he could just wait for it to die down, which it would eventually. At that point, he receives the interesting news that Colonel Manson isn’t well enough to travel and his wife is staying to take care of him. All of a sudden, the arrival of Miss Spencer, accompanied by a maid and with nobody to see to her interests takes on a whole new look to Welby.”

“He wouldn’t have.”

“I think he bloody would. What’s to stop him? Maybe she’d have worked out that he didn’t have marriage in mind fast enough to appeal to his senior officers. Maybe they’d have listened and helped her. Or maybe he’d have persuaded her into a carriage to visit an imaginary parson, dumped the maid at the first stop and found a nice isolated farmhouse. Whatever happened next is almost irrelevant. She’d be ruined and very publicly, in the middle of an army camp. She would need a protector. And Welby would be willing to volunteer until he got bored with her. After that, God knows what would have happened to her. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard a version of that story before, Beattie. It happens in London all the time.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

“I know him. He was a little shit at school. Most of them grow out of it. He never did. I’ve been hearing stories about Cecil Welby for years and all I ever wonder is why anybody is surprised.”

Beattie was silent for a long time. “What about Miss Juliet?” he said finally.

“She was a complication he didn’t expect. I checked the hotel records and he’d arranged a room for Miss Spencer and her maid. He knew Manson and his wife weren’t coming but he didn’t know they’d sent her sister as her companion instead. That might have stopped him, I don’t know. Or she might have been dumped at the first stop with the maid and God knows what would have happened to her then.”

“With my experience of one evening’s acquaintance with Miss Juliet Spencer, Galloway, I don’t think he’d have got either of them into that carriage if she’d been there. I think she’d have screamed the place down. That girl has literally no notion of how a delicate young lady should conduct herself. Or if she does, she doesn’t care.”

“How do you know?” Galloway said, appalled. His companion leaned back, laughing.

“Instinct,” he said. “Don’t look so furious, I’ve no intention of making a push to find out if I’m right. Though I am going to play chess with her again after dinner, so if you wish to take the delectable Miss Spencer for a riverside stroll again, don’t let me stop you.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“About Welby? Oh God, yes. Not that we’ll ever be able to prove a damned thing, but you’re not an idiot. If you say he’s a tick and an excrescence, I’m taking your word for it. How long do you think he’ll be away?”

“At least a week, possibly more according to Stratton. I don’t want him near those girls when he gets back, but I’m not worried about that. The minute he knows that I know, he’ll bluster himself purple in the face and then he’ll run a mile. He might have money and be heir to a minor title, but I can cap that very easily in terms of the army. I have very influential friends.”

“Do you? You don’t look as though you do, I must say. Who are they?”

Galloway laughed. “The same ones you do, Beattie. It’s just that in the context of this army, I’m better placed to use them. Right, let’s take the ladies to dinner. A shocking thing to do in a public dining room but nobody who matters is going to know and they can chaperone each other.”

Beattie got up. “Let me take these upstairs and change quickly and I’ll be with you. Are they going to be all right staying there?”

“Yes. I’m staying there myself, I can keep an eye on them.”

“If it’s a matter of money, my employer is generous with my expenses.”

“I’ll just bet he is. I’d love to know what you really do for him.”

“A surprising amount of it genuinely involves managing his diary and his correspondence. But you’re right, there are other duties occasionally. You know the Van Daans, Galloway. None of them would hesitate to step in and help these girls if they were here.”

“Thank God Paul isn’t here. He’s been looking for an opportunity to kick Welby into a dung heap for eighteen years. They’re fine at the hotel, but I’m hoping you can hold that ship for a while. I want to make very sure my letter to their bloody uncle reaches him before they get home.”

Beattie’s face lit up with laughter. “You’re going to write to Colonel Manson?”

“Yes. I’m going to make sure he knows what might have happened and I’m going to assure him that his nieces are no longer without friends to take an interest in their welfare. And then I’m going to list them, starting with my mother. I’d like to see her face if she heard he’d been locking those girls in a room and hitting them with a riding crop. She’d tear his head off.”

“Your mother?”

Galloway heard faint amusement behind the question and felt himself flush a little. “I wrote to her today,” he said defensively. “Told her about the girls and what’s happened. I’m going to make enquiries about this cousin of theirs as well. I’m not allowing them to go back to their blasted uncle without somebody they can turn to if he starts bullying them. I want them to know they’re not alone any more.”

Beattie picked up his tankard and drained it then set it down with unnecessary force. “Oh they won’t be, I promise you. Your mother sounds like a woman I would love to meet. Get yourself a drink, I won’t be long.”

***

Elinor spent the first few days in Santander constantly looking over her shoulder. Colonel Galloway’s speculation about Major Welby’s motives had shocked her to the core and once she had time to think about it, she was genuinely frightened. She lay awake at night listening to Juliet’s peaceful breathing, trying to imagine ways that she could have avoided walking into the trap, but she had a suspicion that she would have acceded to whatever Welby had suggested with regard to her wedding. She was appalled at her own naivety and angry to realise that she had become so cowed by her uncle’s relentless bullying that she had almost forgotten how to say no and genuinely mean it.

During the daytime though, it was becoming difficult to be unhappy when she was being so well looked-after. The weather was fine with only the occasional shower or cloudy day and Juliet’s bubbling high spirits were infectious. Her sister behaved as though this whole disastrous expedition was nothing more than a glorious holiday away from the dull routine of life in their uncle’s house and after a few days, Elinor realised she was beginning to feel the same way. It was hard to hold on to her anxiety when there was so much to see and do and all of it was completely new.

They had very little money, but sightseeing cost nothing. Beattie had found them a roughly drawn plan of the town and they explored the winding streets and visited the cathedral with its glorious nave and peaceful cloisters. For two happy weeks they wandered in and out of churches and even visited a convent with Galloway to listen to the most beautiful choir music Elinor had ever heard. They rummaged through small dark shops where she could not resist spending a little of their precious supply of money on a lace fan for each of them. It was the prettiest thing she had ever owned and she would treasure it as a souvenir of this unexpected adventure.

By the end of two weeks, Elinor’s fears had settled. She had stopped expecting to be challenged about payment of their bill and no longer imagined running into Welby around every corner. They dined each day at the hotel, usually with both gentlemen although occasionally Galloway’s duties called him to dine in the mess. On one occasion Captain O’Halloran invited them to dine aboard the Lady Emma. Elinor dreaded his enquiries about her missing fiancé but she quickly realised that Gareth Beattie must have given him some explanation because he asked no awkward questions. Colonel Galloway was also a guest.

After dinner they took wine up onto the deck and stood watching some of the men dancing hornpipes by the golden light of the ship’s lanterns. Juliet was laughing, teasing Mr Beattie to attempt the dance.

“You must have danced it at one time, Mr Beattie. You told me you were at sea when you were a boy.”

“If I did, I don’t remember it, Miss Juliet. I remember a lot of sea-sickness, some terrible food and a few whacks with the cane from the bosun’s mates. Not so much dancing.”

“I don’t believe a word of it. What if I agreed to dance it with you?”

Beattie was looking at her, shaking his head and laughing. “Oh no, you’re not catching me out like that.”

Juliet studied him for a moment then held out her hand. “Please?” she asked.

Elinor could feel herself stiffening. There was an unmistakable invitation in both Juliet’s tone and expression. She could sense Beattie struggling with his better self and then she saw his taut hesitation soften and he took her sister’s hand.

“Come on then. If we both slip over on this deck, I’m not taking the blame.”

“I rely upon you to hold me up,” Juliet teased and he laughed and drew her to stand alongside him. Around them, the crew roared their approval and O’Halloran began to clap along to the fiddler as Beattie demonstrated a simple step. He was surprisingly agile and light on his feet and Juliet watched in delight, then tried to copy the step. Her muslin skirts hampered her and she lifted them a little higher.

“It isn’t fair, you can’t dance this in skirts. Show me again.”

He did so and Juliet followed. Elinor could feel her heart beating faster. She knew that she should intervene. Her aunt and uncle would be appalled at the sight of their niece dancing before a crew of common seamen with a man she barely knew and whom Elinor suspected had not been born a gentleman, for all his good manners.

“Breathe,” Galloway said beside her. She looked up, realising that he had been watching her face rather than the dancing. Some of the men had joined in again and Juliet was moving among them, her face alight with happiness. Elinor thought she had never seen her sister look so carefree and so beautiful.

“I should stop her, this isn’t right,” she whispered.

“If you’re looking at a young woman enjoying a dance and thinking there’s something wrong in it, Miss Spencer, then you’re not the girl I thought you were.”

Elinor looked up at him, unexpectedly upset. “I’m not that much of a prude, sir. I know she’s been too much controlled and confined. We both have. No wonder she’s…but if people could see her like this…”

“The people who matter would smile. As you can, if you let yourself. None of your family are here and nobody is going home to tattle to them. She looks like a happy child. Take my hand. I can’t engage to manage a hornpipe, I don’t have Beattie’s early training, but we can achieve something.”

Elinor looked up at him wide-eyed. “I’ve never had a dancing lesson in my life,” she said. “I don’t know how.”

“Then you’ll learn. Try this, it’s a country dance; a simple step but it will fit to this music. Watch my feet.”

She was lost in minutes, her body caught up in the music and the joy of movement. The music changed to a faster beat and then to something slower and more stately. Elinor had no idea what she was dancing but it did not seem to matter. She was laughing and he laughed with her, catching her hand and passing it over to Beattie, then spinning Juliet around instead.

Elinor was silent as the small boat slipped through the water back to the jetty. Juliet was talking to the two men, teasing them about their dancing, asking Galloway questions about balls he had attended as though she had known him all her life. Elinor listened. Her disapproval had vanished and in its place she felt a dreamy content, as though some kind of weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The swish of the oars was soothing and Elinor leaned over and trailed her fingers through the water. It was very cold. She wondered how it would feel to be immersed in it and wished she could experience it one day.

“You’re shivering. Here.”

Galloway’s red coat was warm and rough about her shoulders. Elinor looked around at him, smiling her thanks.

“Will you not be cold?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you for dancing with me, Miss Spencer. I enjoyed it very much.”

“So did I. I’m sorry I was such an idiot earlier. I think I’ve grown up with my uncle’s voice in my ear.”

“Ignore him. The man has nothing useful to say.”

She gave a little laugh. “You’ve not even met him.”

“I’ve been in the army since I was seventeen, Miss Spencer. I’ve met the likes of him more than once. The key is to recognise what you’re dealing with and don’t let it upset you.”

“I don’t think you’d get on with him.”

He gave her a smile which made her heart skip a beat. “Just now I’d like to kick him down a flight of stairs, ma’am, but I’d never do it. He’s an old man and your uncle. Which doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have something to say to him.”

“It’s probably just as well you’ll never meet.”

He did not reply but to her surprise he reached out, took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You’re going to be all right, ma’am. I promise you. Just wait a little while longer.”

Elinor looked down at her hands. “I’m glad I don’t have a betrothal ring,” she said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“If he’d given you a ring I’d have thrown it in the Bay of Santander by now. Here’s the quay. Wait until they’ve tied up and I’ll help you over, it’s a bit choppy.”

***

Galloway was changing for dinner when the note came for him. He read it twice then went to find Beattie, who was already waiting at what had become their usual table on the terrace.

“I’m going to be late tonight. Will you take the ladies in? I’ll join you later if I can.”

Beattie set down the book he had been reading. “What’s happened?”

“Welby is back. The party rode in about an hour ago.”

Beattie stood up. “Is he likely to make his way down here to visit his fiancée?”

Galloway smiled grimly at his tone. “No. Colonel Stratton is keeping him there until I’ve spoken to him. After that, I doubt he’ll want to come near her.”

Beattie’s reflected smile reminded Galloway of a particularly predatory wolf. “If he wants to, I’m happy to have a word myself.”

Galloway found Major Welby in an elegant room in one of the public buildings which the 9th Dragoon Guards had requisitioned as their battalion headquarters. There was a fire blazing in the grate which made Galloway blink in surprise as it was a warm afternoon. Colonel Stratton greeted him politely.

“Colonel Galloway, I have already spoken to Major Welby about this betrothal. He has admitted that he should not have invited the young woman out here without first speaking to me and asking my permission to marry. He has also confessed that he did so under pressure from her relations and that he has been having doubts about the connection for some time. It was a stupid and thoughtless thing to do, but no real harm has been done.”

Galloway did not speak. His eyes were on Welby’s face. There was the hint of a smirk on the good looking features which made Galloway think longingly about punching him.

“That’s very interesting,” he said politely. “As a matter of interest, what are Welby’s intentions now?”

“I have refused permission. The girl can’t stay out here, we’ve orders to join Lord Wellington as soon as possible. This is not the time for my officers to allow their personal lives to distract them; we are marching towards France. Under the circumstances, the Major is willing to pay for a passage home for her and I have suggested that he visits her to ask to be released from his obligation. No harm done.”

The smirk widened a little. Galloway fixed his eyes onto Welby. “There’s no need for any of that, Stratton. Miss Spencer has made it abundantly clear that she wouldn’t choose to be in a room with this reeking pile of dog shit for five minutes, let alone marry him. Her accommodation and passage home are being managed by Mr Gareth Beattie, who was fortunately aboard the merchant ship she arrived on. He’s confidential secretary to Mr Franz van Daan who owns the shipping line and has the full approval of his employer to provide every assistance to Miss Spencer and her sister until they are safely home, including an escort.”

“Her sister?” Welby blurted out. Galloway was pleased to see that the smirk had slipped.

“Yes, didn’t you know? She is fully chaperoned by her sister and their personal maid. No need to worry at all that you’ve damaged her reputation, Welby. I know that must be keeping you awake at night. I understand you gave her no betrothal ring or any other kind of token and she has assured me that she has already burned every one of your letters.”

“I find your attitude offensive, Galloway.”

“That will be Lieutenant-Colonel Galloway to you, Welby. Remember to salute me on the way out. I know you sometimes forget.”

Colonel Stratton shifted uncomfortably. “Well, well, it’s clear that tempers are a little frayed here. And I do agree Galloway that he’s not behaved well. I’ve spoken to him in the strongest terms about his conduct. Were it not for the impending campaign I might even be inclined to take it further, but this is war after all and I need all my officers.”

“That’s all right, Stratton,” Galloway said cordially. He was still looking at Welby who looked fuming rather than smug now. “If you tried to put together a charge for conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman with this one, we’d be in France before they’d finished listing the evidence. As long as he makes no attempt to contact that girl he can go and get his head blown off in a cavalry charge with my blessing. And he’s going to. He’s too stupid to stay alive.”

Welby made a curious snorting sound. “You’re insulting, sir! You’ll meet me for that.”

“Welby, don’t be an idiot,” Stratton said sharply. Galloway gave a broad smile.

“Is that a challenge, Welby?”

“That depends on whether or not you apologise.”

“Well I’m not going to, but I’m happy to pretend I didn’t hear you. Just remember it’s my choice of weapons and I’ll choose swords. I enjoyed fencing at school and when I was growing up I used to practice a lot when I visited the Van Daans at Southwinds. He was a good swordsman even then, Major-General van Daan. I learned a lot from him.”

There was a long painful pause and then Welby shrugged. “Duelling is illegal.”

“So it is and with very good reason. Excellent decision, Welby. Thank you for your help, Colonel Stratton. May I trust you to keep him busy and out of my way until you leave?”

“Of course, Colonel. I’m grateful for your discretion in this matter. Is she…will she be all right? Miss Spencer?”

“Yes, she’ll do very well, Colonel. Good afternoon.”

He had reached the door when Welby said:

“Are you still hiding behind him?”

Galloway turned and surveyed him. “No. But if I were you, I’d give some thought to the fact that he’s with Wellington commanding a brigade of the Light Division and that’s where you’re going next, Cecil. I might mention that I ran into you here, but I’ve no need to give him a lengthy report on your antics. I’m sure his father will do that once he’s heard from Gareth Beattie, who you’ll remember is his secretary. And I’ll see that salute. I’m your senior officer now. Try to bear that in mind.”

***

The wind was brisk on the quayside and Elinor was wrapped in her cloak as she stood watching the barge rowing in from the Lady Emma. It was struggling a little in the white capped waves but it still seemed to her to be coming too quickly. Beattie had arranged for the removal of their luggage earlier in the day and had assured them that he would make sure their accommodation was ready for them before returning to escort them aboard. Elinor glanced at her sister. Juliet’s eyes were on the boat where Beattie’s bright copper head was clearly visible even through the spray. She could not help smiling but she was also very envious. Juliet had all the time in the world. Elinor felt that her time was coming to an end.

“Miss Spencer, may I have a word with you in private before you board? Eliza can stay with your sister.”

Galloway led her to a little shack which looked as though it was used for some kind of shipping office, with a smooth oak desk and wooden shelving containing dozens of ledgers. There was only one chair and Galloway did not suggest she take it. He looked tired and a little out of sorts.

“I wanted to speak to you about the arrangements for your journey. There’s no need to worry about anything. Beattie will be with you the entire way; he’s organised all the transport and any necessary halts. Place yourself in his hands, he’ll take good care of you.”

“I know he will. I’ll always be so grateful to him. And to you, sir, for your care of us. Thank you. I wish I could…”

“I wish I was coming with you. These weeks have felt very leisurely in places and now it feels rushed. I thought I’d have time to speak to you properly, but time has got away from me at the last minute and now you’re going.”

Elinor gave a painful smile. “I wish I could tell you I would write to you, sir, but my uncle won’t even allow us to receive letters from my cousin. I’ve found out all about him though, thanks to Mr Beattie, and he is going to try to arrange for letters to reach us. I wonder if…should you wish to write?”

Galloway smiled for the first time. “I am not going to give that smart-mouthed clerk control of my personal correspondence. God knows what would happen. He came to see me last night after dinner and gave me a huge talking to about my inability to get to the point. I couldn’t decide if it was for my benefit or for his, since he’s hoping if you’re not residing with your uncle the entire time it will make it easier for him to visit.”

Elinor stared at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand. Not reside with my uncle?”

“You’ll have to go back there at first of course. Don’t worry about him though. I’ve written to him in terms that I think will ensure there will be no more beatings or confinement. But you’re not happy there, either of you. I was wondering if you might like to make an extended visit to some friends.”

“Friends?” Elinor said, even more confused. “What friends?”

“My mother would like to meet you. I’ve written to her and told her all about you. You’d love it there. They’re good sorts, my family, and the place is full of horses and dogs. Do you like dogs?”

“Yes,” Elinor said. She was beginning to realise that this conversation had nothing to do with travel arrangements and her heart lifted. The Colonel was beginning to describe his favourite spaniel cross-breed and Elinor recognised nervousness. She allowed him to go on for a while because she was enjoying the sound of his voice and the opportunity to study his pleasant face and kind brown eyes. It might be a long time before she saw him again and she wanted to commit them to memory.

She would have been happy for the conversation to continue but the door opened and Beattie’s copper head poked around it, damp with spray.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

“Have you not done it yet?”

Galloway flushed slightly. “I was just telling Miss Spencer that…”

“Stop telling her things and try asking her something. The boat’s waiting and we can’t miss the tide. My employer has been remarkably patient about all this but he’ll be getting to the stage of pacing the room and remembering why he thought about dismissing me two years ago.”

“Why did he…?”

“Get on with it!” Beattie yelled and closed the door.

Elinor could feel laughter bubbling up, filling her with joy. Galloway looked down at her and seemed to catch both her happiness and her understanding. He reached out and took her hand.

“I always knew if I ever reached the moment of wanting to do this that I’d make an absolute mess of it.”

“You’re not, Tobias.”

“I am. But I don’t have time to tell you the history of every dog I ever owned. I’ll let my mother do that. She’s going to write to your uncle and I promise you he’ll make no objection to you going to stay with her. With Juliet as well, of course. And will you call me Toby? All my friends and family do.”

“Only if you will stop calling me Miss Spencer.”

“Elinor, I love you. Meeting you, despite the appalling circumstances, has been the best thing ever to happen to me. Will you marry me, sweetheart?”

“Of course I will, you silly man. Why on earth did you leave it so long? No wonder Gareth is shouting at you.”

He bent to kiss her. She could feel his quiver of laughter against her lips. “He told you to call him that, didn’t he?”

“Well he had to, because of course he wants Juliet to do so and it wouldn’t be proper. I mean it still isn’t proper, but so much has happened that I have decided to abandon my notions of propriety and just see what happens next.”

He kissed her again and there was a long and satisfying silence. It was broken as the door flew open again. Elinor jumped and turned. Galloway kept his arm firmly about her.

“Thank God for that. I thought I was going to have to do it for you. Thanks old man. This is going to make my situation so much easier.”

“That wasn’t my first consideration, Beattie. Get out of here.”

 “Of course. I’ll leave you to say goodbye, but I want a quick word with you before we board. Congratulations, ma’am. I’m glad that arsehole Welby didn’t put you off marrying into the army. You made a much better choice this time.”

He vanished and Elinor moved back into Galloway’s open arms.  He kissed her again. “I’ll write as often as possible. I’m going to try and get leave, although it won’t be possible immediately. But I’ve not been home since just after Talavera, I might be able to manage something. If not, I’m afraid you’re going to have another long engagement, my love.”

“Do not dare to compare the two,” Elinor scolded lightly. “I love you, Toby. Please keep safe.”

“I will. I’ve already written the letters to your uncle and to my mother. I’m glad you said yes or they’d have been wasted. I’ll send them off by the packet, they should get there well before you do. Goodbye, love. No, don’t cry or you’ll set me off. Come on, let’s get you into the boat. Then I can go back to my quarters and howl.”

***

Galloway watched his love being handed carefully into the boat then turned to Beattie who was waiting to speak to him. The other man was smiling.

“I’ll take care of her for you, I promise.”

“You’d better, if you want my support for your own future plans.”

“That’s going to take a bit longer. I’m not really in a position to marry just now and she’s not yet of age. But I was hoping I wasn’t wrong about your intentions towards Elinor. Partly because she’s a darling and will suit you very well and partly because it is going to ease our way considerably.”

“Have you actually spoken to Juliet?”

Beattie grinned. “I was going to,” he said. “She didn’t choose to wait, just in case I had an attack of nerves.”

“She’s a formidable young woman.”

“Yes, she is. I need to get going. But there’s something you should know. Welby’s departure with his regiment will be delayed. He’s had an accident. Stupid fool got drunk, celebrating his release from his unwanted engagement so I’m told. Went the wrong way down a dark alley in the port area of Santander and got himself beaten and robbed. Apparently they broke both his nose and his arm. He’ll have to convalesce for a couple of weeks before he can join his squadron.”

Galloway stared at him in complete silence. “Robbed?” he said finally.

Beattie grinned. “He hadn’t much on him. I had to make it look convincing. I gave it to Miss Spencer. Pin money for the journey home. She’d no idea where it came from, of course. I thought it was fitting.”

“And where was I when this sad accident occurred?”

“By a lucky coincidence it was the day you were invited to dine with the Mayor and the Council. About fifty people at that dinner, weren’t there?”

“I imagine that’s why nobody has questioned me about it.”

“I imagine so.”

Galloway could not decide how he felt about the admission and then realised it did not matter. Beattie would always make his own decisions and he suspected that some of those decisions would always be affected by where he began in life.

“Is that what your extra duties consist of, Beattie? When you’re not writing his letters and managing his diary?”

“No. Franz van Daan is well beyond needing any kind of hired muscle. I’m told he’s coming up for a knighthood. And I’m not that man, Galloway. Welby had it coming and you couldn’t do it, you’ve a career to think of. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Galloway felt himself smile. “Look after yourself. And them. I’ll write.”

“So will I. Come and wave to your girl, she’s trying not to cry.”

“So am I,” Galloway said. He made his way to the quay and watched as his friend jumped nimbly into the boat. Both girls waved until they were well out across the water. Galloway continued to do so until the boat was close to the merchantman and he could not make out the faces of the passengers. He could still see the movement of Elinor’s hand though and he thought she blew him a kiss. He blew one back just in case and remained there until the boat tied up and the passengers were aboard. Finally he wiped his eyes surreptitiously, squared his shoulders and turned back to the streets of Santander and an appointment with a furious grain merchant.

For those who haven’t read any of my previous stories, I suggest you start with Eton Mess which tells the story of Toby Galloway and Cecil Welby’s school days.

 

 

Here Comes 2023 at Writing with Labradors

Here comes 2023 at Writing with Labradors and a very Happy New Year to all my friends, family and readers.

I decided to look back at last year’s opening post to get some ideas about what I wanted to say about the past year and my plans for this one. I’m very glad I did, because it’s really put into perspective how different 2022 was from the previous year. In 2021 I’d really struggled with lockdowns and a variety of family problems and it affected my writing. My post was full of regrets about the things I didn’t manage to achieve along with hopes for the coming year.

Let’s see how that went.

I’d already effectively finished book 7 of the Peninsular War Saga at the end of 2021 and passed it on to my editor. Poor Heather had a somewhat fraught start to 2022 since she knew how desperate I was to get another book out after a year’s gap. She worked very hard despite some health problems of her own and the book was published in April. An Indomitable Brigade, set during the Vitoria campaign of 1813, was a big hit with fans of the series.

With one book under my belt, I went back to book 3 of the Manxman series. I’d started this in 2021 but for some reason I just couldn’t get on with it. I was happy with the storyline and had done loads of research but writing it was like wading through treacle. Eventually, because I had to write something to get myself out of my gloom, I abandoned it and wrote the Vitoria book instead.

I went back to This Bloody Shore with some trepidation in May and much to my surprise I discovered what was wrong with it on the first read through. I cut the first two chapters completely, starting the book at a different place and was pleased to find that most of the rest of what I’d written was completely fine. The writing raced along, I loved seeing more of Captain Bonnet and my two new Spanish characters were immensely satisfying to write.

 

Thanks once again to an end of year sprint by my fantastic editor, This Bloody Shore came out in December and sales and reviews proved it to be a winner. I received my first ever number one bestseller in new releases tag from Amazon. I was delighted, not just for myself but for Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell who have earned their place in the hearts of my readers alongside Paul van Daan. The surprise hit of the book, according to reader comments, was Faith Collingwood. The shy girl of book 2 seems to have blossomed in book 3 and my readers love it.

In addition to the two books, I wrote my usual three free short stories this year. Valentine’s Day took us back in time to the winter of 1808-09 and an Unassuming Gentleman, a traditional Regency romance for one of the officers of the 110th. Halloween took us even further back to Paul van Daan’s schooldays at Eton, finally solving the question of why he was expelled for throwing the Greek master into a fountain in Eton Mess. And my Christmas story, The Glassblower’s Daughter, was written during a recent holiday to Mallorca and featured two of the main characters from This Bloody Shore.

I also published the Recruit on St Patrick’s Day. Set during the days of the bloody rebellion of 1798, it tells the story of how one of the major characters of the Peninsular War Saga came into the army and is a taster for a full-length novel I’m planning.

With travel opening up again, I fulfilled a long-held wish and signed up for a Waterloo tour with Number One London Tours, led by Kristine Hughes and Gareth Glover. The tour began in London then moved to Waterloo, taking in all the museums and many of the monuments around the battlefield. Gareth’s knowledge of the battle is remarkable and he’s also a very good storyteller while Kristine’s expertise on the social aspects and personalities involved made the stories even more poignant. I loved every minute of the tour and came home with my brain teeming with ideas about how to write Waterloo when the time comes. For the first time I understand why so many writers get to this point and jump forward to the battle but I’m not going to. My characters need to get there the hard way, just as the men of Wellington’s army did during the war.

Other trips during the year were more about catching up with friends and family after such a long separation during lockdown. I still managed to slip in some historical visits though, with a trip to the Naval Dockyard in Portsmouth, Maritime Greenwich in London and the Military Museums in Winchester, where I acquired a Rifles bear to add to my desk army.

 

The Cathedral in Palma

I wasn’t expecting to find Napoleonic history in Mallorca in October, where I was only there to accompany my husband and a group of cycling friends. I was surprised to discover that in a direct follow-up to This Bloody Shore, the island was overwhelmed by refugees from the fall of Tarragona in 1811. Mallorca is beautiful, with some fascinating history and I wrote this year’s Christmas story sitting by the pool.

I was excited by the prospect of attending my first Napoleonic conference for several years in September. In fact, only the first day happened as planned, a tour of Apsley House. The death of the Queen meant that the National Army Museum was immediately closed and the poor organisers had to move the entire thing online with less than 24 hours notice. They did a remarkable job, and those of us already in London for the event watched the talks online during the day and then met up in a pub near the venue for the evening. Seeing old friends and making new ones was still a highlight despite the disappointment of the conference.

Another thing I’ve been able to tick off my list this year is that all the books are finally available in paperback and I have new covers for both of my Regency romances. My long-suffering editor, Heather Paisley of Dieudonne Editorial Services, is gradually working her way through my back-list to bring all the books up to her rigorous standard. She assures me this would go faster if I would just stop writing new books and short stories which need to take priority. I can’t thank her enough for the hard work she puts in on this. She’s promised to do a blog post with me this year, explaining more about the processing of editing. It should be a fun read and we’re hoping it will be helpful for new writers who might find the process of working with an editor somewhat daunting.

I’ve been a member of the Historical Writers’ Forum on Facebook for some years now and run their Twitter account. They organise regular Zoom panels and I was involved in one last year talking about writing battles. This year’s panel was particularly exciting as we had a special guest in the person of Mr Bernard Cornwell who joined us to talk about creating great characters along with M J Logue and Paula Lofting. It was great fun and the talk is available online for anybody who missed it.

I’m hoping for some more online adventures this year. I’ve also agreed to another short story for an anthology, but this one is right out of my period and my comfort zone, which is why I’ve agreed to do it. I like a challenge.

On a personal level, I’ve mostly recovered from the effects of the various lockdowns. I’ve made a start of book 8 of the Peninsular War Saga. It’s called An Unattainable Stronghold and follows the 110th into the Pyrenees and the storming of San Sebastian. After that, I’ll be going back to the Iris to join Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell along the coast of northern Spain where they are joining Sir Home Popham on his campaign to annoy the French and the Spanish equally. I’m very much looking forward to the biography of Popham currently being written by my good friend Dr Jacqueline Reiter. I’m hoping to make good use of it when it’s published.

The year had a sad ending when we heard that my uncle, William ‘Bill’ Bryant had died. Bill was a huge personality, very much part of my childhood and will be very much missed. He raised a family of history lovers and I laughed aloud during one of the eulogies about his passion for watching war films, despite the fact that he must have seen Zulu and the Battle of Britain a thousand times. The final piece of music played at his funeral was chosen by him, and we both laughed and cried as we left the service to the rousing sound of the Great Escape.

 

I’m looking forward to 2023. Last year was all about work and catching up on the time I’d missed. This year I feel confident again in my ability to write. I have also (finally) worked out how I intend to divide up the final books in the Peninsular War Saga. At least I think I have, though you know what I’m like for changing my mind. So for those of you who have been wondering…all titles are provisional by the way.

Book 8: An Unattainable Stronghold (San Sebastian, Vera and San Marcial, July – Sept 1813)

Book 9: An Inexorable Invasion (Bidasoa, Nivelle and Nive plus winter quarters 1813-14)

Book 10: An Improbable Abdication (Feb-April 1814 taking us through to the end of the war and possibly back home)

Book 11: An Insubstantial Peace: (Peacetime in England plus the Congress of Vienna. For those of you howling with laughter, I am not sending Paul to Vienna as a diplomat. Even I couldn’t write that. But somebody will be there with Wellington…)

Book 12: An Implacable Engagement: the Waterloo campaign. (Enough said really)

Book 13: An Amicable Occupation (the Army of Occupation)

And that will be it for the Peninsular War Saga. Some of the dates will probably change as I’m not sure where book 10 will end and book 11 begin. Still, at least I’ve got my head around the Pyrenees now.

As for Hugh and Durrell, I’ve got some interesting new ideas about these two that I’m still considering. Watch this space.

I hope all my readers have a fantastic 2023. Thank you all once again for your support during the past year and for your continuing enthusiasm for the books and for my characters. Please keep in touch. I love hearing from you all.

Happy New Year to all of you from Lynn, Oscar and Alfie at Writing with Labradors.

The Jolabokaflod – an annual tradition

Welcome to the Jolabokaflod- an annual tradition here at Writing With Labradors. Every year since 2017 I’ve offered some of my books for free on Amazon kindle as a Christmas gift to my readers, old and new.

In Iceland there is a tradition of giving books to each other on Christmas Eve and then spending the evening reading which is known as  the Jolabokaflod, or “Christmas Book Flood,” as the majority of books in Iceland are sold between September and December in preparation for Christmas giving.

At this time of year, most households in Iceland receive an annual free book catalogue of new publications called the Bokatidindi.  Icelanders pore over the new releases and choose which ones they want to buy.

The small Nordic island, with a population of only 329,000 people, is extraordinarily literary. They love to read and write. According to a BBC article, “The country has more writers, more books published and more books read, per head, than anywhere else in the world.  One in ten Icelanders will publish a book.”

There is more value placed on hardback and paperback books than in other parts of the world where e-books have grown in popularity.  In Iceland most people read, and the book industry is based on many people buying several books each year rather than a few people buying a lot of books.  The vast majority of books are bought at Christmas time, and that is when most books are published.

The idea of families and friends gathering together to read before the fire on Christmas Eve is a winter tradition which appeals to me.  Like the Icelanders, I love physical books although I both read and publish e-books – sometimes they are just more convenient.  Still, the Jolabokaflod would work with any kind of book. They are also easier to give away, and I like to celebrate my own version of the Jolabokaflod with my readers, by giving away the e-book versions of some of my books on kindle for three days, on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day.

It’s been five years since I first made the decision to independently publish my historical novels, and it has gone better than I ever expected. Sales have risen steadily, I’ve had some great reviews and my latest book This Bloody Shore which is the third in the Manxman Series won me my very first number one in new releases tag on Amazon.

I couldn’t have done it without the loyalty of a very engaged band of readers who read the books, review them and engage in regular discussions about them on social media. I’ve not only become a full-time author, I’ve made friends along the way.

This is my way of saying thank you to all my readers and hello to any new readers out there.

Visit Amazon to download the following books free on 24th, 25th and 26th of December. Please note that The Reluctant Debutante will only be available on 25th and 26th due to problems with Amazon. My apologies for that.

 

An Unconventional Officer - love and war in Wellington’s armyAn Unconventional Officer (Book 1 of the Peninsular War Saga)

A Regrettable Reputation (Book 1 of the Regency Romances)

The Reluctant Debutante (Book 2 of the Regency Romances)

A Marcher Lord (a novel of the Anglo-Scottish borders)

A Respectable Woman (a novel of Victorian London)

Don’t forget to try the latest free short story, the Glassblower’s Daughter. 

An Unattainable Stronghold, book 8 of the Peninsular War Saga will be arriving in 2023.

Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year to all of you, from Lynn, Oscar and Alfie, the staff at Writing With Labradors.

Eton Mess

Eton Mess is in loving memory of a very gorgeous dog called India and is dedicated to her companion, my friend and enthusiastic reader Janet Watkinson.

Welcome to my free short story for Halloween 2022. Those of you who have read my previous Halloween stories will know that they are generally traditional ghost stories, designed to cause a bit of a chill.

For some reason, I couldn’t come up with my usual ghost story this year. Maybe I just wore out my ideas last year, or maybe it’s because I really wanted something a bit more light hearted during these times of doom and gloom. Whatever the reason, I’ve written something different this year, though it’s very much based in the season.

When I was a child I used to adore school stories. Nothing could have been further from my East End schooling than the tennis and cricket matches of boarding schools but I loved them. The Chalet School were my favourites, closely followed by the Jennings books but I read every one of the genre I could get my hands on.

I even managed to wade through Tom Brown’s Schooldays. I adored George MacDonald Fraser’s follow-up books about the dastardly bully, Flashman, and his spectacular army career and there’s a good reason why the bully in this story is going into the cavalry. One of these days, if he’s made it this far through the war, I’d quite like to introduce him to Major-General van Daan who has a long memory and a really large dog.

My research into the customs of Eton College during this period made it clear that a lot of the traditions we associate with the school came in rather later. There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of uniformity about how the school, including the Boarding Houses, was run at this point, though it does seem to be clear that some of them were still being run solely by women. House masters did exist, but did not become fully established until slightly later in the nineteenth century. It suited my purpose for the young Van Daan to live under a more relaxed regime so I’ve placed him in Dame Lovelace’s Boarding House.

I hope you enjoy this latest adventure in Paul van Daan’s early life. I loved writing it and was surprised at the end to realise that, with one exception, Paul’s appalling language really hadn’t developed at this point. You could almost let your children read this one. It was definitely written for fun. Enjoy.

Eton Mess

Eton College, October 1795

Mr Julian Holland was correcting Latin grammar in the Masters’ common-room when the sounds of battle reached him. He tried to ignore it. Five years living in the midst of three hundred active boys had taught him the madness of intervening in every minor squabble. Often the combats proved to be nothing more than the kind of noisy play fight you might expect from a litter of growing puppies.

After a few minutes, Julian put down his pen and listened harder. The noise had grown louder and he decided that this was more than general high spirits. There was a savage chanting which suggested a fight of more than usual interest or even worse, a severe beating.

Julian stood up with a sigh, shaking out his gown. He occupied a relatively junior position among the teaching staff at Eton College and it was not really his job to maintain discipline among the boys, unless it  was in his own classes. He was sure that the Headmaster or some of the Assistant Masters were within earshot, but he knew that none of them would make a move to find out what was going on unless somebody made a formal report. Mr Heath had only taken over as Headmaster the previous year and was so far showing every sign of continuing the indifference of his predecessor to the safety and welfare of the boys under his care.

Julian made his way at a gentle run down through the Long Walk. The noise seemed to be coming from the churchyard beyond the chapel which was further away than he had expected. Sound carried well on the chill autumn air and, as Julian rounded the end of the chapel, he could see them: a group of boys in a wide semi-circle close to the red brick wall and the old well on the far side of the churchyard. Their cheers and yells of encouragement drowned out any sound of his approach across the damp, leaf strewn grass between the gravestones.

As he drew close, Julian could see that his instinct had not betrayed him. Boxing was a popular sport at Eton and many parents paid extra for their sons to be taught properly, though many of the masters considered it a vulgar activity and preferred to encourage the young gentlemen to study the art of fencing. Some of the boys excelled at both.

Coming up to the edge of the group, Julian could see that the current match was uneven. Two boys were at the centre of the ring, one on the ground sporting a bloody face while the other was still on his feet, although he did not look in much better condition. Three older boys surrounded them, aiming kicks and blows where they could, with no consideration for the traditions of boxing or for any kind of gentlemanly conduct.

Julian knew all the boys under his tuition and was aware that these older boys were all approaching the end of their time at Eton. In the case of the Honourable Cecil Welby, who was eighteen and undoubtedly the ringleader in this systematic battering of younger boys, Julian could not wait for him to go. Welby was destined for a commission in a regiment of Hussars and Julian hoped passionately that the young officer would be ruthlessly bullied by his new messmates to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Welby and his friends had clearly not had it all their own way on this occasion. Ned Carrington’s nose was almost as bloody as his younger opponent’s and he was clearly distracted by his need to mop it occasionally on the sleeve of his coat. Barney Fletcher, the third combatant had what looked like the beginnings of a black eye and Welby himself sported a badly split lip. He was moving in on the younger boy now, his expression murderous.

“Carrington, Fletcher, get hold of his arms. Hold him still, he’s like a bloody gnat.”

As if to prove a point, the boy dodged back as the two converged on him, twisting sideways to avoid Fletcher’s grasping hands. Carrington managed to get a hold on his other side but let go with a yell as the boy turned into him and lifted a knee towards his groin. The blow missed however and the boy was off balance, giving Welby the opportunity to charge into him, knocking him flat.

All three of the older boys moved in, using their feet. Julian gave a shout of anger as all three connected with different parts of the boy’s body. He elbowed his way through the crowd which parted immediately. The atavistic roars of encouragement had died away. Partly Julian thought it was due to the arrival of a master but he also thought they had sensed the moment when an uneven mill turned into something savage and more dangerous.

“Welby, Carrington, Fletcher, get away from him,” Julian bellowed. “This is not the first time I’ve had to speak to you about bullying the younger boys, but you’ve gone too far this time. I’ll be speaking to the Headmaster and I also intend to write to your fathers personally.”

Welby did not speak but Carrington lifted his voice in immediate protest.

“That’s not fair, sir, he started it. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Just giving young Galloway a bit of a reminder of his duties. He’s Welby’s fag you know and he’s been altogether too choosy about what he will and won’t do. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

Julian, who could remember the sheer misery of his own school days fagging for a bullying senior, wanted to point out that there was a lot wrong with it but he knew he would lose the argument. Fagging, the practice of a younger boy acting as servant to a senior boy in return for his protection was encouraged at most schools. In the hands of a kindly older boy it was harmless enough but in the hands of a bully like Welby it could be intolerable.

“He’s twelve,” Julian said coldly. “It shouldn’t take three of you to explain the rules.”

“It would have been all right if Van Daan hadn’t weighed in,” Welby said. “None of his damned business and I told him so. I hope he’s learned his lesson by it, sir. He needs reminding, the snotty little brat.”

Julian looked down at the leggy, fair-haired fourteen year old on the grass. He had uncurled himself cautiously and was beginning to sit up, wincing a little. Julian waited. He had no idea what was coming but he knew something was and he was poised to intervene. Van Daan rubbed blood from his face and felt around one eye which was beginning to swell. He looked up, giving Julian a glimpse of clear blue eyes, then shifted his gaze to Welby and gave a singularly charming smile.

“Every time you get close enough, Welby, I’m reminded of the smell of dog shit on a hot day. It’s the strangest thing; I always stop to check my shoe and then I realise it’s just you wandering past.”

Welby made an inarticulate sound and moved forward. Julian stepped in front of him, trying to look authoritative and Van Daan scrambled to his feet and stood ready to continue the fight. Julian looked over his shoulder.

“Van Daan, get Galloway up then get him over to the house and cleaned up. I will meet you in the Dame’s kitchen in one hour and if you open your mouth again, I’ll be reporting you. Get moving.”

The boy hesitated, then turned to where Galloway had dragged himself into a sitting position. The sight of the younger boy seemed to remind him of why he had become involved in the first place and he abandoned his fighting stance and went to help the other boy up.

“Come on Galloway, up you get. Dame Lovelace is going to have a fit when she sees the state of you. Make sure you tell her straight away that I didn’t do it or I’ll get my ears boxed on top of everything else.”

Julian watched them limp away. Galloway was leaning heavily on his companion although Julian was not sure which of the two was more seriously injured. He had seen Van Daan flinch as he moved, putting a hand to his ribs. He hoped that Mrs Lovelace, the Dame who ran the Boarding House to which both Van Daan and Galloway belonged, would be able to see through Van Daan’s bravado and get a doctor to have a look at him if necessary.

When the boys had disappeared through the gate Julian turned to look at Welby. The boy wore an expression of studied insolence.

“I don’t think the Headmaster will want to get involved, sir,” he said. “My uncle by marriage is on the Board, you know and none of them will want to interfere with me disciplining my fag. And Van Daan attacked me.”

Julian allowed his eyes to dwell on Welby’s battered face. “I can see he did,” he said. “If I were you, Welby, I wouldn’t want the rest of the school to know that the three of you were bested by a fourteen-year-old. All I can say it that it’s a good thing you didn’t get involved in a fencing bout with him.”

Welby’s face flushed scarlet and Julian gave a sympathetic smile. “Oh I’m sorry. I forgot that you did, last term. Lost half a year’s allowance betting on yourself, didn’t you?”

“If we all had the money he has to waste on fencing and boxing lessons, sir…”

“Enough. I’m not interested. I suggest for your sake that you keep this quiet. Leave Van Daan alone. You’ve only got a couple of months left here, Welby – you go at Christmas don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. To take up my commission.”

“Good. I won’t bother to write to your father, I’m well aware he doesn’t give a damn how you conduct yourself. But if I have to speak to you again about beating the younger boys, I’m going to write to your future commanding officer suggesting he keep an eye on you and explaining why. In the army you’ll be expected to behave like a gentleman. It won’t be a good start if your Colonel knows you’ve a history of not knowing how.”

Julian did not bother to say any more. He knew that Welby was perfectly right. Discipline at Eton was left largely in the hands of the older boys and unless something went badly wrong, it was unlikely that either the Headmaster or the Provost would intervene. He hoped that his threat might make Welby think twice before attempting to exact further revenge on either of the younger boys.

Julian went back to collect his marking then made his way along South Meadow Lane to the big house where Mrs Eleanor Lovelace presided over Whitchurch House, home to twenty boys ranging from the age of ten to eighteen. Julian’s own lodgings were in a narrow lane nearby and although it was not part of his formal duties to oversee the Whitchurch boys, he was on good terms with Dame Lovelace who frequently invited him to supper and often consulted him about the welfare of the boys under her care.

He found the Dame in the big square kitchen, tending to Tobias Galloway’s battered face. Washed clean of blood, it did not look too bad although there was a bruise on his temple and another darkening the fair skin of his jawline. The blood seemed to have come from a split lip. Julian came forward to inspect him and nodded.

“You’ll do, Galloway. You’ve done a good job, ma’am. All the same, I was wondering if you thought it might be an idea to write to Mrs Galloway to suggest that young Tobias goes home for a month or two for Christmas. It might do him some good.”

“He’s due to go home anyway, sir, his father has furlough from the army. I agree it might be wise to bring that forward a little, I’ll write to them this evening to suggest it. By the time he comes back after Christmas the problem should have solved itself.”

“You mean Welby will have gone.”

“Yes, and I won’t miss him. Horrible boy, he’s the worst senior I’ve ever had in the house.”

“Oh I don’t know, ma’am. Whitchurch House won’t be the same without the Honourable Cecil,” a voice said from the doorway. “He should be an asset if he gets to fight the French though. One look at that ugly face and they’ll run a mile. Thank you for intervening, Mr Holland. I know it’s not really your job.”

Julian turned to survey Paul van Daan. He had taken the time to clean himself up and change his muddy clothing but his face, as Julian had suspected, was more battered than Galloway’s. One eye was swollen and bruised, there was a nasty cut on his left cheek and another on his lip. A swelling lump and a gash on his temple made Julian wonder if that was where one of the kicks had connected.

“Look at the state of you,” Mrs Lovelace scolded. “Come and sit down and let me look at those cuts. You look like a low prize fighter. Your poor mother would turn in her grave if she could see you now, Master van Daan.”

“I don’t suppose she would, ma’am. She was used to me.”

Dame Lovelace shooed him into a wooden chair and went for a cold compress and some sticking plaster.

“Well you’ve lived under this roof for two years and I’m still not used to you,” she said. “You should know better, you know what a spiteful beast that boy is.”

“I know that once he starts hitting people he can’t stop,” Van Daan said, his eyes straying to Galloway’s white face. “It’s a pity he always has his friends with him. I wouldn’t bet on his chances if I could get him on his own for ten minutes.”

Julian watched as Dame Lovelace applied a plaster to the cut on the boy’s temple. “He’s four years older and a head taller, Van Daan,” he said gently. “This is not the first time this has happened. When are you going to learn not to get into fights with the seniors?”

“When the seniors stop picking on my friends.”

Julian opened his mouth to remonstrate and then closed it again. It was not the first time he had tried to have this conversation with Paul van Daan. Generally speaking, after the first few rounds with an older boy establishing his superior position in the school hierarchy, most younger boys either fell into line and waited for their own turn at the top, or persuaded their parents to continue their education at home. Van Daan, on the other hand, seemed to be making a single-handed attempt to change the entire system. It had not gone well for him today.

The Van Daan boy had not stood out when he arrived at Eton two years earlier. The gossip in the masters common-room was that he was the younger son of a wealthy Dutch businessman who had married into the English aristocracy. The boy’s mother and sister had died of smallpox and Julian remembered him on arrival as a tall slender twelve year old who looked faintly lost in the echoing halls of the old college.

The first weeks after Van Daan’s arrival had been marked with the usual scuffles and jockeying for position within his peer group, but Julian thought the boy settled well. He seemed well-liked by the other boys and tolerated by most of the masters. His father was wealthy enough to pay handsomely for his sports and social education and Van Daan quickly developed a reputation for being a talented boxer, a brilliant fencer and a good but unenthusiastic cricketer. He was also much in demand for football games where his height and fearlessness made him a favourite pick of the team captains.

His academic studies were less remarkable but Julian, who taught him Latin and geometry, quickly decided that it had nothing to do with his intelligence which was razor sharp. Van Daan’s studies were erratic. If something caught his interest he would devote hours of concentration to mastering it. He went through various enthusiasms for astronomy, Roman military history and learning to play the violin and he proved very able to stick to a subject. When he was bored however, he was an appallingly disruptive pupil with the ability to reduce a class to giggling inattention within minutes.

Julian, who enjoyed teaching and rather liked his pupils, found his ingenuity stretched to keep Van Daan busy and interested and thanked God he was not obliged to teach him Greek. The boy had been taught the basics at home by his previous tutor but showed no interest in taking it further and quickly declared silent war against Mr Archibald Thornton, the thin faced, irritable Greek master. Thornton was quick to lose his temper and enthusiastic in the use of the cane. By the end of his first year, Van Daan had developed a grim tolerance for physical punishment but never managed to look particularly repentant.

Dame Lovelace was pouring hot milk into a cup and adding a dash of brandy. “Off to bed with you, Master Galloway. We’ll see how you are in the morning, but I don’t think you should attend the classroom tomorrow. You look all in, you’ll be better for a good sleep.”

She shepherded the younger boy out of the kitchen. Julian sat down on the bench opposite Van Daan. “What happened?” he asked.

“I wish I knew, sir. Galloway made some kind of dust up about something Welby wanted him to do. I wasn’t there at the start, but when I came upon them, that arsehole and his tame monkeys were threatening to throw him down the old well. He was terrified.” Van Daan’s remarkable blue eyes met Julian’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I know I promised last time, but I couldn’t walk away.”

“I told you to come to me.”

“There wasn’t time, sir. What if they’d really done it? I couldn’t be sure.”

“And what if I’d not come along, Van Daan, and they’d thrown you down that well?”

“I suppose I’d be dead.

Julian sighed. “You can’t leave things alone, can you boy?”

“No, sir.”

“And you don’t know what set them off? It’s not like Galloway to argue with his seniors.”

“No, it’s got me in a puzzle as well. I’ll find out though. Or at least, I’ll get Will Cathcart to do it for me. Galloway will tell him.”

Julian could not help smiling. Cathcart had been an early victim of Welby’s bullying when he had arrived at the school. How Van Daan had managed to get the younger boy’s fagging duties switched to his own good natured senior, Julian had never found out but the two boys had been inseparable ever since. Cathcart was due to leave school very soon to take up a berth in the Royal Navy and Julian wondered if Van Daan’s sudden championship of Galloway had anything to do with him looking for a replacement. He rather hoped so. Galloway had struggled ever since his arrival and Van Daan’s bracing  cheerfulness would do him a great deal of good.

Julian sighed. “All right. I’ll leave him to you, Van Daan. Come and speak to me if it’s anything I should know about. I’ve done my best to warn off Welby, so try not to antagonise him for a few weeks, will you? He’s not here for much longer.”

“And then he’ll be off to bully his men in the cavalry, I suppose.”

“That is not going to be your problem, Van Daan.”

The boy gave him a look which informed Julian that he disagreed. Julian lifted his brows and glared back. After a long moment, Van Daan said grudgingly:

“All right, sir.”

Julian considered asking for his word and decided against it. He got up.

“I have marking to finish, you exasperating young whelp. Try and keep out of trouble until class tomorrow, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps it might be best if you take a day off as well…”

“No, sir. This isn’t bad. I’ll be there. Have you marked my work?”

Julian studied him. “Not yet. Why, will I need to borrow some of Dame Lovelace’s brandy first?”

“You might, sir. I think,” Van Daan said modestly, “that I did quite a good job of it.”

Julian could not prevent a laugh. “Eat your supper and get to bed early, Van Daan. You’re going to have the worst headache tomorrow.”

“It’s already started, sir.”

“Well listen to Dame Lovelace. She’s a good woman and she adores you. She’ll know what to do. Good night.”

***

 There were two shared dormitories in Dame Lovelace’s boarding house plus three separate rooms for the senior boys. Two of them belonged to Cecil Welby and Ned Carrington, although neither appeared to have come home yet tonight. The other was occupied by Dominic Netherton, the third son of an Earl, an elegant youth rather incongruously destined for Cambridge and then the church and a family living in Hertfordshire. Paul van Daan shared nominal fagging duties for Netherton with his friend Cathcart. Netherton was a good natured and undemanding boy of eighteen whose only real requirement was money. He had discovered early on Paul’s talent for both fencing and boxing and had reaped a rich reward in organising competitions and running betting services on the outcome. In return he exercised a casual protection over the two younger boys and troubled them very little.

Paul had just finished his supper and was drinking brandy and milk under the eagle eye of Dame Lovelace when Netherton appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, casting a disapproving eye over the scene.

“I’ve just been hearing about your set-to with Welby, Van Daan.”

“Sorry, Netherton.”

“You’re a damned nuisance. He’s been complaining to me and saying you should be flogged.”

“It would be superfluous,” Paul said, indicating his battered face. Netherton studied him and sighed.

“All right. Keep out of his way until your match against Beeston on Thursday. I’ve got this month’s allowance on it: I can’t afford to lose. Are we clear?”

“Of course. I’ll be fine, it’s nothing serious.”

“Good. Is Galloway all right?”

“I think so. I’m going up to check on him now.” Paul hesitated. “Look, Netherton. I was wondering…you’re going to lose Cathcart next term, he’s off to the Navy. While you’re still here, maybe you could take over Galloway after Welby leaves? He’s a good lad and he’ll be grateful.”

Netherton glared at him. “Welby will want one of his friends to take him over.”

“You’ve no reason to worry about those two, they’re nothing without him. They won’t make a murmur.”

Netherton studied him for a while then sighed. “All right. I’ll speak to Galloway after Christmas. You’re such a pain in the backside, Van Daan.”

“I know I am. Sorry.”

“No you’re bloody not. Get up there and find out if he’s all right, poor little runt. If he’s worried, let me know and I’ll see if I can warn off Welby.”

“Thank you, Netherton. You’re a good sort.”

“I am a bloody pushover and you know it, you little bastard.”

Paul grinned and removed himself to the dormitory. There were eight beds but only five were occupied. Admissions to Eton had been low for several years, although they were currently slightly improved, possibly due to the change in Headmaster.

It was early for the boys to be in bed and Galloway was the only one tucked up in his narrow cot. On the bed next to him was the slim figure of William Cathcart, Paul’s closest friend at school. Cathcart was thirteen, almost a year younger than Paul and the eldest son of Lord Cathcart, a Scottish Peer. Cathcart had suffered at the hands of Welby and his cronies during his first term at school but had made a remarkably good recovery. He was due to leave in the summer to join the Royal Navy as a volunteer aboard HMS Melpomene with the Channel fleet and Paul knew he was going to miss him.

Paul closed the badly fitting door and joined Cathcart on his bunk. Galloway was sitting up, finishing the milk and brandy. He was very pale and looked completely exhausted. Paul studied him for a moment.

“Are you going to tell us what happened, Galloway?”

“I don’t much want to talk about it.”

“I understand that,” Cathcart said. “But we’re your friends, you know, we want to help. And it’s not like you to get into trouble with Welby. Normally you just…”

He stopped abruptly and Paul managed not to laugh. “Normally you’ve got more sense than me and just go with the tide,” he said tactfully.

“Normally I just do what he tells me to do.”

“Well, yes,” Cathcart said. “And it’s the intelligent thing to do, we all know it.” He shot a glance at Paul. “Well, most of us do. What went wrong this time?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“It can’t be that bad.” Cathcart frowned suddenly. “Or at least, I suppose it could be, but I didn’t think Welby was like that. I mean I’ve never heard…”

He broke off, studying the younger boy with concern. Galloway flushed scarlet as he appeared to catch his meaning and shook his head, setting down the cup on the wooden floor.

“No! Nothing like that.”

“Are you sure?” Paul said. He had heard vague stories of one or two of the older boys requiring more than domestic services from their fags, although as far as he knew it had not happened during his time at the school. Gossip travelled quickly at Eton and Paul thought he would have known if Cecil Welby had abused any of the younger boys in that particular way.

“No, I swear it. Just the usual stuff, running errands, cleaning his room and suchlike. He’s beastly and he’ll give his boys a box around the ear if we’re not quick enough, but nothing worse until today.”

“So what did he want from you today, Galloway? Is he after money? He spent a couple of months trying to extort what he could from me once he realised my brother sends me a guinea under the seal of every letter. Come on, spill it. We can’t help you if we don’t understand.”

“It’s a secret.”

“We won’t tell,” Cathcart promised. “I’ll give you my oath.”

Galloway was silent for a moment and Paul could see that he was torn between wanting to share and his ability to trust.

“I promise, Toby,” he said gently. “What does that bastard want?”

Galloway took a deep breath. “He wants my dog,” he said.

***

 The bitch was part-spaniel, five months old and very playful. She was housed in the stable attached to the George Inn under the care of a skinny stable-hand who was being paid to look after her.

Paul sat in a pile of straw with the puppy on his lap licking his face while Galloway told the story. He had heard about the puppies from one of the grooms in the college stables and had been longing for a dog since losing his elderly hound the previous year. Unusually wealthy due to a generous birthday gift from his uncle, he had bought her and found a temporary foster home in one of the staff cottages with a gardener.

“It’s only until Christmas. My father is coming to collect me to take me home. He’s on furlough for three months before going off to India and he wants to spend the time with me. He and my mother have already agreed to me getting another dog, so he’ll be happy to take her. I thought it was an excellent idea all round. I’ve been spending all my free time with her, training her.”

“What’s her name?” Paul asked. The puppy was lying on her back as he scratched her tummy and he was already in love. His mother had adored both dogs and horses and in the horrible weeks after her death Paul could remember going to sleep each night with her favourite spaniel curled up in his arms for comfort. The memory hurt but also made him smile.

“India. I called her that because I’d just heard about Papa’s posting. It was all going so well until Welby found out. He told me I wasn’t allowed a dog in college and that if I didn’t give her to him, he’d tell the Headmaster and she’d be taken away. When I told him to get lost, he threatened to drown her. He’d found out that old Jones was looking after her for me and I knew if he went after the poor old fellow he’d have to hand her over.”

“Where did you come up with this place?”

“My parents always put up at the George if they come up to visit for any reason. I’ve known some of the lads here for years. It’s expensive, it’s costing me every penny of my allowance, but it’s only for another few weeks. As long as I can keep her hidden from Welby, we’ll be fine. But he worked out that I’d moved her and was trying to get me to tell him where. I didn’t tell him.”

Paul was twisting some straw into a makeshift ball. He tossed it across the stall and laughed as the puppy bounded after it. “She’s gorgeous. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about her, Galloway, you little idiot. Far easier to look after her with three of us and if you run out of money I can help.”

Galloway gave a slightly tremulous smile. “I should have told you. I can’t take your money though, Van Daan.”

“Yes, you can. I’ve nothing useful to spend it on and I’ll take puppy cuddles in payment. I miss the dogs at home. My mother used to have a spaniel who looked rather like this. India, come here. You’re supposed to fetch the ball not eat it, you’ll be sick.”

“Are you sure Welby doesn’t know about this place?” Cathcart asked.

“As sure as I can be, but I’m terrified he’ll find out.”

“We need to get rid of Welby,” Paul said, stroking the spaniel’s ears. “He’s going anyway at Christmas, if we could just find a way to get him sent down sooner you’d have nothing to worry about. I can’t believe he’s not managed to get himself expelled before now.”

Galloway snorted. “The Headmaster doesn’t see thrashing the junior boys as a problem.”

“No. What would he see as a problem?”

“Theft? Murder? Seducing the Provost’s daughter?” Cathcart said.

“I’m not sure we can set him up for any of those,” Paul said regretfully. “Not without causing serious harm to somebody else.”

“I was joking, Van Daan.”

“So was I. At least…I think I was.” Paul stopped stroking India’s silky ears. He was staring into the distance as an idea began to form in his brain. After a moment the puppy grew bored and began to nibble at his jacket. Paul took no notice. The idea was taking shape, forming into something like a plan. It was possible. It could work. It could…

Paul caught sight of the faces of his two friends. They wore identical expressions of sheer horror and he laughed aloud.

“Your faces.”

“No,” Cathcart said firmly. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it. I’ve come to know that expression. I have approximately six months left at this school and I’ve no wish to be kicked out before then because I followed you in some mad scheme to get back at Welby.”

“You’re going to love it.”

“I’m going to hate it.”

“You’re not. It’s not illegal and it won’t hurt anybody. At the very least he’ll end up looking like a complete idiot and if we’re really lucky they’ll send him down early for being out after curfew and for causing a dust-up with the townspeople. Don’t be such a boring toad, Cathcart. Don’t you trust me?”

“No.”

Paul looked at Galloway. “I don’t trust you either, Van Daan,” the younger boy said earnestly. “But…will it keep him away from India?”

“He is going to be far too busy to even think about India. Though if he does come anywhere near her, I’m going to drown the ugly bastard in the Thames, I promise you.”

Galloway gave a broad smile. “I think you would, too.”

“I definitely would. But I’m not going to need to. What’s the date?”

“The date?” Galloway looked baffled. “It’s the twenty-sixth of October.”

“Exactly,” Paul said rather smugly. “Which gives us five days to plan this.”

Cathcart gave a puzzled frown. “You’re not thinking of doing something on Mischief Night are you? The Head said only the other day that he’d expel any boy caught playing tricks on the townies this year. I don’t think even Welby would be stupid enough.”

Paul shook his head regretfully. “No, we’d never get away with it. After Grantham set fire to that barn last year and nearly burned down Selby Street they’re going to have us firmly locked up on the thirtieth. I’m thinking of All Hallows Eve.”

Both his friends stared at him blankly. Eventually, Cathcart said:

“What in God’s name is going to happen to Welby on All Hallows Eve, Van Daan? Apart from a ducking if he’s bobbing for apples, that is?”

Paul gave a broad smile. “We’re going to persuade him to go ghost hunting,” he said happily.

***

The telling of ghost stories was a time-honoured tradition at Eton and Julian rather imagined at most other boys’ schools. He remembered from his own time, both at Eton and Cambridge, cold winter evenings toasting bread by the fireside and competing to tell the most ghoulish tales.

There were currently fourteen boys in residence at Dame Lovelace’s boarding house and all but the two youngest were scattered around the boys’ parlour when Julian arrived to supervise the residents during Mischief Night. The practice of playing tricks and pranks on the neighbourhood on the evening of the thirtieth of October varied greatly around the country and Julian had never heard of it in his own county of Surrey, but he had discovered it was very well established in the town of Windsor.

Until recently the Headmaster had mostly ignored the escapades of some of the wilder elements in College. They tended to consist of racing through the darkened streets banging on doors or taking buckets of dung from the stable heap to leave on the doorsteps of unwary citizens. It was exasperating but harmless and the town boys were just as enthusiastic as the College boys.

Over the past few years however, the pranks had been escalating. Competition between the town youths and the boys from College had raised the stakes to the point where the pranks were becoming either expensive or dangerous. One year some of the Thames boatmen were furious to discover most of their barges had been sunk during the night, while a farmer on the outskirts of the town had lost two cows to drowning when every gate on his farm had been opened. There were angry local meetings where the townspeople blamed the college and the College pointed to the town.

On the previous year, the most imaginative prank and Julian’s personal favourite, was when Mr Calverley, a local solicitor who had been particularly vocal on the subject of the College boys and had even gone so far as to take his walking cane to two of the juniors he suspected of stealing eggs from his poultry yard, arose to find his hen house completely enmeshed in a cage of string. Julian had been tasked with enquiring into the matter and he had been baffled at how difficult it was to release the squawking hens until he realised that once the string was in place it had been thickly painted with glue, which had set very well during the cold night. It took the lawyer and his servant almost an hour to chip and cut the string away and when the indignant hens sallied forth, every one of them was painted a bright shade of green.

Green hens were outrageous but more or less harmless, however somebody had gone further and set fire to a partly derelict barn at the end of Selby Street. The fire had looked likely to spread and though the residents had managed to put it out, helped by a fortuitous shower of rain, two College boys had apparently been seen in the vicinity and the Headmaster declared that Mischief Night was over for the scholars of Eton College. Orders had been given and threats made, but on the night itself, the Headmaster allocated each one of the Assistant Masters to a Boarding House where they were to check if any of the students were missing and keep an eye out for anybody trying to abscond.

Julian had been ready for a sulky response from the three senior boys who were used to a good deal of freedom in their spare time. To his surprise he found Netherton, Welby and Carrington happily consuming buttered toast and hot chocolate with their juniors while the Honourable Martin Wynne-Jones told a gruesome tale about a headless horseman. Julian bowed politely to Dame Lovelace, who was settled in an armchair with some knitting, and took a chair in the corner.

There was silence as Wynne-Jones finished his story. After a moment, Paul van Daan gave an exaggerated shudder.

“That was excellent, Jonesy. It’s a good thing I can’t imagine your horseman making it up those stairs or I’d struggle to sleep tonight.”

“Your turn, Van Daan,” Netherton said lazily. “Don’t you have any grisly tales for us?”

“I’m sure there’s one my brother told me about a ghostly hunt, but I can’t for the life of me remember it,” Van Daan said regretfully. “It’s a shame because he scared the life out of me for a month afterwards, I used to lie awake listening for the phantom hunting horn. My mother was furious with him. What about you, Welby? Anything from Dorset?”

It was said casually but Julian thought he recognised an olive branch and was surprised and a little touched. He half expected Welby to reject it scornfully but the older boy could not resist the opportunity to take the stage. His story involved a ghostly sea captain and was not as well told as Wynne-Jones’ but the boys seemed to enjoy it and it rather pleased Julian to see what appeared to be a cautious truce.

He looked again at Van Daan who was sprawled on a shabby rag rug on the floor and wondered if the boy was yet aware of what a gift he had for leadership. The casual charm seemed effortless even at fourteen and Julian hoped he would find the right outlet for his undoubted talents as he grew older. He had told Julian that his father wanted him to go into the law but Julian could not imagine that restless energy confined behind a desk and certainly did not see Paul van Daan as a clergyman. The army and the navy were both traditional careers for a younger son and might well suit him better.

Several more stories were told and Julian, called upon to contribute, told them about the ghost of Anne Boleyn who was supposed to haunt the Tower of London. He could see that the younger boys were getting sleepy. Dame Lovelace had observed it too and was folding her knitting in preparation to sending them up to bed. Paul van Daan looked over at her and gave her a winning smile.

“One more, ma’am. We’ve been on a ghostly tour around Britain tonight, but we’ve had nothing local. Aren’t there any gruesome tales about the College? Or even the town? You must know, surely.”

The Dame sniffed. “I’ve better things to do than listen to ghost stories, Master van Daan. Not that my father didn’t tell me about some strange noises in the college library when he was caretaker here forty years ago, but he told me he never actually saw anything…”

“What did he hear, ma’am?”

Dame Lovelace settled herself back in her chair and Julian watched, hiding a smile. At this rate it would be midnight before the boys were in bed but he was enjoying the unusually mellow atmosphere. Dame Lovelace told a surprisingly effective story of her father.

“That gave me the chills,” Cathcart said appreciatively when she had finished. “It’s almost worse imagining what he might have seen than actually seeing the ghost. Reminds me of that story about the boathouse.”

“What story?” Van Daan asked.

“You know, the one the boatman told us when we took shelter there from the rain. At least…weren’t you there, Van Daan? Maybe it was just me and Galloway.”

“I don’t remember it,” Van Daan said, sitting up from his prone position. “Tell us immediately. And after that, I’m going to bed. It’s been a good Mischief Night and the town can sleep safely, though I’m not sure I will after this. What’s the story of the boathouse?”

“Apparently it’s haunted. Old Peterson reckons he’s seen her.”

“Seen who?” Netherton said, intrigued. The sleepy boys seemed to have woken up at the mention of the boathouse, which was regularly used by the College boys. “Tell us about it, Cathcart. That’s very close to home; I’m in and out of there all the time. I can’t believe you’ve left this to the very end.”

“And that will have to be the end,” Dame Lovelace said firmly. “You’ll all be sleeping through lessons tomorrow.”

“It was this time of year, according to Peterson,” Cathcart said. “She was quite young, the daughter of some local tradesman and she got involved with someone at the College. Peterson couldn’t say if it was a senior boy or a master…”

“This does not sound like a suitable story for young ears,” Dame Lovelace said in repressive tones.

“No, no ma’am, of course. Like I say, I don’t know the details but whatever happened it went wrong for her. I daresay he dropped her or left College or some such thing but she couldn’t get over it. People used to see her wandering along the river bank where they used to meet, crying. One day she didn’t come home at all and it was pouring with rain. Her father went out to look for her but there was no sign along the river pathway. He was beginning to worry she’d missed her footing and slipped into the river so he made his way to the boathouse to see if any of the boat men were there and had seen her. The place was in darkness but the door was unlocked, so he pushed it open and saw her there. She was hanging from the rafters, swaying gently.”

“That’s an appalling story,” Julian said, watching the faces of some of the younger boys. “And quite enough for tonight.”

“It’s not a ghost story though,” Van Daan argued. “Or is it, Cathcart?”

“According to Peterson she’s still seen along that path just as dusk is falling. People have heard her crying as well – inside the boathouse, though when they open the door there’s nothing there. Although one night – perhaps it was the anniversary, we don’t know – one of the boat men saw her in the shed: just her outline hanging there.”

“Oh that is definitely enough,” Van Daan said, getting up. “If anybody in our dorm wakes up yelling in the night, Cathcart, it’s your fault. And it might well be me. I’m off to bed. Goodnight, ma’am. Thank you for a very good Mischief Night, I think I enjoyed it more than last year. And you too, Mr Holland. You can report back that we were all present and correct and behaved ourselves very well. We’ll be staying home tomorrow as well, I swear it. After that little performance, I’d happily stake two guineas that even Netherton and Welby wouldn’t have the nerve to be wandering along the river on All Hallows Eve. Goodnight all.”

Julian watched him go, followed by his friends, their feet clattering on the bare wooden stairs. He agreed that the evening had been a success and that the boys appeared to have behaved impeccably, so he could not understand why he had the wholly irrational feeling that Paul van Daan had in fact just behaved very badly indeed.

***

Paul fell asleep quickly and was awoken by Cathcart bouncing on the end of his bed. He managed to stifle a squawk, sat up and smacked his friend across the ear.

“What was that for?” the younger boy whispered indignantly.

“For scaring the shit out of me in the middle of the night after three hours of ghost stories,” Paul hissed. “Outside before we wake up the whole house.”

Cathcart followed him onto the dark landing. It was very cold and Paul shivered.

“Make it quick, my teeth are chattering. Did he bite?”

“He bit,” Cathcart said with great satisfaction. “The bet stands at two guineas that he’ll parade along the river path alone at dusk on All Hallows Eve, then stay in the boatshed until midnight. Carrington volunteered to stand as guarantor that he goes through with it but I pointed out that he wouldn’t be alone then so the bet wouldn’t hold good. I’ve told him you’re giving a shilling to Peterson to watch from that cottage of his to make sure he doesn’t try to sneak out of there.”

“Very good idea. Am I in fact giving a shilling to Peterson?”

“Yes. Which he’ll be spending at the King’s Head, happily not looking in the direction of the boat shed.”

“Better and better. I’ll get down there directly after my Greek class to set everything up. I hope I can manage to stay awake through the deathly boredom of old Thornton droning on. He’s not caned me for months, he must be getting a bit twitchy by now. Come on, let’s get back to bed before the Dame catches us. Or before we freeze to death and start haunting the place ourselves.”

Despite his disturbed night, Paul managed to get through both Greek and Latin without incident the following day and was even faintly smug when Mr Holland praised his recent translation. He regretfully turned down an invitation to play football during the afternoon and slipped away about his own affairs, although he made sure that he was back in plenty of time for dinner and joined in with the conversation about the football match as though he had been present.

Welby was quiet during dinner and Paul wondered if he was regretting his rash acceptance of the bet. When the table was cleared, the boys collected their books for the study period and for an hour and a half the big schoolroom at the back of the house was silent, broken only by the rustling of paper, the scratching of pens and an occasional deep sigh.

Dame Lovelace rang the bell which signalled the end of formal study and the boys broke up into informal groupings. In some Houses there was still a great deal of supervision during the evening but Dame Lovelace was known to be lenient, particularly with the older boys. It was not uncommon for the seniors to slip out to meet friends from other Houses in one of the local taverns and providing they returned by eleven o’clock and did not wake the house up because they were drunk, she would turn a blind eye.

During the summer months she would also allow some of the older juniors to go down to the river to swim or to row, or to the field to play games. Tonight it was already growing dark and Paul was pleased to see that Welby had vanished, although Netherton was still there, setting out a draughts board. Paul joined him.

“Netherton, can you cover for me? I want to go up to the hall to practice for an hour, I’ve got two fights next week and I’m feeling sluggish after my skirmish with Welby. I need to get myself moving again.”

Netherton shot him a glance. “Do so,” he said firmly. “I thought Beeston had you beaten, I’ve never seen you so slow. Welby has gone off somewhere, something to do with a wager. I hope he bloody loses, whatever it is. I’ll tell the Dame I sent you on an errand. Take a lantern though, it’ll be pitch black coming over the field in the dark and I don’t want you spraining your ankle. I’ve got a huge bet on you against Wolverton and there’s a big take up on the betting book as well. I need you to win.”

Paul grinned. “I can beat Wolverton with one hand,” he said. “Thank you. I won’t be more than an hour or so.”

“She won’t check the dorms, she never does. If you’re late back I’ll tell her you’ve gone to bed and I’ll make sure the side door is unlocked. See you later.”

Paul collected a closed lantern from the kitchen and slipped out through the side door. He was halfway across the field when he heard footsteps and stopped, waiting.

“Van Daan, is that you?”

“Yes. What the bloody hell are you doing here, Cathcart? If we get caught it will be six of the best at the very least. And you should never have brought Galloway. It’s all right for me…”

“Shut up and get moving or we’ll miss the fun. I’m reliably informed by Carrington that Welby went first to the Queen’s Head for refreshment. If we cut across by Peterson’s Cottage we should get there in plenty of time. I had a look earlier and there’s a place behind those three oaks which gives an excellent view of the boathouse door.”

Paul held up the lantern and began to walk faster. “I wish I could see his face when he opens that door,” he said wistfully. “But watching him run will be a lot of fun. I was trying to think of a way of getting him into trouble for being out after hours, but it won’t wash. Firstly because we’re all out as well. But also, it will come home to Dame Lovelace and she’s a good sort. I’d hate for her to lose her post because she doesn’t sit on us all the time. Still, it will scare the life out of Welby and as long as we see him run, Peterson is happy to confirm that he did too.”

“And how much did that cost you?” Cathcart said cynically. Paul laughed.

“Whatever it cost me, it was worth it. Did you hear back from your father, Galloway?”

“Yes, I got a letter this morning. He’s coming down to collect me himself; he’s probably on the road by now. And he’s very pleased about India. I knew he would be.”

“Lucky little bastard. I wish I was going home early for Christmas,” Paul said dispassionately. “Or maybe I don’t. My father is never especially pleased to see me. I miss Joshua though, and my dogs and horses. And Carl.”

“The parson’s son?”

“Yes. We’ve been friends since…oh forever. I wish you could meet him, you’d like him. Look, it’s grown misty over the river. Gives a nice atmosphere. This way, we can cut through the trees.”

They were barely in position when Paul heard footsteps approaching along the footpath. They seemed erratic and at first Paul did not think it was Welby at all, but as a lantern similar to the one he had recently doused came into wavering view through the swirling mist, he could see the older boy’s face. Welby looked satisfyingly nervous, glancing around frequently as though expecting to see a ghostly form emerging from the mist.

The weather was a bonus for Paul’s plan, since it virtually guaranteed that nobody else would be taking a night time stroll along the river. He watched Welby approach the big wooden structure of the boathouse and wondered suddenly if he was slightly drunk.

At the door, Welby hesitated, lifting his lantern. Paul hoped that Peterson had followed instructions and left the shed unlocked. Welby looked around him again and Paul could almost see him wondering if he could get away with sneaking off after his evening walk and not spending the next few hours in the dark boathouse. Paul could have reassured him that he was not likely to be there for long.

After several minutes, Welby stepped forward and took hold of the latch. Paul could see his figure outlined against the mist. The wooden door creaked slightly as Welby opened it cautiously, adding to the atmosphere. Paul realised he was holding his breath.

Welby screamed.

It was a high-pitched sound of sheer terror and it told Paul all he wanted to know about how well his plan had worked. Welby must have bolstered his failing courage in the tavern but the drink would only have made the shock worse. There was a scrabbling and a clatter and then the light from the lantern was abruptly extinguished, presumably because Welby had dropped it.

Paul waited, listening. He could hear the older boy crashing about down at the path, sobbing in terror. Remembering how frightened Galloway had been the previous week when Paul came across him close to the old well, Paul felt a sense of savage satisfaction. He hoped that Welby remembered this the next time he bullied a terrified boy six years his junior. He also hoped that Welby sprained his ankle racing back up to Dame Lovelace’s House.

There was another scream, then a yell of terror and then an enormous splash. After that, there was only splashing, with an occasional cry. Paul listened for a moment.

“He’s gone into the river,” Galloway said.

Paul waited. The next cry was more of a gurgle. “Of course he’s gone into the river,” he said. “He’s a bloody idiot.”

The three boys remained frozen between the oak trees. The noise continued for a while. Eventually a terrified wail floated up from the darkness.

“Help! Somebody help me!”

“He can’t swim.” Cathcart said.

Paul listened for another moment and realised that his friend was right. The enormity of how badly their plan had gone wrong made him furious.

“Of course he can’t bloody swim!” he roared. “You would just know it. Of all the useless good for nothing dog turds I’ve been unfortunate enough to meet in my short life, the Honourable Cecil Welby is top of the list. His inability to swim is…oh never mind. Galloway, take my tinder box. See if you can get the lantern lit again. Come on, Cathcart, we need to get him out of there.”

He was halfway across the grass towards the river when he heard his friend’s voice. Cathcart sounded apologetic.

“I’m afraid I can’t swim either.”

Paul froze. He realised he had no time to say any of the things he wanted to say and probably did not know enough swear words to express his feelings anyway. He said the first thing that came into his head.

“Oh for God’s sake! You’re about to join the bloody Navy!”

The river was high because of recent rain and freezing cold. Paul stripped off coat and boots and waded in, following the faint sounds of Welby’s voice. It sounded as though the older boy had managed to keep himself afloat but was clearly struggling. Paul struck out strongly in the direction of the sounds and reached Welby just as he went under again.

For several long minutes he struggled with the older boy in the water. Welby was beyond terror and in his panic he fought rescue. He was bigger and stronger than Paul and for a while it felt as though the only course would be to let him go under. Paul hung on grimly, trying to dodge his flailing arms. Eventually sheer exhaustion slowed down Welby’s frantic struggles and he allowed Paul to grasp him around his chest and tow him to the river bank.

Cathcart and Galloway were there with the lantern lit and Paul staggered out and sat down suddenly on the bank. Only now, with Welby safe and vomiting river water onto the grass, did he realise how exhausted he was. He lay back, letting his friends fuss around him and wondered how close he had come to dying in the cold waters of the Thames.

***

It was drizzling steadily over the courtyards and college buildings. Julian had deliberately found reasons to be present as the Headmaster and Mr Thornton presided over the inquiry into the events of All Hallows Eve. As the informal Housemaster of Whitchurch House he felt justified in pushing his way into the process.

Welby had recovered from his near drowning but was curiously subdued through the questioning. He told the story of the bet and his subsequent terror but seemed too embarrassed to dwell on how badly he had been frightened by a white muslin gown hung by ropes from the beams of the boat house. It had been decided, given his unauthorised absence from his Boarding House and the evidence that he had been drinking that evening, that he would leave College immediately and spend the remaining months before he took up his commission at home.

Paul van Daan was alarmingly composed as he related the story of his practical joke on Welby and how he had managed it without assistance. Julian was deeply appreciative of how well he was able to explain every aspect of the plan, even to the fact that he had been given the idea by Cathcart’s innocent retelling of a local ghost story. Julian knew it could not possibly work, since both Galloway and Cathcart had been caught out of their rooms after hours, but he approved of Van Daan’s efforts to excuse his friends.

The Headmaster was quietly furious. Mr Thornton, Julian thought, was slightly triumphant. Sentence was passed for the following morning before the entire school. Julian thought the matter was finished, but it seemed that Van Daan had more to say. As the Headmaster gathered his gown about him, the boy said clearly:

“Headmaster, I’m sorry. You’re right, I deserve the caning. But not these two. Cathcart came out to find out what I was doing and Galloway followed him. Neither of them knew. This isn’t fair.”

The Headmaster paused. “They were both outside beyond curfew, boy. That in itself…”

“Maybe. Two or three strokes. But not ten, that’s too much. This was my fault. I was angry with Welby and I planned the whole thing. They’d nothing to do with it.”

The Headmaster hesitated and Julian held his breath. He wondered if Van Daan might have reached him. Before he could speak however, Thornton cleared his throat loudly.

“Utter nonsense. Cathcart made up the story which led to this whole thing, there was a room full of witnesses. As for the Galloway boy, he is guilty of keeping a dog without permission, Headmaster. I have instructed my senior boys to make enquiries about where the animal is being kept and to arrange for it to be destroyed.”

Van Daan swung around and the expression on his face unexpectedly broke Julian’s heart. He rose and stepped forward.

“I was present on Mischief Night when the boys told their ghost stories, Headmaster, and for what it is worth, I think Van Daan may be telling the truth about the fact that they knew nothing of his plan. Cathcart heard the story from some local boatman and I think that gave Van Daan the idea. With regard to the dog…”

“It is utterly forbidden to keep an animal on school premises,” Thornton said sternly.

“The dog is not being kept on school premises, Headmaster, and I have made my own enquiries,” Julian said easily. “It appears that the animal actually belongs to Colonel Sir Edward Galloway who will be arriving within a day or two to collect it, along with his son. I would not personally wish to explain to him when he arrives that you have beaten his son and had his dog destroyed. It is, of course, up to you.”

There was a long, difficult silence. Eventually the Headmaster said:

“I have no interest in the Colonel’s dog of course. However, his son has clearly broken school rules and endangered another student. The punishment will stand.”

The procedure for corporal punishment at Eton was agonising to watch. Julian had only once been flogged during his time at school and had mostly managed to forget about it. He loathed being reminded.

The boys were led up one by one and bent over a wooden barrel. The cane was applied to their bared backside and the swish and the smack made Julian flinch. He knew how much it hurt and he also knew how humiliating it was.

Both Galloway and Cathcart were crying by the end of their flogging. Van Daan did not. It was not the first time he had endured the process and he remained silent, with no sign of tears in those surprising blue eyes. Dame Lovelace stood outside the hall in the courtyard ready to lead them back to their dormitory and, Julian suspected, ready to give them sympathy and treats after their ordeal.

Mr Thornton stood waiting in the courtyard. As Julian shepherded the boys past him, he cleared his throat. Julian paused and turned to look at him. Thornton’s pale blue eyes were on Van Daan’s white face.

“You think you have got away with this,” he said. His eyes shifted to Galloway who was quietly crying. “I know where that filthy dog is being kept and I have spoken to my senior boys. Long before your father can arrive, Galloway, it will be drowned in the Thames as you richly deserve.”

Galloway gave a cry of distress and Julian stepped forward to put his arm about the child. “It won’t,” he said firmly. “I’ll take it in charge myself and…”

He got no further. Paul van Daan stepped forward, his eyes on the Greek master. Before Julian could either move or speak he was reaching for Thornton. Julian watched in horror as he bundled the master forward towards the fountain, easily fending off the older man’s thrashing arms. Van Daan lifted him up and hurled him bodily into the slimy stagnant water which was full of soggy autumn leaves. There was a huge splash and a yell and then nothing apart from the sloshing sound of an enraged Greek master in a gown struggling out of a seventeenth century fountain.

***

Paul was confined to his dormitory while awaiting the arrival of a carriage to take him home. He was not surprised that he had been expelled and he realised, during the long boring hours of his imprisonment, that he was not particularly upset. Whatever his father decided to do with him next, he was thoroughly tired of Eton.

He would miss his friends. Galloway came to visit him before he left, his arms full of exuberant puppy. Paul spent their hour together playing with India and was pleased when Galloway informed him that he would not be returning to Eton. Sir Edward Galloway had held a brief conversation with both the Headmaster and Mr Thornton and Paul thought that his friend would be much happier studying under a tutor at home. He watched Galloway leave with India in his arms and decided that whatever happened next, he had done the right thing.

Cathcart had decided to stay until the summer when he was to take up his post in the Navy. He sat cross legged on Paul’s bed and surveyed his friend serenely.

“You were an idiot, Van Daan. You’d have got away with it if not for Thornton.”

“I know. It was worth it though.”

“Did you know they’d kick you out?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did you want them to?”

Paul thought about it. “I didn’t do it deliberately,” he said. “I mean I’d have been all right staying. Certainly until you left in the summer.”

“So why in God’s name…”

“Because he deserved it,” Paul said. He had had time to think about it. “I understand why they flogged us. I was angry they flogged both of you, especially Galloway. But all right. I could have lived with that. But when that bastard Thornton threatened Galloway’s dog…”

“Paul, he was never going to get to her. Mr Holland was halfway through a sentence, explaining that he’d got that under control. I doubt the old fool even knew where she was. He was just being spiteful, trying to upset Galloway.”

“I know he was,” Paul said. “That’s why I threw him into the fountain.”

 Cathcart was laughing. “You’re hopeless,” he said. “What in God’s name is your father going to say to this?”

“I’ve no idea but it won’t be anything good. Look don’t worry about it. You’ll join the navy and rise up the ranks and be a hero. Write to me and tell me how you’re getting on. I’ll let you know where I am and what I’m doing.”

“Make sure you do, Van Daan. I’m never going to forget what you did for me those first weeks when I was here.”

“You’d have done fine without me, Cathcart. You’re all right. Just do me a favour. This summer, before you board that ship…”

“What?”

“Fucking learn to swim,” Paul said with feeling. “You’re going to sea. It’s going to be useful.”

They laughed together and Paul felt both a sense of camaraderie and a sense of loss that he and Cathcart were about to go their separate ways. After a moment, Cathcart said:

“I’m sorry you got kicked out but I’m not sorry we did it. It was a bloody good laugh.”

“It really was. Poor Welby, we pulled him in very thoroughly. That story you told was brilliant, Cathcart, I don’t know how you came up with it.”

“Oh, I didn’t make that up,” Cathcart said cheerfully. “I mean I might have embroidered it a bit, but that was true.”

“What do you mean, it was true?”

“Peterson really did tell me that story about the girl and what happened to her, though obviously I don’t know if he made it up.”

“I didn’t realise that. I thought you had hidden literary talent. Did you speak to Welby before he left? I didn’t get a chance, they’ve got me locked up.”

“Yes, He’s all right. A bit embarrassed about being duped. I think he must have been really drunk that night.”

“I did wonder,” Paul said.

“He saw the gown we hung up the minute he opened that door. Scared the life out of him.”

“It would.”

“But he kept saying that he couldn’t understand how we faked the crying. When he was walking along the river bank he said he could hear a woman crying all the way.”

“I’d blame that on an over-active imagination and the brandy,” Paul said.

“He must have been thoroughly foxed then, because he also said he couldn’t work out how we managed the girl’s face. He went on and on about how terrible it was, with bulging eyes and a horrible colour. He claims he’d never have been convinced if it hadn’t been for that awful face hanging there.”

Paul thought about that for a moment. “He must really have drunk a lot of brandy,” he said finally. “He should cut back.”

“That’s what I thought. Good luck, Van Daan.”

“You too, Cathcart. Keep in touch.

***

Julian went to visit Van Daan on the day before his departure for London. His father had sent a brief letter regarding outstanding fees and travel arrangements but the boy was to travel alone in the post chaise. If he had written separately to his son Julian knew nothing of it. He found the boy with his trunk half packed reading a letter.

“It’s from Galloway, sir. He’s safely home and the dog is doing nicely.”

Julian smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Van Daan, because from your point of view that dog was very expensive.”

“Not at all, sir. My father is about to save a fortune in school fees.”

Julian gave the joke the perfunctory smile that it deserved. “Are you  all right boy?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be fine.”

“Your father must be furious.”

“My father is always furious with me, sir. I’m used to it. Look, I won’t be here but Cathcart will. Now that Welby has gone I doubt anybody will go after him. But I’d feel better knowing you were keeping an eye out for him.”

“I give you my word,” Julian said. He was rather impressed with the boy’s loyalty to his friends. “I’m sorry Van Daan. You were an idiot but you deserved better than this.”

The boy smiled reservedly. “I think I got what I deserved, sir. What I did wasn’t that bad, but I made rather a mess of it.”

Julian studied him and decided to tell the truth. “Yes, you did,” he admitted. “Not because you got caught or because your scheme failed. Welby got what he deserved, after all.”

Van Daan said nothing. After a moment, Julian said:

“Good. I’m glad you didn’t agree with me. Because he nearly drowned because you needed to show how clever you were. He was an idiot but he didn’t deserve that.”

“Yes he did. You’re forgetting – sir – that I came across him threatening to throw a frightened twelve year old down a well. I’m glad I got him out of the river that night, because I’d have hated to have his death on my conscience. But if I regret anything, it’s not scaring the shit out of Cecil Welby, it’s that two of my friends got beaten because they stepped up to help me against their better judgement. And that was my fault.”

Julian had come with the intention of saying something of the kind but it was clear that the boy was ahead of him. He had not realised before that Van Daan had an over-developed sense of responsibility but it might possibly explain that final act of madness. Julian sighed and shook his head.

“I understand everything else,” he said. “But why in God’s name did you throw Mr Thornton into that fountain?”

Paul van Daan was looking down at his linked hands but he looked up at that, meeting Julian’s gaze without hesitation.

“That? Oh, that wasn’t really part of the plan, sir. I’m afraid I just lost  my temper. I do that sometimes.”

Julian studied him and realised he was telling the simple truth. He could think of nothing else useful to say so he held out his hand and Van Daan shook it.

“Goodbye, Van Daan. There’s a little speech I make when my pupils leave and I always tell them I’ll be watching their future careers with great interest. I can honestly say that in your case, that will be true. I can’t imagine what you’ll do next, but I’m sure I’ll hear about it. Good luck.”

If you’ve enjoyed this story and haven’t tried the books, you can read about the beginning of Paul’s army career in An Unconventional Officer.

Waterloo 2022: the Battlefield Tour

Waterloo 2022: the Battlefield Tour

It’s taken me a few weeks to put together a description of the full day’s tour of the Waterloo Battlefield, partly because events rather took over once I got back to the UK but mostly because I needed a bit of distance before trying to describe the day.

Once again I’m not going to attempt to put together a battlefield guide of my own, based on Gareth’s incredible tour. He’s written so much about the battle himself that it would be utterly superfluous. My recommendation is that people who want to know more go away and find his books. I’ve recently read his Waterloo: myth and reality which is a brilliant overview of the campaign, pointing out some of the enduring myths and stories over the years and sifting through the evidence to suggest what the truth might be. It’s very readable and is a great place to start.

Number One London Tours did an excellent job of managing the various walking abilities of its tour members and the bus moved around the battlefield with us to enable those needing a rest to hop on and off. Some of us walked the whole way. One of the first things I really noticed, being on the ground at Waterloo is that the battlefield is far more undulating than it looks from photographs or from the top of the Lion’s Mound. Crossing from the left to the right of Wellington’s lines before walking down to do the same with the French lines, it’s very clear that commanders, officers and men really couldn’t see what was happening in different parts of the battlefield.

Features of the landscape like the covered way which is still partly visible, waist and head-high crops and surprisingly steep ridges help the story of the battle unfold far more easily than looking at maps. Gareth had maps a plenty though, to demonstrate each stage of the fighting as we reached it, starting from Papelotte and moving around the various parts of the field. He had also brought a copy of his fantastic Waterloo Archive Map Book which includes a large collection of contemporary sketches and maps but also artists impressions of the battlefield and surrounding countryside. I probably don’t need to tell you that I’ve already ordered a copy.

Interspersed with clear, easy to understand descriptions of troop movements and the various attacks at different stages of the battle, were the individual stories from both Gareth and Kristine about the men who fought, suffered and died at Waterloo. I’ve seen many of these accounts before but hearing them read out on the ground where the action took place gave them a whole new meaning.

Despite a lot of development on and around the battlefield, Waterloo reminds me of Salamanca in that it’s still very easy to get a sense of the countryside as it must have been on that wet morning in June 1815 when Wellington deployed his mismatched army along the ridge at Mont St Jean and hoped that the Prussians would arrive. We walked over the same fields as the British, the Dutch and Belgian, the French and Prussians.  It was a beautiful sunny day, not at all the right atmosphere for ghosts, but it was surprisingly easy to imagine the crash of guns, the squeal of terrified horses and the tramping of thousands of feet.

It was also horribly easy to imagine the aftermath, with dead and wounded strewn across the field. Injured men staggered towards anywhere they might find help and too many of them fell by the wayside. The memorials to the different armies and regiments as well as to a few individuals which are scattered around the battlefield highlight the poignant truth that most men who died at Waterloo had no marked grave, no memorial and quite possibly may not even have been buried at all.

 

Lieutenant-General Charles Alten

I’ve not reached the Battle of Waterloo with my fictional regiment yet, but throughout this tour names have been mentioned of men I know about, have read about and have written about as real people. Picton’s death, Charles Alten’s serious injuries and poor Juana Smith’s mistaken belief that her beloved Harry lay dead on that grisly field somehow have a new meaning now. Entwined with them will be the fate of my fictional characters, who over the past five years have become utterly real to me. I still don’t know myself what happens to them all on the bloody field of Waterloo but whether they live or die, I don’t suppose any of them will be the same afterwards.

The Prussian Memorial

We ended our tour of the battlefield with a walk up to the Prussian memorial at Plancenoit and with a drink at Le Gros Velo, sitting in the sunshine opposite the church. It isn’t the same church that was there in 1815. That one was destroyed during the battle but it has been rebuilt on the same site and there are several memorial plaques on the walls. I can remember going to Badajoz back in 2017 and discovering that sometimes, in a place where great tragedy and suffering occurred, it’s what isn’t left behind that affects me more powerfully than what is.

 

For our last evening we had a farewell dinner at Les Deux Sil, the Italian restaurant on the edge of the battlefield. It was a lovely meal and a lovely evening with a real sense of camaraderie. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed getting to know these people and hope to meet some of them on future trips.

When we emerged, it was dark. Kristine had bought some flowers and a few of us walked up towards the Lion’s Mound which is lit up at night. It looked spectacular and despite all the jokes about it spoiling the battlefield, it felt like a fitting memorial that night, not to the Prince of Orange or Wellington or to any of the other individual commanders but to the thousands of anonymous men and animals who died on that field two hundred and seven years ago.

We placed the flowers on the edge of the field, not on any particular monument but just on a spot where any man might have fallen and stood quietly, listening on a phone to John Tams singing Spanish Ladies, a haunting folk song. A version of that song existed in 1815 and might have been sung by the campfires by men who did not survive that day. It seemed an appropriate memorial to the ordinary soldiers and the perfect way to end Waterloo 2022: the Battlefield Tour.

 

The house used by the Duke of Wellington in Brussels in the run up to the Battle of Waterloo

I’d like to thank Gareth Glover and Kristine Hughes Patrone from Number One London Tours as well as all my fellow tourists for making this a fascinating but also very moving experience. I’ve come home with pages of notes and loads of ideas about how the 110th infantry might fit in to the battle on the day. It would be so tempting to jump ahead, but I’m not going to. My lads had to go all the way through that war, so I’m going with them every step of the way.

Waterloo 2022: Wellington Napoleon and Mont Saint Jean

The Wellington Museum

Waterloo 2022: Wellington Napoleon and Mont St Jean

 

Today’s tour started at the Wellington Museum which is housed in Wellington’s Headquarters in Waterloo itself. I’m going to digress from being a tour guide here now and mention the fact that having been round the various museums here, I am quite grateful that there is in fact a Wellington Museum at all.

I’ve seen various commentaries online about the huge local concentration here on Napoleon rather than the Allied commanders. People who complain about this are generally mocked for being Wellington groupies and undoubtedly in some cases that’s true, but it is striking, particularly in the various gift shops. I think it might have improved very slightly since I came four years ago in that it is now possible to buy one Wellington item in the main gift shop but that is completely overwhelmed by the vast amount of Napoleon memorabilia. Personally I don’t really need any more souvenirs but the difference is striking.

I have no idea whether there’s something political about this, whether it’s considered Napoleon was the most important person at Waterloo given that he was an Emperor or whether they just don’t think Wellington or Blucher memorabilia will sell.  I do think it should probably be redressed, but if it’s a marketing decision then I guess that’s a good enough reason. All the same, Napoleon as a dog was a bit much for me.

 

Not the best likeness, but it gets the point across…

The Wellington museum is a poignant reminder of the human cost of battle. Wellington’s staff had done surprisingly well through the long years of the Peninsular War but his luck ran out at Waterloo. This was where Kristine’s knowledge of the people came into its own and the excerpts from Wellington’s letters were very emotional. During the years I’ve been writing the Peninsular War Saga, I’ve got to know some of these young men as if they were my own fictional characters and it was surprisingly painful to think of Alexander Gordon’s death and Fitzroy Somerset’s agonising operation to amputate his arm. There’s a lot of information about Wellington through the various sites, but in this house I found it much easier to imagine Wellington the man, struggling to write the early part of his Waterloo dispatch while receiving news of the death and wounding of his friends.

Across the busy road from the Wellington Museum is the elaborate church which was there at the time of the battle and used, like many churches, as a hospital to receive wounded men. Those of you who have followed me for a while know that I have a thing about old churches and this one was particularly peaceful, with a number of memorials to the men who fought and died during the Waterloo campaign. Memorials at this time tended to be paid for either by the family of the dead man or by subscription through the various battalions and regiments, so not surprisingly more of them relate to the wealthier regiments. Very few of the memorials even mention the NCOs and enlisted men apart from this one in the church, which may well be the first of its kind.

 

After lunch we moved on to Napoleon’s Headquarters in the farmhouse of Le Caillou, where Napoleon and his staff spent the night of June 17, 1815. The museum collection is spread over five rooms  and tells the story of the Emperor’s actions in the hours before Waterloo. There are a number of artefacts relating to Napoleon, though Gareth queried whether some of the furniture was authentic given that the Prussians reputedly set fire to everything on their way through after Napoleon’s departure. Still, it gives a good sense of how the farm might have looked at the time.

In the garden outside the farmhouse are one or two memorials. There is also an ossuary, which is a small building intended to serve as the final resting place of human bones. Ossuaries are often used where burial space is scarce but in this case it has become a depository for bones found on the battlefield over the years. I’ve seen photos of this but found the real thing unexpectedly moving.

 

Mont Saint Jean today

The final stop of the day was the medical museum, located at Mont Saint Jean, which was situated at the back of Wellington’s lines and became the main field hospital. We hit a slight problem here as it turned out the museum and attached bar had just moved over to winter opening hours and were closed. Fortunately Gareth’s local knowledge saved the day and after a short wait we were allowed to go in to the museum for a brief tour.

 

 

Mont Saint Jean is not for the faint hearted. The suffering of the wounded of both armies must have been indescribable, and Gareth read a distressing description of bloody bodies and severed limbs covering the ground outside the farm. There are vivid descriptions of the various wounds and operations performed and information about individual surgeons and their experience of the campaign. 

There are also exhibits of medicine and surgical kits from the era and the uniforms worn by the medical staff. One or two models give an idea of the state of Mont Saint Jean as the wounded continued to pour in. I’ve always thought that the astonishing thing about surgery and medicine in the army at this time is how many of the operations actually succeeded and how many men survived their wounds. Survival would not have been improved by the invariable practice of bleeding a wounded man. It has sometimes occurred to me that once the initial operation was over, a shortage of surgeons might well have meant that a man would be bled less often which could improve his chances of survival…

After one of the shorter days with Waterloo 2022: Wellington Napoleon and Mont Saint Jean we went back to the hotel early for dinner and drinks, as we needed to get ready for the next day and our battlefield tour. For me this was going to be the highlight of the week and the main reason I came on this tour. This week has gone so quickly and I’ve learned so much, it’s been a joy. I should also mention that the group were fantastic and really good company.

Waterloo 2022 – Quatre Bras and Ligny

Waterloo 2022 – Quatre Bras and Ligny was one of the days I was most looking forward to. I’ve previously done a whistle stop tour of some of the Waterloo museums, but I’ve never been to either of these sites. I’ve also read nothing about them other than a brief mention at the beginning of many books on Waterloo. I was well aware of the significance of both of these actions in the rest of the campaign but other than that, I knew very little.

At some later stage, when I get to it, I’ll do a proper post on the whole campaign. These posts aren’t designed to tell you what happened on those days in 1815 but to describe my own experience of touring the battle sites with Number One London Tours led by Gareth Glover and Kristine Hughes Patrone.

The windmill at Fleurus

Our tour today began in Fleurus, a town to the south-west of Ligny.  Napoleon arrived at Fleurus with his staff and escort on the morning of the battle and reached the Fleurus windmill. He apparently ordered his engineers to build an observation platform by knocking out part of the roof and climbed up to survey the situation for himself. Throughout the tour, Gareth returned regularly to the issue of how much of the battlefields could actually be seen by the various army commanders. Napoleon remained well-back from the fighting for most of the day, while Wellington was positioned further forward, and in his usual manner, moved around the battlefield at different times.

Chateau de la Paix

We next moved on to the Chateau de la Paix, which is now used as local government offices. After his victory over the Prussians at Ligny on 16th June, Napoleon retired that evening to the Chateau in Fleurus, while his troops camped in the surrounding area. During the night Napoleon shut himself off from the outside world for as long as he could. He was inactive for almost eleven hours while the Prussians escaped. They were bloodied and much depleted but still effective enough to march to support Wellington at Waterloo.

The Napoleon room in the Chateau de la Paix

The room occupied by Napoleon in the Chateau has been reconstructed with period furniture. Our local guide Laurent was an excellent storyteller with a great sense of humour and he talked about the battle, the aftermath and what might have gone wrong for Napoleon. He and Gareth agreed with the possibility that treatment for a severe case of haemorrhoids might well have affected Napoleon’s behaviour that night and could possibly have affected some of his decisions. For anybody wanting to visit the Chateau, you have to book in advance and details are on their website. If all the guides are this good, I strongly recommend it.

Our next visit was to the small but very good museum in Ligny. It covers both Ligny and Quatre Bras and gave a very good sense of what happened on 16th June in these small villages and towns as the French inflicted a bloody defeat on Blucher’s Prussians and fought to a stalemate against Wellington’s Allied army. I was shocked at the extent of the casualties at both battles. Somehow I’d always had the vague impression that these were just skirmishes ahead of the main battle, but they clearly weren’t. All three armies were weakened by what happened on this day and it must have had an effect on what happened at Waterloo.

French ambulance wagon, much coveted by Anne van Daan…

From my own perspective, I was delighted to find a French flying ambulance wagon in the courtyard outside the museum. Anybody who has read the Peninsular War Saga will know that Anne van Daan has been persecuting Wellington about ambulance provision for three books now and if he wasn’t so fond of her he’d probably have strangled her. I’ve read about these and seen pictures but it was great to meet the real thing.

Memorial to the Duke of Brunswick, killed at Quatre Bras

We made our way up to Quatre Bras. There’s very little to see there, as the original farmhouse has been pulled down and there’s a lot of building in the area. Gareth did a good job, pointing out those sites and memorials around both battlefields which can still be seen. Even with limited access he managed to give a clear picture of what happened in both battles and had a wealth of personal accounts to read of what happened to individuals on the day.

 

 

 

Auberge du Roy d’Espagne, Genappe

We drove through Genappe, looking at the routes taken by the various armies and stopped for a photo opportunity at the Auberge du Roy d’Espagne. This former inn was used at different times by the Duke of Wellington, Prince Jérôme Bonaparte and Marshal Blücher, who stayed at the inn after Waterloo and reputedly left it in Napoleon’s sedan. There is a picture of the Prussian generals celebrating their victory at Waterloo, but the inn also housed the wounded French General Guillaume Philibert Duhesme who died there on June 20, two days after the battle, probably while the Prussians were still celebrating in the next room.

Blucher’s window at the Auberge du Roy d’Espagne from the outside…
And a painting of the same window from the inside. Though it doesn’t look the same, I suspect some artist’s license here…

Another long day on the tour, with moving accounts from both Gareth and Kristine about the battles and their aftermath. Tomorrow is museum day, with visits to the Wellington and Napoleon museums, the church in Waterloo and the Mont St Jean medical museum.

Waterloo 2022 – the London tour

Horse Guards. “No wonder nothing ever works there” (Colonel Paul van Daan, in a Redoubtable Citadel, 1812)

Waterloo 2022 – the London tour was the first official tour day. I had a great dinner last night at the Clarence pub, meeting the rest of the tour group then this morning we set off on the London section of the tour.

We began outside Lanesborough House. The former home of the Viscounts Lanesborough, it is a beautiful neoclassical building on Hyde Park Corner opposite Apsley House. From 1733 it housed St George’s Hospital until it became a five star hotel in 1991. It was the beginning of our walking tour around the early nineteenth century heart of London.

 

Original gate to Tattersalls, where every young officer about town hoped to find a good campaign horse

Our guides were historians Gareth Glover who has published more than a hundred books on the Peninsular War and Waterloo campaign and Kristine Hughes Patrone who runs Number One London tours and is the author of Waterloo Witnesses and who can talk forever on the Duke of Wellington, or ‘Artie’ as he’s also known and the social world in which he moved. We visited Hamilton Place, Wellington’s temporary London home in 1814-15 from where he and some of his staff departed for Brussels in 1815. We saw the site of Tattersalls, the famous auctioneer of quality horses during the period and learned something about the best choice of horses for officers setting off on campaign.

 

The Grenadier Pub, supposedly haunted by a soldier murdered for cheating at cards.

We moved on to the Grenadier Pub, and heard Kristine’s personal experience of the local ghost story and we walked between mews and carriage houses, now converted into fabulously expensive residential properties and were able to get a sense of how busy the area would have been in 1815 with the army barracks, Horse Guards and the comings and goings of officers and men alongside fashionable London.

 

 

 

Apsley House, home of Wellington after the Waterloo campaign

No Wellington visit would be complete without a trip to Apsley House, also known as Number One London. There is an excellent Wellington Museum inside the house which includes a spectacular art collection, much of which was captured from the French after the Battle of Vitoria and which the Spanish then gave to Wellington after the war.  The house was originally bought by Richard Wellesley, 1st Marquess Wellesley, but in 1817 financial difficulties caused him to sell it to his famous brother, by then the Duke of Wellington, who needed a London base from which to pursue his new career in politics.

Elegance in Regency clubland

We went on to St James’s Square where the Waterloo Dispatch and captured French eagles were delivered to the Prince Regent, who was attending a soiree hosted by Mrs Edmund Boehm on 21 June 1815. The dispatch was brought by Major Henry Percy, one of Wellington’s ADCs. Percy first delivered Wellington’s dispatch to the Prime Minister and Secretary of State for War in Grosvenor Square before going to lay the eagles at the feet of the Prince Regent.

 

 

 

Our final stop for the day was the Horse Guards museum and were in time to see an inspection parade. After that it was back to the hotel in preparation for an early start on the Eurostar to Brussels the following morning.

Waterloo 2022: prelude

Waterloo 2022: prelude only really came about because I live on the Isle of Man. My much anticipated Waterloo tour officially starts in London with dinner on 1st September, but given the unpredictable nature of travel these days, I was absolutely determined not to risk a major delay. Accordingly I found myself in London with a whole day to spare yesterday.

Some people – those with sense – would have found something relaxing to do ahead of what is likely to be an energetic tour. I decided the best way to spend the day was on a marathon tour around the navy museums in Greenwich, before going for dinner with some of my fellow travellers. I was absolutely shattered but had a great deal of fun.

The National Maritime Museum part of Royal Museums Greenwich, a network of museums in the Maritime Greenwich World Heritage Site. Greenwich has always had connections with the sea and navigation. There was a Roman landing place here, the Navy has a long history with the Greenwich waterfront and in 1675, Charles II founded the Royal Observatory for “finding the longitude of places” Greenwich has been the home of Greenwich Mean Time and the Prime Meridian since 1884, and has been a centre for astronomical study. Navigators right across the world have set their clocks according to its time of day.  It’s the perfect place for a maritime museum.

The Museum has a fantastic collection on the history of Britain at sea  including both British and Dutch maritime art, cartography, manuscripts  ship models and plans, scientific and navigational instruments. There are a series of galleries looking at the history of Britain at sea, organised either geographically or by historic period.

There is, as usual, an abundance of information and artefacts about Lord Nelson, England’s most feted naval hero including the clothing he was wearing when he was shot down on the deck of the Victory during the Battle of Trafalgar. While I’m grateful that the national obsession with Nelson means that EVERY navy museum has something relating to my period of interest, I can’t help imagining the howls of indignation of a few other navy officers of the era who really did some quite impressive stuff themselves, but don’t get a mention. Nevertheless, the National Maritime Museum is fascinating, with loads to see and do for both adults and children and I highly recommend it.

Close by is the old Royal Naval College, the centrepiece of what has come to be known as Maritime Greenwich. The buildings were originally built as the Royal Hospital for Seamen at Greenwich, first chartered by King William III and Queen Mary II in 1694. The buildings were designed by Christopher Wren and built between 1696 and 1712. The hospital closed in 1869 and between 1873 and 1998 it was the Royal Naval College, Greenwich.

Model of Greenwich Palace

There had been a palace on this site from the days of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. It was rebuilt by Henry VII and became known as Greenwich Palace, a favourite residence of several Tudor monarchs. Henry VIII, Mary I and Elizabeth I were all born there. It remained a royal palace until it fell into disrepair during the Civil Wars of the seventeenth century and was finally demolished in 1694.

Greenwich Seaman’s Hospital was built on the orders of Mary II who was affected by the sight of wounded sailors coming home from the Battle of La Hogue. It is incredibly beautiful architecturally and both the Chapel and the Painted Hall are well worth a visit. I particularly liked the Chapel, which has naval motifs incorporated into the design.

 

 

 

Admiral Sir Richard Keats

Even so, I will admit that for me the most exciting part of that visit was to spot a bust of Admiral Sir Richard Keats, looking benignly at me from a corner. Keats is a recurring character in my Manxman series and it was like running into an old friend, though I probably confused the rest of the tour group with my enthusiasm. Nobody had heard of him and I promise I only gave a gratuitous chunk of information in revenge for somebody asking me if he would have known Nelson…

 

Henry VIII’s tiltyard at Greenwich

There’s a modern visitor centre which is really interesting on the subject of the early history of the Greenwich site, including models of the the old palace and the tilt yard established there by Henry VIII.

 

 

Nelson also features a fair bit, surprisingly enough. England’s Hero lay in state for several days in the Painted Hall and there is a small dedicated Nelson Room, but my favourite artefact is a lion which was apparently a model piece for the Nelson frieze. The lion is holding a stone which purports to claim that Nelson fought in 122 battles. I had this piece of information from the guide and I’ve not managed to check it at all, but my extensive reading on the subject of the Napoleonic navy so far has suggested that most of the time was spent either on tedious blockade duty or seething at home on half-pay. Nobody seemed able to answer my question about how Nelson managed to see quite so much action during his time in the navy but if I get to the bottom of it, I’ll let you know. Alternatively, if anybody else knows where I can find a list of these battles, I’d love to hear it. Nice lion, though.

My final visit of the day was to the Cutty Sark, a nineteenth century tea clipper located in dry dock on the river bank. The Cutty Sark has a very sentimental place in my heart as it was a favourite place to visit as a child. We used to go to Greenwich a lot, getting the bus from Mile End and then walking through the Victorian foot tunnel under the river. I loved it there, the park and the eclectic market, the little shops, the Queen’s House and the Observatory, the graceful buildings of the Naval College. That much history in one place always set off my very eccentric imagination about the men and women who had lived in these buildings and walked these streets in the past. But the absolute joy for me was the once or twice a year when we were allowed to actually go aboard the Cutty Sark.

In those days, the Cutty Sark wasn’t the only ship on the riverside. She was joined by the Gypsy Moth IV, the yacht in which Sir Francis Chichester became the first person to single-handedly circumnavigate the globe in 1966. The yacht is now on display in the museum at Buckler’s Hard but I can remember visiting her at Greenwich. It was an exciting story and my sister, her interest firmly rooted in the present, loved it but it failed to catch my enthusiasm in the way that the clipper races of the Cutty Sark did.

I wasn’t sure that I’d still feel the same about the Cutty Sark. Certainly the displays aboard ship are very different to my childhood memories, probably because of the enormous amount of conservation work done over the years, especially after the fire of 2007. It’s astonishing that despite everything, 90% of the ship in Greenwich today is original. The ship you see today is mostly the same as when she first carried tea from Shanghai to London and was reopened by Her Majesty The Queen in 2012.

The Victorian foot tunnel at Greenwich

I was amused at how small the Cutty Sark felt to me, after recent visits to the Victory, the Trincomalee and the Warrior. Below decks had nothing like the atmosphere of the Napoleonic ships but once I was on deck again, I suddenly had that same feeling I remember in childhood, gazing awestruck up into her rigging, trying to imagine what it would have been like. The displays were fascinating and I’ve finally found out where the ship’s name came from. But for me, just standing there on the riverside, stepping onto the deck and then walking down into the old foot tunnel brought back memories so vivid I got quite emotional.

 

After a day on my feet, it was a relief to meet up with some of my fellow travellers at the Royal Horse Guards Hotel, and dinner was great fun. Today has been very restful, with a trip on the river and lunch at the Royal Opera House with Janet, one of my readers whom I’ve chatted to over the past couple of years and who I’ve been dying to meet. I think I’ve recuperated enough to hit the streets of London with Number One London Tours tomorrow to visit Waterloo related sights before heading off to Belgium the following day.

I’ll try to keep up these posts over the trip and share as many photos as I can, though it’s a packed programme so some of it will probably have to wait until I get home again. I’m hoping to learn a lot this week which will help me with the Waterloo book when I finally get to it. It’s getting alarmingly close…

NaNoWriMo with Labradors – the first week

NaNoWriMo with Labradors – the first week has gone better than I ever expected. There’s something very motivating about sitting down each day knowing that you’re not going to give up until you’ve at least come close to your word count.

As I’ve said before, I discovered when I came back to this book that I’d written more than I realised, although it was a bit all over the place, with a series of unconnected scenes. They weren’t all bad though. In fact I was really happy with some of them. Others were interesting but just not right for this book. I quickly realised that the first two chapters were probably the reason I found it so difficult to progress when I first started to work on this book last year. They slowed the book down unbearably from the beginning and kept impinging on the action later on as I had to justify their existence by keeping those narratives going. I’ve scrapped them completely and rewritten the following chapters to fit in and I’m now very happy with the start of this book.

Including the remaining excerpts which will either be scrapped or incorporated into the book when I get to them, I’ve now got seventy-nine thousand words, which is probably more than half the book. It’s going incredibly well. I’ve sent the first four chapters to my editor, just to read through, and she loves it, so I think I’m on the right track. To complete a first draft before the end of May I need to write an average of three to four thousand words a day, and I think I can probably manage that. After that will be a major edit, but I’m hopeful this book will be out before the end of the year, which makes me very happy after the disasters of the previous two years.

I love writing about Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell but in order to be able to tell the full story of the siege of Tarragona I needed men on the ground. As with the storming of Castro Urdiales in An Unmerciful Incursion, the British army wasn’t involved in this campaign. In that book, I solved the problem by giving some of my regular characters a reason to be in the town at the time of the siege. At Tarragona, I found that there were several published narratives written by men on the ground. Both General Suchet and General Contreras wrote their own accounts of what happened at Tarragona giving me some excellent source material to put alongside the account of Captain Codrington of the Royal Navy. 

Accordingly, this will be the first outing for the French Captain Gabriel Bonnet of the 30th légère who later makes an appearance in An Indomitable Brigade. From the Spanish side, I’ve introduced a brand new character who is presenting me with an interesting challenge. Captain Bruno Ángel Cortez, ADC to General Contreras who commanded the Spanish garrison in Tarragona is a complex individual who is not  always likeable and not easy to write. I’ll be interested to see how this one goes.

It’s the start of a new week. I’ll keep you updated on progress on my Facebook page, so keep an eye out for posts there. I’m very excited to see where this book takes me next.

Oscar and Alfie are excited as well, as you can see…

In the meantime, I’ll leave you with an excerpt from the early part of the voyage to Tarragona. Enjoy.

Hugh turned his attention to his sextant. It was a bright clear day, making the readings easy. Beside him Manby worked out his latitude in a small notebook and there was silence over the group of observers who were suddenly intent on their work. When the master had finished, he walked aft to where Lieutenant Pryce, the officer of the watch waited. Pryce accepted his report of noon along with the degrees and minutes of the latitude observed.

Hugh watched, hiding his smile, as Pryce approached him to make the same report. Manby had needed to walk past him to reach Pryce, but it would not have occurred to the master to report directly to Hugh and Hugh would not have asked him to do so. The daily rituals of shipboard life were important, not because of routine days such as this when Hugh was present and available, but for the one day when he would not be, and a crisis might occur.

Pryce saluted, announced that it was twelve o’clock and gave the latitude which Hugh already knew. Hugh nodded.

“Make it twelve, Mr Pryce.”

“Aye, sir.” Pryce raised his voice to the mate of the watch. “Make it twelve, Sanders.”

“Aye, sir.” Petty Officer Sanders turned to the waiting quarter-master. “Sound eight bells.”

The quarter-master stepped onto the ladder and called below. “Turn the glass and strike the bell.”

As the first stroke of the bell rang out, Pryce turned to where Geordie Armstrong waited, his whistle ready. “Pipe to dinner, Bosun.”

Hugh stood watching as officers and men dispersed. The officers dined in the wardroom at one o’clock and then Hugh dined an hour later, theoretically in solitary splendour. In practice, if he had no other guests, Hugh dined with his first lieutenant. He knew that one or two of his other officers during the past few years had looked askance at his close friendship with Durrell. There had been mutterings of favouritism, particularly after Walcheren when Hugh had stood by Durrell against all attempts to put him on half-pay.

Hugh could see Durrell now, his long form leaning against a grating. He was demonstrating something in a notebook to two of the midshipmen, waving his pencil in the air as he explained. Hugh had no idea what he was teaching them, but he knew it would be accurate, very well-explained and incredibly detailed. Hugh had received many such lectures from his junior and at times they had driven him mad, but he had also learned a great deal. He stood waiting for Durrell to finish, watching the midshipmen. Mr Clarke was staring into space, looking as though he would rather be somewhere else. His companion, one of the new boys by the name of Holland, was scribbling frantically in his own notebook, looking up every now and again with something like hero-worship at Durrell’s oblivious form. Hugh made a mental note to spend some time with Mr Holland and came forward.

“Mr Durrell. As it’s our first day at sea, I’ve invited the other officers to join us for dinner.”

Durrell smiled. “We’re very grateful, sir.”

“I’m sure you’ll be willing to act as my second host. And I’d be grateful if you’d do the same tomorrow when I’m hosting the midshipmen. I may need help with that.”

Durrell laughed aloud. “I’d be delighted, sir. I’m sure the young gentlemen will be on their best behaviour.”

“They’d better be.” Hugh surveyed Durrell’s two pupils. “Mr Clarke, I hope you’re studying hard. Mr Holland, you’re new to us. How are you enjoying your lessons?”

“Very much, Captain.”

“Excellent. You were taking notes there.”

“Yes, sir. Mr Durrell was explaining the difference between various instruments when making calculations and how they…” Holland stopped suddenly and blushed scarlet. “It was very interesting,” he said lamely.

“It’s fascinating,” Hugh said, amused. “I applaud your ability to rein in your enthusiasm but don’t do it with me, you’re exactly the kind of young officer I’m looking for. I’d like to get to know you better, you’ll sit beside me tomorrow at dinner. Now go and get your own dinner before your messmates eat it all.”

He watched as the younger men raced away to their meal then turned to Durrell. “Are you sure you’re ready to help me at this dinner tomorrow?”

“Of course I am, sir. There are one or two very promising men among the new midshipmen, but Mr Holland is my favourite so far.”

“I can see why. If he’s as good as he seems, why don’t you find him some extra duties that will give you a chance to work with him?”

Hugh saw his first lieutenant’s eyes light up. “Thank you, sir. I’d like that.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you at dinner. As my clerk is struck down with sea-sickness, I intend to spend the next hour setting out my accounts book.”

Hugh heard the gloom in his own voice. Durrell laughed. “Would you like me to do it, sir?”

“Yes, but you’re not going to, you take on far too many duties that are not yours, including schooling the midshipmen. I…”

Hugh broke off at the sound of raised voices from the gangway. Before he could move, Durrell was ahead of him. Hugh watched as his first lieutenant crossed the deck and barked an order. Three boys scrambled up onto the deck and lined up before him and Durrell looked them over unsmiling.

“Mr Oakley, Mr Bristow. Can you explain to me why you’re brawling with Lewis when you should be on your way to dinner?”

“Not a brawl, sir. Just joking around.”

Durrell said nothing. He let the silence lengthen until the boys were shuffling their feet. Hugh could feel their discomfort and he did not blame them. Durrell’s withering expression was enough to discompose even the liveliest midshipman.

Eventually, Durrell moved his gaze to the third boy. Teddy Lewis was a wiry ex-pickpocket from Southwark who had been pressed as a landsman and had chosen to remain as a volunteer, acting as Durrell’s servant. He was sixteen and smaller than most of the boys but made up for it with a belligerent willingness to fight even the biggest of them. Durrell glared at Lewis for a full minute then looked back at the other two boys.

“Aboard a Royal Navy vessel, a midshipman is considered a young gentleman. I happen to know that you both qualify by birth if not behaviour. Repeatedly picking on one who is both smaller and below you in rank because you think he cannot fight back is not the act of a gentleman or a future officer, it is the act of a snivelling coward. Please do not be under the misapprehension that because you joined this ship as midshipman, you will necessarily remain so. If you persist in bullying the other boys I will have you broken to common seaman, and you’ll find that below decks the men will be unimpressed with your status. Now get to your dinner. I will see you at four o’clock after the watch is called and we will spend some time improving your mathematics.”

“But sir, study time is over then,” Bristow said in appalled tones.

“Not for you, Mr Bristow, since it appears that you struggle to find constructive ways to spend your leisure. Dismissed. Not you, Lewis.”

When the other boys had gone, Durrell regarded his servant thoughtfully. “Are you hurt?”

“No, sir.”

“Did they take anything?”

Lewis hesitated and Hugh could see him considering whether he could get away with a lie.

“I will find out, Lewis, and you will regret it.”

“My lesson book, sir.”

“Did you get it back?”

“It’s spoiled, sir. In the animal pen, it’s covered in shit…I mean dung, sir.”

Durrell did not speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was pleasant and even. Hugh could tell that he was furious.

“Go to the purser after dinner and get another one, with my authorisation. When you’re not using it, you have my permission to keep it in my cabin. The money will be deducted from their pay. In the meantime, Lewis, in addition to practicing your reading and penmanship, I would like you to practice walking away. If you spend your time defending every inch of your dignity you’ll never rise above able seaman and that would be a shame, because you are more intelligent than either of them. Now go and get your dinner.”