Welcome to the French Lieutenant, my Christmas story for 2024. As always it’s freely available on my website, so please share as much as you like.
This is not the first short story I’ve written about a French prisoner of war. In an Impossible Attachment back in 2018, Lieutenant Damien Cavel managed to escape before he is marched onto the transport to England. Raoul Delon is not as lucky in this story. Or perhaps he is.
I read a lot about the arrangements for captured French officers in the various parole towns around England and Scotland. The rules were the same in every town but the application of them seems to have varied widely. The parole agents were often open to bribery and some officers broke their parole and escaped back to France. Curfew and boundaries were strictly enforced in many places and very lax in others. I suspect that in towns where the prisoners gave no trouble and got on with the locals, they were give a lot more latitude than in towns where there were drunken brawls and resentment. Some officers brought their wives with them. Others found wives among the local girls. Some chose not to go back to France at the end of the war.
It only recently occurred to me that my fictional industrial town of Thorndale was exactly the kind of place designated as a parole town. It gave me the opportunity to revisit a storyline which began in the very first book in the Peninsular War Saga as well as to introduce some new characters. There are also one or two links to a Formidable Frontier, my most recent book and to the Kittiwake, my Halloween story.
In the winter of 1813-14 there is still no peace in Europe, but in a small Yorkshire town there’s a sense of reconciliation and looking towards the future which feels right for Christmas.
I’m looking forward to moving on with my new Age of Sail series and with book four of the Manxman series in 2025. In the meantime I wish all my readers, old and new, a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. As always, your enjoyment of these books and stories makes it all worthwhile. I hope you enjoy the French Lieutenant. Thank you so much.
The French Lieutenant
Yorkshire, November 1813
Heads turned as he left the narrow house at the end of the street and made his cautious way over the slippery cobblestones towards the baker’s shop. The stones would have been hard enough to manage in worn boots which let in water, but a marked limp and the need to use a cane for support added to the probability that he would slip over. Lieutenant Raoul Delon had been making this journey every morning for the past three weeks, apart from Sundays when the baker’s was closed. He wondered if the curious townspeople were disappointed that so far they had not seen him sprawled in a puddle unable to get up.
He was not the only Frenchman currently billeted in this little English town but he was the most recent and therefore the most interesting. Raoul had arrived on a transport after long appalling weeks in an army hospital which he was still surprised to have survived. His leg, broken by a shot while leading his men on the heights of the pass at Maya, would probably have been amputated if there had been enough surgeons available. As it was he had been left in an isolated farmhouse with a resentful Basque couple and a promise that help would come.
Help had eventually arrived, not from his compatriots but from a contingent of English troops on their way to make a new assault on the pass. By then Raoul was weak from blood loss, shivering with fever and starving, because his unwilling hosts refused to feed him more than scraps. The English had carried him down the mountain and into an army hospital. Raoul felt as though he had been transported into a dimension of hell.
Neglect had probably saved his leg and a naturally tough constitution had saved his life. When eventually he was marched aboard a prison transport to England, Raoul was no longer sure how much he cared, but he learned to take each day as it came. At least here he had shelter and rations and, for the first time in years, felt safe from either being blown to pieces on a battlefield or slaughtered in an ambush by Spanish partisans. Even fever, which killed more men in Bonaparte’s army than battle wounds, was less likely here.
Mr Farnham the baker greeted him with his usual surly nod and waited for his order. Raoul stated his requirements, keeping it brief. During his first week in Thorndale, he had attempted to make polite conversation with the townspeople. His English was quite good but he quickly realised that the thick dialect spoken in this town was nothing like the language he had been taught at school and practiced among his fellow officers. He knew they understood him perfectly well, but it seemed to amuse them to pretend they could not and he often could not understand them. He had given up now and kept his conversation as simple as his shopping requirements. Farnham wrapped the bread and hot pasty and watched him leave.
Around the corner was a butcher and a row of market stalls selling fresh goods. There was a full market once a week, but these local stalls were out every day. Several of them were run by women and Raoul found them more friendly than their menfolk, though no easier to understand. His cooking facilities were limited so he subsisted mostly off cooked meat and preserved fish, bread and cheese. Once a week he squandered some of his allowance on a hearty stew at the Red Lion with the dozen other French officers allocated to this particular parole town and enjoyed several glasses of wine over cards or chess. Otherwise he drank ale, ate herring and remembered wistfully the fresh food grown on his family farm in the Loire Valley.
Raoul distributed his various packages between the big pockets of his old greatcoat and limped back up the hill towards his billet, which was a chilly room above a stationer’s shop. Mr Thorpe, the proprietor, was unmarried and managed with a maid and a manservant who also worked in the shop. The kitchen was old and the big range never lit, so cooking took place over the fire. Thorpe was perfectly happy for his guest to use it but Raoul always felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the two servants, so managed as far as he could over the smaller fire in his room. Coal was expensive but there were extensive forested areas within ten minutes walk of the edge of town and years in the army had made him an expert forager.
It was growing colder, with a sharp wind which cut easily through his shabby coat. The paroled officers received a weekly allowance which was paid by the town parole agent. Being new, Raoul had only just begun to receive his and had so far received no money from home, though he was hoping that his brother, who ran the family’s small estate, would be able to arrange it soon. He was saving for new clothing but in the meantime he would manage. This Yorkshire market town might feel inhospitable at times but it was nothing compared to bleak, freezing nights in the Pyrenees.
The cold made him quicken his pace which proved his downfall. Setting down his cane he felt it slide away from him and as he tried not to follow it, his bad leg went the other way. He fell heavily on his side and lay winded, feeling pain shooting down his leg. It panicked him. The break had healed but he had no idea if the bone was permanently damaged and whether it might break again from a simple fall. For a while he made no attempt to get up, but he knew he was going to have to. Unless he was lucky enough to be spotted by one of his fellow prisoners he did not think any of the locals would come to his aid.
He had barely begun to move however when a shadow fell over him and a man’s voice said:
“Stay still, now. If you get up too quickly you’ll be over again, lame as you are. Catch your breath. Here, you boy! Get yourself over and take his other arm. And your friend can take his cane. Bring him into Mr Arnold’s office.
Raoul opened his mouth to protest but then closed it again. Until he had rested his leg for a while he did not think there was any way he would make it back to his billet, let alone up the stairs to the second floor. He allowed his rescuer to help him up three steps and across a wide, tiled hallway into what looked like a waiting room. There was an old-fashioned sofa against one wall and Raoul sank onto it gratefully.
“My thanks, sir, and your pardon for being so troublesome,” he said, careful to speak slowly and clearly. “I will be better soon.”
The other man studied him for a moment then turned to take Raoul’s cane from one of the two boys. He handed a coin to each of them and waved dismissal, just as a second man bustled into the room.
“Now then, Mr Carlyon, what’s this? Is the poor gentleman hurt? A nasty fall and if I’d not been standing at the window, I’d never have seen it. Mrs Cobb? Where are you? Make some tea would you? And get Smith to bring the burgundy and glasses down here. I’d invite you up sir, but you shouldn’t try the stairs yet. Leg paining you is it? I’ve seen you struggle past a few times and wondered. Glad to have finally met you. Arnold’s the name. Henry Arnold, lawyer and man of business. And this gentleman who was ahead of me down the stairs to help you up is Mr Benjamin Carlyon, our former MP who lives nearby.”
Raoul’s head was spinning a little but he was relieved that he was easily able to understand Mr Arnold’s accent. He shook the older man’s proffered hand and that of Mr Carlyon with real gratitude.
“Thank you both, sirs. I am sorry to have been so much trouble. My name is Delon – Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28th Ligne. I was wounded at Maya and captured soon afterwards. My leg has been recovering slowly but I am not yet steady on my feet.”
“Of course you’re not. Damned stupid of Johnson to shove you right at the top of old Thorpe’s building in my opinion. What’s your room like? Do they feed you? Can’t help noticing you’ve been doing your own marketing most days. Here, Smith. Take Lieutenant Delon’s coat and be careful with it. He’s got his supper in the pockets.”
Raoul felt himself blush. “I am well enough there, sir,” he said quickly. “Some of the officers stay next to the Red Lion and have a mess arrangement there but I would rather not feel obliged.”
Mr Carlyon looked surprisingly sympathetic. The servant had set down the madeira and he went to pour a glass for Raoul.
“Don’t get on with your fellow officers, eh?”
“I do, sir. We meet regularly. Only I have only recently arrived and do not know them that well yet. Also they are…” He paused, searching for the right word. “They are thankful for nothing. Me, I remember what I have just come from and am thankful for what I now have.”
Arnold fixed him with a look then accepted a wine glass from Carlyon and drank appreciatively.
“By God, you’ve got it there, lad. Whiny lot, aren’t they? My wife makes a point of inviting them to dinner every few weeks. Trying to make them feel welcome. They sit round our table moaning in French to each other like they think we’re too stupid to understand them. My wife speaks it well and I can get by.”
Raoul went even more red. “I am sorry for their manners, sir. I am surprised you invite them back.”
“We feel sorry for them. I’ve a nephew in the navy. Midshipman aboard the Venerable. And Carlyon here has a son out with Wellington. We’ve said before that we’d like to think some French family would be good to them if they were taken prisoner.”
“I imagine you would also like to think that your son and your nephew would show good manners,” Raoul said. His ability to converse with these two men was beginning to restore his confidence in his English. Carlyon grinned.
“Well there’s nothing wrong with your manners, lad, that’s for sure. I think some of the officers here regret not being sent to a livelier town for parole. There’s not many of you: only fourteen now you’ve arrived. There are hundreds in some of the bigger towns and cities. They’ve built their own communities. It’s boring here for your countrymen and none of them have brought wives with them. Are you married, sir?”
Raoul shook his head. “No. I am glad of it. It is enough that my mother worries.”
“Poor lady. Drink up. Are you feeling any better?”
Raoul shifted his leg and winced. “A little. I think I can make it back to my billet…”
“Until you take a tumble down those bloody stairs and break your neck,” Arnold said scathingly. “It won’t do. What do you think, Carlyon?”
“I’d be happy to take him but it wouldn’t be suitable just now. I hadn’t got around to telling you, but we have a guest staying with us – a young lady.”
“I see.” Arnold sounded doubtful. Raoul was beginning to feel like a stray dog being passed around until a sympathetic owner could be found. He did not like the feeling, but he sensed genuine kindness in these men and having received nothing of the sort for a long time he appreciated their intentions. “I suppose that might be awkward. Relation of some kind? Your wife’s perhaps?”
“Not at all. If it were my niece she’d enjoy the company,” Carlyon said with grim amusement. “We didn’t know the girl personally but her brother served with Simon.”
“Served?”
“Yes,” Carlyon said. Raoul understood what the man was trying to say and felt a little shiver of sadness for the unknown woman. He had been tactful so far but he could not let this pass.
“You mean that her brother was killed in battle by one of my countrymen, sir?”
Carlyon looked flustered. “Well yes, sir. Though there’s no need for you to take it to heart. I can see you’re the kind who would. He was doing his duty same as you were. The thing is, it’s very recent and she’s been left completely alone. There was some relative living with her; they’ve a house in Hay-on-Wye. A Welsh family, very respectable.”
“I feel much sadness for her,” Raoul said. “Too many men have died on both sides.”
“How did she come to be staying with you?” Arnold asked with interest. “What age is she? When she’s feeling more the thing I’ll get my wife to call. Introduce her to my daughter. Louisa’s a kind soul.”
“It would be the very thing for her,” Carlyon said warmly. “Give her a week or two to settle in. My wife is delighted. She misses Simon, it’s good for her to have a young person to fuss over again. Miss Lloyd is twenty and a very nice girl. The aunt she’s been living with died. Left her on her own in their big old house with a few servants. Lloyd served in the 110th and was a good friend of my Simon’s. It seems he’d only just heard of his aunt’s death before he was killed in this latest action. He chose Simon to take care of his affairs if anything happened. Nothing formal of course: there’s a lawyer. But he left a letter for the girl and Simon sold his horses and the like and sent his personal effects home to her. Simon was worried about her; she’s young to be left alone in the world. He’s a responsible lad, is Simon. Not like…anyway, he wrote to us about it and nothing would do for my wife but to write to the girl to invite her to stay with us for a time.”
“I hope it’s a success.”
“I think it will be. She makes no demands. She has her own money and will inherit what was her brother’s. She just needed some company and we’re happy to have her. But that’s why I can’t offer Lieutenant Delon here my hospitality just now.”
“Of course,” Raoul said quickly. “She cannot possibly wish to see a man in this uniform. Please do not trouble yourself any more, gentlemen. I am very well at Mr Thorpe’s and…”
“Nay, Arnold here is right. You shouldn’t be climbing up those stairs every day and you shouldn’t be living off cold food because Thorpe is such an old clutch-fist that he won’t light his kitchen stove.”
Raoul looked startled. Carlyon smiled. “Servants meet at the market, lad. They talk. You can’t come to me and Arnold’s house has worse stairs than Thorpe’s. They’d need a hoist to get you to bed at night. I’ll need to think about it.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Benjamin. There’s an obvious solution. We need to speak to Howard.”
There was a long uncomfortable silence. Raoul had no idea what it was about but he felt it. Finally Carlyon said:
“No point. Helton Ridge is even further out of the parole area than my house. Mr Johnson wouldn’t allow it.”
“Rubbish. Johnson is flexible enough with the rules when someone bribes him enough,” Arnold said cynically. “And we all know whose pocket he lives in. Look, the Lieutenant can stay with us for one night. At least he’ll get a decent meal and Louisa can practice her French on him. I’ll take him over now and then I’ll ride out to Helton Ridge. If Howard can get permission for them to attend his receptions and Christmas ball well out of curfew hours, he can damned well intervene to make sure this lad has a safe billet.”
Raoul was horrified. “Sir, I cannot impose on you this way. It is illegal. It could end with you getting into terrible trouble and I might be accused of breaking my parole and be sent to a prison hulk. And I do not think I would survive that.”
The two Englishmen exchanged amused glances. They must both have been at least sixty and Raoul sensed a benevolent conspiracy between two very old friends.
“I’d go if I could,” Carlyon said apologetically.
“I know. Though I wish you would. It’s long past time.”
“I can’t, Arnold. Not after what happened.”
“Aye, I understand. I just think you underestimate Howard. He’s a good man. Let’s get those documents signed before I forget that’s what we were doing, and then I’ll take Lieutenant Delon over to my lady.”
Raoul made an attempt to rise and Arnold moved forward and put his hand firmly on his shoulder.
“Stay there. Mrs Cobb will bring you some tea, if you can stomach it after a good madeira. You’re not well, lad. You’re as skinny as a rake, as pale as a ghost and about as mobile as a fish washed up on Whitby Beach. Sit you there for a while and rest. I’ve been looking for an excuse to meet you ever since I’ve watched you struggle up that damned hill every day. Don’t worry about anything. Whatever we do will be perfectly legal and signed off by the parole agent. Sir Matthew Howard will see to that.”
***
There was a thick frost on the ground and the household was barely stirring when Gwynneth Lloyd fastened her cloak and slipped quietly out of the side door into the gardens of Glebe House. She had arrived in Thorndale in a downpour a week earlier; so cold and tired that she had noticed nothing about her destination other than that the house was comfortable with all modern conveniences. Her hostess was motherly and kind, and there was a fire lit in her room.
Since then, the weather had been unpredictable with fierce stormy days succeeded by brilliant blue skies and crisp cold air. Gwen sensed that this would be one of those days. She was an enthusiastic walker and was used to a good deal of independence but she had quickly discovered that her hostess tended to fuss. Mrs Carlyon had never had a daughter and Gwen suspected she felt the lack keenly. It made her an attentive but over-protective hostess so Gwen was learning to slip out when the house was quiet.
She had cried with relief when Mrs Carlyon’s invitation arrived. The news of Davy’s death, coming only months after the death of her elderly Aunt Cerys, had left her grieving and bewildered. She realised that she had spent the past few years in a constant state of waiting, believing his cheerful promises that once the war was over and he was home, they would make some plans.
“No need to rush into marriage with some local sheep farmer, Gwen love. You’re still young and Da left enough for a respectable dowry for you. Bless them both, they never saw further than the end of the valley but it’s different for me, and it should be different for you as well. It’s a fine regiment, the 110th. You’ll do well enough with Aunt Cerys for a year or two and then I’ll be home and we’ll rent the house out; you can come up to Leicestershire and I’ll introduce you to my friends. You’ll be settled in no time, I promise you. Just look at you. You’re growing into something of a beauty.”
She had trusted him implicitly and been grateful for his determination that she should not be left behind as he stepped out into a wider world. Some brothers would have accepted the first offer he received just to get her off his hands and there had been several as soon as she reached seventeen. They were from men she had known as boys, and still thought of as such, and she had refused them kindly but with relief. She had been given the gift of time and choice and it never occurred to her that he would not be there to honour his promise.
Gwen had been angry and grieving during those first weeks but also paralysed with indecision. She had no idea what to do now. Her brother’s lawyer, who had also served her father, had given her a very encouraging report of her financial affairs and suggested that she allow him to advertise for a hired companion to lend her respectability and to support her through her mourning period. Gwen did not want a stranger in the house but was already aware of a stirring of interest, a rise in the number of morning calls and invitations to tea from those local families whose sons she had already rejected. She was beginning to wonder if such a marriage was the only choice left to her but the surprising invitation from Mr and Mrs Carlyon had offered, if not a solution, certainly a reprieve.
She had studied the letter with caution, but before she had the chance to decide, a courier arrived from Spain bringing Davy’s personal possessions, the money from the sale of his horses and campaign goods and a letter he had written to Gwen in case of his death. There was also a letter from the wife of Davy’s commanding officer who had employed the courier. Both made Gwen cry all over again, but it confirmed that the Carlyons were respectable people who wanted only to help. Travel arrangements were made and Gwen set off for Yorkshire. After only a week, she knew she had found the refuge she needed and was immensely grateful to those who had worked to bring her here.
The Carlyons lived in a compact house built during the reign of Queen Anne. It was not particularly large but was elegant and well-maintained, and several generations of the family had been raised there. There was a small estate with a home farm and a number of long term tenancies and the place had an air of comfortable prosperity. Mr Carlyon had served for many years as the MP for the Thorndale constituency but had given up his seat several years earlier. He and his wife had raised two sons to manhood, both of whom chose careers in the army. The elder had died during the early years of the war in Portugal and Mrs Carlyon seemed to find it hard to speak of her loss. The younger, who had been Davy’s friend, was still with Wellington’s army which had just crossed the border into France for the first time.
Walking always helped Gwen think. She struck out across the frosty lawns, skirted the orchard and joined a narrow track which took her up a steep slope known locally as Gallows Hill. She had not troubled to ask the origin of the story. It was not hard to guess. The hill had a spectacular view of the town of Thorndale and the surrounding moors and dales, sparkling in the winter sunlight.
Yorkshire was lovely, even in this bleak weather, and it gave Gwen a curious sense of hope. She loved the soaring mountains and deep valleys of her Welsh homeland but she had always yearned to see other places while at the same time dreading that she would be disappointed. She was not. Beauty existed beyond the confines of her girlhood home and she realised, even in the depths of her grief for Davy and her Aunt Cerys, that she had not lost her curiosity about the world beyond her limited experience.
She stood at the top of the hill, breathing in the cold air and enjoying the glittering fields below her. The frost would be gone soon, and sheep and cattle would be out enjoying their winter grazing in the lower pastures. She found herself trying to imagine the steep mountain slope where her brother had fought and died. When he wrote to her, telling her stories of the places he had visited and the battles he had fought, she remembered feeling a fierce envy along with her anxiety for his safety. He had travelled so far from their rural upbringing. It had never really occurred to her that he might never come home.
Back down at the house the servants were busy about their work and there was the smell of bacon and new baked bread. Gwen went upstairs to change, then made her way down to the cosy parlour where breakfast was served. She found Mr Carlyon present, though his wife had not yet appeared.
“Out early this morning, Miss Lloyd. Nice bright morning, but cold.”
Gwen smiled and made a cheerful response. She liked both the Carlyons and was deeply grateful for their generosity to a young woman they did not know. She had heard Davy talk warmly about the bonds of friendship created during army service. She had not expected it to extend to his family and was touched at the care taken on her behalf.
They chatted about the weather until Mrs Carlyon joined them. Gwen saw that she had several letters in her hand but she did not open them, merely set them beside her plate. Gwen made a guess. Buttering her bread, she said lightly:
“Do you have a letter from Captain Carlyon, ma’am?”
The older woman coloured a little. “Well yes, my dear. But I can wait until…”
“Please don’t. After all your kindness – and his to my brother – I should like to know that he is well.”
Mrs Carlyon’s hand hovered over the letter. “I don’t wish to upset you.”
“It won’t, ma’am. The war is still going on and I cannot avoid all mention of it. Davy would have something to say to me if I tried.”
Her hostess beamed at her and broke the seal of the letter, opening a sheet which was covered with writing so small that Gwen deduced that her son was trying to make the most of the space. Mrs Carlyon gave a little groan and peered closely while sipping her tea.
“Oh my!” she exclaimed in surprise. “He writes from France, Benjamin. They are properly established upon French soil. How strange after so long. They have very comfortable billets and are hoping for a peaceful Christmas.”
Gwen ate her breakfast and let the conversation drift past her. She found it curiously soothing. It brought back the excitement of getting letters from Davy, who had never been a particularly regular correspondent. When he did write however he made her laugh with stories from the regiment, descriptions of the places he had seen and a running commentary about the misadventures of his commanding officer’s dog which frequently made her laugh out loud. It was bitter-sweet to think of the regiment carrying on without him but at the same time Gwen was glad of the news. It made her feel closer to him.
She realised Mrs Carlyon had stopped reading aloud and was casting a doubtful glance at her husband. Firmly she said:
“Thank you, ma’am. I enjoyed hearing that. It brings back happy memories of my brother. Is there any further news?”
“Well…only a mention of the matter of the French prisoners. I believe we mentioned to you that Thorndale is a parole town, though only designated one last year as they were running out of space in one or two of the other towns. We have but a dozen or so junior officers and they give us no trouble. It seems that arrangements are being made for the parole boundary to be extended so that Helton Ridge can be included. Mrs van Daan’s family live there, you know, my dear. Lady Howard has been hospitable to the officers. I wonder if she is thinking of offering accommodation to some of them. It might be suitable, especially if any of the officers have wives joining them. They have a lot of space. Do you know the Van Daans?”
“Not personally,” Gwen said. “General van Daan wrote to me to tell me about Davy’s death of course and then his wife wrote me such a kind letter afterwards. I did not know the prisoners were permitted to bring their wives with them.”
“The officers are, certainly,” Carlyon said. “Not that any of them have in Thorndale. They’re mostly juniors and unmarried. I’m glad that they’re moving the parole boundary. It should make it easier for Arnold to talk Sir Matthew into taking that young Frenchman who had such a bad fall. I told you about him, my dear.”
“Of course. I am sure it will all work out for the best. Sir Matthew is always so helpful,” Mrs Carlyon said brightly. “Now for today. I need to go to the drapers and then I have the intention of calling on Mrs Noah Battersley to discuss the Christmas boxes for the poor. If you would like to accompany me Miss Lloyd, you would be very welcome.”
Gwen did not hesitate. She was being invited to what would undoubtedly be a rather boring social event but it would be better than seclusion. Now that the worst shock of her grief had eased a little, she realised she had become very isolated and she was a naturally social person.
“I would be happy to accompany you, ma’am, and to help however I can. You mentioned a young French officer who was injured. What happened?”
“Nothing to speak of, Miss Lloyd,” Carlyon said briskly. “The young man arrived recently, wounded and very lame. He had a bad fall in town yesterday and his billet is unsuitable for his recovery. Mr Arnold though that Sir Matthew Howard might be able to help out. Now, would you like some more eggs?”
***
Raoul was overawed upon his arrival at Helton Ridge. He had visited, and even been billeted, in chateaux and palaces during his army service but most of them were old and in poor repair. This house had been built during the previous century and still retained the elegant classical lines of its Georgian origins but inside it had been brought fully up to date. It was not a museum but a busy family home.
He was relieved when the housekeeper showed him to a room in a ground floor annexe overlooking the rose garden. A fire had been lit against the cold November afternoon and the room looked cosy and inviting.
“It’s not that you’re not welcome in the house, sir, it’s just that her Ladyship thought this would be easier for you, without the stairs.”
“Of course,” Raoul said gratefully.
“We use this wing for one or two elderly guests who need to be on the ground floor,” Mrs Hibbert said chattily. “And my lady used to put Mr George and Mr Arthur’s friends in here when they came to visit sometimes, because there was no telling the hour they’d come in and she wouldn’t have the young ladies woken up.”
“Young ladies?” Raoul said, faintly alarmed.
“Yes, sir. Miss Anne isn’t here; she’s out with her husband in Spain or France or wherever they are now. He’s a major-general. Miss Katherine – Mrs Gisbourne I should say – has been living in London but she was sadly widowed earlier this year so she’ll be home for the Christmas season. And I hope it’s not all too much for her, because we’ll be having those children this year, with Mrs Patience van Daan needing peace and quiet with the new baby. So it will be very lively.”
Raoul was completely bewildered by this stream of information about people he had never heard of. He tried to guess what this nice woman wanted to hear.
“I will stay out of your way and be no trouble. Please assure them of that, madame.”
The housekeeper gave a sniff. “I wouldn’t blame you for trying, sir, it’s like a menagerie when they all get together and Mr George will be up from London as well, once Parliament is adjourned for the holidays. But they won’t let you sit over here on your own and mope. My lady always says a soldier is a soldier, no matter who he’s fought for and that the French gentlemen had no choice about it half the time. That’s why she has those parties for the paroled officers every few weeks. You’ll be able to attend now that you’re close by. For today, Lady Howard asks that you join the family for dinner. Five o’clock, since we keep country hours when there’s no guests. She asked me to tell you there’s no need to change; they’re very informal. She’ll talk about the other arrangements then. I’ll send the boy over to collect you and show you the way.”
He was relieved to discover that Lady Howard was as good as her word. He was shown into a pleasant salon which was set up as a family dining room. His hostess, an attractive woman in her fifties came forward to greet him and introduced him to Sir Matthew, who was probably ten years older than her, and to her stepson Mr Arthur Howard.
“Have some wine, Lieutenant Delon,” Sir Matthew said cheerfully. “Cold afternoon, isn’t it? Gets dark so early now. Are you settled in? Have everything you need?”
“I am very comfortable, sir. This is so kind of you, madame. Is it…forgive me, but does Mr Johnson know of this change? The parole agent. I have to register with him once a week to receive my allowance. On Wednesday. I do not wish him to think I am breaking my parole.”
“I’ve spoken to Johnson,” Sir Matthew said briefly. “And I’d already written to the Transport Board. I made a formal request that the parole boundaries be extended to the far side of my estate. It makes perfect sense since it’s bounded by the River Thorne on that side and I doubt any of you are going to try and swim that in full flood on a cold November day.”
“I am certainly not,” Raoul said. Arthur Howard gave a splutter of laughter.
“Wise man. Don’t worry about it, Delon. We’ll be included in the parole boundaries. My father has managed it.”
“With the help of my daughter’s very well-connected father-in-law,” Sir Matthew said somewhat drily. “There will be no difficulty, Delon. How are you feeling? Arnold tells me you had a bad fall.”
Dinner was informal, with dishes left for them to serve themselves. Raoul had expected to feel horribly out of place, but he decided that although the Howards were obviously wealthier than his family, they were probably not far removed in social terms. Howard was a textile manufacturer with several profitable factories around the town and a lucrative contract providing woollen goods to the army. Raoul wondered how much his daughter’s marriage to a major-general had helped with that, but he knew that was how things were done, in France as well as England.
It was the best meal Raoul had eaten since arriving in Thorndale and he hoped he had not seemed greedy. Fortunately Lady Howard appeared delighted with his enjoyment of her hospitality. He had the impression that the Howards liked entertaining guests and loved having a house full of people and he wondered if that had worked in his favour.
At the end of the meal, his hostess left the gentlemen to their port and Howard passed him a glass and gave a contented sigh.
“I am becoming old and fat,” he said, with the air of a man trying to sound regretful and failing. “It is a shame that I’m enjoying it too much to stop. I’m glad you were able to join us, Delon. Has my wife spoken to you about meals?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“We serve breakfast in this room. It’s informal; dishes laid out on the sideboard. We also dine in here unless we’ve other dinner guests and I hope you’ll join us. When it’s more than family, it will depend on who they are. Most will welcome you; a few won’t. I know which is which and my wife will let you know. On those days you can have a tray in your room.”
“Sir, this is more kindness than I deserve.”
“The French are our enemy. You’re our guest, Delon. As long as you keep to your parole and don’t do anything stupid, we’re happy to have you. Don’t be an idiot and spoil it.”
“I am not an idiot, sir. I will not abuse your hospitality.”
Howard smiled. “Good man. Tell me about the Pyrenees. My daughter is out there, you know, doing God knows what in an army hospital. Terrifying the locals probably. I feel sorry for them. Where were you when you were wounded?”
After the meal Raoul rose to return to his room but found himself waylaid by Arthur Howard who towed him off to an impressive library to drink more port.
“I’m glad you’re here. With my brother in London and the girls off and married, I’ve been the youngest person in the house for a few years. Apart from when my sister’s brats turn up, in which case I’d rather be somewhere else.”
Raoul grinned. “I have two nephews. I remember the noise they make.”
“Good, I’ll have an ally.” Howard laughed and relented. “They’re all right really. She’s got two of her own, but they’re just babies. The little girl from his first wife is very sweet. It’s the oldest two that are a handful. My stepmother loves having them though. The rest of us have let her down badly in the matter of grandchildren so far. George and I aren’t married yet and poor Kate never had any. I noticed by the way that you were careful what you said about campaigning in front of my stepmother. Appreciate it. She worries about my sister constantly.”
“I will continue to be so, though I do not suppose your sister’s husband allows her anywhere near the battlefield.”
To his surprise, Howard laughed aloud. “You don’t know my sister, Delon. I doubt the poor man stands a chance. Drink up and get yourself to bed. You look exhausted. Bloody stupid to put a lame man in old Thorpe’s place.”
“It was not ideal,” Raoul admitted. “But I remind myself that I am here as a prisoner, not a guest.”
“You’re a paroled officer not a criminal. Surely the point is to stop you fighting against us, not to punish you?”
Raoul smiled. “That is a good way to look at it. Thank you, sir. I am grateful to your family and also to Mr Arnold and Mr Carlyon. I hope I will see them to thank them properly.”
“You’ll see Arnold in and out all the time. He’s our lawyer. You won’t see the Carlyons here I’m afraid. Their choice, not ours.”
Raoul remembered suddenly the odd conversation between Arnold and Carlyon. “There is a quarrel?”
“Not on our part. It’s old history but it’s not really mine to share.”
Raoul took the hint and took himself off to bed gratefully. He understood the other man’s reticence but he decided he would call on Carlyon as soon as he could manage it to thank him personally for his help. It was the least he could do given this extraordinary improvement in his living arrangements.
***
The visit to Mrs Battersley gave Gwen a new interest. She discovered that the ladies of Thorndale were enthusiastic at collecting donations for poor families to help them through the winter but less willing to visit their dwellings to distribute the clothing and bedding. Gwen, who had been accustomed to help her aunt in the village, had no such qualms and brushed aside Mrs Carlyon’s anxiety. Driven by one of Mr Carlyon’s grooms she sallied forth each morning with neatly organised boxes accompanied by woven bags of bread.
“We’ve given up sending them potatoes and vegetables my dear, though we always grow too many. A lot of those cottages don’t have good cooking facilities and even those who do don’t know how to use them.”
Gwen doubted the truth of that but knew better than to argue. She had found good housewives in the grim rows of miners cottages in her Welsh valley, whose only problem was having no food to cook if their man was injured or laid off and she suspected it would be the same in this manufacturing town.
The workers cottages varied considerably. Several of the mill owners had begun to build housing for their workers. Thorndale was a small market town being rapidly overtaken by the expanding textile mills which were being built to make use of the abundance of rivers and streams to power them. The local workers were accustomed to spinning and weaving on a small scale in their cottages and were often reluctant to take work in the factories where they were expected to work long hours behind locked gates.
Instead, the mill owners were beginning to bring in workers from elsewhere. Some were from the land, unemployed hands driven to seek other work in hard times. Others were from Ireland, fleeing from desperate poverty. There were also children brought in from orphanages and workhouses. These were housed in hastily constructed accommodation close to the mills. Gwen had seen the conditions some of the young mine workers lived in back in Wales and was beginning to feel a strong urge to have a look at these improvised dormitories but she was new here and must feel her way carefully.
To house their imported workforce the mill owners built rows of terraced housing. These varied a good deal in quality. Some were reasonably well-built although small and dark. Others looked as though they had been thrown together from left-over building materials. They were over-crowded, with many families taking in single men as lodgers to earn extra income. In one of them, belonging to the Battersley cotton mills, Gwen found a family of six living in their single ground floor room with four Irishman living upstairs. The filth was appalling and Mrs Swinford tried hard to prevent her visitor from entering the house.
Gwen went in anyway. She accepted the offer of a cup of weak black tea and sat on a hard chair, lifting the youngest child, who was about two, onto her lap without flinching at the state of her. Mrs Swinford was visibly pregnant and looked exhausted and defeated. She knew very well that the house was a mess and the lodgers were not ideal but she had been laid off from her job at the mill as her pregnancy advanced and they were struggling to manage on her husband’s pay.
“Our oldest girl is ten now and is working up at Battersley’s piecening – that’s where they repair broken threads under the looms. Children are good for that, ma’am. They’re small, like.”
Gwen tried not to flinch at how dangerous that probably was. She was not easily shocked, knowing what children endured in the mines. She asked questions about the various children and their ages and when she was back outside she found her pencil and note tablets to jot down the information. At her next meeting with Mrs Battersley’s charity committee, she would make a point of requesting donations of warm children’s clothing and try hard not to point out that if Battersley paid his workers a proper wage they would not be needed. Her aunt, a notable campaigner, had taught her to choose her battles wisely.
The gig had just arrived at the end of the lane which led up to Glebe House when a man came into view, walking in the same direction. He was tall and slim, dressed in a shabby greatcoat and battered shako. He was limping badly and walked with the help of a sturdy cane but he moved surprisingly quickly. Dobson slowed the horse and the man turned at the sound. He took in the groom with a lady seated on the box beside him and stepped aside to let them pass, removing his hat and bowing politely. Gwen felt a little shock as she realised that the uniform jacket under the coat was blue and that this must be one of the French prisoners.
Dobson gave a nod of acknowledgement and flicked the reins. Gwen felt unexpectedly confused. The man was clearly making his way up to the house; there was nothing else on this road apart from a few farms some miles on, and her instinct was to offer a lame visitor a lift. At the same time she was painfully aware that he was French. He was an enemy.
As the gig passed him, he bowed again then looked up directly at her. Gwen was surprised at how young he was; probably no more than a few years older than her. Dark, curly hair framed a distinctive face with pronounced cheekbones and dark-blue eyes. He looked nothing like a soldier and certainly nothing like the marauding monsters which had haunted her dreams these past weeks, cutting down her brother over and over. He looked like a rather weary schoolboy.
“Dobson, wait.”
The groom hauled on the reins with a muttered complaint. His attitude suggested that a female who had dragged him round all the worst slums in Thorndale was exactly the kind of female to pick up a French prisoner. Gwen decided to her surprise that he was right. She tried a tentative smile and it came out quite well.
“Are you going up to visit Mr Carlyon, sir?” she asked.
“I am, mademoiselle. Do you know if he is at home?”
“I don’t, I’m afraid. I’ve been out all morning. It’s at least another mile though and the track is uneven. Why don’t you climb up and we’ll give you a lift?”
He hesitated. Gwen could not decide if it was because he thought he should refuse or because he was unable to scramble up. Before she could decide, Dobson made a snorting noise and reached out a hand. The Frenchman made it up onto the box without mishap and replaced his hat.
“Thank you, mademoiselle. It is very kind. I should introduce myself. Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28th Ligne.”
“I am Miss Lloyd. I am staying as a guest of the Carlyons at present.”
She saw immediately that her words meant something to him. He looked a little startled and then dropped his gaze. She considered the matter and suddenly understood.
“I collect you have heard about me, sir.”
He looked up quickly. “Only that Mr Carlyon had a guest, mademoiselle. And that you were recently bereaved.”
She indicated her dark cloak. “My aunt and then my brother. It has been difficult. I was grateful for this invitation.”
“Are the Carlyons related to you?”
“No. My brother served with their son, Captain Simon Carlyon.”
She could see that he was genuinely upset and was surprised at her desire to reassure him but she could not think of what to say. He was silent for a moment, looking down at his hands. She realised he wore no gloves and thought he must be freezing. He looked up.
“I am so sorry about your brother, mademoiselle. There is nothing more that I can say. So many brave men have died.”
She felt a little rush of sympathy. “On both sides, sir. If you had not been lucky, your family might have endured the same. Please don’t upset yourself. I should not blame every Frenchman I meet for what happened. The fault lies with those whose policies created this war.”
His lips twisted into an attempt at a wry smile. “And for those who will not end it. There is certainly a Frenchman – or a Corsican – at fault for that.”
“It isn’t you though.”
The smile widened and she blinked a little at how much it changed his serious face. “Thank you for that.”
They had turned through the gates of Glebe House and as they drew up on the carriage drive, one of the footmen emerged to help Gwen down from the gig. He performed the same office for the Frenchman, looking rather surprised.
“Jackson, this is Lieutenant Delon who has come to call on Mr Carlyon. Is he at home?”
“He’s over at Glebe Farm, ma’am, but if the gentleman would care to wait I don’t think he’ll be more than twenty minutes.”
Gwen shot a glance at the Frenchman. He gave a little smile. “I will wait if it is permitted. It is a long walk back. I do not wish to be troublesome though. Perhaps I could walk in the gardens a little.”
She smiled. “There isn’t much to see at this time of year, sir, but I’ll walk with you. Not before we find you some gloves though. Your hands are turning blue. Jackson, could you ask Mr Carlyon’s man if…”
“I will see what I can do, ma’am,” the footman said rigidly.
They walked through the half-bare shrubbery and between neatly weeded beds, bare for winter. Tree branches soared starkly against a blue winter sky and Gwen threw back her head to watch some magpies swooping overhead before diving down in search of food in the hedgerows. They walked down to the coppice and she asked him questions about his home and his family. He asked more tentatively about Wales and about Davy. Talking about him to a man who had been an officer and understood something about the life her brother must have led was surprisingly comforting.
Very brief enquiries told her that by the time Davy died, this man had already been a prisoner in an army hospital, unsure if he would keep his leg or even survive. She was glad to know that it could not have been him giving the order for the musket volley which had killed her brother. She liked this diffident young man and rather wished that the Carlyons had not been so careful of her grief and had asked him to stay with them.
She asked rather shyly if he would mind if she practiced her French. He appeared delighted and they talked awkwardly for a while. At her request he gently corrected her pronunciation and they shared laughter at some of her efforts. He told her of his problems understanding the Yorkshire accent and laughed again when she admitted that at times she had the same problem.
They saw Carlyon in the distance, riding back towards the house and turned to stroll back. He glanced at her.
“I have a rather strange question, Miss Lloyd. May I?”
“I’ll help if I can,” she said cautiously.
“It is about Mr Carlyon and Sir Matthew Howard. I have met them both now and they seem like good men. Both have connections to the army. Sir Matthew’s son-in-law and Mr Carlyon’s son. I think they know each other.”
“They do. Mrs van Daan, who is Sir Matthew’s daughter, wrote to me, suggesting that I accept this invitation. She was so kind.”
“And yet two such men are not friends. More than that; they do not meet at all. When it was suggested that my billet be changed, Mr Arnold approached Sir Matthew. It was clear that for some reason, Mr Carlyon could not. And Mr Arthur Howard said the same thing. It makes me a little sad. Have you any idea why?”
“No,” Gwen said. “I’ve only been here for two weeks, sir, but it seems very strange. It’s clear that Major-General van Daan and his wife are on very good terms with Captain Carlyon. I cannot imagine what could have come between their seniors.”
“Forgive me. It is not my business, I know. I am just here to thank Mr Carlyon for his intervention and his kindness.”
Gwen hesitated. “I’m glad you came,” she said abruptly. “I realise I’ve been worried about running into any of the French gentlemen on parole here. It was silly. I won’t care about it now. I’m glad we met.”
“So am I, Miss Lloyd.”
“I’m not sure if it will help. But if you really want to know, I can probably find out.”
He looked surprised. “But how?”
She grinned. “I have become acquainted with several ladies who busy themselves on charitable matters. One of them has a daughter, Miss Lucy Battersley who has invited me to take tea with her on Tuesday. She is unmarried and loves to gossip.”
He stared at her, arrested. “Truly? How will I know…?”
“I’ll send you a note and we will arrange to meet. Up at the coppice perhaps.”
He gave her his startling smile and she basked in it unashamedly for a moment.
“The exercise is good for my leg,” he assured her. “But is this acceptable?”
“Well my brother was my legal guardian, though I am almost of age. Wait, I shall ask him.” Gwen put her head on one side and considered for a moment, than nodded firmly. “He says it is perfectly acceptable for us to meet in the good cause of helping his friend’s family, sir.”
She saw unexpected mischief dance in his eyes. “I am happy to accept this from a fellow officer and your former guardian, Miss Lloyd. I will wait for your letter with pleasure.”
***
They met on a grey morning, with dark clouds threatening rain. The Carlyons had become used to her eccentric habit of walking in all weathers and apart from recommending that she wear her warmest cloak and not go too far, they made no objection.
Raoul had been surprised two days earlier by the arrival of a box from home. It had contained both money and replacement clothing, including his dress jacket and an undamaged hat. His mother had also supplied new boots and a warm coat which was a considerable improvement on his old greatcoat. He had visited the barber in town and thought he saw a look of surprise and possibly even approval on Miss Lloyd’s face as she approached. He bowed, reached into his pocket and withdrew a pair of gloves.
“Please return them to Mr Carlyon, ma’am. With my grateful thanks.”
He saw her smile a little at his use of the word ‘ma’am’ which she had taught him during their previous meeting. She took the gloves and slipped them into her cloak pocket.
“I see you are rather better equipped, Lieutenant.”
“My family finally sent my possessions from home along with some money. I have been able to repay several small debts to my fellow officers. And when I went for my weekly report to Mr Johnson, the parole agent, he positively fawned over me in his approval of my new accommodation. Apparently Lady Howard has written to ask if it would be acceptable to invite his daughter to her Christmas ball this season. I am given to understand that this is a considerable social honour.”
Gwen chuckled. “I believe so. Do you…will you be attending, sir? It is several weeks away, I know.”
“I will, ma’am. I had not expected it, but Lady Howard tells me that all the French officers will be invited.” He studied her, not sure how to ask. She gave a little shrug.
“I will certainly not be able to dance in full mourning, sir. As to the invitation, I don’t know. I imagine it will be issued. It is issued every year but not accepted.”
“I think you have discovered why.”
“Yes. It is a very sad story. Miss Lucy Battersley was only too happy to share the gossip, as I thought she would be. A little too happy to be honest. I was rather uncomfortable. Shall we walk as we talk? It will be warmer.”
Raoul fell into step beside her. He was walking more easily with so much practice and she was good at keeping pace with him.
“You know that Sir Matthew has two daughters? They are not Lady Howard’s; she is his second wife, though I believe she raised them as her own.”
“Yes. Mr Arthur Howard has spoken of them. The elder is returning home soon; she was recently widowed. The younger is in France with her husband.”
“Yes. Anne. She is the same age as Miss Battersley and she tells me they were apparently friends. I’m not so sure about that. It seems that her brother, Mr Samson Battersley had hopes of marrying Anne. She was the local beauty and very much courted.”
“I have seen her portrait,” Raoul said quietly. “She was apparently only fourteen but she was already very lovely.”
“I think Miss Battersley may have been a little jealous. Or perhaps disappointed on her brother’s behalf. Anyway, it was expected that Anne Howard would make a splendid marriage. Instead she created a scandal of some kind with an officer of the 115th foot. His name was Robert Carlyon.”
Raoul felt a little lurch of his stomach. He turned to stare at her. “Their eldest son?”
“Yes. I don’t know exactly what happened. Miss Battersley was far too delicate to explain properly. She may not even know. Whatever it was, it led to a very hasty marriage and the young couple were posted down to the south coast somewhere and then on to Portugal with Sir Arthur Wellesley. Lord Wellington as he is now.”
“I see. You think the two families quarrelled because the Howards did not approve of the match?”
She shook her head. “It was rather worse than that. Much of this did not emerge until much later of course because they were abroad and Anne never told them in her letters. It appears that Robert Carlyon treated his wife very badly. Beat her in fact. Eventually some of his fellow officers intervened and Carlyon deserted. He returned later on and tried to kill her. He was shot dead by another officer, in defence of her.”
“I thought he was killed in battle,” Raoul said, appalled.
“I think for the sake of his family it is seldom talked of. They are well respected locally. I think it broke their hearts.”
“Of course it did. How dreadful. So that is why the Howards do not…”
“It isn’t the Howards,” Gwen said. “Apparently they have tried several times to mend matters. It seems that when Simon Carlyon arrived in Spain he was welcomed as her brother-in-law and is very close to the Van Daans. Which I know to be true from Davy’s letters. I think the Carlyons are too ashamed.”
“That is terrible,” Raoul said. He was surprised at how upset he was. He had only known both families for a few weeks but his sense that they should have been friends and allies had not been misplaced. “All because of the dreadful behaviour of one man. How could a brute like that come from such good people?”
“That’s what makes it so much the worse,” Gwen said soberly. “I’m sorry. I can see this has upset you. It upset me too.”
“I wish there was something we could do to help.”
“Perhaps there is.”
Raoul paused, staring. He had a sudden sense that this girl had been in search of more than just gossip.
“I do not understand.”
She smiled, took a deep breath and summoned her French. “I would like to help them.”
“How?” he replied in the same language.
“I am not sure. But all they really need is to talk.”
Raoul stared at her with a faint feeling of terror, as though he was about to get drawn into a situation that he might regret in a strange country and an unfamiliar language. She looked back at him seriously. She was a very pretty girl with a fine boned face and intelligent dark eyes, fringed with ridiculously long lashes. She could easily have been French; a Celtic look, from Brittany perhaps. He thought suddenly that he would be proud to take her home to his mother and introduce her to his brother and sister-in-law. The thought made his face warm a little but he did not think she had noticed.
“Do you have a plan?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not yet. One should never make a plan too quickly. I have an idea about the Christmas ball, but I need to think about it. It is very cold out here. Why don’t we walk up to the house? You shall present Mr Carlyon with his gloves and we will have a hot drink and get warm. You might want to mention how happily you are settled with the Howards and how grateful you are.”
“Will that help?”
“It definitely won’t hurt. And we will be warm. May I take your arm?”
He held it out with mute delight and escorted her up to the house. Part of him wondered what he had walked into. The other part had never been so happy in his life.
***
Christmas in Yorkshire brought a sudden flood of invitations which rather bewildered Raoul. He found it hard to shake the feeling that, as a prisoner, he should be held under more difficult conditions. Instead he was living in a comfortable home, on perfectly friendly terms with his hosts and their neighbours and being included in a round of receptions, dinners and dances along with his fellow officers. It made him feel immensely guilty about his men, presumably still living in miserable winter quarters on the Spanish border, awaiting Lord Wellington’s next attack.
He was delighted to meet Gwen Lloyd at a concert in Thorndale’s brand new Assembly Rooms. He had attended with several other French officers all of whom seemed to be on good terms with the local gentry. Some of them had been in Thorndale for almost a year and had been cautiously accepted into the community.
Miss Lloyd was with Mrs Carlyon and Raoul was immediately aware of the presence of Lady Howard in the front row with several of her friends. She rose and came towards him immediately.
“If I had known you would be here, Lieutenant, I would have offered you a lift in my carriage.”
“I thank you but there was no need, ma’am. I dined first with my fellow officers at the Red Lion.”
“Well you shall certainly come back with me. I understand Mr Johnson has given special leave to be out beyond curfew for this evening but I would rather you weren’t walking that far once it’s over. Thorndale is generally very safe but it is always possible that one or two of our less salubrious locals might decide to take exception to a Frenchman out alone.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I would be grateful.”
Raoul was aware of a hovering presence behind him. He turned to find Miss Lloyd smiling at him in a friendly manner. She had put off her black mourning for the occasion and was dressed in a soft lavender gown with black lace at the cuffs and hem. The lighter colour suited her and she looked very pretty. She held out her hand and he took it and bowed over it.
“It is good to see you Miss Lloyd. I did not know you would be here.”
“I persuaded Mrs Carlyon to accompany me. I love music; I always sang in the chapel choir and I have not attended a concert for so long. I think she was a little anxious about the propriety of it but I do not think anybody will mind.”
“Very right,” Lady Howard said approvingly. “I always like to see a young lady taking a sensible view of the mourning period. Would you introduce us, Lieutenant?”
Raoul did so and Lady Howard bestowed a warm smile on Gwen.
“I was so sorry to hear about your brother, Miss Lloyd. My daughter wrote to me about him. She and the General were very upset. I know how highly they valued him.”
“She wrote to me too, ma’am. She was very kind.”
“I have been intending to call, so I’m very glad to have run into you like this. I’ve been hearing very good things of you from Mrs Battersley. She tells me you’ve been wonderfully helpful with her relief committee and have taken on all kinds of tasks that it is often hard to get people to do.”
Miss Lloyd blushed a little. “I like to be busy, ma’am. My aunt was very active within the mining community before she died. I’m not particularly squeamish.”
“I admire that, Miss Lloyd. I realise this is going to be a difficult time of year for you. You must miss your brother and your aunt dreadfully and you can hardly throw yourself into the enjoyment of the season while you are in mourning. All the same, I hope I may persuade you to have tea with me one day. And as you have expressed interest in some of our working practices, I would like to give you a tour of what we are doing up at our mill. Sir Matthew and I spent some time visiting Mr Arkwright down at Cromford and Mr Greg near Manchester to see how they have set up their workers’ accommodation. They have given us some very good ideas.”
Miss Lloyd looked surprised but Raoul could see the quickening of interest in her dark eyes.
“If it is not too much trouble ma’am, I would be delighted.”
“Excellent. I don’t want to steal you away from Mrs Carlyon if she has need of you so I’ll speak to her to find out when it would be convenient. I just hope it doesn’t snow. It comes down so abruptly here.”
“Are you from Yorkshire, ma’am?”
“No. My family were from Northamptonshire originally, but I’ve lived here for many years. You’re from Wales of course. I don’t know it well, though I spent some time in Shrewsbury just across the border.”
The conversation ranged happily over places visited and enjoyed until a bell summoned the audience to their seats. Gwen returned to her seat beside Mrs Carlyon, shooting a mischievous glance over her shoulder at Raoul. He took his seat wondering if this meeting had been purely by chance or if Gwen had somehow engineered the whole thing, though he could not see how.
The music was charming: a visiting quartet from York and a very good soprano. Raoul enjoyed it but found himself glancing over towards the Carlyon party. Once or twice the girl looked back, flashing him a quick smile.
“I see you have set up a flirtation, Delon,” his neighbour whispered in French. “She is very attractive, but in mourning? A young widow?”
Raoul flushed. “It is not a flirtation, Gerard. Just an acquaintance. And she lost her brother in a recent action at La Rhune.”
“Ah, I see. Not the right time for a romance with a Frenchman then.”
Raoul thought regretfully that he was right. It was rather a pity because he had taken a great liking to the oddly outspoken girl. He said nothing more. The paroled officers had little to do but drink and gossip and he knew that if he attempted to deny his interest it would pique their curiosity. Better to ignore their speculation and let it die a natural death.
At the end of the concert, wine and sweet biscuits were served in the adjoining reception room. Raoul slipped away from his friends while they were distracted by the champagne and went to find Gwen. Her approving smile told him he had done the right thing. She was talking to a tall, shy young woman who was introduced as Lady Carew, recently married to Sir Julian, the new squire. Raoul watched her draw the other girl into conversation and thought, with a sudden rush of feeling, how much Gwen Lloyd seemed to care about other people. He was not sure he had come across anybody quite like her before and he found himself hoping desperately that she would choose to extend her visit to the Carlyons beyond the new year.
Beside her, Mrs Carlyon seemed uncomfortable although she was trying hard to conceal it. Raoul suspected he knew why. Lady Howard had been standing on the other side of the room talking to some friends but as he watched, she turned and began to make her way towards them. He felt Mrs Carlyon stiffen.
“It is growing late,” she said, almost under her breath. “I wonder if we should leave, dear Miss Lloyd. Perhaps I can find a servant to go for the carriage.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Gwen said brightly. “Would you like me to find somebody?”
“No no, I will go…”
“I’ll be right back,” Gwen said firmly. She smiled an apology at Lady Carew and disappeared into the crowd just as Lady Howard appeared. She looked a little surprised. Raoul bowed.
“Miss Lloyd has just gone to send a servant for the carriage, ma’am. She will return shortly.”
Lady Howard’s face cleared. “Of course. Lady Carew, how are you? Mrs Carlyon, I’m glad to have caught you. I have a favour to ask you about your young guest. What a lovely girl she is.”
Mrs Carlyon was caught and she knew it. Raoul wondered how many social occasions she had missed in her effort to avoid just such a meeting. She was a polite woman though, and pulled herself together.
“She is a delight,” she said warmly. “I did not realise you had met, ma’am.”
“Lieutenant Delon introduced us, but I have been hearing about her efforts with the relief committee from Mrs Battersley all week. I wanted to speak to you about that. Miss Lloyd has expressed interest in visiting the mill. Not the weaving sheds, though I suppose she might also want to see those, but the workers housing and the apprentice house. The school might be of interest as well.”
“Oh…of course. It sounds very interesting.”
“I wanted to make sure she has no engagements with you before I arrange a day.”
Mrs Carlyon shook her head with a faint smile. “No. We do not go out much. I am glad to see her getting out a little. Her bereavement means that she cannot attend parties of course…”
“Is that what she wants?” Lady Howard asked. “Forgive me but although I realise she cannot dance, there seems no reason why she cannot attend. I had hoped to invite her to our Christmas ball, and perhaps to dinner one evening.”
Mrs Carlyon stiffened. “I…I do not know, ma’am. She is not under our guardianship in any way, she is just our guest.”
“A brother is not the same as a husband, though I have no doubt she mourns him sincerely,” Lady Howard said persuasively. “But for such a young woman, I cannot think it right for her to shut herself away.”
“I do not wish it either, ma’am. It is just that we do not go out much ourselves.”
Raoul could hear the desperation in Mrs Carlyon’s voice and he felt sorry for her. He was trying to think of something to say that would help, but Lady Howard was first.
“I know this is difficult for you,” she said very gently. “There is no need for a chaperone to visit the mill or to dine with us informally. Lieutenant Delon has agreed to be our escort at the mill and will be present at dinner with several other young people. Miss Lucy Battersley will be there and my daughter Katherine will be home by then and I think will be delighted to make Miss Lloyd’s acquaintance.”
Raoul was startled out of his sympathy. He managed to cover up his surprise and look as though he had known of these plans for his entertainment all along. It occurred to him suddenly that Miss Lloyd might not be the only one making plans. He shot her ladyship a quick glance and saw a gleam of amusement in her eyes.
“Of course,” Mrs Carlyon said. “Nothing could be more suitable.”
“But she cannot attend a full ball without a chaperone, ma’am, even if she is not to dance.”
“I am not sure…”
“Please come.”
There was something stark about the words that seemed to silence Mrs Carlyon. Raoul was uneasily aware that people around them had begun to stare as though recognising the significance of this meeting and this conversation.
Mrs Carlyon took a deep breath and made a final protest. “Lady Howard, I do not think my husband will be comfortable…”
“Of course he will not, the silly man,” Lady Howard said crisply. “Neither will Sir Matthew. This has gone on for too long and they are men. Their pride will not allow them to make the first move. We had better do it now, ma’am, because I have it on excellent authority that this war is drawing to a close. If my younger daughter arrives home and finds that I am not on visiting terms with Simon’s mother, I will not answer for the consequences.”
Raoul realised with horror that there were tears standing in the other woman’s eyes.
“I remember her as such a lovely girl,” she whispered. “I feel so ashamed.”
Words came to Raoul unexpectedly. He reached out and took her hand. “I understand, ma’am. When I see the sadness in Miss Lloyd’s eyes for her brother, I am ashamed to be French. But she tells me that is foolish. I did not kill him and I could not have stopped his death. And two months later, his army did their best to kill me. I am not responsible for what my compatriots did that day.”
“And you are not responsible for your son, ma’am,” Lady Howard said gently. “Thank you, Lieutenant. What a wise young man you are. Take Mrs Carlyon’s arm if you will and we shall go in search of Miss Lloyd. By now she will have been waylaid by some enterprising gentleman who is gazing into her eyes and calculating how long her mourning must last. We cannot have that.”
***
Gwen drifted through the Christmas season in a confusing mixture of sadness and happiness. It had been several years since she had spent Christmas with Davy but she was assailed by memories of their younger days, with the valley under deep snow drifts; walking to chapel with their parents or going out with the shepherds to search for lost sheep. It had been a happy childhood and she realised that she had looked forward to his return to restore a sense of belonging.
That hope had gone and she mourned it. On the other hand she was unexpectedly content where she was. Her days became suddenly busy. She toured the model village at Helton Mill, admiring the sturdy well-built cottages and the brand new schoolhouse. She admitted that Sir Matthew Howard seemed to take better care of his workforce than most of the other mill owners she had encountered, though she wondered how much he was motivated by profit rather than philanthropy. Healthy workers could put in more hours and were less likely to leave for other work.
Lady Howard clearly invested a great deal of her time in the various projects, including education for both workers and children. Gwen spent several Sunday afternoons listening to children reading in the schoolhouse and tried not to notice broad hints about further assistance which implied a far longer stay in Thorndale than she had intended.
She went to dinner several times at Helton Ridge and was introduced to a number of other young ladies whom she liked rather more than Lucy Battersley, including Sir Matthew’s elder daughter Katherine, still in deep mourning for her husband. She met most of the other French officers and was grateful that her bereaved state prevented them from flirting with her as outrageously as they did with the other girls. She sat beside Raoul Delon at dinner and enjoyed his quiet conversation. At other times she enjoyed simply being silent with him. She tried hard to remind herself that after Christmas she must consider returning home and picking up the threads of her old life.
Gwen was a little anxious that Mrs Carlyon would be upset at the amount of time she was spending with the Howards but her hostess appeared perfectly content. Two days after the concert, Sir Matthew Howard rode up the drive to Glebe House to make a morning call and the following day Mr Carlyon returned the courtesy. Gwen had no idea what they spoke about but there was no more talk of not attending the Howard Christmas ball.
Gwen gave in to vanity and ordered a new gown for the ball. She could not dance but she was delighted with the modest silvery-grey silk with a short train, which was simple enough to be considered half-mourning yet made the most of her dark colouring. She was pleasantly conscious of male eyes following her through the ballroom but she was aware that she was searching for one gentleman. There were a number of dark-blue uniforms present but Lieutenant Delon’s tall slender figure was easy to spot.
He seemed to sense her approach and turned. She saw his eyes widen a little and then he came forward, took her hand and bowed over it with more formality than she was used to from him. It made her blush a little and when he straightened and looked at her, the smile in his eyes made her face even warmer.
“Miss Lloyd. You look very lovely.”
The direct compliment confused her for a moment but she managed to rally.
“It is clear you have been practicing your English on the ladies of Thorndale, sir. You are looking extremely smart yourself.”
“Thank you. I made a visit to the tailor. I thought it was time I stopped looking like a prisoner.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You have never looked that way to me, sir.”
“I have felt it. It seems to have been decided though that such matters as curfew and parole boundaries are to be forgotten until after the Christmas season.”
Gwen looked across the room. The dancers were forming up for the first set and she could see Miss Anthea Johnson, the parole agent’s daughter, partnered with Captain Gerard, her eyes shining and her face flushed with happiness.
“I think the arrangement has been very satisfactory for both sides, sir.”
“I hope that is nothing more than a flirtation,” Raoul said consideringly, following her gaze. “Her father does not really like the French. He will be furious if it becomes more serious.”
“Goodness, do you think it might? Is Captain Gerard not married?”
“No, he is unattached. I believe he is quite taken with Miss Battersley but her Papa does not like the idea.”
Gwen could not help laughing. “I do not intend to act as matchmaker to your friends, Lieutenant. I think we have done quite well enough patching up an old quarrel between neighbours.”
“I think that was your doing rather than mine,” Raoul said quietly. He stopped a passing waiter and handed her a glass of champagne.
Gwen looked up at him. She could not decide if a good haircut and new clothing made him look older or more like a charming boy. Either way it suited him.
“According to Lady Howard it was you who found the words to break through Mrs Carlyon’s reserve, Lieutenant. She told me what you said. It was exactly the right thing.”
It was his turn to blush. “I did not make any clever speeches, ma’am. I just said what I believed.”
“You spoke from the heart and she listened. I know you don’t want to be thanked, but please let me do so just once. I went to her dressing room as she was getting ready for this evening. She was so happy. It seems this is a very important social event in Thorndale and not feeling able to attend has made her feel rather like an outcast. She is back now, where she belongs.”
“Thanks mainly to you.”
“I think we made a very good team.”
He smiled and touched his glass to hers. “My one regret tonight is that I wish I could ask you to dance.”
Gwen blushed again. She put her hand to her warm cheek and he smiled.
“We are taking it in turns, it seems. That is a phrase I did not know until you taught me. My English is so much improved.”
“Yes it is. I think you have cheated. We speak so much in English while my French languishes untouched.”
“I am so sorry.”
“There are other ladies without a partner, Lieutenant.”
“I am afraid I do not dance this evening either, ma’am. My leg is still too painful and I would be too clumsy.”
Stricken, she realised she had completely forgotten about his limp. It seemed to have got so much better that it had not occurred to her that dancing would be impossible for him.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. How stupid of me.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Miss Lloyd. I have no wish to dance. I have promised a French lesson to a very lovely young lady. Come, let us sit and we will begin.”
She was aware of curious looks as he led her to a brocade sofa in a small alcove by the big double doors but quickly forgot about them as he began to speak to her. She replied, listened to his corrections and repeated them. She tried some phrases of her own, interrupting herself to ask for the right word or to check her pronunciation. With music playing, dancers whirling around the floor and the noise level rising, she became completely absorbed in the lesson and in him.
Eventually a noise from outside the room caught her attention. She broke off, listening and saw from his intent face that he had heard it too.
“Whatever is that?”
“I do not know. Come.”
He rose, took her hand and drew her through the doors. They went to the balustrade which overlooked the entrance hall below and were startled by a peal of laughter which had to have come from a child.
“Now give over, Miss Grace.” The voice was that of Mrs Hibbert, the housekeeper. “You’ll have to come through into the book room while I fetch Lady Howard. We had no idea you’d be arriving today and this late. We’re in the middle of the Christmas ball and I’ve barely got the nursery ready.”
“Oh that’s all right, Mrs Hibbert. We’ll camp out in the book room until tomorrow,” a small boy said cheerfully. “We got used to camping in Portugal and Spain when we visited Mama and Papa and…”
“That’s enough Francis,” a man’s voice said firmly. “Mrs Hibbert, I’ll take Grace and Francis through but the little ones need to be taken to bed immediately. Miss Webster can carry Rowena if…”
Gwen could not resist. The children’s voices and laughter reminded her of her own small cousins back in Wales. She was already on her way to the stairs when Raoul said:
“They remind me of my nephews.”
She looked round at him in surprised delight. He was smiling. Gwen put out her hand and towed him down into the tiled hallway where an exhausted looking tutor and governess carried a small child each. A fair-haired boy of about ten or eleven was standing inspecting a family portrait above the fireplace, while a dainty girl of about the same age in a fur-lined pelisse had caught the sound of the music from the ballroom and was dancing gracefully across the tiles in a world of her own.
“Good evening,” Gwen said cheerfully. “You seem to have some surprise arrivals, Mrs Hibbert. Is there anything we can do to help? Neither of us can join the dancing this evening and we heard them come in.”
Mrs Hibbert looked at her in surprise. “Well, Miss Lloyd, I don’t rightly know. I’ll need to find Lady Howard without disturbing the party too much and I’ll have to supervise them taking the luggage up, since Bentley is busy with the wine for the party. As Mr Harcourt says, the little ones should go straight up, but as for this pair…”
She surveyed the two older children with a grim expression which imperfectly concealed her affection. The boy turned to give her a broad grin.
“We’ll be all right, Mrs Hibbert.”
“May we go up and watch the dancing?” the girl begged.
“You may do nothing, miss, until your Grandmamma says so.”
“Why don’t you see to the nursery, Mrs Hibbert. Lieutenant Delon can find Lady Howard and I’ll stay here with Grace…and is it Francis?”
“Yes,” the girl said instantly. She had stopped dancing and came forward, bobbing a little curtsey. “I am Grace and this is Francis van Daan. Who are you, ma’am? Are you a guest at the ball or staying in the house?”
“I’m just a guest. I’m currently staying with Mr and Mrs Carlyon.”
“Oh, Uncle Simon’s parents,” the boy said casually. “That’s nice.” Deep blue eyes were fixed on Raoul and Gwen suddenly wondered if her French companion was about to be insulted by the son of a major-general.
“Are you French, sir?”
“I am,” Raoul said gravely. He gave a little bow. “Lieutenant Raoul Delon of the 28th ligne. I am a prisoner-of-war but this evening I too am a guest. I have been billeted here while I recover from a wound.”
“Really?” Francis sounded delighted. “Will you be here all over Christmas?”
“I will.”
“That’s excellent. Do you mind if I ask you some questions? I’ve never met a French officer properly before, though I’ve met loads of English ones of course. Your English is very good. Where have you served? How were you wounded? Have you ever seen Bonaparte? Did you…”
Raoul was laughing. He held up a hand. “Enough, Master Francis. You may ask me anything you wish, but not all tonight. I must go to find Lady Howard. You shall stay with Miss Lloyd. She is my very good friend so do not talk her to death.”
“Do you speak French, Miss Lloyd?” Grace asked. She was surveying Gwen thoughtfully.
“Not very well. I learned it at school but Lieutenant Delon has been helping me to improve.”
“Well I wish you would help Francis,” Grace said grimly. “Papa says he speaks French like a drunken Irishman.”
Francis started to laugh. “Yes, he did. He didn’t realise Mama was listening. You should have seen the look she gave him. Could you help us though? Miss Webster and Mr Harcourt are good sorts but I don’t think their accent is any better than mine and I’ll need to speak it properly for when I’m in the army.”
“Is that what you want to do?” Gwen said, thankful that the weary tutor and governess had disappeared off with the younger children.
“Yes. I want to be a major-general, like my father. Or even a field marshal, like Lord Wellington. And I’ll fight the French and…”
He froze abruptly, realising what he had just said. For a moment he looked apprehensive. Gwen shot a glance at Raoul but he was smiling.
“I hope you will not have to, Francis. I hope by then, our two countries will be friends.”
“So do I, sir,” the child said, sounding relieved. Raoul looked at Gwen.
“I will be back very soon with Lady Howard,” he said in French. “Courage, ma belle.”
He had taken three steps towards the stairs when Grace said clearly:
“Are you married to each other?”
Raoul turned in surprise. He looked at Gwen. She was carefully not looking at him.
“No, Grace.”
“Are you engaged?”
“No, Miss Grace. We are not engaged. Just friends.” Raoul’s voice sounded a little strained, as though he was barely containing laughter.
“Oh.” Grace sounded a little disappointed. The Lieutenant turned away. He was halfway up the first flight of stairs when she spoke again.
“Are you going to get engaged?” she asked. “I think it would be a good idea. If you’re not married to somebody else, I think you’d suit awfully well.”
***
It took more than an hour to get the children fed with bread and butter and warm milk. Raoul was not quite sure how he and Gwen became incorporated into the arrangements. At the last moment, Grace insisted that he go up to the nursery to sing them a French song before they went to sleep. Lady Howard protested loudly but Raoul was absurdly flattered and assured her that he did not mind. He sang them three and they were almost asleep as he tiptoed out of the nursery accompanied by Nurse’s whispered thanks.
He found Gwen in the book room, drinking a glass of brandy. She handed one to him and he sipped it gratefully.
“Lady Howard had to go back to the ball. Supper will be starting soon. She has reserved seats at the family table for us, since she says we seem to have been adopted into it.
He laughed. “I enjoyed it.”
“So did I. I’m almost glad we couldn’t dance this evening. We’d have missed all that. You had better eat plenty at supper. I think you are going to be much in demand tomorrow to describe your entire army career to Master Francis van Daan.”
“As well as teaching him French,” Raoul said gravely. “May I take you to supper, Miss Lloyd?”
“I would like that, Lieutenant Delon.”
“Je m’appelle Raoul.”
She shot him a surprised glance and took his arm.
“Raoul. Je m’appelle Gwen.”
“Gwen. I do not know if this would be possible, or even legal while I am still a prisoner. I certainly know that I cannot follow you back to Wales without breaking my parole. But I cannot help agreeing that we should suit awfully well.”
He saw her smile light up that attractive face that could have been French and remembered that he had once thought he could easily take her home to meet his mother. Not yet, but one day, God willing.”
“Raoul, I would never allow you to risk breaking your parole. I think until this war is over I will have to find a way to stay here.”
He turned to her quickly, his heart full, catching her by the shoulders. “Truly?”
“Truly, my love.”
He bent to kiss her and was aware of nothing but his joy in her, so it was a shock when he finally looked up to see two children, both in nightclothes, standing on the stairs watching with benign interest.
“Francis, Grace, what are you doing out of bed?” Gwen asked. She sounded a little breathless and her face was pink.
“I just remembered there was one more thing,” Francis said. “Can I practice fencing with you? My father started teaching me and gave me a practice foil but Aunt Patience said she would rather face a herd of charging elephants than let me loose with a weapon.”
“I thought it was rhinoceros,” Grace objected.
“Was it? Maybe it was, I wasn’t really listening. Anyway, could you, sir? I don’t think Uncle George or Uncle Arthur can fence and…”
“Francis, I will fence with you,” Raoul said. Her hand was warm in his and his heart was full of happiness. “But if you do not go to bed immediately I will give you your first lesson right now and I promise you will not enjoy it.”
The boy’s face lit up. “Really? That’s capital. Thank you, sir. On our way. Sorry to interrupt.”
Grace was smiling broadly. “So sorry. And congratulations, Miss Lloyd. He’s very handsome.”
When they had vanished up the stairs, Gwen took his arm and squeezed it gently.
“Shall we go, before they come back?”
“That is a very good idea. Next time it may be pistol shooting. I think I should have brought the brandy with me.”
She was laughing, her face alight with happiness. “We can send a footman to bring it,” she said. “Come to supper, Lieutenant Delon. It is almost Christmas and I believe we have something to celebrate.”
Welcome to England’s Golden Warrior – an interview with Paula Lofting on Harold Godwinson here at Writing with Labradors.
Paula was born in the ancient Saxon county of Middlesex in 1961. She grew up in Australia hearing stories from her dad of her homeland and its history. As a youngster she read books by Rosemary Sutcliff and Leon Garfield and her love of English history grew. At 16 her family decided to travel back to England and resettle. She was able to visit the places she’d dreamt about as a child, bringing the stories of her childhood to life. It wasn’t until later in life that Paula realised her dream to write and publish her own books. Her debut historical novel Sons of the Wolf was first published in 2012 and then revised and republished in 2016 along with the sequel, The Wolf Banner, in 2017. The third in the series, Wolf’s Bane, will be ready for publishing later this year. 
https://mybook.to/Haroldpreorder
A little bit of news. Brothers in Arms: the collected short stories of Lynn Bryant Volume 1 – the War Stories will be published in July.
Paula Lofting has previously been known as a novelist, having published 
Welcome to Kaunas
I’ve 
A day of stress, virtually no food and complete exhaustion ended with us collapsing into bed in the Liverpool Airport Premier Inn. We got to the airport so late that it was closed and the passenger assistance we had booked completely failed, leaving us stranded on the plane. I’d like to give a heartfelt shout out to the EasyJet pilot, Mark. It wasn’t his job to wait behind with us, to chase up a man with a wheelchair or to personally help Richard to get me down the icy steps from the plane. He then went off to track down our checked-in luggage and escorted us to the taxi rank to make sure I was okay. That man went well beyond the call of duty and I’ll never forget how kind he was.
Things went much better the following day and we arrived in a snowy Kaunas to be met by the Nord Clinic driver who took us to the Hotel Kaunas. Fear of not making it in time was now replaced by fear of something going wrong with the pre-operation check-up which would prevent me having the surgery. I have no idea why I thought this might be an issue. Apart from the arthritis I’m in excellent health, very seldom get so much as a cold and had no reason to think that had suddenly changed. It turns out that pre-battle nerves can take some strange forms.
Both missions were successful. We made it down to the old town despite slightly miserable weather and once we got there, Richard gleefully spotted some rather lovely hand carved walking sticks in a shop which sold local arts and crafts. The shopkeeper helped me to test for the right size and I was delighted with my new stick, for several reasons. It will enable me to make the most of my limited visit to Kaunas before I’m laid up after the operation. It will also be a rather lovely souvenir. Finally, it made me think affectionately of my late father, who bequeathed me a fine collection of walking sticks, mainly because of the number of times he left home without his and had to buy a new one while he was away. I felt like a bit of an idiot for forgetting mine but I’m rather pleased now. I just have to make sure I don’t leave this one in the hotel room.
At noon on 14 May 1972, Kalanta poured three litres of petrol over himself and set himself on fire in the square in front of the Kaunas State Musical Theatre where, in 1940, a puppet legislature had declared the establishment of the Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic and petitioned the Soviet Union to admit Lithuania as one of the soviet socialist republics. He left a note on a bench which blamed the regime for his death. Kalanta’s suicide. His death provoked a wave of anti-Soviet public demonstrations throughout 1972 and 1973 including 13 other suicides by fire. 
There are some lovely buildings in the old town, though slippery streets and some major building work meant I was cautious about exploring as much as I wanted to. I really took a liking to this particular house though. It’s known as the House of Perkunas which means the House of Thunder and was named after a sculpture of the god Perkunas which was found in the house during some renovations in 1818. The house was built at the end of the fifteenth century by a wealthy townsman and was later the home of a famous Jesuit historian. In 1844 the first drama theatre in Kaunas was established there. In 1991 it was returned to the Jesuits and is now used for educational purposes as well as housing a museum dedicated to the poet 
By the time I staggered back to the hotel I was in some pain, though delighted with myself for walking so far. We rewarded ourselves with coffee and pastries in the coffee shop next to the hotel. Being restricted in what I can do and where I can go has been a big problem for me and I was pleased to have seen even a little bit of Kaunas. I have a whole day tomorrow and if the weather allows and I feel up to it, I’m hoping to walk over to the castle and get in a tiny bit of history tourism to go along with my medical tourism.
“Muuuuummm! Tell Alfie to stop wrecking the sofa. Look what he’s done to it again.”
“Muuuuummm! Come and speak to the Ginger Sponge again. He’s come in soaking wet and is lying all over me chewing on his bone. It’s ridiculous, there are two sofas in here.”
“Muuuuuummm! He’s done it again. Look at the state of this. What’s wrong with him?”
“Muuuuummm! Look at what’s happened now. Can’t somebody adopt him when it rains? He can come back when it’s dry.”
“I’m not convinced, Oscar, but we’ll give it a try.”
“A bit. And look at him – he’s fairly cute when he settles down. Maybe he really is a parrot.”
It’s been a while since I did much of a personal update on here. With book nine of the 
I can’t walk my dogs. Those of you who have followed me for a while know that Oscar and Alfie, my two Labradors, are the joy of my life. Winter is a favourite time for walking, since they love splashing through puddles and racing up and down a windswept beach. I miss that with a permanent ache in my soul.
The Nord clinic in Kaunas, Lithuania has been remarkably helpful and easy to deal with from start to finish. They’re seeing so many people like me coming from the UK that they’ve refined their system so that it works seamlessly. After the operation I’ll stay for seven days physio and rehabilitation. I’ve joined a patient group and got to know a number of people who have been through this process and their stories are very reassuring. I’m scared but I’m determined.
Following the Trail of a Knight 
My 3x Great Grandfather, Sven Stenander, was the knight in question. My cousin sent me a poem in Swedish, along with a translation in English, which outlined his life. She assured me that there were newspaper articles about his life (which my later research confirmed to be the case), so there was a very nice stack of material for me to follow up on. Most intriguing for me was a copy of an actual photograph of this man in his late eighties. Staring at it, I saw the reflection of a man born in the 18th Century. A warrior who participated in battles of the Napoleonic War and fighting the Norwegians in their unsuccessful quest for independence. And on his chest, I could see a distinctive medal, the St. George’s Cross. This was the source of his knighthood. But I wanted to know more.
Ronan Beckman is a retired former educator living in Northampton, England. He writes historical fiction and biography, often based on characters discovered while researching family history. You can find out more on his website: 
James Spivey talking about 
James Spivey was born in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire. From an early age, films and history were his twin passions. He graduated from Bradford University and now works for ITV as a cameraman. He spent several years as a Parish Councillor and is a volunteer for a canine search and rescue team. His pastimes include roaming the English countryside often with a dog or two by his side, running an Airbnb and exploring places with a rich cultural heritage whether at home or abroad. Meet him on Twitter / X