Daylight Robbery: a Christmas short story for 2025

Introduction

Welcome to Daylight Robbery, my rather belated Christmas short story for 2025. I’ve had a bit of a dry run on short stories during this half of the year. I didn’t manage a Halloween one and this one is late. My excuse is the publication of An Inexorable Invasion followed by Winter Quarters, the second collection of my short stories. December has also seen my daughter and her boyfriend moving into their new house, quickly followed by the announcement of their engagement. It’s a very impressive list of excuses, you’ve got to admit.

As the Peninsular War Saga moves towards the end of the war I have to be more and more careful about spoilers when choosing topics for short stories. For this one I’ve moved away from the war zone to pick up the story of the Van Daan family at home. Regular readers will easily slot this story into the timeline but I hope it can also be enjoyed in its own right.

The treatment of veterans after the Napoleonic Wars has been dealt with in an excellent book by Evan Wilson called the Horrible Peace.  You’ll be hearing more of this in later books, though one suspects the veterans of the 110^th and associated regiments will be well-supervised by an over-conscientious Major-General without enough to do until his next campaign.

I hope you all had a great Christmas. Wishing everybody a very Happy New Year. Bring on 2026.

Daylight Robbery

It was barely light on a cold December morning when the travelling carriage was brought round so that the servants could load up the luggage. The driver stood in the shelter of the porch with one of the post-boys discussing the route they were to take to London and where they would stop to change horses.

The master of the house stood in the hallway listening and managed to stop himself going over to give them their instructions one more time. It was possible to travel from Leicestershire to London in one day, especially in a well-built carriage and several changes of horses but as Mrs Patience van Daan would be travelling with a young baby, she would break the journey halfway at the house of a cousin.

Sir Franz van Daan waited until the carriage was fully loaded. Mrs van Daan’s maid brought a pile of warm rugs for the journey and placed them on one of the seats. There was a long pause but nobody else appeared. Franz closed his eyes and counted to ten very slowly. His younger son had once told him he sometimes found it helpful when trying to control his explosive temper. Franz did not think it was helping him much at all.

Eventually there were sounds from above and his daughter-in-law began to descend the main staircase very slowly. Behind her, the nursemaid carried the wriggling form of his granddaughter who, at six-months-old, was the youngest member of the household. She was wrapped in so many blankets and shawls that she looked twice her usual size. Franz watched as the nursemaid carried her to the front door. He did not envy the three women who had to share a carriage with Elizabeth. She loathed being swaddled like a newborn and had an astonishingly loud yell.

Patience paused beside him. She looked tired and her eyes were red as though she had been crying again. Franz felt a pang of sympathy alongside his exasperation. For many years he had got on very well with his elder son’s wife and he wished he knew what to say to her now.

“Have a safe journey, my dear. Give my regards to your Cousin Alice and if you are very tired, stay with her for an extra night. Once you’re back at Tevington House you’ll soon pick up.”

“If my child dies of cold during this journey I will never forgive your son. Or you.”

Franz felt his sympathy slipping away again. “The way you have her wrapped up, she’s more likely to smother,” he said shortly, then forced himself to stop. “Patience, if you’re really that worried, tell Nurse to bring her back inside and unload her things. I’ll be here over Christmas and you have a fully staffed nursery. She’ll be very well taken care of.”

“As if I would leave my daughter behind.”

“With her grandfather?”

“With anybody,” Patience said. Franz was horrified to see her eyes fill with tears again. “I cannot believe that Joshua could be so unfeeling as to order me to choose between a dangerous journey in freezing weather or abandoning my child.”

“Oh for God’s sake ma’am, do not enact me another Cheltenham tragedy,” Franz snapped, losing his patience entirely. “You’ve travelled in far worse weather than this over the years, without turning a hair. You’ll be in London by midday tomorrow. Josh has an entire battalion of nursery maids ready to look after his daughter and your only job is to be with your husband, enjoy the Christmas season and try to feel more like yourself again.”

“I will never forgive him for this,” Patience sobbed, taking refuge behind her handkerchief.

“I hope you don’t mean that,” Franz said, managing a more moderate tone. “Many women would be pleased that their husband wants their company so much that he is prepared to insist upon it, rather than…”

He broke off, realising that he had been about to say something completely inappropriate. To his relief she did not respond. She gave a small, stiff bow and turned towards the door. Franz caught her arm and kissed her gently on her wet, cold cheek.

“I hope that this time together will remind you both of how happy you were before,” he said tiredly. “Goodbye, Patience. God speed your journey.”

She said nothing. The nursemaid waited beside the door. As Patience swept through it, Franz limped quickly to the door.

“Wait,” he said. The nurse paused.

Franz bent over his granddaughter. She was awake and looked rather grumpy but at the sight of him she gave a broad toothless smile. Franz felt his heart turn over. He bent to kiss her and knew a sudden pang of anxiety in case Patience was right and they should not be travelling in such cold weather so that they could join Joshua in London. Then he reminded himself how robust his other grandchildren were and was reassured. Elizabeth did not look at all delicate.”

“Goodbye, Elizabeth,” he said softly. “Look after your mother. I’m going to miss you.”

***

The truth of that statement struck Franz anew as he sat down to a belated breakfast. Southwinds, his country home, was a big house and needed a family to fill it. Since the death of his wife and daughter of smallpox more than twenty years ago he had spent most of his time in his London house, managing his ever expanding business empire. It had made perfect sense to do so and it was only recently that Franz had begun to wonder if he had spent twenty years running away from his grief.

In recent years, Southwinds had been full of children again as Josh and Patience had taken on the task of raising the family of his younger son; an ambitious and successful army officer. Major-General Paul van Daan was still in Europe, serving with some distinction under Lord Wellington. His second wife was with him and his five children, ranging from eleven to just one year old remained with his family in England.

The arrangement had worked well for many years but had become complicated since Patience, at the age of thirty-four, had finally given birth to a healthy daughter after years of miscarriages or stillbirths. Joshua had been overjoyed and Franz was delighted for them but the birth seemed to have affected Patience badly. Instead of taking pleasure in her child, she seemed to be overwhelmed by fear for her and her protectiveness meant that she was reluctant to leave the baby even to spend time with her husband.

Franz did not really blame his son for putting his foot down and insisting that Patience join him in London for the Christmas season, though he was not sure about his timing. Still, experience had taught him to remain firmly out of his sons’ personal lives and all he could do was hope that things improved.

In the meantime, he was faced with the unexpected prospect of Christmas alone in the big, empty house. It was not really empty of course. Servants brought his breakfast, served his tea or coffee and cleaned the rooms. Franz was so accustomed to their presence that he barely noticed them. It would not have occurred to him to start up a conversation with the footman or the groom, though he reflected that his younger son would have done so without hesitation. The thought made him smile.

Franz had received a number of invitations to Christmas house parties but, assuming that Josh and Patience would be at Southwinds, he had declined them all. The rest of his grandchildren were spending Christmas in Yorkshire with their other grandparents and Franz had anticipated a quiet season. At seventy-five, he was still limping slightly from a fall on the hunting field the previous winter and he had been looking forward to the peace. He had not expected it to be quite this peaceful.

Still, he was a grown man and it would do him no harm to eat his Christmas dinner alone this year. It was time he stopped feeling sorry for himself. It was a bright, cold morning and he should send a message to the stables and go for a ride.

It had taken a long time for his broken leg to heal and the fall had shaken Franz more than he had been prepared to admit to anybody else. It had made him feel old in a way that nothing else ever had. Josh and Patience had fussed over him and his younger son had written good-humoured orders take care of himself and slow down a little. Franz was exasperated by all of them.

For a while, he had unwillingly followed advice and taken a groom when he went out riding, in case he should fall again, but that made him feel even more old and decrepit and he hated the feeling. For the past month he had gone back to riding alone as well as covering more difficult ground and longer distances as the weeks went by. The weather was miserable and sometimes, as he rode back into the stable yard soaked to the skin and shivering, he wondered if he was mad. But he knew he was beginning to regain both his fitness and his confidence so he persisted.

There was no danger of rain today, though it was bitterly cold. Franz took the road out towards Ashfordby Hill and rode up to the crest. There was a broad view out over the patchwork fields and low rolling hills of the Leicestershire countryside. The sky was a brilliant blue with small, puffy white clouds blowing ahead of a chilly breeze and the winter sun was deceptively bright with no warmth behind it.

Franz did not mind. After several weeks of rain and occasional sleet it was glorious to be out in such weather and he could feel his mood beginning to lift. There had been a heavy frost the night before and some of the fields still sparkled in the sunlight. He hoped that Patience would have such weather for the first leg of her journey. It might raise her spirits and prevent her from spending the entire time brooding over her husband’s unreasonable behaviour. On the other hand, if Elizabeth yelled for the entire journey, Patience was going to arrive at her cousin’s house even more aggrieved and probably with a headache.

Franz set his chestnut mare into a canter. Ruby was not his usual mount. Caesar, his tall, black stallion, had fallen badly when Franz’s accident had occurred. The hunt master had advised shooting the distressed animal but Franz refused. His head groom was good with sprains and strains and assured him that Caesar had not broken the leg and could heal, although he would probably not be able to hunt again.

Franz did not care. Caesar had been his favourite hunter for many years and he had not realised how much he had come to love the horse until he was faced with the prospect of losing him. With his own broken leg, it was impossible for him to visit the stables for several weeks and he fretted over the horse. He also mocked himself silently for all the times he had laughed at his wife and his younger son for their sentimentality over animals.

Caesar had healed and entered an honourable retirement where his only job would be to sire a new generation of prime hunters in the Van Daan stables. At some point Franz wanted to look around for a new horse; possibly a gelding. He had not regained his enthusiasm for the hunting field but he loved to ride. In the meantime, Ruby suited his more restrained pace. She had originally been bought for Patience, but his daughter-in-law was not an enthusiastic rider and the mare needed the exercise.

On the far side of Ashfordby Hill there was a cluster of houses, too few to be called a village. They were in poor repair and Franz tried to work out whose tenants these might be. Possibly the cottages were on common land but it was unlikely. The Leicestershire countryside had been carved up and enclosed into big estates many years before Franz had purchased Southwinds. Whoever this land belonged to, and he suspected he knew, was a poor landlord.

Franz trotted down towards Ratcliffe, a small village with a particularly fine fourteenth century church. The road was reasonably good given the recent weather and he cautiously allowed Ruby to canter for a while, reining her in as the open countryside gave way to a series of small but dense coppiced areas on both sides of the road. Deer were common in this area and even a pheasant, surprised into sudden flight, might startle a horse.

The sound that tore through the winter silence was far worse than a startled game bird or bounding deer. Franz had no warning and jumped as much as the terrified mare. Ruby reared up with a shriek of fear and Franz felt himself falling from the saddle once again.

His body hit the ground hard, driving the breath from him. For a long moment he lay winded on the rutted road. He had landed in a huge muddy puddle and he could feel the water soaking into his clothing. His hat had fallen off. He could hear the thudding of hooves as Ruby took off in panicked flight. Hopefully she would find her way back to her stable which would alert the grooms that their master was in trouble.

Eventually Franz caught his breath again and cautiously moved. Everything ached but he felt no agonising pain in his weak leg or anywhere else. Miraculously he thought that this time he had escaped serious injury. Carefully he eased himself into a sitting position and looked around.

A shadow across the road told him that someone was approaching from behind him. Presumably whichever idiot had let off a shot in the coppice had been after game birds and had not thought to check if the road was clear. Franz thought he had probably been lucky not to have been shot by some inexperienced or careless sportsman and took a deep breath, ready to give the gentleman a piece of his mind, when the shadow fell across him and the man stepped into view. Franz closed his mouth and said nothing. He was in worse trouble than he had realised.

The shotgun, as he had expected, was an old fowling piece but the man wielding it was not a gentleman. He was tall and thin and it was hard to judge his age although Franz suspected he was younger than he looked. Desperately hard living, including periods of hunger, had hollowed his cheeks. His long frame was slightly stooped and his clothing was worn and badly patched. He had no cloak or overcoat and he was visibly shivering. Franz wondered if that was due to cold or nerves but it did not really matter. All he could see was those shaking hands on the shotgun. It was pointed directly at Franz.

“Money,” the man said, through clenched teeth. “Whatever you’ve got on you. And your watch. Also that ring. Argue with me and I’ll cut your bloody finger off.”

Franz took a deep steadying breath. “All right,” he said, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “Though the ring might be a problem. It’s been on this finger since my wife gave it to me and my knuckles have swollen since then. Can I stand up?”

“Are you armed?”

“No.”

The man stared at him from bloodshot blue eyes then nodded. Franz struggled painfully to his feet, wishing himself twenty years younger. He felt old and vulnerable and frightened and he hated it.

“If your wife wants you back alive she’d be glad to lose that ring,” the man said.

“She’s not here to care any more. She died twenty years ago along with my daughter. I’m going to reach into my pocket for my purse. There’s not much in it.”

He threw the leather purse to the footpad and the man caught it. He shook it and pulled a face.

“Not much to you, but it’ll feed me for a while. Your watch?”

Franz reached into his coat. He felt a pang as he withdrew the watch; it had been a gift from his father-in-law during the early years of his marriage and he never took it out without thinking of Lord Tevington, who had welcomed an upstart Dutchman into his family with extraordinary generosity and kindness. Still, it was not worth his life, so he tossed it to the footpad and was surprised once again at the dexterity with which the man caught it.

“What’s your name?” Franz asked.

The man sneered. “So you can report me to the magistrate?”

“That will only work if your name is known to him and I’m not convinced,” Franz said. “You don’t sound local and if there have been robberies along this road before I’d have heard of them.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I am a magistrate,” Franz said evenly. “Your first name will do.”

The footpad hesitated. For a long moment Franz was sure that he would not answer but then he said:

“Jack. My name’s Jack. Now the ring.”

Franz hesitated for a long time then took a grip on the gold signet ring. He knew perfectly well that it would not come off. Age had swelled his knuckles. For a time he had wondered if he should ask the goldsmith to cut it off but it was perfectly comfortable and he could not bear to lose it yet. It spoke of Georgiana and happier days when he had been young and in love with his wife. He tugged several times, his eyes on the shaking shotgun.

“I can’t do it,” he said finally.

“Do it or I’ll fucking cut it off.”

Franz had heard of cases where men had bled to death after a thief had cut off a finger. He felt slightly sick. He also felt, to his surprise, a new sense of anger and determination. He was old and had begun to feel very frail since his accident but there had been a time when he was young and, during his years with the East India Company, he had faced worse dangers than this. Unexpectedly his memory of that younger man gave him courage. He held out his hand.

“Go on then.”

He caught the look of sheer horror on the other man’s face and knew, with a little spurt of triumph, that he had not misjudged his opponent. This man had been driven to theft and violence by sheer desperation but he was not comfortable with it.

Unexpectedly Franz thought of his younger son. It had been a dinner party many years ago when an elderly neighbour had been holding forth about the appalling quality of recruits into the army; so many of them coming from criminal backgrounds. Paul had listened, his wine glass balanced in his hand. He had drunk far less than anybody else at the table. Opposite him, his first wife Rowena had worn an anxious expression, probably knowing what was about to happen.

“How do you know so much about these men, sir?” Paul had asked. “Forgive me, but it’s easy to judge sitting around this very comfortable table after a meal cooked by my father’s excellent chef. But how do you know their quality or their abilities unless you’ve worked with them?”

“And I suppose you think you know better, boy?”

Paul set down his glass. “Well yes, sir. I do.”

Franz took a long steadying breath. “Why don’t you put the gun down?” he said evenly. “You have to be at least thirty years younger than me. More, I’d guess. You can lay me out in a second, cut off my finger and steal my ring. I’ll probably bleed to death before anybody finds me. Though if we’re going to do this by the side of the road, you’d better do it quickly. Somebody could come past at any time. Why don’t we go over into the trees where you were hiding just now? That way you can kill me whenever you want to.”

He turned towards the trees and began to walk, horribly aware of how exposed he was to a shot in the back. Part of his brain was screaming at him not to be an idiot. The other part was thinking, considering, planning. The other part, God help him, was curious.

The trees provided some shelter from the wind and it was a little warmer. Franz turned to his attacker. The younger man looked anxious and miserable. Franz decided to press his advantage and held out his hand.

“Go on then. Get it over with, boy.”

“I’m not going to cut your finger off.”

“It’s a gold ring. My wife gave it to me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” the man said furiously. “I’ve got the money and the watch. I’m going to run now. Don’t follow me or I’ll shoot you and you’ll die waiting for them to find you.”

Franz felt unexpectedly calm. “If you can’t cut my finger off, I don’t think you’re going to shoot me, boy. Put down that fucking gun. It’s shaking so much you’re as likely to shoot yourself in the foot as to kill me. What in God’s name are you doing out here?”

“That’s none of your damned business.”

“Jack. Is that your real name?”

“That’s none of your business either.”

“If you’re going to shoot me or cut my finger off, I’d really like to know the name of the man who did it. Humour me.”

Abruptly the man lowered the gun. “Jack was my brother’s name. He was killed in Spain, at a place called Vitoria. He was my mother’s favourite.”

There was a long silence. Franz weighed up his options like the businessman he was. For the first time, he did not think he was about to die.

“My son was at Vitoria,” he said conversationally. “Have you ever been to the church here in Ingleby? The parson’s son lost his left hand in that battle. I knew him from a boy. It was hard.”

There was a long painful silence. Then the footpad began to cry.

“My name is Churchill. Private Jonas Churchill of the 27^th Foot. That’s who I was. I was sent home after Sorauren. That’s a place in the mountains. They shot me in the knee. I’ve got a wooden leg.”

Franz abruptly understood a number of things. One of them was why this man had not run away. He could not.

“You can keep the watch and the money. But they’re not worth that much. My horse will have gone back up to the stables. They’ll be out looking for me in a bit. You should go, if you want to. But selling the watch will be hard in this district. Have you robbed many men?”

“A few. I had a job for a while at the inn, over in Ratcliffe. But I was too slow and the landlord dismissed me. Since then I’ve done odd jobs here and there.”

“What about your family?”

“Mother died last year. There’s nobody else. Except…no family. Look, I’m going.” Churchill hoisted the gun. “You’re right, they’ll find you. I’m sorry. I’ve got to eat.”

Franz felt a flood of relief as he realised he had not misread the situation. At the same time, the man’s words nagged at him.

“What did you mean about your family? You said except. Except what?”

“He’s not my family. He’s nothing to do with me.”

“Who?” Franz said. He felt a sudden sense of unreasonable urgency, although he had no idea why.

“It’s not your business.”

“You made it my business when you stole my money and threatened to kill me. Fairly soon my grooms will be out looking for me. Unless you’re willing to shoot them, they’ll overpower you in minutes. Who?”

There was a long painful silence then Churchill capitulated. “A boy. Just a boy. I found him in a ditch. I don’t even know his name but he’s alone and starving. I’ve been feeding him. He’s just a boy.”

Franz felt a chill and then a sense of absolute certainty. “Where is he?”

“Back there, hiding in the trees. Look, you can just go. I won’t hurt you.”

“You were never going to hurt me,” Franz said. “Take me to him. Right now.”

***

The boy was probably six or seven years old. He was huddled against the trunk of a big oak tree, deep in the woodland, under what Franz recognised as a tattered old army greatcoat. It explained why Private Churchill was shivering without his coat on.

Franz did not need to examine the child closely to recognise his desperate condition. He was painfully thin, his sunken face completely white and his lips faintly blue. The hands that clutched the coat around him were skeletal and his feet were bare. Franz turned to look at Churchill. In comparison to this boy, he looked almost healthy.

“When did you find him?”

“Almost a week ago. I was making my way towards Leicester. Begging where I could. Stealing when I had to. I thought there’d be more chance of work there, though not many places are hiring through winter time. Still, I thought one of the inns might give me a try. I was looking for somewhere sheltered to sleep when I heard him crying. Could barely hear him, mind.”

“Was he alone? Where had he come from?”

Churchill shrugged. “God knows, but he wasn’t alone. Didn’t start that way, I mean. The other one was dead. A woman. Stiff and cold.”

“So you took him.”

“Not for good. I can’t adopt him; I can’t even feed myself. I thought I’d try and get to a town. The Parish will have a workhouse or an orphanage.” Churchill looked down at the boy. “But it’s so slow. I can’t walk fast and the past day he’s not been able to walk at all. I tried carrying him on my back, but he’s heavy for a man with a wooden leg.”

Franz felt sick. Finally he moved forward, dropped stiffly to one knee and put a hand on the child’s head. As he did so, the boy opened his eyes. They were a very dark brown, with long lashes, and they looked incongruous in the gaunt face.

Franz felt a wave of helpless panic wash over him. He was not equipped to deal with this and had no idea what should be done about it. Churchill was probably right. The child should be taken to the parish officers in one of the bigger towns. If he survived, and Franz was by no means sure that he would, they would know what to do about him.

Franz straightened painfully, his eyes still on the child. The dark eyes were staring back at him with something like curiosity.

“Can he speak?”

“At the start he cried for his Mam a bit. Not for a few days now. He’s dying, isn’t he?”

There was grief in the other man’s voice. Franz turned to look at him. Abruptly he felt ashamed of his own helplessness in the face of what this man, far too close to starvation himself, had tried to do for a boy who could not even tell him his name. Franz thought of the regular, very generous donations he made to various charities every year for the relief of the poor and indigent. In recent years he had begun to give to veterans’ charities as well.

He realised abruptly that he had always given help at a comfortable distance but had never troubled to see what his money was supposed to be relieving. Clearly, in this case, nothing had reached these two at all. He wondered how many more like them were wandering the highways of England, starving to death in ditches and forests. And here he stood, warmly wrapped in a good overcoat, wondering what to do next. He looked back at the shivering child who seemed to have lapsed into unconsciousness again. Franz was suddenly terrified he would not wake up.

He thought briefly about his family. Joshua, always competent, would probably know exactly which parish officer could be called upon to deal with a starving orphan and would also call the constable to arrest the footpad. Patience would have left the matter in her husband’s hands, possibly making a donation towards the child’s upkeep should he survive.

Franz did not know his other daughter-in-law quite as well but given that Anne spent her time working alongside the army surgeons in the worst possible conditions, he suspected she would have known exactly how to treat this child and would not be standing irresolute wondering what to do next. And then there was Paul.

“What would Paul do?” Franz said softly.

He did not realise he had spoken aloud until Churchill gave him a bewildered look.

“Who?”

Franz began to strip off his heavy coat. “Over there. Use it to cover yourself and the boy. Keep him as warm as possible. Talk to him. You could write what I know about medical matters on the back of a calling card but even I can see that if he falls asleep now he might not wake up. I’m going to set off on foot back to my house. I imagine I’ll meet my grooms on the way. I told Bartlett which way I was riding.”

“I…yes, sir. Will you be calling the constable then?”

“No. Which reminds me, hand over my watch and purse in case a constable turns up anyway and searches you. We’ll discuss your situation later. Either that or you can leave the boy here alone and try to make a run for it. You won’t get far on that leg. I don’t think you’re going to do that though. You’ve carried him this far.”

Franz held out his hand and Churchill took out the purse and watch from inside his thin jacket. Franz pocketed them, nodded and set off back to the road. It was cold without his coat and his leg was aching but he walked as briskly as he could.

He had not made it to the top of the hill before the first of his grooms came into view, cantering towards him. Franz stopped, catching his breath. Bartlett, his head groom, reined in beside him.

“Thank God you’re all right, sir. Ruby came in riderless so we thought you’d taken another tumble. Are you…?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Bartlett, though there’ll be a new crop of bruises tomorrow. Stop blathering and listen to me; there’s a crisis and I need you to do as you’re told and not ask questions. I’ll explain later.”

He issued a series of precise orders in the same tone of voice he might have used to his personal secretary, if the blasted man was not currently in France somewhere, probably getting drunk with Franz’s younger son. Bartlett was a reliable man and listened carefully before turning his horse and galloping back towards Southwinds at full pelt. Franz turned and walked more slowly back towards the coppice, then waited under the trees for help to arrive.

It arrived quickly, though by then he was shivering. His coachman drew up the small carriage at the side of the road and one of the grooms came forward with Franz’s riding cloak. Franz drew it around him gratefully.

“This way. I told Bartlett to send a message over to the barracks in Melton Mowbray so we’ll go straight there.”

“He told me, sir. Are you sure? Why the barracks?”

“Because I think an army surgeon might do better with this than my usual physician, who is unlikely to want to get his hands dirty treating these two. I’m not sure I blame him. I suspect my greatcoat might be harbouring lice before the end of the day but we’ll deal with that later.”

“Might not be that much of a problem if they’ve been living out in this weather, sir,” the groom said unexpectedly. “Lice don’t like the cold.”

Franz stared at him in surprise. “Really? The things I am learning today, Fisher. My two new responsibilities are over there under that oak tree.”

Fisher had stopped to stare. “Are you sure you want these two in your carriage, sir? I could order up the gig.”

“And then they could freeze to death on the journey to Melton? Use your brain, Fisher, if that’s possible. Get them in the carriage and I’ll ride with them. If you’re that squeamish, you can ride on the box with Martin.”

“Yes, sir.” Fisher gave Churchill another doubtful look. “You sure you’ll be safe with him? He might be armed.”

“He won’t be armed. Wait there.”

Franz went forward and bent over the boy. To his relief the dark eyes were open again. Churchill had wrapped him in the coat and put both arms about him. As Franz reached him, he started to rise.

“Stay still,” Franz said softly. “Do you still have the gun?”

“I…it’s just there, sir. Under the holly bush.”

“Push it out of sight before you stand up. My grooms carry pistols in case of highwaymen or footpads and if they think I’m in danger they’ll shoot first and ask questions later. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble, you annoying young bastard. I’m not having you shot now.”

Churchill kicked the gun out of sight and rose very slowly. He had obviously grown stiff with the cold and as he tried to take a step, his leg seemed to give way. Franz caught him before he hit the ground and steadied him.

“How the hell did you learn to walk again on that thing?” he asked.

“It’s hard, Painful. You just have to get on with it.”

Franz nodded. He turned to Fisher.

“Help him into the carriage. He’s very weak and he’s got a wooden leg. Left the real one in Spain.”

Fisher’s eyes widened and his expression cleared. “Oh, a veteran, is he? That explains it. We all thought you’d gone mad, Sir Franz. Alright, Private, hold on to me now. I’ll get your boy in a minute.”

“I’ll bring him,” Franz said. He had not intended to try to carry the child but suddenly he wanted to. Watching as Fisher hoisted Churchill into the carriage and reached to tuck a rug around his shivering body, he tried to imagine how hard it must have been for a man in his condition to carry a child through the frozen countryside in search of food and shelter. That he had brought the boy this far suggested remarkable courage and determination.

Franz bent and scooped up the child, still wrapped in the coat. He stood for a moment, letting himself feel the weight, then eased the boy onto his shoulder. He was appalled at how light he was. It was not difficult to lift him into the carriage at all.

Inside he arranged the boy on the forward seat, tucked more warm rugs around him, then sat next to him ready to catch him if the carriage hit a bad rut in the road. Churchill sat opposite him, looking around with wide eyes. It occurred to Franz that the man had probably never been inside any vehicle more luxurious than a public stage.

The thought made him smile a little. He decided that today was proving very uncomfortable in places but definitely educational. He also realised with surprise that he had stopped thinking about his age; though he suspected that when he woke up tomorrow his bruises might remind him.

Churchill did not speak for a while and Franz’s attention was on the child. He took both cold hands in his gloved ones, trying to share some warmth. The boy was sleepy but the abrupt change in his circumstances seemed to have woken him up a little which Franz hoped was a good sign. He hoped desperately that Dr Welbeck had received his message and would be in barracks when they arrived. He was surprised at how little faith he had in his own doctor when it came to treating the results of poverty and starvation.

Franz climbed down from the carriage in the barracks yard. He was relieved to see the familiar figure of the quartermaster of the second battalion emerging from the administrative building. Captain Henry Clinton was a tall, slim man with ginger hair and a pleasant smile. Neither battalion of the 110^th was currently in barracks but there were always a few companies of new recruits and a collection of sick and wounded men who had been sent home to recover.

Franz had met Clinton a number of times socially which made his task easier. He shook the Captain’s hand warmly.

“I take it you had my note, Clinton?”

“Yes. You were lucky: Dr Welbeck is doing his rounds in the infirmary as we speak. Bring your vagabonds into the office, Sir Franz. It’s warm and there’s a sofa in there for the child. Welbeck can examine them privately when he gets here.” Clinton surveyed him thoughtfully. “In the meantime I think you should have a glass of hot spiced wine by a warm fire. Your man said you took a tumble in the middle of all this.”

Franz pulled a face. “I seem to be making a habit of it recently. Old age, I suspect. I can carry the boy…”

“Let your groom bring him,” Clinton said, gently but firmly. “Come and sit down. As senior officer in barracks I have the privilege of using the General’s parlour when he’s away. I’m enjoying the luxury.”

Franz gave in. He joined Clinton in the parlour, took a chair by the fire and accepted the wine gratefully. Clinton sat opposite, sipped his drink, and studied Franz.

“Would you mind telling me more about what happened, Sir Franz? Where did you find these two? I gather you were out riding.”

Franz told his story, carefully omitting to mention the gun and Churchill’s attempted robbery. As a Justice of the Peace he was perfectly at liberty to quash any attempt to prosecute the man but he was looking to find a place for Churchill where he would no longer feel the need to prey on lone travellers and he wanted Clinton’s sympathy. He merely said that the man had come out from the coppice and startled the mare. It was a plausible tale and Clinton did not question it.

Dr Welbeck appeared and Clinton led him into the office. Franz joined them without waiting for an invitation. He found Churchill sitting rather awkwardly on the big sofa with the child stretched out beside him. He rose as the three men entered and saluted instinctively at the sight of Clinton’s uniform. Clinton acknowledged the salute gravely.

Franz gave the doctor a brief summary of the tale he had told to the quartermaster. He saw Churchill’s eyes widen a little at the omission of the robbery but the man was quick-witted and said nothing. Welbeck thanked Franz with the absent manner of a man whose mind was on his job then shooed both him and Clinton out so that he could examine his new patients.

They sat finishing their wine in the parlour until Welbeck joined them. He accepted a drink and a seat.

“The man is well enough,” he said. “Half-starved of course and that leg of his is rubbed raw the way he’s been walking around on it. Damned fool thing to do, but I don’t suppose he could help it. I asked him why the devil he’s scrounging jobs in taverns when that leg and his previous service entitles him to a pension.”

“I wondered that myself,” Franz admitted. “I’m very ignorant about army pensions but I’m sure my son has spoken about it.”

“Well Private Churchill doesn’t seem to have realised he was entitled to one. He’s been without a regular home since he was discharged from the hospital so I suppose his regiment may have simply lost track of him.”

“They haven’t bloody tried hard enough then,” Clinton said. He sounded angry. “I’d be ashamed to find one of our men tramping the highways on a wooden leg because the regimental paperwork is in chaos. I’m going to write to General van Daan to ask if he feels like having a conversation with whoever commands the 27^th in the field. I’m fairly sure they’re still out there.”

“Do you think he would do so?” Welbeck asked in surprise.

Franz met Clinton’s eyes and saw a gleam of amusement.

“I forgot, you’ve not met him yet, Welbeck. He will take on the task with relish.”

“And bad language,” Franz added.

“Oh good God yes. Appalling language. He once told me he learned it in the Navy as a boy.”

“He didn’t have to adopt it so enthusiastically,” Franz said grimly. “I think it is an excellent idea, Clinton. I’ll write to him about it as well, but it should come formally from within the army. In the meantime, I would like to ensure that Private Churchill has somewhere to stay until he has fully recovered. And afterwards. I have nothing but respect for a man in his desperate situation who took on the care of an orphaned child. He’s due something for that, not just from the army but from the rest of us.”

“I agree,” Clinton said quietly. Franz thought he still looked somewhat amused. “He can remain here. I’m sure we could find him a place in some local charity institution using your considerable influence in the district, Sir Franz but he’s an army man. He’ll feel more comfortable with us. We’re almost empty at the moment apart from three companies of recruits, fully trained and equipped ready to be sent out to France in January once we get the transports arranged. We’ve also got a fever ward with about twenty patients and another ward with about a dozen recovering wounded. That will fill up again in a few weeks; I’ve had a letter from Captain Mackenzie with details of the wounded from these latest actions.”

Clinton glanced uncertainly at Franz, who was perfectly able to interpret his hesitation.

“No need to worry, Clinton. My daughter-in-law is an excellent correspondent and has sent me the reassuring news that my son has still not managed to kill himself, though it sounds as though he made a damned good try this time. He is recuperating however, which means he will be bored and only too happy to spend some time making the lives of the 27^th Foot miserable over their inadequate care of their crippled veterans.”

“That’s what I thought, sir,” Clinton said, relieved. “Given the amount of space we have, we’ve allocated one of the barracks to some of our walking wounded who don’t really have homes or families to go back to. There are about ten of them and they earn their keep helping with cleaning and other jobs around the place. Once he’s recovered a bit, Churchill can join them until his pension is sorted out.”

Franz felt a rush of relief. “Are you sure, Captain? I’m happy to pay for his keep if necessary.”

Clinton smiled. “You could send a few bottles as a contribution to the Christmas festivities, sir. We will be celebrating in the traditional manner of the 110^th which means I’ll be drinking with the enlisted men. It will shock the life out of Private Churchill, mind. They’re very proper in the 27^th. But I wager he’ll get used to it very quickly.”

“I hope he does,” Franz said warmly. “Thank you.”

He drained his wineglass and sat quietly for a moment. Then he looked up at the doctor.

“You haven’t mentioned the boy.”

Welbeck sighed. “I can’t know, Sir Franz. Nobody can. He is severely malnourished and there are signs of a chest complaint but that is hardly surprising. He has spoken a few words, however so we know his name and where he came from. His father was Ned Lawlor, a labourer on Sir John Glossop’s estate. Sir John is in London and the place is run by the old estate manager, a man called Dighton. Lawlor died in the autumn from some fever and Dighton evicted the widow and young Ned. They were trying to make their way to Leicester. For work, I suppose. He can’t remember much apart from her dying on the road and then Churchill picking him up.”

“Does he have the fever?”

“Not that I can tell, but he’s very weak and he’ll need care. Men who have been starving for weeks can’t start eating or drinking normally straight away. I’ve seen men die from gorging themselves too quickly. It happened on the retreat to Corunna. In addition, this poor brat has frostbite on both feet.”

“Will you have to amputate?” Clinton asked.

“I’m going to try to avoid it. He’s very young and they often heal better at this age. Or that cough might turn nasty and he’ll simply fade away. I can’t tell. He’s an orphan so they’d probably take him at St Michael’s House but they’re overrun there with those unable to feed themselves through the winter. The staff are overwhelmed and I doubt they have the time for the nursing he’ll need. I have another idea.”

“Go on,” Franz said.

“I expect you know Mrs Mackenzie, the wife of the first battalion quartermaster. She lives in town with her children and she’s in and out of here all the time. She helps with the nursing when we’re very busy and she’s set up schools for the enlisted men and their families. She’s due to be over tomorrow to see Captain Clinton. I’m going to ask her if she can take young Lawlor.”

Franz was horrified. “You can’t possibly do that, Doctor. I know Mrs  Mackenzie and she has children of her own. With her husband away, you can’t expect her…”

“I don’t expect anything. If she can’t do it, we’ll have to manage him here, at least until we know whether he’s going to live or die. But I’ve worked with Mrs Mackenzie for a few years now. I think I know what she’ll say.”

Franz was silent for a while, realising that the matter had been taken neatly out of his hands. After all, that was why he had brought Churchill here, to men who would understand what had happened to him and hopefully care enough to help.

“Thank you,” he said finally. “I have a feeling you’ve left me little to do here and I should probably be getting back before my household assumes I’ve had yet another accident. They behave as though I’m thoroughly decrepit and ready to expire at any moment.”

Dr Welbeck grinned and rose to shake his hand. “I don’t see any sign of that myself, Sir Franz. It’s been an honour to meet you. Why don’t you go through to see your patients before you go? I’ll send regular updates I promise you. Are you at Southwinds this Christmas?”

“Yes. Alone, for once. My grandchildren have gone to Yorkshire to terrify Sir Matthew Howard’s household and my elder son and his family are spending Christmas in London. He is in the middle of some delicate negotiations which could open up some interesting new business opportunities. I’ll be joining him in the New Year so that I can look over his shoulder and tell him all the things he is doing wrong, but he can have a peaceful Christmas.”

The two men laughed. Franz went through and spoke to Churchill. He thought the man seemed completely bewildered, but not unhappy. Ned Lawlor was sitting up, his hands wrapped round a steaming cup of what looked like some kind of broth. The fact that he was strong enough to hold it felt reassuring to Franz. He ruffled the child’s matted hair and told him to behave as if he had been a healthy six-year-old capable of causing trouble. To his silent satisfaction, Ned managed a little flicker of a smile. It gave Franz hope.

He was alone in the carriage on the journey back to Southwinds which gave him time to think. Back at home, his servants fussed over him. His valet had ordered a bath and set out fresh clothing, whisking away his muddy riding clothes as though he shared his master’s concern about lice. When Franz was dressed he went downstairs to find that wine had been set out beside his favourite chair in the library, along with his book and the latest copy of the Times, which must have arrived when he was out.

Franz sipped his wine and turned the pages of the newspaper to the columns giving news of the army. He read the section through twice, feeling a familiar lift of pride that his son had been mentioned in Lord Wellington’s latest dispatch. Then he set the paper aside and walked through to the terrace at the back of the house. The sun was already beginning to set. It was a cold, clear night and the winter sky was streaked with burnished copper and gold. Franz stood holding on to the stone balustrade. It was so beautiful that he could ignore the chill for a while.

They would be calling him in for dinner soon. He usually dined early when he was at Southwinds, especially when he was on his own. He was glad of it today. Already he could feel an ache in his back and a soreness in his hip from his fall. Still, he was fully mobile and bruises would heal, even though it took rather longer these days.

Unexpectedly, Franz started to laugh. He stood chuckling, watching the final rays of the sinking sun. It was ridiculous how his little adventure had sent his spirits soaring. Many years ago, as a young man in India, he had faced far more perilous situations than an encounter in broad daylight with a half-starved pair of beggars on a highway three miles from home. Nevertheless, the episode had cheered him up enormously. He had spent half-a-year complaining about his family and his household treating him like an old man. He wondered suddenly if that was because he had been behaving like one.

“No more,” he said firmly to the trees and shrubs and spreading lawns of his home. “You’d be laughing at me if you could see me, Georgiana. Huddling away on my own for Christmas as if I’m in my dotage. Go on, love. Have a good laugh. I wish Paul and Anne could be here. I’ve still never danced with my younger son’s wife, and she’s so beautiful and so full of joy. Well that will have to wait. But I think it’s time I introduced myself to her family.”

***

The post-chaise drew up outside the big house at Helton Ridge just after midday. After sending his household into a frenzy of packing and travel arrangements, Franz had spared no expense on his journey: hiring the fastest vehicle with frequent changes of horses. He spent the nights in comfortable inns and arrived in Thorndale two days before Christmas, feeling tired and a little anxious. He had sent a message ahead by a fast courier, so barring accidents his hosts should at least know he was coming. All the same he could not help feeling a little apprehensive in case a long explanation was going to be required.

He need not have worried. The post-boy had barely managed to lower the steps when there was a shriek of excitement. The front door flew open and two children raced down the wide steps and across the drive towards him. Franz held out his arms, careful to brace himself against the carriage to save himself from being knocked over. He found himself engulfed in two enormous hugs and he felt his eyes fill with silly tears of sheer happiness.

“I’m guessing you had my message then,” he said in some relief. “Francis, you’re standing on my foot and you’re as heavy as a young elephant. Move.”

“Sorry. We’re just so pleased to see you,” his grandson responded cheerfully. “Your room is all ready and Grandma Harriet let Grace arrange the flowers by herself, so don’t be surprised if they look like an angry bunch of weeds.”

The fair-haired girl turned frosty blue eyes onto her brother. “You look like an angry bunch of weeds, Francis. If only I had a scythe.”

Franz was laughing. He embraced them both again. “There will be no bloodshed today, Grace. Give me your arm, Francis, and you may take me to meet Sir Matthew and Lady Howard.”

His host and hostess awaited him in a high-ceilinged hallway. The house was more modern than Southwinds but it was elegantly furnished. Franz shook hands, thanked them and apologised for his earlier refusal and his abrupt change of mind. Lady Howard brushed his apology aside laughingly.

“We were just happy to receive your message. The children have been so excited and my husband and I have been longing to meet you.”

“I should have come before,” Franz said. “Habit is a strange thing sometimes.”

He stopped suddenly, his eye caught by the huge fireplace where an enormous log burned.

“Is that a Yule Log?” he asked.

Lady Howard laughed. “It is. We’ve never had one before, but the children wrote to us about it. I understand you had intended to revive the custom if they’d been at home this Christmas so we decided to start a custom of our own. I’m glad we did. The estate workers loved it.”

Franz walked towards the fire, staring into the flames. He had proposed to his wife before a slow-burning Yule Log more than forty years ago. He could not remember the last time he had felt this close to her. He turned back to Lady Howard, smiling. She smiled back.

“A glass of sherry to warm you up after your journey, Sir Franz?” Sir Matthew said. “Or would you like to go up to the nursery to greet the rest of your grandchildren first, while they’re unpacking your bags?”

“The children. Please.”

Lady Howard laughed and slipped her arm through his. Franz remembered suddenly that this was not Sir Matthew’s first marriage which meant she was Anne’s stepmother. He thought that she must have been very influential on her youngest stepchild because she had a warmth and understanding that reminded him of Anne. Briefly Franz’s thoughts drifted to Churchill and his young protégé and he wondered how they were getting on. He had received a message from Mrs Mackenzie on the morning of his departure and the prognosis sounded hopeful.

Franz walked beside his hostess towards the nursery. He could hear Grace and Francis already there, excitedly proclaiming his arrival. It sounded like Bedlam. He decided that he had made a very good decision about how to spend Christmas.