The Weaver’s Son

Styal Mill

Welcome to the Weaver’s Son, my somewhat belated Valentine’s Day story for 2025. Many apologies that it’s taken me so long to get this story out. As many of you know, I’m recovering from a hip replacement. There has also been a lot going on at home and I just didn’t get my act together in time this year. Still, a love story is a love story and I’ve been looking forward to writing this one. As always it’s free, so share as much as you like. There’s also a pdf below.

As the Peninsular War Saga approaches the end of the war, I’m increasingly conscious of the dangers of spoilers in my short stories, so once again I’ve gone back in time. The Weaver’s Son is a straightforward romance. It’s also a story about family. It’s dedicated to my army of readers who are unfailingly supportive through all the ups and downs of bringing my favourite characters to life. Thank you all.

I’ve spent a lot of time reading letters and memoirs of men who lived around the time of the Napoleonic Wars. Sadly I’ve not been able to find much from the women. As we can presume that wives and sweethearts replied to their menfolk it seems that the issue is not with the writing of these letters but with their preservation. Still, from this admittedly one-sided perspective, it is very clear that in an age where arranged marriages were common, many couples still found love. From Captain Edward Codrington’s affectionate letters too his wife Jane, to General Robert Craufurd’s obvious adoration of his beloved Mary, such love stories are an inspiration to a novelist who loves a bit of romance.

Sometimes, romance occurs between unlikely people, in unexpected places. Welcome to The Weaver’s Son…

A Weaver’s Son pdf

The Weaver’s Son

An early January gale had taken off part of the roof of the west barn and, as the weather settled into steady rainfall, Mrs Harriet Faversham summoned her farm hands to move the hay into the smaller, but much drier east barn then sat down with her account books to work out if she could afford to call the roofer from Newark.

“We can probably patch it until the spring,” her estate manager had said, surveying the damage from the shelter of a partly ruined cow shed. “Wouldn’t do to put the hay back in there, mind. We might not be done with the worst of the weather yet.”

“We’ve patched it up twice already,” Harriet said gloomily. “We can manage for now, but we’ll need to get it done. Send the boy over with a note to Barrett from Newark, Tom. I’m not using Harrison again. His prices are ridiculous and when his work on Sir Henry Chisholm’s stables was unsatisfactory it took them almost a year to get him to come back and put it right. I won’t reward bad workmanship with my custom.”

“Right you are, ma’am. Oh, the groom picked up the post on the way back from the blacksmith’s. I told him to put it on your desk.”

There was a small pile of letters on the old mahogany desk which had belonged to Harriet’s father. It was tempting to open them immediately, but Harriet set them aside and concentrated on her estate ledgers and the contents of her bank box to see if she could manage the necessary repairs.

It would have to be done. The small estate she had inherited from her late husband provided a rather hand-to-mouth income but during the five years of her widowhood, Harriet had become an expert at juggling her accounts. She had a small income from government bonds left to her by her father, which enabled her to live very modestly. Any income from the home farm and three tenancies was ploughed back into the estate.

The house, which had originally been a Benedictine abbey, was damp and cold and in need of repair but Harriet was used to the inconvenience and, as she never entertained, she had no need to worry about anybody else. The land and her horses were what mattered to her and she continued to ignore the advice of various friends and relatives to sell up and buy herself a nice villa on the coast. Harriet refused, mostly politely. Westhorpe Abbey was her home and the only good thing to have come out of her short, miserable marriage.

“You should marry again,” Aunt Amabel told her every time Harriet arrived for a visit. “It’s ridiculous for a girl of your age to be struggling with debt and bills and holes in your stockings when you could have a perfectly nice life. How old are you now – twenty-seven? You could even have children.”

“I am twenty-nine, Aunt Amabel, and I’m perfectly happy. There are no debts. When Charles was killed I sold some land to pay them all off. I manage well enough; I have everything I need and…”

“You have no life,” her Aunt said in exasperation. “You spend your time mouldering away in that dreadful old place. You are still young and attractive but if you don’t do something about it soon, you really will grow old and then you’ll regret it.”

“I don’t want to be married again, Aunt. I wasn’t very good at it.”

“Utter nonsense. There was nothing wrong with you apart from the fact that you fell in love with a wastrel who spent your dowry, ruined his inheritance then broke his neck on the hunting field leaving you to clear up the debts and chaos he left behind him. I admire how well you manage, Harriet, but it is enough.”

“I’m happy, Aunt. Leave well alone.”

After reviewing her finances, Harriet decided that by postponing repairs to some of the home farm fencing and not replacing the broken shutters on several of the upper windows, she could manage the repairs to the barn. It would eat into her precious reserves a little but it would be worth it at harvest time. She wrote the necessary instructions to Tom Langham, who ran the home farm and acted as her informal estate manager and then set the depressing account book aside and reached for the post.

There were several matters of business and a bill from the coal merchant. The final letter was from Aunt Amabel. Harriet studied it dubiously before opening it. Her Aunt was not a frequent correspondent. She led a busy social life and seldom troubled Harriet, apart from her insistence on twice yearly visits. These took place at Christmas and during the summer. Harriet wondered what had happened and hoped it was not bad news.

She read the letter through quickly to reassure herself and then read it again to make sure she had not misunderstood. Eventually she put it down and sat back, staring out of the window at the rain.

Aunt Amabel had begun with her usual stream of news about family members. Uncle Edward was well, though more than usually irritating because of the poor weather. Both her sons were thriving, though Aunt Amabel gave it as her opinion that Bertie’s wife was spoiling her children horribly while Ned’s wife would never carry a child to term if she did not eat properly and rest during the first weeks. There was nothing to worry Harriet in any of this. Having disposed of immediate family gossip however, her Aunt moved on to the real purpose of the letter.

“I am writing to request a favour, my dear. You will remember your cousin Clara. At least she is not your first cousin, she is mine. We have not seen her for some time. She went into retirement several years ago after that unfortunate affair with the military gentleman who turned out to be a dreadful fortune hunter and dropped her when he realised she had no fortune to hunt. We all thought her a confirmed spinster, but it appears that some family friends have come up with a possible match for her.

“It is not a marriage I would wish for my own daughter as the man is decidedly not a gentleman, even though he received a knighthood last year. Rumour has it that he comes from very humble beginnings – the son of a common weaver, if you can believe it. He has made his fortune from some of those dreadful textile mills that are ruining the countryside in Yorkshire. He’s widowed with children, and I suppose he is looking for a wife of good breeding to teach them how to go on in polite society.

“Anyway, if Clara wants to spend the rest of her life teaching this man and his children not to eat with their hands it is her own business, but the matter is not settled yet. The Broughtons, who have that huge place outside York, have invited her to a house party where he will be a guest, and she will need a chaperone. It is ridiculous to ask you, because you are younger than she is, but of course you are a widow which makes it respectable. I cannot go myself, with Susan’s children running wild and Anthea likely to bring on another miscarriage if I don’t supervise her personally. I need you to be my deputy and help Clara bring this thing off.

“I realise you don’t generally go into society and may have nothing suitable to wear. I’m sure I can help you out. Both my daughters-in-law have trunks of clothing they can never hope to wear again. If you come to me a week or more before the visit, I can make sure you are respectably dressed and you can travel to Yorkshire with Clara in our carriage.

“You cannot have anything to arrange at Westhorpe, as I am sure you can leave everything for a few weeks in the hands of that capable man of yours. I will arrange for you to travel by post-chaise on the twentieth of January and then you can travel on from here a week later. Please write to confirm that you have understood the arrangements.”

Harriet put down the letter and walked across the room to the window. It looked out onto the garden but there was little to see at this time of year except sodden lawns, dripping branches and rain drops running in little rivulets down the mullioned glass. For a long moment Harriet thought about smashing the window. It would be a ridiculous thing to do and she could not afford the repair bill, but she was so furious she longed to break something.

It was not the first time that family members, usually led by Aunt Amabel, had casually demanded her time and effort without bothering to ask if it was convenient for her. As a woman living alone without husband or children, it was assumed that her time had no value and that she would make herself available at a moment’s notice if she was needed. Harriet was fond of her family and did not mind helping out occasionally when she was needed to help with a measles outbreak or the preparations for a wedding for instance, but being asked to make an extended visit to a house party with people she did not know, to further the matrimonial hopes of her second cousin Clara, was not reasonable. Harriet’s first instinct was to pick up her pen and paper and write a curt refusal. Age and experience had taught her that it was seldom a good idea to follow a first angry instinct however.

Instead she sent a message to the stables and went to change into her shabby riding habit. Horses were her love and riding was always her solace in difficult times. She did not mind the rain or the cold when she was mounted on Silver, her favourite grey gelding. The horse had been a wedding gift from Charles and her happiest memories of her marriage were from those early days when they had ridden and hunted and laughed together, before his drinking and gambling and infidelities had gradually chipped away at her patience, her respect and finally her love.

She still loved to ride Silver, cantering through muddy lanes, careless of how wet she was getting. Riding cleared her head and enabled her to think more clearly. It also soothed her anger. By the time she was back at the house, stripping off her wet clothing and allowing her maid to scold her as she rubbed Harriet’s long dark brown hair with a towel, she was calm again. She was even beginning to see the funny side.

Aunt Amabel was outrageous in her demands but she was also Harriet’s favourite relative. She had been an unwavering support during the appalling months after Charles was killed, as Harriet tried to find her way through the maze of his debts and obligations. She had been trying hard to take care of Harriet ever since and it was not her fault that Harriet had discovered a streak of obstinate independence within herself that she had never known she possessed.

There was such a thing as gratitude, however. When she was dry and warm, Harriet went back and read the letter again. This time, underneath Amabel’s acerbic commentary she read genuine concern for her sons, her daughters-in-law and for poor Cousin Clara who had almost left it too late to decide that she might after all wish to be married. Whether this self-made textile manufacturer from Yorkshire could bring her the status and security she craved, Harriet had no idea. Still, for Amabel’s sake she could take time away from her very mundane life to accompany Clara to a house party where the worst thing that could happen would be that she would get very bored.

She wrote an affectionate letter to her Aunt agreeing to her arrangements then went to study her wardrobe, wondering which of the elegant gowns she had not worn for five years could be altered to make them respectable enough for a chaperone at a provincial, winter house party.

***

Sir Matthew Howard had been to Broughton Hall before, but never for an occasion like this. He had met Lord Broughton at the York Races more than a year ago and had struck up a casual masculine friendship with him. They dined together from time to time when Howard had business in York and his Lordship had been grateful for occasional snippets of business advice that Howard had been able to give him. In return he had introduced him to several of his friends.

Howard appreciated the attempt to widen his social circle and did not tell Broughton that he was not really looking to ingratiate himself into the upper echelons of society. He was a businessman; a textile manufacturer who had inherited the bones of a business from his ambitious father and turned it into gold. These days he was known throughout Yorkshire as a man of substance. His knighthood had been the result of some very successful navy contracts. He had recently purchased a third mill from a cotton spinner who had recently gone bankrupt. The sheds were run down and the equipment hopelessly outdated but Howard was more than capable of bringing them up to scratch. He was a man on his way up, but his aspirations did not include presentations at court or aristocratic friends. He was a wealthy man and wanted to be more so.

Still, he liked Broughton and his cheerful, welcoming wife and had stayed with them at Broughton Hall several times. He had talked freely about the loss of his wife six years earlier in childbirth and the difficulties of raising four children through a series of nannies and governesses. He supposed that at some point he had mentioned that he thought he should probably marry again.

He had been somewhat startled when Broughton had come back with a possible solution. Miss Clara Danbury was a little over thirty, well-connected and of a quiet disposition. She had never married, due to a romantic disappointment in her youth, but her elder brother who was a friend of Broughton’s had intimated that she was beginning to reconsider the matter. She was pleasant and capable and had expressed an interest in meeting Sir Matthew Howard.

Howard rolled his eyes at his friends’ blatant matchmaking but found it hard to resent it. He had allowed them to arrange the meeting, in a deliberately informal setting and had found Miss Danbury all that they said. She was not unattractive; her manner was rather prim and if Howard had been looking for a new governess he would have employed her at once. He was not, however, so he remained cautious but agreed to further meetings.

They met at a reception held by one of the York guilds and then again at a late summer garden party. She allowed him to be her escort to a Christmas concert in the Minster. He dined at Broughton Hall and was introduced to her brother and his wife who were in Yorkshire for the New Year.

Howard was careful to keep a pleasant distance until he was more certain. He could see the advantages of the match. She came from good family and she apparently liked children. She seemed to have no interest in making a socially advantageous marriage, but he thought she might make a good housekeeper and a good stepmother. She had good manners and was quiet but not painfully shy in company. He thought she would probably be a good hostess and a sensible wife. It would be the kind of second marriage he had always intended to make at some point and if he was going to do it, he might as well do it now.

“What are you waiting for, man?” Broughton demanded, over a steak pie and some good red wine at the Star Inn in York. “She’s perfect for you. Speak to her.”

“I’ve not yet decided,” Howard said. “She’s a nice young woman but I don’t really know her that well. I’ve met her maybe a dozen times and we’ve talked about nothing more personal than the weather. I’ve no idea if we should suit.”

“Who ever knows that before they’re married?” Broughton said with a grimace. “I was bloody lucky with Mary, but I swear we’d spent most of our acquaintance on the dance floor before I proposed to her. She could have been a half-wit and I wouldn’t have known it. Look, we’re having some people to stay in January. A couple of relatives of Mary’s that we couldn’t manage to see over Christmas. Why don’t you join us for a week or two and I’ll invite Miss Danbury. She can get that dragon of an aunt to chaperone her. It will give you an opportunity to spend a little more time around her. By the end of it, you’ll either be ready to propose or you’ll have decided against it. You can’t keep going like this or you’ll be accused of raising expectations.”

“I don’t raise expectations without a carefully drawn up contract, Broughton,” Howard said. They both laughed, and Broughton summoned the waiter to bring a second bottle.

Howard thought his friend was probably right. If he continued in this half-hearted courtship, he was in danger of being pushed into a proposal by her anxious relatives. He knew that Broughton thought he was being unnecessarily cautious and he was probably right. His problem was that although Miss Clara Danbury seemed to tick every item on his list of requirements, he could not easily imagine himself married to her. Perhaps two weeks of proximity would either make the prospect more real, or show him that it was impossible.

Broughton Hall was an elegant mansion about six miles to the north of York. It was built in the time of Queen Anne and stood in beautifully landscaped gardens. Howard never visited it without being painfully aware of the difference between this graceful house which had been in the Broughton family for years, and the house his father had begun to build on a hillside overlooking the little market town of Thorndale.

John Howard had died before his Palladian mansion was completed and Matthew had moved in with his young wife and taken over the project. The house was finished at just about the time that Kitty died bearing their fourth child. She had disliked the house, finding it too austere and too grand. Kitty had been a doctor’s daughter and had never really become comfortable with their rapidly increasing wealth or the social expectations it placed upon her. Matthew, who had married very young, and for love, had tried hard to be patient with her but worried that he might not always have succeeded.

The house had felt empty without her and no amount of expensive furniture or elegant curtains had ever managed to turn it into a home. The children occupied an elaborate nursery suite with a selection of well-paid nurses and governesses to take care of them. Matthew rather liked his children but he saw far too little of them, being busy with work. He tried to imagine Clara Danbury stepping into that gap and failed.

She had already arrived when he joined the party in the drawing room before dinner. She was very correctly dressed in a modest gown of striped satin. He allowed Lady Broughton to make the introductions to the other guests then went to join Clara, raising her hand to his lips.

“Miss Danbury, it’s good to see you. How was your journey? I gather you’ve been staying with your Aunt in Nottingham.”

He realised as he said it that none of the strangers appeared to be Mrs Crookall. He glanced around, wondering if he had somehow missed the introduction.

“Yes, I was. She was unable to accompany me unfortunately. Mrs Susan Crookall is in a delicate condition and is a little unwell. I have been joined by my cousin, Mrs Faversham, though I do not know where she can be…”

She broke off as the door opened and a woman stepped into the room. She was dressed in a dark green robe which was slightly outdated but not really out of place for a country house party. She looked as though she was close in age to Miss Danbury, but her manner was very different. From the top of her charming arrangement of dark brown curls, to her neat satin slippers, she radiated confidence and vitality. Her skin was slightly tanned as though she spent a lot of time outdoors. Her eyes were an attractive colour somewhere between brown and green, with what looked like gold flecks. Her smile was broad and friendly.

“Sir Matthew this is my cousin, Mrs Faversham.”

Mrs Faversham offered him a gloved hand. “Sir Matthew, it is good to meet you. My Aunt has told me about you.”

Howard had never exchanged more than a dozen words with Clara’s formidable Aunt Amabel and he had a fairly good idea what she thought of him. He studied Mrs Faversham and decided that she knew as well.

“That was very kind of her, ma’am. I hope she gave me as good a character as I would undoubtedly give her.”

To his complete astonishment, the woman gave a peal of delighted laughter. “I will ask you for more details about that character at some point, Sir Matthew. I don’t think you’ve spent enough time around my aunt. I think you would get on. Clara, I’m so sorry I’m late down. I encountered a crisis on the nursery stairs and had to apply my medical expertise but all is well now.”

“Oh my goodness,” Lady Broughton said anxiously. “Is one of the children hurt?”

“Oh no, please don’t worry. I was joking. Little Cecilia apparently left her doll within reach of the new spaniel puppy and there was an accident to poor Molly’s leg. Fortunately I was able to apply a bandage to stop the sawdust escaping and have promised I’ll perform proper surgery tomorrow. I might have to borrow some linen to patch it. The wretched dog had almost torn it off, but I can mend it. All tears are dried and Cecilia is quite excited at the prospect of being my assistant. Mrs Arbuthnot, how nice to see you again. I had no idea you were to be a fellow guest. How is Sir Anthony; is he not with you?”

She moved away to talk to one of the other guests and Howard managed to close his mouth.

“Your cousin seems very at home here,” he said to Clara, rather faintly.

“Oh Harriet is at home everywhere,” Clara said with a little laugh. “I am sorry if you find her a little too much. She means very well.”

“Could her husband not accompany her this week?” Howard asked. “What does he do?”

He caught her frown and remembered that in polite circles it was not customary to ask what a man did. His ancestry was more important.

“Harriet is a widow. Some five years, I believe. She married one of the Favershams of Southwell, but he was sadly unsteady and died in a hunting accident leaving her with a half-ruined house, an impoverished estate and a pile of debts. She lives there on her own without even a female companion. I expect she was delighted at this opportunity for a few weeks in a civilised household. Tell me about your delightful children, Sir Matthew. I am wild to meet them.”

Howard thought about his children. George was fourteen and Arthur twelve. Both were studying mathematics and accounting at the local grammar school and manufacturing under his general manager at the woollen mill. Katherine was eight and practising to be a lady under the tuition of her strict governess, Miss Price. Then there was Anne. Anne was six and had never known her mother, who died giving birth to her. Howard did not know what Anne was doing or what she was learning and thought it best not to ask. He smiled pleasantly at Clara Danbury and tried to imagine introducing her to his youngest daughter.

He listened with half an ear as Miss Danbury told him about their journey, the difficulty of the coaching inns and the rudeness of one of the post boys. His eyes, he realised were constantly straying to the slender dark woman across the room who was carrying on an animated conversation with the Rector about his recently foaled mare. Briefly he tried to imagine introducing Mrs Faversham to his youngest daughter and realised to his horror that he would like to do so.

She was a widow. She understood children. She had a laugh that could charm birds from the trees.

Howard nodded and smiled at Miss Danbury. Inside, his brain was screaming.

No. Oh no. Oh for God’s sake no.

***

Sir Matthew Howard was not at all what Harriet had been expecting. She supposed she should have remembered Aunt Amabel’s tendency to exaggerate, particularly when she thought a member of her family was making a mistake. All the same, Harriet did not think she could ever have had a proper conversation with Sir Matthew, because she was sure that her aunt would have liked him.

Harriet liked him herself. He was a big, broad-shouldered man of around forty, with a Yorkshire accent and a dry sense of humour. His manner was direct and uncompromising and Harriet suspected that some of his blunt remarks would make him unpopular in rarefied circles, but in the Broughtons’ friendly, informal household nobody seemed to care. He had a ready smile and his manners were perfectly good, though Harriet had a sense that he might possibly be very rude indeed if he was angry.

He was very different to the men of her own family. She thought about Charles and his hunting friends, with their lordly manners and the cut-glass accents of privilege. They would have despised Matthew Howard and spent their time picking fault with him in loud whispers. Harriet wondered if he could be awkward in such company. There was certainly no sign of it here.

The one person he did appear somewhat awkward around was her cousin, Clara. Harriet watched the couple through the first two days of their visit and wondered if she was imagining things. Sir Matthew was suitably attentive to Clara. When the party went out, he rode or walked beside her. He was often her partner at dinner and listened attentively to whatever she had to say, but Harriet thought that he did not talk much in return. She wondered if beneath that assertive exterior, he was a little shy.

She had the opportunity to find out more about him when Lord Broughton proposed a walk to the nearby village of Selbury, which had a fine Norman church. It was a bright day, but very cold. Harriet had already agreed to join the party when she realised that her cousin had declined.

“I do not wish to put a damper on your outing, dear Lady Broughton, but I do not think I should make the attempt,” Clara said when her hostess expressed concern. “It is so cold, which often gives me the headache. I will remain here and be perfectly content.”

“I’ll stay with you, Clara,” Harriet said.

“There is no need.”

“Nonsense. I’d be a poor companion if I left you behind when you aren’t feeling quite the thing.”

Before Clara could respond, Mr Robinson, the Rector cleared his throat noisily. Harriet had noticed him doing it before. It seemed to be his way of announcing that he was about to speak. She wondered why he did not simply speak.

“Do not be concerned, dear Mrs Faversham. I myself do not intend to venture out in such weather. It is not good for my rheumatism. I will happily engage to bear your cousin company until you return.”

Harriet looked at him in surprise and hastily bit back what she had been about to say. Mr Robinson had been her companion at dinner the previous evening. He was a stocky gentleman, new to his parish, surely not more than thirty and did not look at all like a man who suffered from rheumatism or any other kind of illness. Harriet regarded him critically and decided that it was exercise rather than cold weather that Mr Robinson disliked. Since she wanted to go for a walk, she smiled brightly at him.

“Thank you, Mr Robinson. I’m certain my cousin could not be in better hands. Are you sure, Clara?”

Clara expressed herself perfectly satisfied with the arrangements and Harriet went to change her shoes with a faint sense of relief. She did not dislike her cousin but they had very little in common. She found Clara fussy and easily upset with very little conversation that did not revolve around domestic matters. She suspected that Clara found her too forward, with too much interest in matters not usually considered the province of females. Harriet was doing her best but it would be nice to spend a couple of hours in the fresh air talking about something other than fashion and the problems of finding reliable servants.

She was surprised to find that Sir Matthew Howard attached himself firmly to her side as soon as they set off along the path to the village. Since she had already decided she wanted to know more about her cousin’s prospective suitor, she was not displeased. He was wearing a well-cut dark greatcoat, good boots and a sensible hat. Harriet had strong views on the extremes of fashion and approved of the hat.

The path was muddy in places and one or two of the ladies had to be assisted over the worst parts. Sir Matthew offered his hand politely and Harriet took it, but did not flinch as mud splashed the hem of her shabby walking dress. As they resumed their walk, he said:

“I see you’re not bothered by a spot of mud, ma’am.”

Harriet laughed. “I run a country estate, sir. You should see the state of me during the lambing season. It isn’t pretty.”

He grinned. “I suspect it’s more attractive than you think actually. A lady in a ballgown is a pretty sight, but there’s something appealing about a woman who isn’t afraid of  a muddy hem. I don’t know, perhaps it’s just me. My late wife was a country girl and thought nothing of climbing stiles and splashing through puddles.”

Harriet thought about her cousin. She had never seen Clara appear anything other than immaculate and a spot on her lace collar was enough to send her to change her entire outfit. She wondered if Sir Matthew realised that.

“My husband was an enthusiastic member of the hunt. He used to come back covered in mud from head to foot.”

“I’ve never really seen the point of hunting, but that’s probably my upbringing. I like to ride, though I came late to it. I’m too heavy for a hunter anyway.”

Harriet shot him a glance. “You didn’t learn as a boy?”

“My father never rode in his life. It’s an upper-class pastime and I definitely wasn’t that.”

Harriet remembered her aunt’s remarks. She desperately wanted to ask more but she did not want to be rude. They negotiated a stile and pushed through an overgrown section of the path. She could hear Lord Broughton grumbling about speaking to the parish clerk to arrange to get the bushes cut back.

“You can ask me what you like,” Sir Matthew said abruptly.

Harriet looked at him in surprise. “Oh. I was…that is, I am curious. But I don’t want to be rude.”

“I’m sure you won’t be, ma’am. You have excellent address. Forgive me if I seem impertinent, but I’m in favour of plain speaking and I’ve a notion that you’re the same. It’s no secret that the Broughtons have been trying to make a match between your cousin and I. I’m sure your aunt is aware of it. It occurred to me that it might be your job to assess my suitability.”

Harriet froze. She realised that she had been very naïve. There were probably several other hapless family members who might have been sent to chaperone Clara. She was not the obvious choice.

“Of course it is,” she said bitterly. “Though I had not realised it. If my aunt had been born two hundred years earlier, they would have burned her as a witch. I’m sorry, Sir Matthew. I admit I’m interested. You come from a very different world to me. But I had no intention of acting as the family intelligence gatherer.”

He shot her a surprising grin. “I appreciate your honesty. Family must be difficult. I don’t have much left myself. My mother died when I was young and my father a few years ago. There are probably cousins out there somewhere, but I don’t know them. When he took the audacious step of setting himself up as a gentleman, my father left them behind. Ruthless but very much like him.”

Harriet had so many questions that she could not decide which to ask first. She wondered if he was serious in his invitation to ask whatever she liked. His expression was encouraging though, so she said:

“Were you close to him?”

“Is that another way of asking if I liked him?” Howard gave a crooked smile. “No, I didn’t. He didn’t require affection from his son, or even liking. Just respect and obedience.”

“That sounds hard.”

“It was simple. I didn’t know any different until I met Kitty. She was the local doctor’s daughter and a fair bit above me socially, but she was lovely. Very sweet and very kind. We’d begun to make money by then. I thought I’d done very well in getting her to marry me. My father was furious. He thought I should have waited until I could have asked a girl of better birth.”

“I’m so sorry. That must have been difficult.”

“He was barely civil to her, but she managed surprisingly well. It was after he died, when we moved to Helton Ridge…it was his house. He built it. I’ve added to it since. I wanted it to be a palace for her, but she was lost in it. She’d have been happier in that square, solid town house we first lived in. After she died, I wished we’d stayed in it. Sorry. I’m sounding maudlin.”

“No, I understand. I’ve had all kinds of regrets since I was widowed.”

“Do you want to tell me about them?”

Harriet looked up at him and decided to tell the truth. “Mostly that I married Charles in the first place. He was…I had a brother. Martin. He and Charles were schoolfriends and did everything together. I suspect everybody expected me to marry Charles since I was a child. And I wanted to. He was my hero.”

“What went wrong?”

“We were married in spring. Those early days were perfect. Summer, then autumn. The hunting season started. I grew up in Leicestershire. I knew what that meant. I didn’t see him for weeks at a time. It didn’t bother me. My father and brother were the same. It’s all I knew.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“Oh, exactly what one might have expected. He took a tumble jumping a fence and broke his neck. It was devastating. We buried him and we mourned. I thought it would bring Charles and I together but I was wrong. He was never the same again. He became distant. Drank too much, gambled too much…I don’t know. Perhaps it was because of Martin. Or perhaps he was just being the man he was always meant to become. Eventually he died in a very similar way. By then it was a relief. I’m sorry, I am sharing confidences that you cannot possibly want to hear.”

“I asked,” Howard said briefly. “I’m sorry, it sounds appalling. You’ve not remarried. I was wondering why, but it’s very clear. Does your cousin know any of this?”

“I don’t know. She must know a little, but we have not seen much of each other these past years. I’ve been struggling to run my estate and she has…she has lived retired.”

“She’s been living down an unfortunate disappointment with a fortune hunter,” Howard said briefly. Harriet glared at him and he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, smiling. “Don’t eat me. You must have known I’d make enquiries. It doesn’t sound as though she was guilty of anything worse than poor judgement of a bad character. To be honest I don’t understand why she hid herself away.”

“Nor do I,” Harriet said frankly. “I’ve always thought it was odd. I’m very glad she is moving out into society again. And that…I mean that she may be considering…or you may be considering…”

She stopped, not knowing how to continue. To her surprise and relief, the brown eyes were dancing with amusement.

“Let’s assume that we’re all considering but that nobody has made up their mind. What else do you think your aunt wants to know?”

Harriet took a deep breath. “You spoke about your father’s origins, but he must have made a good deal of money. Do you mind me asking…?”

“Not at all, I’m proud of it. My father was a humble weaver’s son, born in a two-roomed cottage and taught to weave as soon as he was old enough. It was the family industry. By the time he was ten he’d decided he wanted more. He saved to buy a pack mule and started going further afield. Selling his family’s cloth but also buying cheaply from other cottages and selling for a profit. He worked hard, saved his brass and at twenty-five he bought a rundown water mill and set up his first factory. So yes, ma’am. In answer to your Aunt’s question, I am indeed a weaver’s brat.”

Harriet was shaken but rallied determinedly. “No wonder you’re so proud of it. I would be myself.”

He gave a chuckle and shook his head. “You have no idea, Mrs Faversham.”

Unexpectedly, Harriet was angry. “Neither have you, Sir Matthew. I’m sorry about any hardship you might have experienced in your youth, but I think if we compared our current circumstances, you’d find them very different. I spend my life juggling money to keep a roof over my head and to run my estate. My house is damp and cold and the kitchen range smokes so badly that I can’t keep a cook more than one winter. Every year we lose at least one sheep to the cold or the snow and that’s a man’s wages or my new winter cloak. There’s a reason this one is so badly patched. I can tell you the cost of a section of new roof tiles to the inch and I groom all my horses myself to save the cost of an extra man. I also light my own fires and my ladies maid is also my housemaid and my unofficial housekeeper. I don’t pay her enough. Every year I wonder if I’m going to make it through the next one. I admire how well you have pulled yourself out of your humble beginnings. I would ask you to show me the same respect.”

There was a long silence. Harriet stalked through the next puddle without pretending to need assistance and blinked back angry tears. She realised they had walked a long way ahead of the rest of the party but she did not slow down. She needed some time to compose herself.

“I’m sorry,” Sir Matthew said abruptly. “I’ve behaved like a boor. I don’t usually. I know all the rules and I’m good at following them but you…Christ, woman, you’ve ploughed through all my defences without raising your head. That was unforgiveable. I’m so sorry. Can we go back to where I’d not insulted you yet?”

Harriet was so surprised that she could not speak for a moment. She looked up at him cautiously. He looked very upset.

“Sir Matthew, I’m sorry too. I should never have said that.”

“Yes, you should. If we’re sharing confidences it should go both ways. Your husband was an arsehole. I’m sorry he left you in such difficult circumstances. I might be a weaver’s brat, but I’d no right to assume anything about you. You’re remarkable. It’s a privilege to have met you.”

Harriet was so surprised that she could think of nothing to say. They walked in silence for a while. His next remark was about the weather, and completely unexceptionable and she answered it in kind. Slowing their pace, they allowed the others to catch up with them. The conversation became general and on the return walk, Lady Broughton walked beside them and asked Sir Matthew about his children. Harriet found it very soothing.

***

Matthew did not often accept invitations to this kind of leisurely country house party. Largely it was because he was too busy. The mills consumed most of his time and he liked to spend what was left with his children. He firmly believed that success was achieved by hard work and did not understand those of his contemporaries who chose to leave the day to day running of their mills to their managers and overlookers. He kept an office at the largest of his premises and made a point of arriving at his desk every morning before his workforce began filing through the gates. He employed clerks and men of business as well as engineers, but he made sure that he understood enough about every aspect of his business to know if a man was stealing, shirking or trying to fob him off with excuses.

He was respected as a good businessman. In Thorndale that meant that he was shrewd, hard-headed and ruthless in matters of trade. He paid his bills on time, expected others to do the same and had no patience with a supplier or a tradesman who failed to do their job properly. He considered himself a fair employer, who paid good wages for a day’s work but was quick to dismiss the lazy and the feckless.

Sir Matthew Howard was proud of what he had built and had every intention of improving on it. A second marriage was the next logical step. He had four growing children, and although he had no concerns for the boys, his girls should have a mother. He had welcomed Broughton’s offer to introduce him to Clara Danbury and he had thought she might answer the purpose.

Meeting her cousin had thrown him into confusion. Harriet’s frank disclosures about her unhappy marriage and her current state of genteel poverty had surprised, but not shocked him. He admired her independence and her determination not to be a charge on any of her family. He also liked her courage. There was steel in Harriet Faversham’s character which touched an answering chord in him.

She was also attractive. Her cousin had a pale prettiness which he had found charming. Matthew was not looking for a wife to dazzle local society and he had told himself that at thirty-nine, he wanted companionship rather than excitement. He wondered now why it had never occurred to him to consider how he felt about going to bed with Clara. He was trying hard not to think about going to bed with Harriet. Nothing could be more unsuitable.

In this bewildered state of mind, he would have welcomed the distraction of work. Instead he was faced with long days of relative idleness. The Broughtons were easy-going hosts, who provided their guests with a choice of activities but did not mind at all if any of them elected not to join in. Breakfast was a casual meal, where dishes were set out on the sideboard and guests wandered in when they chose. Mrs Arbuthnot and Lady Stanhope, the two oldest ladies in the party preferred to take tea and toast in their rooms before dressing to face the day.

During the day, depending on the weather, the gentlemen could join the hunt or go shooting with their host. Matthew had not been born to such pursuits and had no interest in either. He liked to ride and had brought his own horse, so found himself much in demand as an escort to those ladies who wished to ride out but did not choose the rigours of the hunting field. Miss Danbury joined the riding party once but generally remained in the house, writing letters or reading. Mrs Faversham rode every day. Her riding habit was disgracefully shabby and very out of date. There was an excellent dressmaker in Thorndale and Matthew found himself wishing he could take her there and tell her to choose whatever she liked. It was a ridiculous idea and did not help his present predicament.

It was not the weather for such games as croquet or shuttlecock, but on wet afternoons Lady Broughton valiantly organised charades and word games. Dinner was a lengthy, formal affair and afterwards there were more cards, music or games. Matthew slipped away as often as he could to write long lists of instructions to his managers and overlookers. He also penned an affectionate note to his children, in which he recommended that his sons continue to attend to their studies, his elder daughter work hard at her needlework and watercolours and his youngest daughter refrain from bringing an injured fox into the schoolroom. The letter of complaint from the governess had been lengthy and detailed and Matthew sensed the threat of resignation behind every line.

He was concerned enough to mention it to his hostess at dinner. Lady Broughton listened with an expression of growing bewilderment which made Matthew think he had made a mistake. When he finished his story, there was a brief painful silence.

“We have trouble keeping a governess for long,” he said, somewhat feebly. “It isn’t so important for the boys. They had a tutor and now they go to school. But for the girls…”

“My goodness, how awkward for you, Sir Matthew,” her ladyship said warmly. “Those girls need a mother, of course.”

Matthew made a determined effort not to look over at Miss Danbury. He could not help himself however. He was relieved to find that she was definitely not looking at him.”

“In time, I hope so, ma’am. But at present…”

“At present they need a better governess,” Harriet Faversham said cheerfully. “What a fuss about an injured fox cub. I presume it was a cub? How old is your daughter?”

“She’s six,” Matthew said gratefully. “Though she often seems much older. I suppose she learns from the others. Though they never seemed to do the things she does.”

“I hope the poor animal was not thrown out into the cold?”

“No. Apparently Anne persuaded one of the grooms to find it a bed in the stables until its leg healed. Miss Price is very upset though. She is convinced it had fleas and…and I don’t think many governesses know what to do with an injured fox cub.”

“Your daughter requires discipline, sir,” the Rector said sternly. “A child of that age to be causing such disruption in the household! And a girl, at that!”

“A girl?” Harriet said dangerously. Matthew looked at her and realised miserably that this conversation was now completely out of his control. The servants arrived to remove the first course and there was a bustle of dishes being set down and wine being replenished. He hoped it would distract the company from his family difficulties but Mr Robinson clearly had a good memory.

“My dear Mrs Faversham, I understand your feelings,” he said indulgently, as the butler poured the final glass and set the bottle down within reach. “You have no children of your own, so it must be difficult for you to imagine…”

“Do you have children?” Harriet interrupted ruthlessly.

Robinson looked astonished. “I…no of course not. You must know I am unmarried.”

“I was just checking,” Harriet said inexcusably. There was a collective gasp around the table and young Mr Stansfield, who had drunk his wine rather too quickly, giggled.

The Rector chose to overlook Harriet’s rudeness. “I have no family of my own, although I would hope to one day. However, with my experience of ministering to many families, I believe that poor Sir Matthew has fallen into error. It is not his fault. He has no wife to help him and the youngest child never knew her mother. Naturally she has been indulged and become spoiled. A little discipline will soon set the problem right.”

“What kind of discipline do you recommend for a child who cares enough about an injured animal to risk the anger of her governess?” Harriet asked with apparent interest.

The butler cleared his throat noisily. “Will that be all, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you, Dransfield,” Lady Broughton said with alarming cheerfulness. “Well, I hope you manage to placate your governess, Sir Matthew. Try the duck. It is my cook’s own recipe and I think it is excellent.”

Matthew ate the duck gratefully, while his hostess skilfully steered the conversation into safer waters. He wondered if he was going to survive another week of this or if he could invent a fox-related crisis and go home early. He had never felt less inclined to propose to anybody in his life.

The following day was Sunday. It was bright and sunny, although cold, and Lady Broughton proposed a carriage expedition into York to attend service at the Minster. Matthew was not a regular churchgoer but as both Miss Danbury and Mrs Faversham chose to go, he decided that it would be good for his soul. With only a few more days of this interminable house party, he realised he was going to have to make up his mind. Either he would have to propose to Miss Danbury, or he should withdraw decidedly and make no attempt to see her again.

He did not think he would break her heart. This past week he had spent enough time around her to convince him that, whatever her view of his suit, her affections were not engaged. Like him, she had made up her mind to marry, and he was wealthy, available and not so far beneath her socially that she would be cut off from family and friends. In her younger days, she might have done better, but her unfortunate romance had closed many doors. Matthew did not think she pined after high society and thought they might do well enough together.

The sticking point was his children. One of the main reasons for marrying again was to provide a stepmother, particularly to his girls. He thought Katie might do well enough with Clara Danbury’s placid good nature but he could not imagine what might happen with Anne. He was not sure, having no real experience with small girls, but he suspected that Anne was difficult.

He was still mulling over the problem during the lengthy, but rather lovely, service at the Minster. Afterwards they went for sherry with one of the Deacons who was a friend of the Broughtons and then walked through the narrow streets of the city to the Star Inn where Lord Danbury had reserved a private parlour for a late breakfast or possibly early luncheon.

Matthew did not usually eat at this hour, but the food was good and the wine excellent. He ate and drank and listened to the Rector holding forth on church politics. It was not particularly interesting but it kept the company busy through the meal and Matthew was grateful.

Afterwards they strolled through the cobbled streets, went up to admire Clifford’s Tower and then strolled along the river. Matthew walked between Clara and Harriet and thought again, with a sinking heart, that he was running out of time. His hosts had invited him with the specific purpose of helping him decide whether he wanted to propose to Clara Danbury. If he did not, he needed to withdraw gracefully and swiftly, and leave the woman to search for a new husband. He was worried that he had already raised expectations and that he would leave her disappointed and floundering if he did not propose after all.

He wished he could have an honest conversation with Clara, to ask what she wanted. The fact that he could not, told him what he should already have known. It would be a marriage of convenience. Sometimes that worked very well but Matthew was not convinced that it would on this occasion.

Back at the house he went to his room and wrote letters. He wrote to his shed manager and his man of business and his estate manager. He wrote to three of his suppliers and a man in London who had promised to put him in touch with a gentleman with contacts in the army. He wrote to his children again.

Eventually he ran out of letters to write. It was close to the dinner hour so he summoned his valet, washed and changed, then went down to the drawing room. He was early and nobody else was present, so he went outside into the glowing red of a winter sunset and found Harriet Faversham on the terrace admiring the view.

“Sir Matthew. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes. I love a good sunset at this time of year. Summer is lovely of course, but you have to wait so long for it. On a fine winter’s day, you can have all the glory much earlier.”

She gave a delighted laugh. “That’s so true. Winter sunrise is the best. One has had enough sleep and suddenly there it is. Have you heard anything more from your grumpy governess? I have been thinking about your little girl. She sounds interesting.”

Matthew laughed. “Anne? Oh God. Anne is…yes, she’s interesting. I don’t know how to manage Anne. She’s so clever and so determined and I feel as though I need to make her my job, all of the time. But I can’t. I love her. But she drives me mad.”

“She needs a stepmother,” Harriet said gently.

“I know. It’s why I’ve considered marrying your cousin.”

“Clara is very kind.”

Unexpectedly, Matthew felt his reserve drain away. “I know she is. But she’s not…she has no idea. She’s so sure how things ought to be. But I’m not sure she has much idea about how things really are. I think she might be miserable as my wife. And I think I might be miserable as her husband.”

There was a long silence. Then Harriet said:

“Then you should not marry her.”

Matthew was silent for a while. Eventually he said:

“Do you think you’ll ever marry again?”

“No. I wasn’t happy as a wife.”

“Don’t you think that might have had something to do with your husband?”

“Perhaps. But a man needs a woman he can rely upon.”

“A woman needs a man she can rely upon. I’m considered fairly reliable.”

He could not believe he had said it. The silence grew. Finally Harriet looked up.

“We couldn’t,” she said simply.

Matthew felt his heart leap at her immediate understanding. He had been telling himself that this was all his imagination and that his fierce attraction and strong bond with this woman was entirely one-sided. She had swept aside that notion with a sentence. She had still said no.

“Oh Christ, Harriet. How can I marry her now that I’ve met you?”

“Matthew, I’ve not agreed to marry you. Or anybody. I’m serious about that. Marriage was a burden to me. I’d rather be alone.”

“No you wouldn’t. I can show you how good it can be. I wasn’t that bad at it myself, though I think I let my poor wife down at times. Still, I’ve learned. I could make you happy.”

“Stop it,” Harriet said fiercely. “We can’t. You’ve spent months courting my cousin, and she has every right to expect a proposal from you. I don’t think you should do it if you’re not sure. But you cannot marry me. She would feel awful. It would be wrong.”

“It would be the most sensible thing I’d ever done. Just tell me that you feel it, Harriet. Tell me it’s not just me.”

She looked up at him and he saw the truth in her eyes. “It’s not just you.”

Matthew took her hand and raised it to his lips. He wanted to take her into his arms but at any moment somebody might come into the room and out onto the terrace and he could not do that to her or to her cousin. He must come to a decision but he realised that he needed to make it without reference to Harriet.

“I think I may have fallen in love with you, Harriet Faversham.”

She looked up at him, squeezing his hand. “I think I might have fallen in love with you too, Matthew Howard. But we were too late and this would not be right. I wish I could have met your children though. They sound remarkable.”

They went back into the house and he endured another dinner and another round of port and another game of cards. He was aware of every word she spoke and every movement she made. His heart was broken and he did not think it would ever be mended.

He awoke early and went out into the crisp darkness, watching the sun come up over the hills. Somehow he was not surprised when she joined him in the garden, long before their hosts or any of the other guests were awake.

“Matthew, I’m leaving today. I’ve invented an excuse about a crisis on the estate. Nobody will be surprised. I’m known for being unsociable. I’m sorry. I can’t stay here and be around you now that I know… Look, you need to speak to Clara. You can’t keep putting this off. Everybody is waiting for the announcement.”

“I’m not sure I can marry her, Harriet. Not now.”

“You should think about it. She will be kind to your children and she’ll be a good wife.”

“I think living with Anne might kill her.”

Harriet laughed aloud. “Don’t be silly. I’m sure Anne is very sweet.”

“She is, to those who can see it. I don’t want you to go.”

“I have to. This is all wrong. I’m going home to get the barn roof fixed. You will marry Clara and be perfectly happy. You and I don’t even know each other that well.”

“I know more about you now than I’ll ever know about her.”

“She’ll be a good wife.”

“I don’t know, Harriet. I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll think more clearly if I’m not here. Thank you for everything. I’m so glad to have met you. It’s taught me what I might have had.”

He felt his heart break all over again, but she had stated her wishes, so he endured through the endless breakfast and the agonising farewells. He stood waving on the drive with the others until the carriage was out of sight then went inside to play charades with his fellow guests. When the rain eased off, Lord Broughton suggested a ride and the gentlemen cantered through country lanes and discussed a shooting party for the following day. Matthew felt hollowed out, as though sadness had left him empty. He was painfully aware that now that Harriet had gone, he needed a frank conversation with her cousin.

There was no opportunity the following day. The weather was fine and Lord Broughton had organised a full day of sporting activities. In the evening, there were guests for dinner and afterwards the drawing room was cleared for dancing. Matthew trod his way through endless country dances and wished every one of his partners to the devil.

There was one more day, and the party was developing the listless sense of guests who were more than ready to depart. Matthew knew that his time was running out. For better or worse he needed to talk to Clara. He knew that Harriet had been right. He could not have jilted her cousin to marry her, even if she would have accepted him. Whether that meant he could choose the marriage of convenience he had always intended, he was still not sure.

To his surprise, Clara made the first move. They had finished breakfast and there was some desultory talk of a carriage ride out to a local beauty spot. The ladies of the party were already instructing their maids about packing, and there was a good deal of conversation about travel arrangements for the following day. Matthew took a walk down to the ornamental lake to stretch his legs. As he came back into the house he was surprised to find Miss Danbury hovering in the hallway.

“Sir Matthew. Did you enjoy your walk?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s cold, but I like the fresh air. Will you be joining us this afternoon to visit Leveret Hall, Miss Danbury? I’m told the grounds are very fine.”

“I do not believe I will. It’s too cold for me, and I have a good deal to do before we leave tomorrow. Sir Matthew, I was wondering if you could spare me a few moments? The breakfast room is free.”

Matthew was astonished, but he recognised a perfect opportunity even if he still had no idea what he wanted to do with it. Practicality and romance warred together in his heart as he followed her into the room. She closed the door. It felt very final. Matthew took a deep breath and spoke.

“I’m glad of the opportunity to speak to you, Miss Danbury. I’ve enjoyed this week but I feel we’ve not had the chance to talk as much as I’d hoped. I know you’re aware…that is, we’ve been getting to know each other, and I…”

“Please, Sir Matthew. Allow me to speak first. This is difficult and somewhat embarrassing.”

Matthew pulled up short, bewildered. He studied her and realised for the first time that she was rather pale and looked upset. He wondered what had happened and for a panicked moment, thought of Harriet and the long journey to her home. He wondered if her cousin had received bad news.

“What is it, Miss Danbury?”

“As you have said, I am aware that we have spent some time together and that certain expectations have been raised. I feel the weight of those now, but I must be honest with you. This past week, I have begun to wonder if we should suit as well as I first thought. Also, I have been made aware of the feelings of…of another gentleman. Yesterday, he spoke to me and made his intentions clear. I cannot, in good faith, do anything other than be truthful.”

Matthew stared at her. He became aware that his mouth was hanging open and closed it quickly. She sounded breathless and terrified, as though she expected him to shout at her, but there was something very resolute about her which drew both his respect and his sympathy.

“Miss Danbury, are you telling me you’ve received a proposal of marriage?”

“Yes. Yes, I have.”

“And you wish to accept it?”

“I do. I am so sorry. I believed that we might..”

“It’s all right,” Matthew said quickly. His heart was singing so loudly that he was surprised she could not hear it. “Is it…I’m guessing it is from Mr Robinson?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Sir Matthew. It is just that he seems to understand me so well and I feel that…”

Matthew stepped forward, took her hand and kissed it. “Please don’t feel you must explain. I’m very happy for you, ma’am. You owe me nothing; we had no formal agreement. I wish you all the best for your future. He is a lucky man.”

Her face, which had been so pale, flushed with surprised happiness. “Thank you, that is so good of you. He wanted to be with me to tell you, but I thought I owed it to you to do it myself. I have never wanted wealth or position. Just a good man and a quiet life. I think I will have that with him.”

Matthew’s heart was full, not just for his own suddenly revived hopes, but also for her. He thought about how close they had come to a match which would have made neither of them happy.

“I think you will, ma’am. I hope you’ll both be staying for dinner this evening.”

“If it will not be awkward for you?”

“It won’t. If you both agree, I’d like to make the announcement and propose a toast. That will silence any possibility of gossip about it.”

Her face glowed. “I’ll talk to Edward but I’m sure he will say yes. Thank you, sir. You are the best of gentlemen.”

***

The roofer sucked in his breath, shook his head and named an inflated price after his first inspection of the barn. Harriet, who was not in the mood, told him what she thought of his quotation and of the reported standard of his workmanship. She also threw in some comments about his ability to add up a column of figures. The roofer capitulated and they agreed a date to start work.

It rained all week. Harriet rode over her lands, inspecting cattle and flocks. There were several early lambs, flood damage to a footbridge over the brook and a complaint from one of her tenants about a blocked well. She dealt with them calmly and competently, went home to her solitary supper and cried herself to sleep. It was painful but it would pass.

On Sunday she lay late in bed, trying to persuade herself to get up and go to church. She did not always go but liked to make regular appearances. She found the services comforting and thought that it cemented her position as lady of the manor, even with those local gentlemen who thought a woman could not possibly run an estate.

Eventually she dragged herself out of bed and went to wash and dress, deciding that she would miss breakfast until after the service. She was halfway down the stairs when the footman, whose job it was to answer the door, approached her looking bewildered.

“There’s a gentleman to see you, ma’am.”

“If it’s Mr Barratt the roofer, tell him to go away. If he has another problem, I’ll take my business elsewhere. I’m tired of him.”

“No, ma’am. It’s an actual gentleman. He gave me his card.”

The footman sounded impressed. Harriet was not surprised. Visitors were so rare that most of her small staff had never seen a visiting card. She took it and stared at it. Her heart momentarily stopped.

“Is he…I mean has he left?”

“No, ma’am. He’s in the parlour. He wouldn’t go away and I didn’t know where else to put him.”

Harriet wondered if she should teach her servants a little about how to treat visitors.

“That’s all right, Scott. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Her heart was beating faster as she walked through to the small parlour which she used as her sitting room and study. He was standing with his back to the room, looking out onto the garden. It was not raining for once. Harriet thought that he seemed to fill the room just by entering it and it had nothing to do with his size.

“Sir Matthew. This is a surprise.”

He turned and came forward quickly to take her hand. “Mrs Faversham. I’m sorry to just turn up on your doorstep like this. I sat down to write a letter. In fact, I wrote about eight of them, but none of them would have answered the purpose. It seemed easier just to come in person.”

Harriet returned the pressure of his hand then gently withdrew hers. “I thought we agreed that it was best to leave things as they were,” she said.

“We did and I obeyed your instructions to the letter, ma’am. But you need to be adaptable in matters of business. Things can change very suddenly and it’s important to be ready to take advantage or you’ll miss your chance.”

“Did something change?”

“I really hope that your feelings haven’t, lass, or I’m here making a fool of myself. Have they?”

“It doesn’t matter. We agreed that my cousin…”

“Your cousin doesn’t want me. Turned me down flat in favour of the vicar. They’re to be married quietly and will spend their lives happily nursing their imaginary ailments and quailing at the sight of a speck of dust on the furniture.”

Harriet stared at him in astonishment. “She turned you down?”

He grinned at her tone. “Well that surprise is very flattering and more than a little hopeful. It’s an interesting place you’ve got here.”

Harriet had no idea what to say. Making an effort to gather her scattered wits, she latched onto his last, although least important, remark with relief.

“Would you like me to show you around?”

The warmth of his smile threw her into confusion again. “I would, ma’am.”

Harriet accepted his arm with a growing feeling of happiness. As they wandered through the rooms of the abbey. Harriet could not help thinking back to the first time she had come here with Charles. One of the things she still remembered fondly about him was his love for his ancestral home. He had been a fount of fascinating history and scandalous stories about the Faversham family, who had occupied Westhorpe since the sixteenth century when Henry VIII had evicted the monks and sold off the lands.

“Charles used to say that the original Sir Henry Faversham was granted the abbey as a reward for looking the other way when the King seduced his wife. It might have been true; it was a generous grant.”

“It’s one way of doing it,” Matthew said. “Myself I’d rather earn my fortune through hard graft and tell his Grace where to go if he looked the wrong way at my wife, but I’m guessing that wasn’t the Faversham way.”

Harriet laughed. “It was with some of them. Sir George Faversham was Charles’ great-grandfather. They found coal on his land and he made an impressive fortune out of it and improved the family lands through the study of modern agricultural methods. Come through to the great hall and look at his portrait. It’s the largest one there.”

They stopped at the foot of the stairs, studying the serious looking gentleman who had been painted against a background of farmland, with a hunting dog beside him.

“Very nice. I notice there’s no sign of the coal mines in that painting though. I bet they kept the source of his fortune as quiet as they could.”

She gave a gurgle of laughter. “They certainly didn’t make much of it when I joined the family. The mine was closed down some years ago. There are rumours that there’s still a fortune in coal down there but it was too expensive to get it out, and the family felt it was not worth it.”

He gave a flicker of a smile. “I wouldn’t mind a look round the old works some time. If the lady of the manor would agree to take me.”

“I’ll gladly come with you, but we’d need to take old Jack Taylor from the village with us. He knows the site well and can point out the dangerous spots. Do you know much about coal mining?”

“Not as much as I’d like to. I’m always willing to learn.”

Harriet studied him with her head on one side. She realised he was speaking the simple truth. “I believe you. Come and see the cloisters then, and I’ll teach you all about the Benedictines who once lived here. There’s supposed to be a ghostly brother.”

“I’m not sure there’s much profit to be found in spectral monks, but I’m still happy to learn. Lead the way.”

They went out into the cool stone cloisters. For Harriet they held memories of both her brother and Charles and it seemed strange to be walking there with this solid, down-to-earth man who could not have been more different. She was very conscious of the state of the house: the patches of damp and faded old furnishings, though he said nothing about them until they arrived back in the parlour. She offered refreshment then had to go to the door to call to the maid for tea because the bell pull had not worked for years.

He followed this with some amusement, accepted the seat she offered and watched as she sat in her favourite armchair, which badly needed recovering.

“It’s a beautiful old house, Mrs Faversham, but it’ll take a tidy sum to make it comfortable again.”

For a moment she was shocked and then angry. “It’s my home, Sir Matthew. I’ve no intention of selling it.”

He looked startled. “Lass, that’s not what I meant. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to sell it. Why would I? I was just saying…actually, I haven’t really said it at all, have I?”

“No,” Harriet said.

“I suppose I thought…when we spoke before you left me to my fate at the Broughtons, I had the impression that if things had been different…” He broke off, studying her, his expression suddenly worried. “Why do you think I came, Harriet?”

His use of her name caused her heart to skip a beat. “I suppose to tell me that you were not betrothed to my cousin. I still cannot believe she chose that skinny churchman over you. She never had the least sense.”

He grinned. “That’s more like it. I don’t agree with you, but keep thinking that way. I came to ask you to marry me, Harriet. Please don’t ask me to go down on one knee or make a big declaration. You know I love you. I think we could be very happy together. It’s a lot to ask. I’ve four children as you know, as well as a big house and a lot of responsibility. I hope you like Helton Ridge. It’s nothing like this place. It’s a house, but I’ve never really made it into a home. I’m hoping…look, I’m grateful to Clara. But for her, I’d have made a stupid mistake. I was wiser when I was young and married for love. It wasn’t perfect but we were happy. I like to think I can do even better now. Could you?”

Harriet rose and walked towards him. “I had no intention of marrying again, Matthew.”

He stood up and took her hands in his, bending to kiss her. “Given your first marriage, I don’t blame you. Will you give it a try? With me?”

She was smiling as she reached up to kiss him. The kiss was very satisfying. He seemed content to take it as his answer. They finally moved apart as the maid arrived with the tea tray. Harriet poured, thinking how odd it was to be concentrating on such a mundane task when her heart was overflowing with joy.

“I’ll drink this and be off for a bit, because I’ll need to find a bed for the night. I didn’t really plan this very well, but your man said there’s a decent inn in Southwell. It gets dark so early still, but I’ll be back tomorrow morning and…”

“Stay here,” Harriet said. She saw his eyes widen in surprise then he smiled.

“I’d love to, Harriet, but I don’t want to put you or your servants out, making up rooms and cooking meals. And you know how people gossip.”

“My servants are as capable of getting dinner for two as for one, and I don’t care at all about gossip. We’re both adults and we’re going to be married. My staff have been with me for years, they’ll be delighted for me. As for the bed, you can sleep in the guest room if you wish, but you’ll have to make it up yourself and the sheets won’t have been aired.” Harriet gave a warm smile. “Or you can stay with me, Matthew. Where you belong.”

***

They chose to be married in the parish church in Thorndale at the beginning of May. Matthew would happily have given her an elaborate ceremony and a lengthy wedding journey, but Harriet sensed that he was relieved at her refusal.

“If we have a big wedding, I will have to invite all my most irritating relations. And poor Aunt Amabel needs time to recover from the shock of this. We’ll invite her to Yorkshire later in the year and she will be very happy when she sees how well I have done for myself. I know that you don’t really want to be away from the mills for that long and I have so many plans for the house. Also I want to get to know the children.”

He was visibly nervous on her first visit to Helton Ridge. Harriet tried hard to hide her own nerves. She was looking forward to meeting the children, but she had never been a stepmother before and she experienced a sudden panic in case she turned out not to be good at it.

The children met her in the hall under the stern eye of Miss Price, the governess. The boys were tall, dark and very like Matthew, particularly Arthur. They were on their best behaviour but could not hide their lively curiosity about her. When encouraged, they opened up freely, asking her so many questions about herself, her family and her home that Harriet had to beg them to slow down so that she could keep up with the answers. Katherine, at eight, was fairer in colouring, like her mother according to Matthew. She was a little shy but stayed close to Harriet, drinking in every detail of her appearance and hanging on every word. Harriet decided that she was very much in need of an affectionate and sympathetic stepmother. Matthew remained on the edge of the group, to give the children time to get to know her. He looked pleased.

Harriet wondered why everybody was pretending not to notice that the youngest member of the family was missing.

She had suggested to Matthew that for this first day, they dine early and with the children. He looked surprised, which told her that he took the traditional view that children should eat separately in the nursery. On the whole Harriet agreed with him, but she wanted today to be about them.

The weather was so fine, that it was agreed that dinner should be a picnic on the back lawn. Harriet approved this neat solution and Matthew went away to speak to the kitchen staff, while the boys and Katherine raced off in search of rugs and tablecloths, and garden chairs for the adults. Left alone, Harriet slipped quietly upstairs in search of the nursery wing. She found it easily but there was no sign of Matthew’s youngest daughter.

She was just considering her next move when she heard running footsteps along the corridor outside the day nursery. She went to the door and looked out and the child stopped so abruptly that she almost rocked back on her heels.

There was a surprised silence. Then the girl said:

“Oh. You’re here.”

Harriet surveyed the truant. The child was dark, more so even than the boys. Her hair was straight and she wore it in a long plait, which had probably started the day neatly tied with ribbons but was now straggling loose. Her dress matched Katherine’s, pale blue over a white petticoat except that Anne’s was splashed with mud around the hem and had a tear in the sleeve. The child’s hands were dirty.

Despite all this, she was extraordinarily pretty. Harriet thought she seemed tall for her age. Her eyes were very dark, fringed with long lashes. She was studying Harriet thoughtfully.

“Yes, I’m here. Weren’t you expecting me?”

“Oh yes, but I thought you’d be later. Or maybe it is later. I was skimming stones at the brook with Peter and I forgot the time.”

Harriet could not resist smiling. “That’s very easy to do. I think you must be Anne.”

“And you must be my new stepmother. Or I suppose you’re not yet, but you soon will be. You’re very pretty. Where’s my father? Is he very angry?”

Harriet noted that the child did not seem particularly worried, which told her something about Matthew’s relationship with his children.

“I don’t know. He didn’t mention it. I think he was hoping I wouldn’t notice you were missing.”

“Well that was silly,” Anne said. “I mean you seem clever and you can count. You were bound to notice. I hope I haven’t missed dinner.”

“You haven’t. Your father has agreed we are to have a picnic on the back lawn and has gone to make the arrangements.”

“A picnic? Well if I’d known that, I’d have come home sooner.” Anne surveyed Harriet. “I am sorry. I really didn’t mean to be so late and I didn’t mean to be rude. I just forget the time. I hope Papa doesn’t say I must miss the picnic.”

“I think at your age I forgot the time a lot as well. Don’t worry about it, he won’t be angry with you. Though I think it might help if you arrive looking less like a gypsy. Let’s get you washed and tidied up and I’ll do your hair for you again, then we’ll go down.”

Wide dark eyes surveyed her seriously then Anne held out her grubby hand and smiled. It was dazzling. For a moment, all Harriet could think about was the effect that smile was going to have on the local young gentlemen in a few years time. She managed not to say anything and took the child’s hand.

“Thank you,” Anne said. “I am glad you’ve come. You seem very nice and I think I’m going to like having a stepmother. What should we call you? Papa didn’t tell us. I think I’d like to call you Mama, because I never knew mine so you’re my first one really. But George and Arthur remember our mother so they might not agree. What do you think?”

Harriet meekly allowed herself to be towed to the girls’ bedroom. “We’ll talk about it later, Anne. I think you’ll all have to agree; it will be confusing if you call me different names.”

“I suppose that’s true. Don’t worry, I’ll talk the boys round. I always do.”

Harriet reached for a hairbrush. “I believe you,” she said faintly.

Anne flashed another smile. “Well you should call me Nan. All the family do. And don’t worry about it. You’ll get used to me very quickly. Even Papa doesn’t get cross that often, though he did once say that the man I marry is going to need nerves of steel and a constitution of iron. I’ve lost my ribbon. Never mind, a white one will have to do. Oh, I just remembered. I should have said welcome to Helton Ridge, Mrs Faversham.”

***

Matthew watched them approach, walking hand in hand across the smooth grass. The boys and Katherine were setting out the picnic, already squabbling over the lemonade. He could hear Anne chattering happily to his fiancée. Briefly he considered reprimanding her for her late appearance, but the day was so perfect he did not want to spoil it.

Anne raced to help set out the food and Matthew went to kiss Harriet. She was smiling and looked relaxed and happy.

“I see you found our truant. I’m glad you’ve met her and haven’t run away yet. If you can manage Nan, you can manage anything.”

“Even you, Matthew?”

He looked down at her, a smile curving his lips. “Especially me,” he said, feeling very content. “Come and join the party before they eat all the beef patties. They’re like a flock of vultures and I’m hungry. And have some champagne.”

She allowed him to seat her in a garden chair, accepted a glass of champagne then watched as he joined his children, unpacking the food baskets. Glancing back at her, Matthew thought he had never been happier in his life.

The French Lieutanant

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.”

A Provincial Nobody

Welcome to A Provincial Nobody, my Valentine’s Day story for 2024. As always, it’s freely available on my website and as a pdf so please share as much as you like.

I’m particularly pleased to have managed a Valentine’s story this year. As my regular readers will know, I’ve not been particularly well and work has been a struggle. Writing a light-hearted and thoroughly romantic tale has been the perfect way to ease myself back in to writing and I’m hoping that book nine of the Peninsular War Saga will move along at a good pace now.

My readers love my short stories to have links to the books and so far I’ve done very well with that. As we move into the final phase of the Peninsular War however, it’s becoming more complicated. There are a number of characters with interesting stories to tell, but I can’t tell them without giving away huge spoilers.

Instead, I’m trying to go back in time. My Christmas story, the Yule Log, told the story of Paul van Daan’s parents and proved very popular. In this one I’ve explored the back story of two recurring and well-liked characters from the Manxman series. The story takes place in 1808-09 between the events of An Unwilling Alliance and This Blighted Expedition.

Happy Valentine’s Day to all my readers. In difficult times, I’m especially grateful for your support and enthusiasm for my books and my characters.

Thank you also to my editor, Heather Paisley from Dieudonne Editorial Services who reminded me in her edits for this story that I’d forgotten to mention how fabulous she is. Readers, she’s fabulous.

A Provincial Nobody pdf:    A Provincial Nobody

A Provincial Nobody

On the evening after Mr Benjamin Thurlow’s maiden speech in Parliament, he was invited to a ball. The gentleman who had enabled him to become MP for the town of Allingford advised him to go along and enjoy himself.

“If it goes well, you’ll have something to celebrate,” Sir Anthony Edwards said in matter-of-fact tones. “If it’s a disaster, don’t worry about it; go out and enjoy yourself. Far better to get the thing over with early. Then it don’t matter if you sit like a mute for a couple of years. At least you know you can do it at need.”

Benjamin was trying not to resent his patron’s insistence that he speak on the subject of the trade blockades currently being imposed by Bonaparte. It was a matter on which he was well informed, having recently taken over as chairman of the Thurlow Trading Company on the death of his father. He had also inherited his father’s seat in Parliament, thanks to the support of Sir Anthony, who held the controlling interest in the little market town of Allingford. Benjamin had never really given much thought to a political career but when Edwards made the offer he did not hesitate. He knew his father would have wanted him to say yes, and his personal political views naturally leaned towards the Whig interests supported by Sir Anthony.

Sir Anthony had promised him considerable freedom in his opinions and voting behaviour but his one, rather eccentric, demand was that Benjamin make his maiden speech as early as possible. He had found a credible topic and coached the younger man well. Benjamin complied reluctantly. He had so much to be grateful for and he suspected his late and much missed father would have approved of the decision. He was also terrified that he would make a fool of himself.

It went better than he had expected and he was gratified when a number of fellow MPs paused to  offer congratulations as he left the House. On his patron’s advice he had kept the speech simple and spoken only of what he knew. It was well received and as he settled to sleep in the early hours, Benjamin acknowledged that his wily old sponsor had been right. The next time he wanted to speak, possibly on a matter of more significance, it would not be as terrifying.

The ball was one of the earliest of the Season, hosted by the Earl of Rockcliffe, and the rooms were already crowded by the time Benjamin arrived. He greeted his host, an austere gentleman in his sixties and his hostess who was the Earl’s sister. His duty done, he went in search of his particular friends with a sense of relief. It had been a long week preparing for the speech and he was thankful to be free of it. Tonight he had nothing to do but enjoy himself and tomorrow he would go back to his desk and his business affairs.

His friends teased him a little about his successful debut and Benjamin smiled, drank champagne and let their raillery wash over him. At thirty-two he was very much at home in London society, though he was better known in Parliamentary and trade circles than in the privileged ranks of the aristocracy. All the same, his name appeared on the invitation list of every hostess during the London Season, not because of his pedigree but because he was a wealthy man and was neither married nor betrothed.

Benjamin knew that his unmarried status was the subject of much curiosity. It was generally accepted that a gentleman should not marry until his position in the world was financially secure, but Benjamin had inherited a prosperous merchant company, trading mainly in spices, silk and luxury goods and he could have married years ago if he chose. The loss of both parents within three years had provided a very good excuse but he was out of mourning now and he suspected that this Season he was likely find himself very popular.

His closest friends did not hesitate to inform him that the matchmaking ladies of the Ton had come up with a variety of imaginary reasons for his failure to take a wife. These ranged from a carefully hidden broken heart from a youthful love affair to the refusal of his stern father to allow him to set up his own household. Both of these reasons seemed utterly ridiculous to Benjamin. He had never come across a lady who had tempted him into a declaration and his father had been the most easy-going of parents and would have been delighted to welcome a daughter-in-law. It was one of Benjamin’s only regrets that he had delayed too long to present his parents with grandchildren, but William, his clergyman brother, had already obliged with two, so he did not feel as guilty as he might have.

William was not present tonight, but his youngest brother arrived after dining at his club. Benjamin watched his approach across the ballroom with a faint smile. As always, Edwin was at the centre of a noisy group of gentlemen in red coats. He was half a head taller than Benjamin and had inherited his mother’s gregarious nature along with her startling good looks. Female heads turned to follow Edwin’s progress across the room. Benjamin was used to it and had long stopped resenting it. He greeted his brother cheerfully and Edwin slapped him on the back enthusiastically.

“I’ve been hearing how splendidly you did yesterday, brother. Congratulations. The old man would have exploded with pride. Wish he could have seen it.”

“So do I,” Benjamin admitted. “Though of course if he’d been here I wouldn’t have been doing it in the first place. How are you, Ed? I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight. Didn’t you say you were on duty?”

“I was but I swapped with Spencer. He’s got some sort of dreary family dinner next week that he can’t get out of. We dined at the Shorncliffe before we came on here. It was Spence who told me how your speech went. His father was there of course.”

“Yes, he spoke to me afterwards. How is Spence doing these days?”

“Furious that he’s missed joining the show in Spain. He did his best to convince the surgeon that his arm was as good as new but you can’t bamboozle old Fletcher. He reckons another six weeks at least.”

Benjamin regarded his brother with a tolerant eye. “And what did old Fletcher say about you, little brother?”

Edwin attempted a glare and then laughed aloud. “You know me too well. He said the same. He tells me when I can dance all night without my ankle giving out, I’ll probably be fit to run across a battlefield again. I warn you I intend to do my best to prove him wrong tonight.”

“You’re an idiot, Ed. There’ll be plenty of opportunity for glory; this war isn’t going to end any time soon. Give yourself time.”

“I feel as though I have nothing but time,” Edwin said gloomily. “It seemed such an insignificant wound when it happened. I walked off the field for God’s sake.”

“According to Captain Mayhew you limped off the field and couldn’t mount your horse when it was brought up. You were lucky they didn’t have to amputate.”

“They probably would have if they hadn’t had so many worse injuries to deal with,” Edwin said. “Thank God for the eternal lack of surgeons on a battlefield. Anyway, it’s mended very well and I’m hoping I’ll be able to join Moore in the New Year. In the meantime, I intend to find myself a partner. Are you not dancing, Ben?”

“I will when I’m ready,” Benjamin said with a smile. His brother grinned broadly.

“Playing it close are you, brother? I don’t blame you at all. Nobody is going to expect a declaration from the feckless youngest son in a red coat. You, on the other hand are now the Chairman of the Board. I can see the matchmaking Mamas licking their lips. You take care.”

“If you don’t go away, you’ll get worse from me than the French gave you at Vimeiro. Who is your intended victim this evening? Don’t break her heart will you?”

“I am promised to Miss Middleton for the cotillion and one of the country dances. Have you met her? Seventeen and just out. She’s utterly charming and since we both know her father wouldn’t consider a younger son we can flirt as much as we like. I’m also very taken with Lady Clarissa Flood, though I suspect she’s a bit serious for my tastes. Still, the same applies. I’m perfectly safe, Ben. What about you?”

“I am also perfectly safe, Ed, providing I don’t absent-mindedly propose to somebody. Which I’m not likely to do, by the way.”

Edwin regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “Why don’t you, Ben? I mean I know why I don’t. But you? Father never really understood what was stopping you, you know.”

Benjamin felt a little pain around his heart. “I know. But Mother did. It’s not complicated, Ed. I just haven’t yet met a woman I want to marry and I’m very happy in my bachelor state. If it happens, all well and good. If not, I trust you and Will to provide me with plenty of heirs. Go on, get out of here and enjoy yourself.”

Edwin threw an impudent salute and retreated in search of his dance partner and Benjamin returned to his own party, smiling. The evening proceeded as he had expected. He danced with several of  his friends’ wives then stood up with a selection of younger girls, mostly daughters of his father’s friends. He had known most of them for years and had no fear that an invitation to dance would be misinterpreted. He suspected that he was being closely observed by a number of interested parents but he had become an expert in light, social chit chat without the slightest hint of flirtation.

He did not speak to his brother again until just before the supper dance; although he saw him frequently, dancing with a series of pretty girls. Benjamin stopped to watch him affectionately. Edwin seemed to be moving very easily with no sign of the limp which had dogged him since an unlucky shot from a spent ball had sent him home from Portugal two months ago.

Benjamin was discussing the composition of his supper table with several of his friends when his brother made him jump with a friendly slap on the shoulder. Benjamin rubbed the afflicted spot and turned to give him a look.

“Try to remember I’m a civilian, Ed. That might be the usual greeting in army circles but you nearly broke my shoulder.”

“Rubbish; you’re not that delicate. Look Ben, I need a favour. It’s an emergency. Will you join my party for supper? We’ve grabbed a table.”

Benjamin raised his eyebrows. “What’s the emergency? Are you dodging an enraged parent or trying to seduce somebody’s daughter?”

“Neither, you blighted puritan. At least, not exactly. I have met a girl.”

“Just one?”

To his surprise, Edwin flushed a little. “There’s no need for that. Her name is Miss Harcourt. We were introduced by Sir Joseph Garrow earlier. Her mother has given me permission to take her in to supper providing her cousin can accompany her. The cousin is staying with them for the Season. Her second Season.”

“Do I know this cousin?”

“No, I’m about to introduce you. Perhaps you could invite her to stand up for the supper dance if you’re not already engaged.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name is Miss Quayle and she is an absolute provincial nobody from some outlandish island off Scotland or somewhere. I don’t know anything more about her apart from the fact that she’s a dashed nuisance right now. I was hoping Barney Caldicott would help me out but he turned me down flat. Apparently he remembers the Quayle girl from last year and he says she’s terrifying. Come on, Ben, please. This girl…Miss Harcourt…she’s very nice.”

Benjamin thought of a number of things he would have liked to say about his brother’s earlier assertion that he was in no danger of developing a serious interest in any girl but he stopped himself. This sudden enthusiasm was unusual for Edwin and he was curious to see the girl who had caught his eye. He sighed.

“Wait there. I’ll have to give my apologies to the Wainwrights and then you may introduce me to this Gorgon. If she turns me to stone, you’ll be entirely responsible and I’ll haunt you.”

“I don’t know if you can haunt people if you’re a piece of sculpture.”

“Trust me, I’ll manage it. You owe me for this, little brother.”

“I’ll find a way to pay you back, I promise you. You’re a thoroughly good sort, Ben. After this I will find you a very nice partner for the next two dances who will not turn you to stone at all. Get on with it before she thinks I’ve changed my mind.”

Miss Felicity Harcourt proved to be a dainty girl of eighteen with rich brown curls and a shy smile. Benjamin inspected her as they approached. She was certainly pretty enough in flowing white muslin trimmed with tiny pink rosebuds, but there was nothing in her appearance to explain why his brother had formed such a sudden liking for her. Still, he bowed politely at Edwin’s introduction and turned to the lady beside her.

“Mr Thurlow, this is my cousin Miss Quayle. She is spending the Season with us but her home is on the Isle of Mann.”

With an effort, Benjamin refrained from a scathing comment on his brother’s appalling ignorance of geography. He wondered if it was ever a problem on campaign but supposed that Lieutenant Thurlow only had to follow the march and probably did not care what the next town was called as long as it had a dry billet. He took the woman’s outstretched hand and bowed.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Quayle. You’ve travelled a long way. Have you been in London long?”

“For a few weeks. My aunt insisted that I arrive in plenty of time for dress fittings. She doesn’t trust any dressmaker north of Harrow. Every time I visit she seems surprised that I don’t appear in rags.”

Miss Harcourt blushed. “Maria,” she said, in gentle reproof. Her cousin shot her a look of amused exasperation.

“I’m sorry, Felicity. You should remember that it can take weeks before I manage to adjust my manners to London standards. I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

Benjamin was struggling not to laugh aloud. “Please don’t guard your tongue on my account, Miss Quayle. I come from a family of plain speakers. I was wondering if you were engaged for the supper dance?”

Intelligent blue eyes surveyed him, then the young woman smiled.

“That is kind of you, Mr Thurlow. I should be delighted. Though possibly not as delighted as my cousin and your brother.”

Benjamin took her hand firmly and led her into the set before she could make Miss Harcourt blush any further. When they were in position and waiting for the music to start, he risked another look. She was watching him with detached amusement as though waiting for him to reprimand her. Benjamin decided that he would not have dared to do so. There was something about this girl which suggested that she would be quite capable of telling him exactly what she thought of him.

Maria Quayle was not at all what he had been expecting from Edwin’s naïve description. She was probably not much above twenty but she had the poise of a girl accustomed to moving freely in society even if it was not in London society. She was very attractive with a good complexion and well-shaped blue eyes. Her hair was the colour of ripe gold wheat and she wore it in a smooth braided arrangement instead of the usual fashionable curls. Benjamin thought it was lovely and made the girl stand out. The blue gown was more suited to a young married woman rather than a girl in her first or second Season, but she looked beautiful in it. He wondered if it had been her aunt’s choice and thought probably not. Miss Quayle did not give the impression of being a girl who would allow her relative to dictate her choice of clothing.

The orchestra played the opening bars of an energetic country dance involving frequent changes of partner.  It allowed brief snatches of conversation but no real chance to talk properly. Benjamin was pleased that Miss Quayle did not try, although she smiled pleasantly at him when the dance brought them together. He could see that Edwin and Miss Harcourt were far more enterprising in their attempts to converse, though from the girl’s frequent blushes, he suspected that most of their exchanges consisted of extravagant compliments. He wondered what Miss Harcourt’s situation was and whether her mother was watching with complaisant approval or making swift plans to separate the couple as soon as supper was over.

The dance ended and Benjamin smiled at his partner and offered his arm. “Thank you, Miss Quayle, I enjoyed that. You’re a very good dancer.”

“Thank you, sir. I own it is a lot easier when one doesn’t have to concentrate on talking, breathing and dancing the right steps all at once.”

He shot her a startled look, wondering if she was twitting him on his lack of conversation. She seemed to realise that she had blundered. The pale skin flushed a little.

“I’m sorry, that sounded rude. I didn’t mean it that way at all. It really is easier. I love to dance.”

Benjamin was unexpectedly charmed. He gave a broad smile. “It showed. I thought I was accustomed to plain speaking, ma’am, but I’m beginning to think I am a mere amateur. Do you always say just what you mean?”

She laughed. “Far more often than I should. I used to pride myself on my social graces but I realised when I came to London last year that I had a lot to learn. At home, I am constantly in company with people I’ve known since childhood. There isn’t the same need to guard my tongue. I forget sometimes.”

Benjamin ran his eyes around the room and spotted Edwin and Miss Harcourt at a small table near a long window. He guided his companion across the room, seated her on a blue velvet chair and joined his brother in search of food and champagne. As they surveyed the buffet table, Edwin said:

“What do you think of her?”

Benjamin selected cold chicken and some thinly sliced ham. “Which one?”

“Miss Harcourt of course.”

“She’s very pretty, Ed and she seems very sweet. A bit shy, but I’d expect that in a girl barely out of the schoolroom.” Benjamin looked around and located a waiter. He summoned him and requested champagne. After a moment’s thought he asked for lemonade as well. When he looked back, his brother was watching him, a full plate in each hand.

“Are you making a point about how young she is, Ben?”

“No, you ass. I’m giving you the opportunity to impress her mama with how well you’re taking care of her ewe lamb. Plying a girl with champagne in her first Season is a terrible idea.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Well done, brother. Is the lemonade for Miss Quayle as well?”

“That will be entirely up to Miss Quayle. I shouldn’t have the nerve to tell her what to eat or drink. Come on or we’ll find our seats and our partners stolen by a couple of Hussars dripping gold braid. I shall take my life in my hands and converse with your Gorgon while you flirt with the pretty cousin.”

“She didn’t seem as much of a Gorgon when she was dancing with you,” Edwin said meditatively. “She actually looked as though she was enjoying herself.”

“I think she was,” Benjamin said. “Actually, so was I.”

Miss Quayle accepted champagne, with charming thanks. She ate a good selection of the delicacies on her plate, sipped the wine at a sensible pace and kept a discreet eye on her younger cousin with a tact that Benjamin thoroughly approved of. He decided that Miss Quayle had been much maligned. She was very direct but not rude and she appeared to have a ready sense of humour. Benjamin asked her about her home and she made him laugh with several stories about the parochial nature of island life.

In return, she asked him about his newly established Parliamentary career, which she had clearly heard about from Edwin. It led Benjamin to talk about his father’s death at the beginning of the year and his patron’s suggestion that he should step into the vacant seat. She listened and asked several intelligent questions. Benjamin realised he could not remember the exact political status of the distant Isle of Mann. Fortunately he was not obliged to expose his ignorance, but he made a mental note to inform himself before his next meeting with the likeable Miss Maria Quayle.

They danced together again after supper and she introduced Benjamin to her aunt. Mrs Harcourt was a stately widow in her fifties, dressed in half-mourning. She was gracious to both Benjamin and his brother, which suggested that his brother’s interest was cautiously welcomed. Benjamin wondered how serious Edwin was about the girl. It was impossible to be sure after a single meeting but he could not remember his light-hearted brother taking this much trouble over a girl before.

He made a point of finding Miss Quayle before taking his leave of his hostess. She was seated at the side of the room watching her cousin dance. Miss Harcourt had been engaged far more often than her cousin. Benjamin wondered about that but presumed it was simply that Miss Harcourt had more London acquaintances. He found himself regretting the rule which prohibited a debutante from standing up more than twice with the same gentleman.

“Are you leaving, Mr Thurlow? We are going ourselves presently, if we can ever get Felicity off the dance floor. This is only her second full ball and I think she has been a great success, don’t you?”

“Very much so. Yes, I’m making my departure. I have a full day of meetings tomorrow and a Parliamentary sitting tomorrow night. Good night, Miss Quayle. Thank you for two enjoyable dances and for sharing supper with me. Are you in Town for the whole Season?”

“Oh yes. I think my aunt is beginning to despair of me, but she acknowledges that I am a very useful companion for Felicity. This way she can safely disappear into the card room with her cronies and rely on me to scare off any suitors I don’t like the look of.”

Benjamin smiled. “If that’s your job, you were very kind to my brother, ma’am. Thank you for that. His courage in battle is undisputed but he is easily crushed by a harsh word.”

“It isn’t difficult to be kind to your brother, sir. Do not think I am unaware that I have developed something of a fierce reputation, but with Lieutenant Thurlow it would be like kicking a puppy.”

Benjamin gave a splutter of laughter. “How I wish I could tell him you said that. I can’t though; he’d be mortified.”

She was laughing with him. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think I could trust you. You’re a good brother, sir. Thank you for this evening. I enjoyed it very much.”

“What is your next engagement, do you know?”

“Oh heavens. We are invited to the theatre tomorrow evening and then we are going on to a reception at the Grenvilles’. The following day we make our first appearance at Almack’s. I did not receive vouchers last year because nobody had heard of me, but thanks to Felicity’s debut I have the honour this year.”

“You’re going to hate it.”

“I already hate it and I haven’t been yet but Felicity should be seen there. Then on the following day there is some kind of military review and we are invited to dinner afterwards. It is hosted by one of the gentleman’s clubs though of course it is not taking place on those hallowed premises.”

“Of course not. Ladies are not permitted across the threshold of the Shorncliffe Club. Colonel Sir George Cavendish and his lady are hosting it. I’m not sure about my plans for the next few days but I’m invited to that on account of Edwin. I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”

He was absurdly flattered when her face brightened. “Oh yes – I’ll look forward to it as well. Good night, Mr Thurlow.”

“Good night, Miss Quayle.”

***

Breakfast in Wimpole Street was eaten late and Mrs Harcourt seldom made it to the table, preferring to take her first meal in her room. It was an informal meal and the two young ladies served themselves from covered dishes on the sideboard while a parlour maid served a choice of tea or chocolate.

The first part of the meal was entirely taken up by Miss Harcourt rhapsodising over her new acquaintance. Maria listened abstractedly while filling her plate with ham and eggs. She cut bread for herself and her cousin, having seen Felicity’s attempts with a bread knife before.

“Do you think he likes me, Maria?”

“Who, darling?” Maria settled down opposite her cousin, saw her face and relented. “The handsome Lieutenant Thurlow? I am sure he does, Felicity. And I don’t need to ask if you liked him.”

“Mama thinks he is very charming. And from a very respectable family. Mr Benjamin Thurlow controls the company of course but both the younger brothers inherited a share, so he has independent means. Other than his army pay of course, which is next to nothing. Mama says she would not disapprove of the match at some point in the future but that she will not allow an engagement when I am so young. I have told her that it is not at all unusual for a lady to be betrothed at eighteen or even younger. I can think of at least half a dozen cases in the very best families. Perhaps she will change her mind if she realises how very suitable he is.”

Maria accepted tea and dismissed the goggling parlour maid firmly. “Has Lieutenant Thurlow proposed, Felicity?”

Her cousin gave her a look. After a moment, she giggled. “Of course he hasn’t. We’ve only just met. I collect you are trying to tell me that I am getting ahead of myself.”

“Just a little, my sweet. Don’t think I disapprove. He’s a very charming young man, he has excellent manners and he’s very handsome. But you can’t be sure of his intentions or your own feelings after one evening’s acquaintance. I hate to say it, but your Mama is right to advise caution. Just enjoy your debut and try not to wear your heart on your sleeve. I’ve seen that done before and it can lead to a lot of heartache. Lieutenant Thurlow is only twenty-two and cannot be hanging out for a wife. If he forms an attachment to you, it’s because of who you are, not because he’s been told to get on with it by an overbearing parent. And you’re lucky that my aunt feels the same way. She won’t allow you to rush into anything and she is right.”

Felicity pulled a face. “I cannot imagine how you became so stuffy, Maria. You were not used to be so.”

Maria tried not to show that her cousin’s remark had stung her. “Experience,” she said lightly. “Just be thankful that I’m here. I’m a far more lenient chaperone than my aunt.”

“You aren’t supposed to be chaperoning me at all. You’re supposed to be finding a husband. Do you think you will do so this Season?”

“Goodness, I have no idea.”

“Mama says you will have to live down what happened last Season first.”

Maria felt her face flush a little and she was furious that her feelings showed. “You should not repeat what your Mama says about me, Felicity.”

“Don’t tell me she hasn’t said the same to your face, Maria.”

Maria acknowledged the hit with a faint smile. “Of course she has. I have been a great disappointment to her. My own Mama was quite surprised that she agreed to have me back for a second Season but we both suspect it was because she wanted me here for your debut.”

“I’m sure that you are right. Though I still think she has hopes of a good marriage for you, cousin. If only you would apply yourself to the business.”

It was an excellent impersonation of her aunt and Maria laughed and put her hand on Felicity’s. “She will be far too busy ensuring that you make the right impression this year, Felicity, to be worried about me.”

They ate in silence for a while. Maria thought that her cousin had returned to her own dreams of romance but then Felicity said:

“Do you regret it?”

“Regret what?”

“Refusing Lord Calverton’s offer earlier this year?”

Maria sighed and put down her knife. “Felicity, I’m not sure that I should talk about this. I don’t know that my aunt would like me to.”

“Mama has talked about it freely enough,” Felicity said pointedly. “I don’t see that she can object to my asking for your perspective. She was so excited when he approached her asking for permission to pay his addresses. It didn’t occur to her that you would refuse.”

“It didn’t occur to him either,” Maria said. “Really, I think they had already discussed the date and location of the wedding without any reference to me.”

“Did you not like him?”

“I did not dislike him.”

“Did he…did he say or do something you did not like?”

“No of course not.”

“Was he not wealthy enough? You would have been Lady Calverton.”

“I didn’t want to be Lady Calverton.”

Felicity looked down at her empty plate. “My mother says that some people think that you had higher expectations. That you were aiming for a better title. That you were aiming too high.”

“A Royal Duke or an Earl perhaps?” Maria said dryly. Her cousin looked up guiltily.

“No, of course not. I do not think it myself…only I cannot help but hear the gossip sometimes.”

“It’s not your fault, Felicity.”

“It makes me angry that I am not allowed to tell them what I think of them. I heard Lady Fawcett telling Mama that she was surprised that you had come back this year.”

“I am sure that what she actually said was that she was surprised that I had the audacity to show my face here again this year.”

“Yes.” Felicity met her gaze. Her cousin had very pretty eyes, a warm clear hazel colour. Maria was not at all surprised at how much time Lieutenant Thurlow had spent gazing into them the previous evening. “I told Mama afterwards that I thought you were very brave. Another girl would have stayed at home. Why did you come back, Maria?”

Maria squeezed her hand. “Because I wanted to be here for your debut, love. I knew you were bound to be a success and I wanted to see it.”

“But there’s another reason.”

“Yes. I wanted to prove that I had not run away. I don’t really care that much about the London gossips, Felicity. To be honest, most of them don’t care about me either. I’m not important enough. A few ladies and one or two gentlemen – mostly friends of his Lordship – seem to have decided that I was an ungrateful wretch to have turned down the best offer of marriage that a provincial little Manx girl could possibly have hoped for. I needed to show them – no, to show myself – that I had done nothing wrong and that I had nothing to be ashamed of. Once I’ve done that I’ll go home with my head held high.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Felicity said in a small voice. “I wish you would stay. Mann is too far.”

Maria’s heart melted. “Felicity, don’t think about this again. I’m going nowhere until the end of this Season and if you want me back next year and my aunt allows it, I will come, I promise you. Perhaps you will marry your handsome Lieutenant and have very beautiful babies and I will be a doting aunt to them. Or rather cousin.”

“You still haven’t told me why you wouldn’t marry him,” Felicity pointed out.

Maria hesitated then decided that her cousin’s persistence deserved the truth.

“Because I didn’t love him,” she said. “And that is the only thing that matters to me. Please don’t tell your Mama I said that. She thinks I am being very foolish and will only scold me all over again. Have you finished your breakfast? Shall we walk in the park this morning? It’s such a fine day.”

***

It was a bright sunny day for the review. Maria knew nothing of military matters but she had attended a number of similar reviews during her previous Season in London. She had been astonished and vastly amused by the huge difference between the scarlet-coated troops parading outside Horse Guards or in Hyde Park and the rather lackadaisical manoeuvres of the Manx Regiment on the parade ground on the cliffs in the south of the island.

There was an added interest to this particular review because of the presence of Lieutenant Edwin Thurlow at the head of a scratch company of the 43rd. The rest of his battalion was in Spain with Sir John Moore but Thurlow had been given temporary command of eighty men. Some were new recruits and others were men ready to return from sick leave. Maria had heard Lieutenant Thurlow talking of being wounded at the Battle of Vimeiro. It was obvious that he was longing to re-join his regiment.

Maria wondered if her cousin had really considered what it might mean to be married to a soldier during wartime. One of her own friends had married a Royal Navy captain and had spent the early months of her marriage with him in Gibraltar. The birth of a son had obliged her to return home to Mann and Maria knew that she spent her time waiting for letters and praying for his safety. Maria could remember her own girlish yearnings after a red coat but she was not sure that she had the temperament to be an army wife.

Afterwards the carriages conveyed them to the elegant house in Harley Street which was the London residence of General Sir George and Lady Cavendish. The dinner guests gathered in the drawing room to drink sherry and madeira before the meal. It was a warm autumn afternoon and her Ladyship had opened the long windows onto the terrace, which overlooked a well-designed walled garden. Most of the guests were military men and their wives which made the sprinkling of gentlemen in civilian dress stand out. It was easy for Maria to spot Mr Benjamin Thurlow. He was talking to his brother and several other officers at the far end of the terrace as Lady Cavendish escorted Maria, her aunt and her cousin outside and summoned a servant with drinks. Mrs Harcourt took sherry but Maria was thirsty and chose the mild fruit punch that her cousin was drinking.

Lady Cavendish handed them over to General Thorne, who was an old friend of Mrs Harcourt and the reason they had been invited today. The General was an inveterate gossip but Maria did not know half of the people he was talking about and her attention quickly drifted. She was gazing out over the garden admiring the rich autumn colours when she became aware that a nearby group of young gentlemen were becoming very drunk on Lady Cavendish’s excellent madeira.

At their centre was a dark-haired, expensively-dressed young man of about Maria’s own age. His companions were all officers and Maria was becoming uncomfortably aware that she and her cousin were the subject of their conversation. There was a good deal of laughter and whispering and a lot of very open staring.

Maria glanced at her aunt. Mrs Harcourt seemed oblivious, but it was obvious that Felicity had noticed and was embarrassed. Her face was very flushed and she had turned her back on the group.

“Maria, may we not go back inside? I do not like…I am not enjoying it here.”

“Neither am I. Drunken idiots. Wait a moment, Felicity, I’ll speak to your Mama and we’ll go in.”

“Please don’t make a fuss. I know I’m too easily embarrassed.”

“It’s not you. I’m not enjoying it either.”

Maria turned towards her aunt. If she had been at home, in an environment she had felt sure of, she would have dealt with the arrogant young officers herself but she could hardly create a scene in the middle of a London party. She positioned herself where she could catch her aunt’s eye and waited. Her aunt did not seem to notice her at all and Maria was about to interrupt more forcibly when she heard a pleasant voice behind her.

“Miss Quayle. When did you arrive? I only just noticed you. Will you and your cousin join us? There are one or two people I’d like you to meet. Miss Harcourt, your servant. My brother has sent me with very specific instructions to collect you.”

Maria felt a rush of gratitude. She wondered if Thurlow had noticed their discomfort or if his intervention was pure coincidence. As he escorted her past the noisy group, she saw him give a considering glance in their direction and decided he had definitely noticed. She allowed herself to be introduced around his group of friends, watched Felicity shyly talking to Lieutenant Thurlow and two other young officers and turned to  Thurlow with a warm smile.

“Thank you so much. We were feeling a little awkward. Who is…do you happen to know the name of the gentleman in the dark suit?”

“Indeed I do, ma’am. It’s the young Lord Lowther, Lord Lonsdale’s heir. He has a penchant for military society. His younger brother is with the 7th Hussars in Spain at present and appears to have inherited whatever charm and good manners are available in that family. We don’t want a scene at Lady Cavendish’s dinner party which is why I removed you both before my brother lost his temper. He’s such a polite soul in civilian life but if he gets angry I am suddenly reminded that his job is to kill the enemy. He was becoming rapidly enraged at how Lowther was looking at you and your cousin. I’m sorry; the man is a boor.”

Maria was conscious of a warm feeling. “Thank you both so much. I was just about to ask my aunt to take us inside.”

“You’ll forgive me for plain speaking, ma’am, since I know you favour it yourself. It’s a good thing your cousin has you with her this year because your aunt is a poor chaperone. Was she that casual with you last year?”

Maria froze, picking up on his tone rather than his words. “Heavens. Has somebody been gossiping, sir?”

“No. I’ve been asking.”

“About my cousin’s suitability as a friend for your brother?”

“No, that’s entirely his own affair. It’s very early days but it’s clear that she’s charming. And very nice. That’s a compliment by the way. No, I was making enquiries about you.”

Maria was so shocked she could hardly speak. When she recovered her voice, she said in low tones:

“You are impertinent, sir.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t intending to be. I really enjoyed meeting you and at first I couldn’t understand how I’d missed you so entirely last Season but I realised it’s because I was in London very little due to my father’s last illness. Will you forgive my frankness, ma’am?”

“I can hardly stop you, Mr Thurlow, given how frank you have already been. I feel quite upstaged.”

He gave a choke of laughter. “That takes some doing, Miss Quayle. You’re awake on every point. You know there’s been gossip about you. When my brother first introduced you to me, he was under the impression that you were some kind of terrifying Amazon. Instead, we both very quickly realised that you were a very charming young woman. I was curious where that story came from.”

Maria could not help smiling. His forthright admission was utterly irresistible.

“I know where it came from.”

“Lord Calverton.”

“Or at least his friends.”

“Did you know he has recently married? A young widow I believe. It was all very fast. The gossips say that you broke his heart.”

“I wounded his pride. I wish he’d asked me first, before he told half of London he’d decided to honour me with his hand. I was sorry that he was so offended but if he had managed the matter more discreetly, nobody else need ever have known.”

Thurlow smiled. “I think you’re absolutely right, ma’am. A man should always be sure of a lady before involving anybody else.”

“Are you speaking from painful experience?”

“I’ve no experience at all. I’ve never been married or even betrothed.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated. Eventually he said:

“Natural caution. And…my parents had an unusually happy marriage, I’ve always thought. It was arranged in the usual manner but somehow they came together very well. I think it has given all three of us a reluctance to settle for anything less. My middle brother found it very easy. He married his childhood sweetheart. It has taken me rather longer, but I’m hopeful. And if I don’t find what I’m looking for, I’m perfectly happy on my own.”

Maria felt as though her heart had stopped in her breast. She looked up at him. He was possibly one of the least romantic figures she had ever met: squarely built in a well-cut but plain suit. His dark hair was tied back with a simple velvet ribbon and his only exceptional feature was a pair of warm brown eyes. She had never before met a man who had so openly declared his requirement for personal happiness in marriage without excuse or apology. It was a revelation.

“I feel the same way,” she said abruptly.

Thurlow said nothing for a moment. Then he said:

“Do you like to ride?”

“Very much. I’m Manx; it’s often the only way of getting around, given the state of our roads. But my aunt has no stabling in London.”

“That’s all right. My father always kept a good stable. I’ll call on your aunt later in the week if I may and we’ll see if we can find something suitable for you and your cousin. I’d like to take you riding in the Row.”

Maria could not help laughing. “That sounds extremely daunting for a provincial nobody from a distant island,” she said.

“I have a notion you will take to it very well,” Thurlow responded with one of his sudden smiles. “I had better take you back to your aunt. They are calling us in to dinner.”

***

It was likely that at any military dinner there would be more gentlemen than ladies, making the table arrangements uneven. Lady Cavendish had done her best and Benjamin suspected that the inclusion of Mrs Harcourt’s two young charges had been intended to even up the numbers a little. General Thorne was charged with escorting Mrs Harcourt into dinner and the rest of the company paired up under the gentle orders of Sir George and Lady Cavendish who circled the room ahead of the dinner gong.

Thurlow was partnered with the wife of Captain Jackson. They were still talking to their hostess when Lady Cavendish unexpectedly froze, staring across the drawing room.

“Oh my goodness, whatever is the General thinking? He has made a mistake. Where is Draper? Draper, come over here. What has happened with Lord Lowther?”

The butler gave a deep bow, with the air of a man disclaiming all responsibility.

“My apologies, my Lady. I apprised Sir George of the change in the table plan when I noticed it earlier. I hope that was correct?”

“What change in the table plan? I didn’t change anything.”

The butler frowned. “Well somebody did, ma’am. I noticed when I made a final check of the table earlier. Mrs Hetherington and Miss Quayle’s places have been swapped. Naturally I told Sir George and he asked Lord Lowther to take Miss Quayle into dinner.”

Benjamin felt his stomach lurch in discomfort. He looked over at Lord Lowther, whose rank placed him ahead of most of the other diners present. He was bowing over Maria Quayle’s hand with a decided smirk.

“Oh dear,” Lady Cavendish said. “There has been a mistake. I cannot think how it happened. Or what to do.”

“I do not see that you can do anything at present, my Lady.”

“I think somebody has played a practical joke, ma’am,” Benjamin said quietly. “Your man is right; there’s not much you can do now without causing embarrassment all round.”

Lady Cavendish lifted worried eyes to his face. “You are right of course. But I would not have chosen to seat his Lordship next to…well it is not…”

She broke off in some confusion. Benjamin decided to be frank.

“I would not have chosen to seat his Lordship beside any young unmarried female, ma’am, particularly when he has clearly been drinking. I’m sitting opposite. I’ll keep an eye on them and do my best to intervene if anything looks likely to become awkward.”

“Mr Thurlow you are such a comfort,” Lady Cavendish breathed. “You are right of course; it will be those young idiots. When my husband finds out who it is – and he will – I will have a good deal to say about it. Thank you, sir. By the way I should have asked you earlier…your brother made a very specific request to be seated next to Miss Harcourt and I could not see any harm. I hope you do not mind?”

“Not at all. I’m rather impressed. He’s a much better planner than I am. If I’d been as quick we wouldn’t be in this rather awkward situation right now.”

He saw by her startled expression that she had understood his meaning and felt a brief satisfaction as he led his dinner partner through into the long dining room in Lord Lowther’s wake. Benjamin was generally tolerant of his fellow man but he was feeling decidedly unsympathetic towards the gossipmongers of his native city this afternoon.

***

It was immediately obvious to Maria from the reactions of those around her that she had been the victim of a practical joke. She took her place beside Lord Lowther in silent protest, aware of a mixture of disapproval, apologetic embarrassment and subdued hilarity from around the table. Further along, beside General Thorne, her aunt looked as though she wanted to cry. Maria realised with miserable understanding, that Thurlow had been right. If Mrs Harcourt had been paying attention, she would have realised that something was wrong and drawn Lady Cavendish’s attention to it before Lord Lowther had time to claim his prize.

It was far too late to do anything about it. Maria decided to adopt an attitude of frozen politeness. His Lordship treated her with exaggerated courtesy under the delighted gaze of his acolytes. He placed her napkin upon her lap with far too much familiarity, directed the footman to pour wine when she asked for cordial and drew her attention to every proffered dish as though it was his personal provision.

“It’s dashed good to have a chance to get to know you better, Miss Quayle. I’ve admired you from a distance for a long time, don’t you know? Didn’t get near you last Season of course. Poor old Calverton and whatnot. But that’s all done and dusted now of course. The dear old fellow is leg shackled to a very pretty widow and we’ve not been able to get him up to Town at all this Season.” Lowther drained his wine glass and signalled for more. “Dash it, he’s probably hardly been out of bed. Got an heir to father after all, and she looks like an enthusiastic female.”

Maria felt herself colour to the roots of her hair and cursed her fair skin. She was not sure how much of Lowther’s appallingly inappropriate conversation could be heard around the table but she was sure that people were watching her reactions with interest. She did not trouble to reply but pretended to be enjoying her soup although she could taste nothing and she wondered if her churning stomach would betray her.

For a time, Lowther talked about hunting. It was boring but very straightforward. Maria spoke when she needed to but did not discourage the topic. If she could get through the various courses with tedious descriptions of every fox his Lordship had ever run to earth, she could escape with the ladies and tell her aunt that she felt unwell and needed to go home. Judging by the miserable expression on Mrs Harcourt’s face she would be only too glad to leave.

Maria shot a glance down the table at her cousin. Felicity was perfectly placed between Lieutenant Thurlow and one of his officer friends. Both were going out of their way to entertain her and Maria wished her cousin could relax and enjoy it but she was clearly concerned about Maria and could not prevent herself from looking along the table every few minutes.

Benjamin Thurlow was seated almost opposite her. Maria deliberately did not look at him. After the brief happiness of their conversation earlier she felt embarrassed and humiliated. She did not know if he realised how she had been manoeuvred into this position but she felt as though every person in the room was waiting for her to show herself up by making a deliberate attempt to attach Lord Lowther. Maria could think of nothing worse. He was an arrogant boy and the expression on his face as he leaned towards her in conversation made her feel rather sick.

The first course was removed and the presence of the servants obliged his Lordship to draw back a little. Maria risked raising her eyes and to her surprise she found Thurlow looking directly at her. She met his gaze defiantly. He did not look away. Instead he gave a little smile and silently mouthed the words:

“Are you all right?”

Maria felt herself flush a little. She managed an answering smile and he gave an approving nod.

“Good girl.”

Beside her, Lowther gave a snort of irritation and she realised he had observed the little byplay although she did not think he would have understood what Thurlow had said unless he was directly opposite as she was. She lowered her eyes to her plate, which Lowther was filling with food she did not want.

“You’re not drinking, Miss Quayle. Here, I insist.”

She took the wine glass because if she had not intercepted it she would have ended up wearing its contents. Lowther toasted her with mocking courtesy and she gave a brief polite nod and took a tiny sip, setting the glass down. There was roast duck on her plate and she managed to eat a small slice. Beside her, Lowther was eating greedily.

“You ain’t eating, Miss Quayle. You need to eat or you’ll get too thin. A man don’t want a skinny waif of a girl. We like something rounded to hang on to.”

Incredibly she felt his hand on her thigh under the table. She shot him a furious glance and he grinned back at her and squeezed, massaging her flesh through the fine silk of her gown. Maria looked around her in agonised embarrassment. As far as she could tell, nobody could see what he was doing but she could not find her voice or think of any way to tell him to stop.

“That’s very nice,” Lowther said in a husky undertone. “Shame there’s so many people about. Keep still, now. No reason to make a scene.”

Maria remained silent. Suddenly she realised that embarrassment had been replaced by sheer fury. It was not the first time she had been subjected to the lecherous behaviour of a drunken man but she had been at home on the previous occasion and known exactly how to deal with it. She realised that she had been drawn into a false sense of panic. She knew exactly how to deal with it here as well.

She speared another slice of duck with her fork, put it into her mouth and chewed, then casually dropped her fork. It fell to the floor in front of Lowther. Maria gave an exclamation of dismay, removed her napkin and pushed back her chair a little. Lowther hastily removed his hand.

“I’m so sorry, my Lord. How clumsy of me.”

She bent swiftly, deliberately giving him an excellent view down the front of her gown. She did not need to look at him to know that he was making the most of it. A man like Lowther would always make the most of it.

His gaze riveted on her breasts, he did not see her pick up the fork. The first he knew of it was when she drove it hard into his leg through his pantaloons and silk stocking. He gave an agonised squawk and jumped to his feet. Maria set the fork back upon the table and looked up at him in astonishment.

“Are you quite well, my Lord?”

“I…you…you…”

The entire table had fallen silent. Everybody was staring at Lowther. Maria did the same, assuming a puzzled expression. After a long silence, General Sir George Cavendish said politely:

“Are you feeling unwell, my Lord?”

“I…yes. Yes. Feeling a trifle unwell, as you say. Please excuse me, sir. Ladies.”

He left the room at speed. Maria drew in her chair properly and looked at her plate, deciding that she had eaten enough. She reached for her wine glass and took a fortifying drink, feeling that it was probably safe to do so now. Returning the glass to the table she took a surreptitious glance at the polished floor. Several spots of blood marked Lord Lowther’s path from the room. Maria suddenly felt much better.

Conversation had gradually resumed around the table, though it was far more subdued. Maria risked a look at Benjamin Thurlow. She found him looking directly back at her. His mouth was grave but his eyes were smiling at her in an expression of pure delight. After a moment, Maria allowed her lips to curve in a proper smile. He responded immediately. She sat in pleasant silence, with no obligation to speak to anybody at all, smiling back at the most interesting man she had ever met.

***

“You stabbed him in the leg?” Benjamin said in disbelief.

They were riding side by side in the row. Ahead of them, Felicity was mounted on a pretty bay mare. Maria’s own horse was a silvery grey gelding. He was a little large for her but very well-mannered and she felt relaxed and at home.

“I had to do something. He was being very objectionable.”

“I’d worked that out. I was trying to decide how to intervene without causing a scene. I was hoping you’d fake a swoon or some such thing.”

“I did consider it but then I realised that wouldn’t have caused him any pain at all. I wondered if I could manage to be sick on him, but that would have been horrible for everybody else and my reputation in Town would have been beyond repair. Really, this was much better. Have I shocked you?”

“You’ve rather impressed me to be honest. Are you in the habit of stabbing any gentleman who offends you? I’m wondering if it’s a Manx custom. I’d like to be on my guard.”

Maria gave a peal of laughter. She had been dreading a backlash after the dreadful dinner party in Harley Street but to her surprise nobody mentioned it at all. Mr Thurlow had called the following day to ask her aunt for permission to take the two young ladies riding and Maria had spent an afternoon getting her cousin’s second riding habit altered to fit her.

They had ridden out several times since then. They had also been to both the theatre and the opera as his guest and had joined a party at Vauxhall. She had danced with him, decorously, for the regulation two dances at more than a dozen balls. She had discovered that he liked music and reading and was utterly uninterested in art and interior decorating. Felicity and Lieutenant Thurlow spent every social occasion floating on a cloud of happiness. Maria felt that her own cloud was wholly invisible. She was not at all sure if it was even real, but she wanted it to be; so badly that it hurt.

Thurlow had not mentioned Lord Lowther at all until today, for which Maria was deeply grateful. She was not sure why he had done so now. Either his curiosity had got the better of him or he felt that their friendship had become comfortable enough for him to raise an awkward subject. She was surprised to realise that he was right. She did not feel embarrassed at all.

“It isn’t generally done in polite society, even on our provincial little island. But I’ll admit it isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with an over-familiar gentleman. I was once obliged to slap Mr Orry Gelling for trying to kiss me at a Christmas party and I once tipped lemonade over Robert Callister’s brand new yellow pantaloons because he made an offensive remark about the cut of my gown.”

“He insulted your fashion sense?”

“No, he expressed inappropriate enthusiasm for the height of my neckline. It was a valuable lesson for both of us. I realised that there was a reason my mother told me it was too low and he learned to drink less at St Catherine’s Fair. Rob was harmless enough. Just very young and stupid. Gelling was genuinely unpleasant but he never gave me much trouble.”

“That doesn’t surprise me at all. I hope you won’t be offended, ma’am, but I’ve spoken to Lowther about his behaviour that day.”

Maria looked at him in astonishment. “What on earth did you say? Was that appropriate, sir? He’s a lord and…”

“He’s a drunken young idiot. I’m ten years his senior and in no way dependent on his patronage or his goodwill. I don’t give a d… a hoot about his rank. I’ve informed him that the next time I see him annoying a respectable girl I’m going to take the trouble to speak to his father very specifically about it. That’s if he’s lucky. If he’s unlucky my brother will get to him first.”

Maria laughed. She felt warm and secure and very happy. “Your brother has a very good reason for wanting to remain in my good books, sir.”

He grinned. “That’s very true. But he likes you for yourself, ma’am. Look, I’ve something to ask you. I should really speak to your aunt first but a very sensible woman I once knew assured me that a gentleman should never assume anything. Don’t panic, I’m not about to propose. But I wondered what your aunt has planned for Christmas? People are already beginning to leave Town and within a week or so it will be deserted until Parliament resumes in January. Do you have plans?”

Maria shook her head. “No, we’ll spend it quietly at home. My aunt has a small country estate in Wiltshire but she rents it out. She doesn’t usually entertain much. She’ll probably invite one or two old friends for dinner.”

“It sounds very dull.”

“It will be very peaceful. I’m not sure I’ll mind, after the past two months. What of you, sir?”

“That’s why I’m asking. We usually go home to Comerby. It’s our country home in Kent, just north of Dover. My brother Will holds the living at the Parish Church in the village. It’ll be the first Christmas without my father and the last we’ll see of Ed for a while. He’s been told that he’ll be recalled to duty early next year.”

“Surely not with Sir John Moore? I read that his army is in retreat.”

“We don’t really know what’s happening with Moore yet, though the rumour in the House is that it’s nothing good. In the meantime they’re wasting time and energy with this inquiry into the Cintra treaty when we should be…” Thurlow stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m becoming distracted.”

“I’m interested.”

“I know you are, ma’am and I’d love to talk further with you about it. And about so many other things. I was wondering…we’ll probably spend two or three weeks at Comerby. It won’t be a big party though I believe Ed has invited Lieutenant Spencer and the Jacksons will be joining us. My brother is very well aware that he’s running out of time and it would make so much difference if your aunt would consider joining us this Christmas.”

Maria’s heart was beating unevenly. She raised her eyes to meet his. They were smiling hopefully at her.

“You should ask my aunt, Mr Thurlow. It will be her decision.”

“I’m hoping you’ll support it.”

“Of course I will. I have no idea if my aunt will agree to a formal betrothal. Felicity is still very young. But I know how much she likes your brother.”

“I agree with Mrs Harcourt, ma’am and I’ve told Ed so. They’re both far too young for anything formal. I think they’re very well-suited both in position and temperament but he has a career to build and she’s only been out of the schoolroom for five minutes. If Christmas goes well and they’re both of the same mind by the time he’s called back to the front, I’m going to suggest an informal agreement between the two families. That way, they can write to each other and get to know each other better.”

“That’s a very good idea.”

“I thought so,” he said rather smugly. “It’ll give him the chance to decide if he’s really ready to settle down and it’ll give her the chance to understand what it means to marry an army officer without committing to anything publicly. Much easier and kinder this way, if one of them wants to withdraw.”

“If only Lord Calverton had thought of that,” Maria said wistfully and enjoyed the gleam of amusement in his eyes.

“He clearly needed good advice from his friends, ma’am.”

“Or an ounce of common sense,” Maria said scathingly. “I approve of your idea, sir and I think my aunt will agree. I own it will be much nicer to spend Christmas in the country with friends instead of in Town. All the same, the gossips are going to assume this means you approve of your brother paying his addresses to Felicity and that you’ve invited us for that reason.”

Mr Thurlow gave one of his pleasantly neutral smiles but his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Let them assume what they like, ma’am. My motives are none of their business. Unfortunately I think we’re going to have to turn back. The wind is picking up and I suspect it’s going to rain. Also I have a mountain of paperwork awaiting me on my desk. Shall I see you at Almack’s tomorrow?”

“Almack’s?” Maria stared at him in astonishment. “Are you quite well, Mr Thurlow? You never attend Almack’s. You once told me it was the most insipid entertainment you’ve ever experienced in your life.”

“I wasn’t wrong either, was I?”

She gave a gurgle of laughter and shook her head reprovingly. “No. It is dreadful. But so very good for Felicity to be seen there.”

“Which is why my brother insists on going. I’ve told him I disapprove and I intend to go tomorrow to check that he isn’t getting into bad company there.”

“Bad company at Almack’s? I only wish it were possible.”

“It’s definitely possible ma’am, since I believe they’ll even admit Lord Lowther providing he’s wearing the regulation knee breeches.”

“Do you even possess a pair of knee breeches?”

“Just one. I save them for special occasions. Do you think the gossips are going to question my motives for making an appearance at Almack’s as well, ma’am?”

“Dear sir, I think they’re going to assume you have gone mad.”

His smile made her heart lift with simple happiness. “Perhaps I have,” he said. “But I’ve never enjoyed myself this much in my life. Come on, we’ll need to canter if we’re to avoid a soaking. Let me call my idiot brother. Honestly, when he’s with your cousin he wouldn’t notice an earthquake.”

***

They spent Christmas very happily, their pleasure marred only by the dreadful news coming in from Portugal. Sir John Moore’s army had been forced into an ignominious and dangerous retreat to Corunna across the mountains in winter. Benjamin allowed his brother to read the news aloud, including the ladies in the party. Observing Felicity Harcourt’s white face as she watched Edwin’s set, grim expression, he thought that this was the first time she had seriously had to imagine what her future husband might face on campaign. It might also give her an insight into the agony of a woman waiting at home for news.

Benjamin liked Felicity Harcourt very much and loved his brother. He did not want either of them hurt by finding themselves trapped in an unhappy marriage. After considerable discussion over the Christmas season, it had been agreed that the young couple would be permitted to enter into an informal engagement but that no announcement would be made until Felicity was twenty. Both had railed against such a lengthy period of time but Benjamin had privately pointed out to his brother that long engagements could easily be shortened if both parties agreed and proved the constancy of their affection. He understood Mrs Harcourt’s reluctance to agree to anything more binding while her daughter was so young and while Edwin was overseas. He also thought Edwin was too young to be sure of his feelings but he had more tact than to say so.

The party broke up in January and Mrs Harcourt and her charges travelled back to London to sift their way through a pile of invitations for the remainder of the Season. Benjamin caught up with his correspondence and a collection of business matters, dined with several friends and took his place in the House of Commons. Mr Wainwright in particular, made several pointed remarks about how distracted he was. Benjamin knew perfectly well that his old friend was fishing for information. He declined to give any.

Lieutenant Thurlow was shocked into silence at the news of the battle which had taken place on the shores of Corunna, where Sir John Moore gave his life to keep the French at bay. The ragged remains of the British army embarked for home leaving their stores and equipment, their pride and too many of their dead comrades behind. London whispered that the war was lost and that Bonaparte would surely turn his attention to England again once he had time to build up his navy.

Benjamin discounted any such rumours but the mood in both the House and the City was gloomy and newspapers wrote of Corunna as a defeat. Journalists were equally scathing when the inquiry into the Cintra peace treaty returned a favourable verdict for all three generals involved. Edwin ranted over the breakfast table at the corruption of politicians and Benjamin poured more coffee and pushed it towards him.

“Try not to sound like an idiot, Ed, when I know you’re not one. They could never have censured men with the rank and experience of Burrard and Dalrymple. It would be bad for morale, especially at the moment. As for Sir Arthur Wellesley, there are rumours he’s to be given the command in Portugal.”

“I’d heard rumours they were thinking of calling up the Earl of Chatham,” Edwin said glumly.

“Don’t listen to gossip. Chatham wouldn’t want it anyway. Apart from anything else, his wife is still far from well and he doesn’t want to be that far away from her. They’ll give it to Wellesley because everybody knows he was responsible for the victories at Vimeiro and Rolica and the government will want to concentrate public opinion on those and away from the Corunna debacle. Wellesley is perfect for their needs. He’s an experienced general, he’s still fairly young and he has excellent family connections. On the other hand, he’s not so well-connected that they can’t ditch him if it goes wrong. I wonder if he knows that?”

Edwin drained his cup. He looked suddenly more cheerful. “Have you met him, Ben?”

“Not personally, though I’ve seen him around of course. I think I was once introduced to his brother.”

“Well if you had, you’d realise he’s not an idiot either. I hope he gets it. We might be able to do something under Wellesley. Look Ben, I haven’t mentioned it to Felicity yet, but I’ve received my orders. I need to get my kit and uniform organised and report to barracks in four weeks.”

Benjamin felt a hollow sense of sickness. “Do you know where?”

“Not yet. They’re placing bets at the Shorncliffe Club. Odds are favouring a return to Portugal, which fits in with what you’ve been told about Wellesley. There are outside odds on South America, India, Cape Town and some kind of expedition to the Scheldt.”

Benjamin’s attention sharpened. “The Scheldt? Where the hell did you hear that?”

Edwin looked surprised, then his eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his chair. “Not from you, brother. What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything; it’s just an idea that seems to pop up from time to time. According to Sir Anthony it goes back to Pitt’s day. I occasionally hear it rumbling around and I was just curious.”

“Sorry, I know nothing. Do you need me for anything today? I’d like to call on Felicity. I want to speak to her alone about this before she hears it from somebody else.”

“Your time is your own. If you want to catch her alone I’d go this afternoon. I happen to know that Miss Quayle won’t be at home and I’m sure Mrs Harcourt won’t mind giving you a bit of time with your girl.”

As he had expected, his brother eyed him with amused interest. “You’re very well informed about the movements of Miss Quayle, brother. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. At least, there is but it’s of no interest to you. Miss Quayle expressed an interest in seeing the House of Commons so I’ve arranged to take her on a private tour.”

“Private?”

“I’m sure she’ll bring her maid with her.”

“It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t, she’ll be perfectly safe with you, Ben. Depressingly so.”

“What do you mean?” Benjamin said indignantly.

“I was so bloody sure you’d ask her over Christmas. Felicity certainly was. When you didn’t, I thought you’d changed your mind and decided you wouldn’t suit after all. Which would be a pity because I think you would suit very well. But here you are inviting her on tedious tours. What’s going on, Ben?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Mind your own bloody business.”

Edwin raised his eyebrows. “Do you want to marry the girl or not?”

“Yes.” Benjamin said.

“Well why the hell didn’t you ask her? You had two weeks of perfect opportunities.”

“I couldn’t find the right moment.”

“What in God’s name do you mean, you couldn’t find the right moment? You had more than fourteen days. Twelve or more waking hours in each day. Sixty minutes in each of those hours. Sixty seconds in each of those minutes. How long do you need? Look, I’ll show you. I’ll time it.”

To Benjamin’s immense irritation he took out his pocket watch and laid it on the table then clasped his hand dramatically to his heart.

“Miss Quayle – dearest Maria. I love you. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” Edwin picked up the watch and waved it at him. “Ten seconds. Without the pause for effect, you could do it in five. Do you love her?”

“Of course I bloody love her.”

“Well why didn’t you ask her then? I thought that was the point of the whole house party and that Felicity and I were just a smoke screen.”

“You were.”

“And?”

“I lost my nerve,” Ben ground out.

His younger brother sat staring at him in complete astonishment. “You lost your nerve? What, for two weeks? How many times during that period did you try to propose to her, Ben?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen?” Edwin’s voice was hushed; almost awed. “You nearly proposed to her seventeen times in fourteen days?”

“Yes.”

“You counted?”

“Yes.”

“Christ, brother! Thank God you never joined the army. You’d have run like a rabbit at the first sight of a Frenchman.”

“I’m not normally this much of a coward. I’m worried that I’ve spoiled my chances, Ed. Since we got back I’ve not had a chance to speak to her alone. That’s why I thought this tour was a good idea. Do you think there’s any chance she realised that I was thinking of asking her over Christmas and then didn’t?”

Edwin looked like a man driven beyond reasonable endurance. “Seventeen times? Ben, I’m surprised she hasn’t hit you with a brick. The poor girl must have convinced herself that you’ve thought better of the whole thing. Either that or she’ll think you’ve got a nervous tic of some kind.”

“I thought if we do this tour first…”

“Stop right there. There will be no tour. She doesn’t want a bloody tour of the Houses of Parliament, Benjamin. Go and get changed. Wear something more interesting than those boring suits of yours. A decent cravat at the very least. Go over to Wimpole Street. Ask to speak to her alone and tell her you want to marry her.”

“What if she says no?”

“Then it will serve you bloody well right. She’s not going to say no, Ben. She watches you as if you’re a combination of Sir Lancelot and St George rolled into one, though God knows why. Ask the girl to marry you and put us all out of our misery.”

“What if I lose my nerve again?”

“You won’t. I know this because I’m coming with you and I’ll be waiting outside. If you walk out that door and you’re not betrothed to Miss Quayle I am going to throw you into the Serpentine.”

“That’s a bit of a walk.”

“I’ll make the bloody effort. Get moving.”

***

Maria was writing letters in the parlour when the housemaid announced Mr Thurlow. She rose and went forward to greet him, wondering if she had mistaken the time. He was two hours early.

“Mr Thurlow, how do you do? I was not expecting you so soon. Have I made a mistake, or are you about to tell me that we must postpone our visit?”

Thurlow looked back at her. He seemed temporarily bereft of speech. Maria waited for a moment and decided that he was trying to frame his excuses. She quashed her disappointment firmly and indicated a chair.

“Do sit down. My aunt is with my cousin at present; she has a dress fitting. I expect she will be down soon.”

Thurlow sat. Maria did the same. She was surprised when he immediately got to his feet again.

“Miss Quayle, do you remember when we first met? I had just given my maiden speech in the House.”

Maria smiled. “Of course I remember,” she said warmly. “I have been told many times how well you did.”

“It was extremely nerve-wracking but once it was done, I can remember telling myself that I would never again be that nervous about making a speech. It was a satisfying thought.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“It was also completely erroneous. I’m trying to make a speech now and I can’t get to the end of a simple sentence. I feel as though I’ve been trying to say this one sentence for weeks. Months. Forever.”

“Mr Thurlow, please sit down and don’t upset yourself. We’re friends. There’s nothing you can’t say to me.”

He paused, staring at her. Maria was becoming a little concerned about the slightly wild expression in the brown eyes. She wondered, not for the first time recently, if he was unwell.

“Yes,” he said finally, in heavy tones. “Yes there is. There is one thing that I absolutely can’t bring myself to say to you, ma’am.”

“Heavens, what on earth is it? Surely it cannot be that bad.”

“It is very bad. For me, at least. I cannot, no matter how hard I try, bring myself to the point of asking you to marry me. It’s been at least a month since my first attempt and I’m becoming exhausted.”

There was a long and painful silence in the room, broken only by the loud ticking of the carriage clock. Maria decided after a while that he was not going to speak again. She did not think he was capable of speech. At this moment neither was she. Her entire world was suddenly flooded with happiness. She looked at her love and understood that he did not yet realise that he had finally managed to say the words.

Maria decided that she was going to have to intervene. She got up, walked over, took his hand and led him to the padded window seat then pushed him down and sat beside him, not letting go of his hand.

“Mr Thurlow – did you really mean to say that?”

“Yes,” he said fervently. “Oh God yes. I really said it, didn’t I?”

Maria thought about it. “Actually, I think you told me that you could not say it.”

“But I did tell you what I’ve been unable to say?”

She was beginning to feel laughter bubbling up. He was studying her hopefully and he reminded her unaccountably of one of her father’s favourite spaniels.

“You did.”

“Now that I’ve said it…Maria, do you think you could?”

Happiness spilled over into laughter. She reached out and cupped his beloved face in one hand.

“Benjamin, let me reassure you that if you ever manage to get up the nerve to ask me to marry you, I am going to say yes. But you were so right to check with me first.”

He was beginning to laugh as well, the tension draining out of him. He covered her hand with his big square one and leaned forward to kiss her. Maria closed her eyes. For all the uncertainty of his words, there was nothing at all uncertain about his kiss. They remained locked together for a long time. When he finally drew back, he was smiling at her.

“Marry me, Maria Quayle. I need you to manage me; I’m utterly hopeless.”

“No you’re not. And I would love to marry you, Benjamin Thurlow. Did I ever tell you that I came to London specifically to fall in love?”

“You didn’t. I wish you’d mentioned it sooner, sweetheart. It would have made this so much easier. We should tell your aunt and your cousin. And I must write to your father for permission. First though, do you mind if I let Edwin in? He’s on the doorstep.”

Maria was bewildered. “Of course. But whatever is he doing out there?”

Benjamin kissed her again and got up. “Guard duty,” he said, and went to admit his brother.

The Yule Log

Welcome to the Yule Log, my Christmas short story for 2023. I hope you enjoy it. As always it’s free on my website so please share as much as you like.

Most of my short stories are set very firmly within the years of the Peninsular War but his one is slightly different. In terms of the chronology it’s the earliest story I’ve written so far. It’s an unashamed romance. I think in difficult times it’s good for all of us to enjoy a bit of escapism.

Those who aren’t familiar with the ever-changing map of Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries might be confused by the suggestion that Antwerp is part of the Netherlands. In fact the Kingdom of Belgium only came into being in 1830 and prior to that it would have been usual to refer to the citizens of Antwerp as Dutch.

The featured image is a nineteenth century  painting by Robert Alexander Hillingford (1825-1904)  of the Yule Log being brought in at Hever Castle and is available on Wikimedia Commons.

This story is dedicated to my editor and very good friend Heather Paisley of Dieudonne Editorial Services since she asked me to write it. I’m glad she did because I really enjoyed it. I hope you do too.

The Yule Log is available here as a pdf.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all of you.

The Yule Log

The ladies were in the small parlour working on their stitchery when Lord Tevington arrived home. It was late afternoon and already growing dark. There had been flurries of snow throughout the long day and Lady Tevington had fretted about the condition of the roads and the likelihood of his lordship completing the journey today.

The Honourable Georgiana Henthorne rang for the tea tray while her mother fussed over her husband, who was tired, cold and slightly damp. He had used his personal chaise for the journey which leaked rather badly in inclement weather. Georgiana thought that he might have been more comfortable on the mail coach and it would certainly have been quicker, but she knew that it would not have occurred to her father to use a public coach.

When he was finally seated among his family with a glass of brandy and a cold supper, his Lordship gave a contented sigh. The ladies drank tea and waited to hear the account of his visit to London.

Lord Tevington did not generally return to Town once he had retired to his Leicestershire estate after the Season. He was a man of fixed habits and though he conscientiously performed his Parliamentary duties each year, he much preferred to spend his time in the country. This year he had been summoned back to attend to a legal matter. An elderly female cousin had died, leaving her estate to Georgiana. It was a modest legacy, but worth having to a girl who, despite a very respectable marriage portion, had not yet managed to find herself a husband.

At the age of twenty-two, Georgiana was not especially anxious about her unmarried status. She was the only child of affectionate parents and had not felt pressured into making an early marriage, although she suspected that her mother was beginning to wish she would put a little more effort into it. She had spent three Seasons in London and had received several offers of marriage including one from her cousin Edward who would inherit the title and the entailed estates on her father’s death. Georgiana liked Edward and knew that her mother would have been delighted by such a neat solution but she could not bring herself to marry her cousin. They had been raised too closely for her to consider him as a husband and she suspected that he felt the same way and had only made the offer from a sense of duty.

Lord Tevington was not old and was in good health so there was no urgency about Georgiana’s marriage but she knew her mother would like to see her settled. The Leicestershire property would go to the next Viscount, along with a neat little estate in Suffolk and a sprawling property in Northumberland but the London properties, including her father’s elegant house on Curzon Street, were not entailed and would go to Georgiana along with a respectable income derived mostly from Government bonds and some East India Company shares. She was not a great heiress but she was a good prospect and did not fear being left on the shelf. The problem was that she was content in her position as a daughter at home and had not met any man she liked well enough to persuade her to change it.

Her father gave his account of his meeting with the lawyer and moved on to more general news. London was thin of company this close to Christmas but he had dined with several gentlemen who, like himself, were in Town on business and was thus able to give his wife and daughter an account of two betrothals and one surprisingly hasty marriage which Tevington personally thought might be an elopement.

“Caroline Maitland would never have eloped,” Georgiana said, much entertained. “Only think of the discomfort and inconvenience at this time of year. She will not even walk in the park if it looks likely to rain, and that is in the height of summer. All the same, she has been pining after Bennington this past year and I don’t think her father was enthusiastic. I wonder how she persuaded him.”

“Perhaps she threatened to go into a decline,” Lady Tevington said with interest. “It can be surprisingly effective. One of the girls I knew from my first season managed a shockingly bad marriage by convincing her Papa that she would waste away.”

Tevington snorted. “I doubt that would work with Sir James Maitland, my dear. He’s too busy nursing his own imaginary illnesses to care about his daughter’s. I wonder if…”

He stopped abruptly and Georgiana giggled. “Don’t be so stuffy, Papa. Do you think she managed to get herself into a compromising position?”

“Something of the kind,” her father admitted dryly. “That would certainly speed the wedding plans along nicely. Don’t consider it, Georgiana. Your mother wants her day in church and a new hat.”

“In our daughter’s case I shall be thankful if she can find a man who meets her extremely high standards,” Lady Tevington said, setting down her tea cup. “How was Sir William Marley? Was Lady Marley with him in Town?”

“No, they’re settled in Sussex for Christmas. He was only there to visit his dentist. Poor fellow had a tooth drawn and could only dine on soup and burgundy when we met. Not that it seemed to upset him after the second bottle. He tells me Lord Chatham is unwell again with the gout. The way Marley is drinking, I should think he’ll be the same way within a year or two.”

“At least the Earl will not have to manage the Government in such great pain this year. I hope his family are taking good care of him.”

The conversation moved on to the repercussions of the recent and dramatic resignation of the Earl of Chatham from the Government over the adoption of a more hardline policy towards the American colonies. Georgiana was interested in politics but had heard most of this before and she allowed her mind to drift. She was considering which gown to wear for the evening party being given at Dennington Hall the following Thursday when her father said:

“By the way, my dear, we have a social problem to solve. I ran into old Dixon and he tells me the new owner has taken possession of Southwinds for the Christmas season.”

“Has he?” Lady Tevington said. She sounded appalled. “Oh dear. I was hoping he would not arrive until next year and that you might meet him informally. We know so little about him. It is awkward to have to decide whether to invite him or not.”

“Well we know he’s a Nabob and he’s just left the East India service with a pile of money he’s unlikely to have come by honestly,” Tevington said grimly. “He’s not married, which makes it a little easier. I’ll have to call I suppose, but you don’t need to.”

“Is he a widower?” Georgiana asked idly.

“Very likely. Or maybe he never married at all. They often don’t. The climate isn’t suitable for ladies. He’s not English by the way. Dutch apparently. I believe he started out with the Dutch company as a clerk and took employment with the English one in Calcutta to improve his prospects. He’s done well by all accounts. Bought Southwinds off old Elworth and has hired a London house. Setting himself up as a merchant with a couple of ships and an office in the City. Dixon had dinner with him in Town. He seemed impressed.”

His wife made a noise of contempt. “How old is he? We all know that Sir John is desperate to find a husband for Amabel.”

“Even he cannot intend to marry the poor girl to a red-faced, middle-aged East India merchant with a shady past and a bulbous nose,” Georgiana said dispassionately. “At least, I presume he does not. I shall have to protect her.”

“I don’t think Amabel Dixon is in need of your protection, my love,” Lady Tevington said. “Give her one whiff of his fortune and I suspect she will fail to notice the bulbous nose and advancing years.”

They laughed together and Lord Tevington shook his head in mock reproof. “The poor man. You have annihilated his character and appearance and married him off to Dixon’s desperate daughter without ever setting eyes on him. I’ll call tomorrow and give you my verdict, and if he seems respectable enough perhaps we can invite him to dinner, my dear. It will be good to have Southwinds occupied again. It’s been closed up for far too long.”

“Well if you do wish to invite him, we will do it separately from the Dixons, my lord. Whatever he is like, I am not having that girl make a spectacle of herself trying to attach him around my dinner table. Ring for them to collect the tray please, Georgiana. I think your father will be ready for his bed early tonight.”

“I will. It’s been a long and tiring day but it improved substantially towards the end. Goodnight, Georgiana.”

***

Georgiana spent the following morning accompanying her mother on a series of errands about the estate, followed by a tedious hour addressing invitation cards for the Christmas Eve party. There were a number of well-born families who had returned to the country for the Christmas season and, over the years, they had developed their own customs and traditions which made the wheels of social interaction run smoothly. It was accepted that the Tevingtons hosted a party on Christmas Eve, the Carletons held a ball at New Year and various other families organised dinners, receptions and breakfasts to keep their neighbours entertained through the season. Georgiana enjoyed it, though she sometimes arrived at Twelfth Night feeling that she needed a month to recover from so much socialising and such enormous quantities of food.

She saw nothing of her father until shortly before the dinner hour when he joined his womenfolk in the parlour once again. He was dressed in riding clothes which was his usual daytime attire in the country. His wife gave him a pointed look and he grinned, taking off his tricorn hat.

“I know, I know. Plenty of time to change, my dear. How was your day?”

“Busy, as you can see. We have finished the invitations and I went to see poor Evans who is still laid up with that broken ankle.”

“Ha. Serves him right to be climbing ladders at his age. We have farmhands for that kind of thing. Is he all right? I’ll go over myself tomorrow; I want to talk to him about the west paddock.”

“He is much better although very bored. I think Mrs Evans would be very pleased if you would distract him a little. Have you had a good day, my lord?”

“Yes, very good. Went about the estate a bit, then gave Samuel the chance to stretch his legs out towards Quorndon. Nice bright day, I hope it holds out for the hunt. And I went to call on our new neighbour.”

“The Nabob? That was very diligent of you, my lord,” his wife said approvingly. “For that you shall have a glass of sherry and tell us your verdict. Is he presentable or not?”

Her husband took the sherry and shot her a rather guilty look. “I think so. I hope you’ll think so. The thing is, my dear, I got rather carried away and invited him to dine.”

His wife looked horrified. “Charles, you did not! Without asking me?”

“Oh nonsense, it’s nothing formal. I warned him he’ll be taking pot luck. We’ve no other guests today after all. He’s got old Stillington in from Melton Mowbray, installing a new kitchen range. I couldn’t leave the poor man to subsist off cold meat, bread and cheese in this weather. It wouldn’t be neighbourly. Anyway I rather liked the fellow.”

Georgiana was laughing. “Don’t look so worried, Mama. At least it will be a private dinner and if his table manners are dreadful you’ll be able to warn all the neighbours before Christmas.”

“I suppose so. Do you think we need to dress formally, my lord?”

“Definitely not, because I told him there was no need for him to do so. That way he can come on horseback. Got a neat-looking bay in his stables. Good hunter, I’d say. I told him I’d ride over one morning and introduce him to Meynell, if he has a mind to hunt.”

“And does he?” his wife said doubtfully. “You said he is Dutch but he must have spent much of his time in India. Is his English good?”

“Emily, you are being foolish now. He’s worked for the Company since he was fifteen. He speaks English as well as I do, though with an accent to be sure. He’s not at all what you thought, I give you my word.”

“No bulbous nose and red face?” Georgiana teased.

Her father turned amused grey eyes onto her. “Not that I could see,” he said. “As a matter of fact he’s not even middle-aged. Made his fortune young, he tells me, working for the company and trading for himself.”

“In slaves?”

“No, miss. In diamonds. And if I’m not mistaken, when Amabel Dixon claps eyes on him we’re going to have to set a guard around him.”

There was a stunned silence, then Lady Tevington said in commanding tones:

“My lord – you are not suggesting that a common merchant would make a suitable husband for our daughter are you?”

“Good God, no. When she deigns to make up her mind, I think we can manage something more suitable for Georgiana. But he’s a single man with good manners and a pile of money and if I’m any judge he’s about to make a lot more. Not a match for a Tevington, but some young female is going to do very well for herself.”

***

Franz van Daan rode the short distance to Tevington Hall composing mental lists of jobs still to be done. If Lord Tevington had not issued his impromptu invitation, he would have been perfectly happy sitting at the library table with a plate of bread and cheese and a bottle of wine, writing instructions to his newly employed office staff in London and the captains of his two merchantmen who were currently overseeing the refitting of his ships in Southampton.

It was not the best time to be away from his desk but London was deserted at present. Even the merchants and bankers of the City had retreated to the comfort of their newly-built mansions. Parliament was in recess and Franz reluctantly accepted that there was nothing that he could do from Town that could not be done from his new country estate. He decided that it would be cowardice to hide in London, to avoid the possible awkwardness of a solitary Christmas in the country where he knew nobody. Social acceptance would come in time, hopefully with the right marriage and the right friends.

Money was the key to that, whatever the aristocracy pretended. At thirty-one he had made a small fortune already, but he had not finished yet. The younger son of a respectable merchant from Antwerp, he had firmly rejected the offer to work in the family business with his brother and had taken himself off to India, initially as a clerk with the Dutch East India Company. He had quickly recognised that there was no future in that crumbling organisation and had found an opening in the English company instead. He had worked hard, learned fast and taken every chance he had been given. He had been ruthless and at times even unscrupulous in trade, though never in lives unlike some of his counterparts.

He had reached the limits of what the Company could offer him and had weighed up his options. Remaining in the East and trading outside the company was difficult and likely to make enemies of men he might need as friends in the future. Returning to Europe and setting up for himself was a better option. He chose London instead of Antwerp because he had good contacts in the City. He chose, right from the start, to spend money setting himself up as a gentleman. He did not yet have the lifestyle to go with it, but Southwinds and his London house were a statement of intent.

Franz knew that Tevington’s invitation had been issued on a whim after a friendly discussion about horses, reliable local tradesmen and the political turmoil in London. He wondered if the man had regretted it before he reached home and wondered if the wife and daughter would be tactfully absent for the meal, leaving the two men to enjoy a comfortable masculine dinner together. Franz would be perfectly happy with that. If his acquaintance with Tevington flourished, other invitations would follow.

He was a little surprised to be shown into an elegant drawing room where the ladies were present. None of the family had dressed formally and Franz did not feel particularly out of place in his well-cut dark suit. Tevington came forward to greet him with a slightly forced jollity which told Franz that he had probably been scolded by his wife for inviting a stranger who might not be a suitable acquaintance.

“Welcome, Mr van Daan. Come and be introduced. My dears, this is Mr Franz van Daan of Antwerp and more lately of Calcutta. He is of course the new owner of Southwinds. Sir, this is my wife, Lady Tevington and my daughter, Miss Georgiana Henthorne.”

Lady Tevington offered her hand graciously. “It is good to meet you, Mr van Daan. I understand you are currently without a kitchen at Southwinds.”

“I am, ma’am. What is worse however is that I am without a cook. The man I employed in London is currently on the road with my valet, two footmen and the rest of my luggage. They are evidently taking a circuitous route. I am very grateful for this.”

Lady Tevington laughed. She had a nice laugh and a pleasant manner. Despite the fact that she had clearly been pushed into this by her husband she was friendly and welcoming and by the time they sat down at the dining table, Franz was beginning to enjoy himself.

Lord Tevington asked him questions about his time in India and his wife made tactful enquiries about his family in Antwerp. Neither made it feel like an interrogation, although Franz was sure that the information would be conveyed to their friends and neighbours along with a recommendation about his suitability as a guest. He thought it was going well and felt a sense of gratitude to the Factor in charge of his district in Calcutta who had bullied the boys under his charge mercilessly into learning languages, perfect accounting practices and the manners of a gentleman. Franz had always been a quick learner.

The girl was quiet at first and Franz wondered if she was naturally shy or if she had been instructed not to engage too much with an unmarried gentleman who could not possibly be seen as a suitable husband for the daughter of a Viscount. Franz studied her without being too obvious and decided that a man on the lookout for a wife could find no fault with Georgiana Henthorne. She was of medium height for a woman and was probably in her early twenties. She was dressed in an elegant French-style robe in green and white with flounced sleeves, the skirts worn over modest hoops and she wore her dark brown hair swept up to display an attractive oval face with lovely grey eyes and good skin.

The food was excellent and Franz decided that this was definitely better than a cold supper with only work for company. He could sense his hostess relaxing as the meal progressed.

“What made you decide to settle in England, Mr van Daan, rather than returning to your family?”

“Ambition, ma’am. London is the trading centre of the world. I’ve worked for the East India Company for twelve years. I’ve made friends and good contacts and they’re all based in London. I was a boy when I left Antwerp. I’ve been back home to visit once or twice, but the business I want to build will be based in England.”

“An honest answer,” Tevington said. “What do your family make of it?”

“My mother died five years ago and father followed her two years later. His business is run by my older brother Andries. He trades largely with Africa and travels between Antwerp and Cape Town. He’s recently built a house there.”

“I am sure your parents would be very proud of you,” Lady Tevington said warmly. “Do you stay in Leicestershire for the Christmas season?”

“I do, ma’am. There’s a good deal to do at Southwinds. I’ve taken on Sir Jasper Elworth’s old estate manager and he’ll run the place when I’m away but I’d like to get the house in order.”

Her ladyship gave a little laugh. “In case of a future Mrs van Daan?”

“I hope so one day, ma’am. Not for a while. I see a lot of hard work and some more travelling in my immediate future.”

“You are a very ambitious young man. It is admirable. Still, I hope you will take some time off during this Christmas to meet your neighbours. We always give a party on Christmas Eve. Not a formal ball but there will be dancing and all the young people in the district will attend. I hope we can count on you.”

Unexpectedly, Georgiana Henthorne raised her eyes from her plate. “What my mother is trying to tell you, Mr van Daan, is that there are plenty of respectable unmarried girls in the area and it never hurts to plan ahead a little.”

Lady Tevington gave a splutter of indignant denial. The girl was studying Franz with dancing grey eyes, inviting him to share the joke. Franz was taken aback but her sheer effrontery made him laugh aloud.

“Thank you so much for the warning, Miss Henthorne. Do you have anybody in particular in mind for me, or do you require a longer acquaintance before you select my future wife?”

The girl gave a peal of laughter and Franz decided that there was not a particle of shyness in Lord Tevington’s apparently reserved daughter.

“I have a number of possibilities,” she said. “But if you are not currently hanging out for a wife, you may miss out on some of them. Still, I will introduce you to them all and you must ask for advice when you need it.”

“Georgiana, you will be putting poor Mr van Daan to the blush,” her mother said in mild reproof, though Franz could see that Tevington was laughing.

“Am I? I’m sorry, Mr van Daan, I am just teasing a little. And I do think it right to put you on your guard. We do not have respectable gentlemen of fortune moving into the district by the dozen. You are about to become terrifyingly popular.”

Franz raised his glass in an ironic salute. “I look forward to it, Miss Henthorne,” he said solemnly.

***

After dinner, Lord Tevington took his guest on a tour of the stables. The Dutchman declined an offer to drink tea with them afterwards, citing pressure of work and set off into a dark, frosty night back to Southwinds. His lordship saw him off then returned to the drawing room.

“Very interesting man. Shouldn’t be surprised to see him do very well in the City. He’s clearly intelligent, he’s not afraid of hard work and he has the manners of a gentleman.”

“Clearly he is from a respectable family. If we can save him from the clutches of Amabel Dixon, my lord, I can think of a number of girls who would do very well with him. Elizabeth Jackson comes to mind. She is possibly a little young for him, but he is in no hurry it seems. Or there is Jane Betteridge. A very sweet girl.”

“I knew it,” Georgiana said triumphantly. “Thank goodness I had the wit to put him upon his guard a little. Elizabeth Jackson is a vapid ninny and Jane Betteridge would bore him senseless in a week. If you are going to choose the man a wife, Mama, you had better spread your net a little wider. There are plenty of interesting girls in London.”

“It is unlikely that he will be moving in the same circles as us in London, Georgiana,” her mother said reprovingly.

“Do you think so? Well I have only spent three hours in the man’s company, but I predict he’ll be presented at court within three years. Services to trade. Possibly a knighthood in the future. A seat in Parliament even. I don’t think there are any limits to Mr Franz van Daan’s ambitions, Mama. I’m surprised you can’t see it.”

“I have a feeling your daughter is right, my dear,” Tevington said. He sounded amused. “He’d be a fool to throw himself away on a girl who might hold him back in the future. And I agree, Georgiana. If he attends our dance, he is going to be the object of half the matchmaking Mamas in Leicestershire. Perhaps instead of offering to find him a wife, you should be offering to protect him.”

“My lord, that is not at all suitable,” his wife said repressively. “I would not want to give the young man ideas.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll engage to make it clear to him that Georgiana is going to marry a Marquess at the very least.”

“A Duke. I insist upon a Duke.”

“I don’t think there are any Dukes available, my love,” her mother said regretfully.

“Well if there are, they’re all corpulent, related to royalty and engaged in wholly unsuitable relationships with women of a certain kind. Very well, no Dukes. But as long as Mr van Daan is very clear that he cannot possibly marry me, I don’t see why we cannot be friends, do you? He is a very interesting man.”

“Exactly,” her father said warmly. “I’m taking him over to meet Meynell in the morning. I’ll drop a tactful hint on the way, just to be sure, but I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about. That young man’s mind is focussed on increasing his fortune, not matrimony. I’m going to dine with him in London in the new year. He says he can introduce me to a fellow who can put me in the way of picking up some India stock that’s not generally available.”

“Useful and interesting,” Georgiana said with approval. “I see we are of one mind, dearest Papa. Make quite sure he knows that if he makes any attempt to propose, he will receive a severe set down. I am off to bed. All this civility has quite worn me out.”

It was very cold in her bedroom and Georgiana shivered as her maid helped her to undress, unpinned her hair and brushed it out. The girl slid the warming pan between the sheets but when she had gone, Georgiana did not blow out the candle. Instead she got out of bed and pulled on her warm robe then went to the long window which overlooked the south lawn. She opened the casement and leaned out.

It was a cold night with a bright half moon spilling silver across the lawn. The sky was an inky canvas dotted with stars and Georgiana looked up, trying to spot constellations that she recognised. A childhood governess had nurtured her unfeminine interest in astronomy and Georgiana had a book which had been published in France, beautifully illustrated with colourful charts. It had been a great incentive to improve her French.

Franz van Daan spoke French fluently. She had been curious and had dropped a phrase into the conversation and watched him pick it up and return a neat response. His eyes had sparkled with amusement at her surprise and he had informed her gravely that he also spoke and wrote Urdu, Arabic, Sanskrit and Persian. The education of ambitious junior East India Company writers was terrifyingly thorough and Georgiana had absolutely no doubt that Franz van Daan had been close to the top of every class. He was a man on his way up and he would neglect nothing that might help him on his way.

His eyes were a deep blue. He wore his fair hair in a plain style, neatly tied with a black ribbon. She wondered if he wore a wig on formal occasions. Both men and women often did although Lord Tevington restricted its use to his time in London, preferring to be comfortable at home. Georgiana decided that she would hate to see Franz van Daan bewigged and powdered. The candlelight had struck gold off his hair and she had felt an unsuitable longing to run her fingers through it, to see if it felt as clean and natural as it looked.

She was in trouble and she knew it. It was one thing to conceive a childhood passion for her French dancing master when she was fifteen. The man had been ten years older with a value for his job and Georgiana’s infatuation had died an easy and natural death. Since then she had grown up, had danced and talked and flirted with many men of her own social standing and had not felt the remotest interest in kissing any one of them. She had thought about kissing the Dutchman within fifteen minutes of sitting down at the table with him and for a while, the powerful tug of attraction was so strong that she had been too shy to speak to him at all.

He was not, of course, a suitable husband. Georgiana did not need her parents to tell her that. She had been raised within the rarefied limits of the upper ten thousand of English society where the rules of marriage and family were very clear and where there was no possibility of marrying to disoblige her family. It had never occurred to Georgiana to consider it until she had met those laughing blue eyes across the dinner table and wondered if he felt it too.

She was beginning to shiver, even in her warm robe. Reluctantly she drew back into her room and closed the window. The room was even colder than before. The sheets still retained a little of the warmth from the warming pan. Georgiana got into bed with her robe still on and waited until she began to warm up from the piled blankets and heavy quilt.

She had a decision to make. The correct thing to do was to set aside any unsuitable ideas about Franz van Daan as a potential husband and keep a safe distance. That would be easy enough once the busy Christmas period ended. He was not looking for a wife and she could flirt a little and tease him about his prospects and then allow him to go back to London assuming her indifferent. She would recover from this brief, fierce infatuation and one day she would meet him again in some elegant salon to which his wealth, charm and probably an intelligent marriage had gained him entrance. Georgiana had absolutely no doubt he would achieve his aim. She did not think he knew the meaning of self-doubt.

The alternative was to spend these next weeks getting to know the man. There would be ample opportunity. Her father had taken a liking to Franz van Daan and Viscount Tevington was generous with his hospitality and his time when he decided a man was worthy of it. It was possible that further acquaintance with the Dutchman would change her mind. It was possible that he would not like her in return, or that his resolve not to enter into a relationship at this time was fixed and could not be shifted by a reserved young woman he hardly knew.

Sleep eluded her. She fidgeted for a while longer then got up and paced around the room, trying to warm up and also trying to calm her restless mood. It was so unlike her to be this agitated that for a while she did not understand. Eventually, when she was finally tired enough to get back into bed and warm enough not to mind the cold sheets, Georgiana understood.

It was an opportunity for something different. She had accepted the serene, well-arranged course of her life so far without question. Her one small rebellion had been her refusal to contract a marriage of convenience but that had not really disturbed the smooth flow of her parents’ plans for her. There was plenty of time; she was still young. The right man would come along and would offer for her. She would marry and move into the new flow of his life and his family. Children would come. Nothing would change.

Franz van Daan was an aberration; a minor tributary turning unexpectedly into a waterfall, taking her off the edge of her well-ordered life into the unknown. She had spent precisely three hours in his company. No well-bred young woman would ever throw herself at a man in this way. It was unthinkable. She lay quietly on the edge of sleep, a thought drifting through her mind.

“Where do I start?”

***

Franz was not sure whether to be grateful or exasperated at his sudden adoption into local society. He would have been satisfied on this first visit to his new home to receive the odd dinner invitation. Instead he found himself being swept up into a whirlwind of social activities. As an observer, he was fascinated at how it all worked. As a participant, he could have done with an evening off.

While Mr Stillington of Melton Mowbray finished his work in the kitchen and updated the plumbing at Southwinds, Franz was invited to dine each day at Tevington Park. Sometimes the family dined alone and at other times there were guests invited. He was introduced to a bewildering collection of local families and was beginning to wonder if he was about to disgrace himself socially through his inability to remember the names, family connections and social position of his new acquaintances. He quickly realised however that Tevington had deputed his bright-eyed daughter to help the newcomer through this first difficult phase.

Every other day, he rode out with the hunt, accompanied by Mr Meynell and a collection of local gentlemen. No ladies joined the party and Franz was glad. He had ridden out several times with Lord Tevington and his daughter and admired her seat on the horse, her light hands on the reins and her delightful figure in the fitted riding habit. At the same time, he thought that the hard riding of the hunting field must be horrendously difficult for a woman riding side-saddle.

As a man stepping out of his social class, Franz had a finely tuned sense of when he was being tested and he could see the fine young gentlemen watching his performance on horseback. It did not bother him. He had hunted a variety of quarry on the hills and plains of India and had ridden for his life on a few occasions when caught out by enemy cavalry or simply local bandits. He was not a soldier, but he had learned how to defend himself at need and how to get himself out of trouble. He suspected that he could have outridden most of these gentlemen but he made no attempt to demonstrate it. He certainly had no particular need to be in at the kill. Foxes were attractive creatures and he was perfectly happy to remain silent as one slipped away from danger through the undergrowth while the hounds were distracted.

Hunting acquaintances led to other invitations. The newcomer had purchased a fine estate so could be presumed to have money. His manners seemed to be acceptable. His background was less certain, but a merchant in Antwerp and a spell with the Company was nothing to be ashamed of. He was young and unmarried and those gentlemen with daughters or nieces or sisters in need of a husband were quick to try to draw him in. As Miss Henthorne had predicted, Franz was suddenly very popular.

He would have become quickly bored with the experience if she had not been present at most of the receptions, dinners and parties. Franz looked forward to seeing her. She was an endless source of amusing gossip and useful information. She was also, he realised, unfailingly ready to step into any awkward moment. Her ready smile and serene manner were invaluable. She was a natural diplomat and she was going to make some lucky man an excellent wife.

Franz had tactfully questioned her father about the matter. They had quickly reached an understanding about his own position. He was not ready to marry yet and the Tevington heiress was beyond his reach. With that established, Tevington talked freely of his daughter.

“She’s a very good girl. Clever, witty and good company. She has excellent social skills. She has so much to offer a man, it’s hard to understand why she’s not married yet.”

“She’s still very young, surely?”

“Twenty-two. By no means old cattish yet, but it’s time she took the matter seriously. I think my wife worries more than I do. I’m hale and hearty yet, good for a few more years. But I admit I’d like to see her settled. It’s not that she didn’t take. She’s spent several seasons in Town and she was very popular. It’s just that she can’t seem to settle on anyone.”

“She probably needs more time, that’s all.”

“Or the right man,” Tevington said. “He’ll come along, I’ve no doubt.”

Franz had no doubt either. This was not the right time and she was not the right woman, but nevertheless he was aware of an uncomfortable pull of attraction to Viscount Tevington’s charming daughter. It was fortunate that their respective positions had been made so clear from the start. It made for an easy friendship and Franz did not feel any need to be careful about raising false hopes. Treading carefully in this surprisingly complex new world, the one thing he did not need to worry about was Georgiana Henthorne.

In between his social obligations he was frantically busy. Letters came in daily: from the captains of his new ships, from merchants whom he wished to cultivate as customers and colleagues, and from his man of business in London who had endless questions for his client. At home he rode about his new estate, getting to know the land and the people. Franz was city bred and had spent his adult life under the baking sun of India, in offices and warehouses and factories. He knew absolutely nothing about estate management and was not going to be able to learn over one freezing winter. However, he wanted to ensure that Mr Jack Grenville, who had run Southwinds under its former owner, realised that he intended to know as much as he could before returning to London and to learn a lot more in the future.

He was joined, a few days before Christmas, by Miss Henthorne. He saw her from a distance, riding towards Tevington Park from the direction of the village, her groom trotting decorously behind her. Franz had been trying to absorb far too much information about the lambing season from Mr Grenville and one of his shepherds. He lifted a hand in greeting to the girl and she turned her horse off the road and cantered over to join him.

“You’re out early, Miss Henthorne.”

“I had an errand at the haberdashery shop in Ingate. A matter of matching some ribbons for my ballgown. You are out early yourself, sir, as always. Do you never sleep?”

“Very well, when I finally get to my bed. I’m glad to have met you, I’m wondering if you would do me a favour. There’s a book I promised to lend to your father. Do you have time to wait while I fetch it and you can deliver it to him? I’m not expecting to see him now until Christmas Eve.”

“Of course I will. Though I think he would appreciate it if you delivered it yourself. Why don’t you ride over with me and give your horse a run out? He must be bored with trotting sedately around the estate. We could take the cross-country route beyond Widdrington Forest and give them a proper gallop.”

Franz felt a little lift of pleasure at the thought. “If you don’t mind waiting while I fetch the book?”

“I’ll come with you.” She seemed to catch his expression and laughed. “I will wait outside very properly with Collier, I promise you. You won’t be compromised by inviting a young unchaperoned female into your bachelor establishment.”

Franz laughed, turning his horse to walk beside her. “I’d be more worried about your reputation than mine. Although it occurs to me how ridiculous that is. The house is crawling with servants plus a crew of workmen repairing the south chimney. We would be hard put to manage even to hold hands without an audience.”

He was not sure if he had spoken inappropriately but she laughed. “They make up these rules without proper thought,” she said. “It is impossible to remember them all.”

“I’m still learning. You don’t seem to have any difficulty at all from what I can see, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you put a foot wrong.”

To his surprise, she looked a little sad. “No, it is true. I’m very boring.”

“Or very clever.”

“Sir?”

“One of the things a varied career has taught me, Miss Henthorne, is how pointless it is to rail against every petty regulation when most of them really don’t matter. Far better to appear agreeable and save your battles for the important ones.”

Her expression lightened. “I’m so glad to hear you say that because it’s what I’ve often thought. Though I’m surprised. You don’t strike me as a particularly compliant person.”

Franz grinned. “I’m not, naturally. I was a boy when I joined the Dutch company and the schoolmaster they assigned me to had a heavy hand with the cane. At school when I was younger, I was always in trouble for fighting or for getting involved in some stupid prank. Old Van Der Molen beat that out of me before I’d reached India. At least he thought he did.”

“He sounds horrible. I hope he had a miserable life.”

“He certainly behaved as though he did. I don’t know what happened to him after I left to take up a post with the English company. I’ve often wondered.”

“How did that come about?” the girl asked curiously. “It isn’t usual, is it?”

“Not at all. Writerships – that’s what they call the junior clerks in the Company – are usually a matter of patronage and are much sought after. I was simply in the right place at the right time. I’d been in India for almost two years by then and was beginning to think I’d made the wrong decision. The Dutch company is in decline, certainly in mainland India. It’s been reduced to a minor player. I was considering trying to arrange a transfer to Batavia where there’d be more opportunities for an ambitious young man. At that point I fell in with an Englishman, a senior factor who’d been sent to negotiate with a minor Indian prince on the borders of Dutch influence. It was a delicate situation and Van Der Molen handled it very badly. He got us kicked out of the trading franchise then and there but I ended up helping Mr Sanderson because his clerk had died of fever during the journey.”

“What did Mr van der Molen think of that?”

“It was his idea. I think he hoped that lending assistance to the English, who were clearly about to win the franchise, might give us a way back in at some later stage. It didn’t of course. The Company had that particular contract sewn up tightly within months. I stayed with Sanderson throughout the process, improved my English and did a lot of the ground work. He was apparently very impressed and asked if I’d stay on.”

“You must have done well.”

“I almost worked myself to death to win that position.”

“I admire your determination, Mr van Daan, but will you forgive me if I say that while it is an admirable trait to achieve a short-term goal, it is not wise or healthy as a long-term way of life. I meant what I said earlier. I’ve no idea when you sleep. You are up and out about your land as soon as it is light; you spend hours working late by lamplight, which will ruin your eyes if you are not careful. The only time you appear to relax is when you are socialising. But I do not think you are socialising at all. You are still working to build useful contacts and to establish your place in English society.”

Franz was so surprised that he could not speak for a while. They rode in silence with the groom at some distance behind them. As they rounded a copse of oak trees, the impressive façade of the manor house appeared before them. Franz shot her a quick glance.

“It feels wrong to leave you standing on the driveway,” he said, feeling unaccustomed awkwardness. “I know where the book is, I’ll be as quick as I can.”

“After my rude interference in your life, Mr van Daan, I shall not be surprised if you close the front door and fail to reappear.”

“No. Oh God, no, I would never do that. You weren’t rude at all. I just…look wait there. I will be ten minutes.”

He sped into the house to find the book, his thoughts a jumbled whirl. She had spoken so serenely but her words had cut through any subterfuge with surgical precision. He was appalled to think that his motives were so obvious.

He re-joined her in considerably less than ten minutes and they walked their horses back up the long drive. Franz knew he needed to say something. He could not remember the last time he had been this tongue-tied around anybody. It was embarrassing.

“I’m so sorry,” she said unexpectedly, with quiet sincerity. “I’ve genuinely upset you, haven’t I?”

“No, of course not. Or at least…not upset exactly. I’m ashamed. It’s as if you’ve held up a mirror before me and I’m not that keen on what I see.”

“That wasn’t my intention at all, Mr van Daan. I wasn’t trying to criticise you. I was trying to express concern for you.”

“Concern?” Franz said, surprised. “There’s nothing to be concerned about, ma’am. But if I’m going about the district looking as though I’m using your father to get me introductions to my neighbours so that I can use them as well, I’m deeply embarrassed.”

“Nobody thinks that, sir.”

“Clearly you do, ma’am. You just said so.”

“Oh dear, I’ve made such a mull of this.” She lifted worried grey eyes to his face. “I’m truly sorry. What I was trying to say is that you don’t need to try so hard at all, sir. Everybody likes you. Your social manners are impeccable and at least three young ladies are devastated at your reluctance to contemplate matrimony at this time. It’s just that to me, you never seem to just relax. And I don’t think that’s because you’re using people. I just think you don’t have any idea how to relax at all.”

She seemed so sincere that Franz felt a little of his discomfort recede. He managed a smile.

“I suppose that’s better than being seen as an unrepentant Machiavelli.”

She frowned a little. “I don’t know what that means.”

“And you probably shouldn’t. I’m not sure his writings would be considered suitable for a young lady. He was an Italian politician and writer a few hundred years ago with some interesting ideas on the pursuit of power. I read him a couple of years back on an interminable sea voyage to Cape Town and I found him interesting, though I really hope I have not accidentally taken on board his ideas. How do the young ladies know about my determination not to be married just yet?”

“I suspect my father dropped a hint to their parents. No girl wants to be seen to throw herself at a gentleman who has no intention of reciprocating.”

“I should find a way to thank him. Although it doesn’t seem to have deterred Miss Dixon.”

“Nothing short of a cavalry charge could deter Miss Dixon.”

“I wish I had a company of the Bengal lancers with me then. Do I seem bored in company at times, Miss Henthorne? Please be honest. This is rather new to me, though I’m doing my best to look as though I know what I’m doing. I thought I was getting it right.”

“You are. I’ve not heard a work of criticism, even from my mother, who is a very high stickler.”

“Apart from you. What is it that I’m doing to make you think I’m calculating in my choice of friendships?”

She seemed to consider the question seriously. “You’re not calculating exactly. It’s just that there are times when I feel you’re forcing yourself to go out, to be social. Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“It is the right thing to do.”

“It’s not a duty, Mr van Daan. It’s supposed to be enjoyable.”

“It is. Most of the time. A lot of the time. It’s just…”

“Go on.”

“I have a list in my head that never ends. A list of tasks. Another list of ideas. Of plans for the future. I tick things off on those lists and all the time I add more to the end of them. I’m thirty-one years old and I’ve done well enough so far…”

“Well enough?” Georgiana threw out her arm in exasperation, indicating the spreading lawns of his property. “I have never in my life met a man who has achieved all this by the age of thirty-one by the work of his own hands. Not inherited – earned! That is extraordinary.”

He felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment and suspected it showed on his face. He decided he did not want to hide it from her.

“Thank you. But I want more.”

“How much more?”

“I don’t know yet. Perhaps I’ll recognise it when I get there.”

She looked at him steadily. “That sounds as though it may take a few years, Mr van Daan. I think what I was trying to say to you earlier is that you might want to think about how you spend your time along the way. There is no point in arriving at a destination alone and weary with no energy to enjoy your achievement.”

Franz smiled at her. “You’re an extraordinary young woman, Miss Henthorne. Thank you. I’m going to give that some serious thought. In the meantime, you promised we could gallop. Hans here is longing to stretch his legs.”

She returned his smile and touched her heel to her mare’s flank. “I think that is an excellent idea, before I manage to upset you all over again, sir.”

***

The cutting of the yule log was an ancient tradition which had died out in many households, but Lord Tevington had made it one of the rituals of Christmas Eve. Just before noon, a dozen estate workers set off to the tree previously selected. As many of the household staff who could find the time accompanied them down to the forest and the estate children ran shrieking ahead.

While her mother was supervising preparations for the evening party, Georgiana walked down to the forest to watch the yule log being cut. It was dry and very cold, with grey leaden skies which made her wonder if it might snow. She was wrapped in an old woollen cloak, too shabby to wear out and about but perfect for a muddy walk in the woods. The men sang as they set about their work and the spectators joined in. Georgiana loved the traditional carols, many of which were so old that their origin was long forgotten.

As the enormous log was being tied with ropes so that it could be dragged up to the house, a voice hailed her and she turned with a little skip of her heart to see Franz van Daan dismounting from his horse at the edge of the trees. She walked to meet him. He was dressed plainly as always in dark-blue riding clothes with good, leather boots and a modest hat. She saw his gaze flicker over her hooded cloak and felt herself flush a little.

“Mr van Daan, you have caught me wholly unprepared. I must look like a scarecrow.”

“You look as lovely as always. I was just thinking how pretty your hair looks like that. Much softer.”

“Not at all fashionable.”

“It should be. Fashion has a lot to answer for. I was on my way over to the house when I heard the singing and I was curious. What is going on?”

“They are cutting the yule log, sir. It’s a very old custom and not much observed any more, but our family still does it.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

He was watching with amused interest as some of the women and children came forward with ribbons and garlands to decorate the log.

“The log will be dragged up to the house. Helping to bring it home is supposed to ensure good luck for the coming year. We set it up in that enormous fireplace in the hall and pour brandy or wine over it to welcome it to the house. It is lit with a torch made from a piece of wood left over from last year’s Yule Log. It is then kept burning steadily for the twelve days of Christmas.”

“Good heavens. Does it never go out?”

“It never has. Our staff have long experience with banking the fire and keeping it burning slowly and the estate children take it in turns to sleep by the fire and tend it through the night. They love doing it. It’s warm and cosy and they are constantly fed treats. Much better than a cold bed in a cottage loft.”

Franz was laughing. “Well, given the tasks I’ve set myself for this year, I am in need of my share of the luck, Miss Henthorne. Give me a moment; I’ll get Clinton to take my horse up to the stables. Save me a space on the ropes.”

There was laughter and more singing as the huge log was dragged up the driveway to the main door of the house. Franz did not know any of the carols but seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the festive atmosphere. It was hot work and after a short time he took off his riding cloak and gave it to one of the younger children who ran alongside the procession.

Georgiana watched him and found herself silently laughing. She had seldom seen him so joyously unselfconscious. Her own participation in the ritual was purely symbolic and although she held onto the rope she allowed the men to do the work. Her companion, in contrast, threw himself into the task with enthusiasm. She could see the effort in his face and found herself admiring the muscles across his broad shoulders as he hauled on the rope. He had quickly taken charge of the gang, calling out to the children to race ahead and remove small obstacles from the path of the log.

Up at the house, more of the male servants came to help drag the log to the fireplace, where Lord Tevington and his wife stood ready for the welcome ritual. There was laughter and more singing but also a moment of quiet solemnity as the flickering fire caught and took hold. Cider was passed round to the whole party, with wine for the gentlefolk. Franz offered a toast to his host and his family and the estate workers drank with enthusiasm.

Afterwards they drifted away to their various duties. Georgiana sipped her wine.

“You are early, Mr van Daan. I was not expecting to see you until the dance.”

“I’ve invited Mr van Daan to dine before the festivities, my dear. In fact your mother and I have invited him to spend Christmas with us. Just a couple of nights. No reason for him to spend the season alone in that big house. I sent your man up to unpack for you, sir and when you’re ready I’ll show you to your room.”

“I’m very grateful, sir.”

Deep blue eyes, alight with amusement, settled upon Georgiana’s surprised face.

“Do not look so concerned, Miss Henthorne. I have left my note tablets and ledgers at home, I give you my word. I believe it is time to practice taking my leisure time more seriously. I hope you approve.”

Georgiana could not help laughing and was glad that the opportunity for banter concealed her joy at knowing he would be with them over the Christmas-tide.

“I am glad to hear it, Mr van Daan. Are you musical?”

“Not at all, but I can tell that you are. I could hear you singing even over that raucous bellowing from the log bearers.”

“My girl is very talented,” Tevington said warmly. “Tomorrow she shall play and sing for us. Come, sir, finish your wine. We’ll need time to change before dinner.”

***

Franz took his time over dressing. He had ordered a new suit for the occasion: dark-blue silk over a snowy linen shirt, with a sober black silk stock. The only wig he possessed was in his dressing room in London. He wore it when he knew it would be expected or when he wanted to look older and more serious. He loathed the feeling of a wig on his head and wished they had not become so essential in business circles. Tonight he might be stigmatised as a country bumpkin for his fair, unpowdered hair, but there was only one person he wanted to impress and he thought she would prefer him like this.

There were a dozen guests for dinner; friends and family invited to spend Christmas. Franz was introduced to the Honourable Edward Henthorne with considerable interest. The man was around his own age, slender and elegant with good bones and a rather long nose. He bowed elaborately over his cousin’s hand and seemed pleased to see her but showed no sign of flirting with her. Franz decided that the man could be tolerated after all.

Henthorne was the only younger gentleman present during dinner. Franz found himself seated between an elderly spinster cousin and Miss Henthorne. His host’s daughter was dazzling in another version of the robe à la française. This one was made of silver-grey silk which seemed to match her glorious eyes. It had a fitted bodice and wide open skirt over a green underskirt. She wore her hair up, with an arrangement of silk flowers artfully positioned in the centre, matching an identical arrangement on the bodice of the gown. It was the most elaborate outfit he had seen her wear and she carried it well. Franz divided his attention politely between the rather deaf cousin and Miss Henthorne and decided that she looked beautiful and that he was definitely in serious trouble.

His growing attraction to Lord Tevington’s serene daughter had crept up on him so gradually that it had taken him by surprise when she had expressed her frank concern about his working hours. He had been a little embarrassed at how easily she had seen through him but he had also been ridiculously happy that she had clearly spent so much time studying him.

It gave him hope that she was not indifferent to him, but hope was of no use at all, given his situation. His own declared decision not to marry yet was no barrier at all, since a man could change his mind at any time and a man who had spent more than a month getting to know Miss Georgiana Henthorne would be an idiot not to. The problem lay with her parents. Lord Tevington had made it pleasantly clear that his ambitions for his daughter placed her well out of the reach of a self-made Dutchman with a possibly murky past on the Indian sub-continent. Franz realised that it was Lord Tevington’s honesty that had brought about this situation in the first place. If he had thought for one moment that he might have been expected to declare for the girl he would have kept her firmly at arm’s length. Knowing that marriage was not a possibility had opened up the path to friendship for both of them.

He had not intended to fall in love with her, or with anybody else. Marriage and romance were by no means the same thing and Franz had a list of requirements for the woman he intended to make his wife one day. There was no hurry about it and he had quite enjoyed getting to know Georgiana and silently ticking each item off the list as he observed them in this calm, intelligent young woman. Metaphorically he had torn up the list weeks ago. She was perfect and he loved her and all he needed to work out was how to tell her so and persuade her to listen.

They danced together several times. He was a competent dancer; it had been part of his social education in his early days in India. He could remember, with some amusement, being obliged to partner the other young gentlemen during dancing lessons because there were no girls to practice with. Miss Henthorne was a graceful dancer but did not make him feel awkward for his lack of skill. He decided he would work to get better at it, so that she would enjoy dancing with him more.

There was no shortage of girls at this party. Chaperones stood or sat around the edge of the rooms or played cards in the small salon. Servants circulated with champagne, fruit punch and lemonade. Young bucks in dazzling silk evening suits preened themselves like gaudy peacocks. Franz watched them suspiciously as they solicited Georgiana for dances. He was reassured again. She was charming to all of them but clearly treated them as childhood friends rather than suitors. Franz was beginning to realise why her mother was getting concerned. He felt a sudden qualm in case that was exactly how she saw him.

He did not expect to get an opportunity to speak to her alone this evening and felt a little jolt of surprise when he returned from a necessary call of nature to find himself alone in the hall with her. She had paused beside the big fireplace and was looking down at the yule log, a wistful expression on her face. The log was temporarily unattended and he wondered why.

“Miss Henthorne, what are you doing out here alone?”

She looked up in surprise. “Mr van Daan. I am guarding the yule log, as you see. The Gatley twins are on duty for the night but they have been tempted away by honey cakes in the kitchen so I promised to keep watch for them. They will be back soon.”

Franz hoped briefly that the boys made themselves sick on honey cakes and did not return for half an hour. He shot a covert glance around the hall, which was newly draped with greenery cut from the forest and gardens that day.

“Are you enjoying yourself, sir, or have those lists in your head begun to intrude?”

He looked back at her in surprise. “Not at all; they couldn’t be further from my thoughts. I was reconnoitring the area trying to decide if we are about to be interrupted or if we can manage a rational conversation for a few minutes.”

She broke into laughter. “I think you will be safe until the end of this dance. It’s a very intricate measure and after several glasses of wine or punch a lot of people get it wrong. This makes it a popular spectator sport. It is also why I am out here, avoiding damage to my slippers or my gown. I shall return in time for something more dignified.”

“Will you dance that with me, ma’am?”

“If you would like me to, although I have a horrible feeling that I’ve monopolised you rather badly this evening and will be unpopular with the other girls.”

“Do you care?”

“Not very much.”

“Good.” Franz took a deep breath and a step closer. “Miss Henthorne, I’ve something to tell you and I’m not sure how you’re going to take it. I’m also conscious that I’m gabbling like an idiot in case we’re interrupted.”

“Slow down, sir. If we are interrupted there will be plenty of other opportunities to talk over the next few days.”

Her serene manner calmed him as it always did. He smiled at her. “So there will. I’ll be around until after twelfth night but then I have to go up to London and probably on to Southampton. I’ve so much to do there.”

“Those exasperating lists.”

“I’ve decided to start putting them on paper, to keep my head clear.”

“That’s a very good idea, sir. You’ll be missed in the district. I hope you’ll be back next summer, if business allows. Or perhaps we will meet in London. Not at balls and receptions necessarily, but I’m sure my parents will want you to dine with us.”

“I really hope they do.”

She was quick to pick up on his tone. “Why would they not?”

“Because I’m about to do something I’ve been specifically asked not to do. I’m about to ask their daughter to set aside her hopes of a grand alliance and to marry me instead.”

Georgiana stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment. She did not flinch or back away. He waited, trying to remember to breathe. It was a genuine effort.

“Do you mean now? Or in some distant future, when you have made your fortune three times over?”

“Now. As soon as we can manage it. I don’t want to wait. I realise I’ve been thinking of a wife as another item on one of those lists. She’s not. You’re not. I love you and I want to marry you. And I hope I’ve not imagined that you might say yes.”

She looked utterly shocked for a moment. Franz fought the urge to babble some more. Tentatively he held out a hand. After a long, agonising wait, she took it.

“Well, Georgiana?”

“Franz.”

The sound of his name in her gentle tones made him shiver a little. He was abruptly thankful for the likelihood of immediate interruption before he forgot himself and demonstrated all the ways in which he was not, and probably never would be, a gentleman. Instead he raised her gloved hand to his lips.

“Will you?”

“My father is never going to agree, love.”

“I hope he’ll come around. But if he refuses to do so, you don’t need his permission. I’ll arrange a special licence and we can be married very quietly.”

“I suppose you are about to tell me that my dowry and inheritance means nothing to you.”

“Yes. Not that I’d refuse it, mind. Business is business. But I’ll take you however you come to me, geliefde. If you’ll have me.”

“I’ll have you, Franz van Daan. At least…before you decide, there’s something you should know.”

Her expression made him want to laugh. “It cannot be that bad, my love.”

“It is very bad. I planned this.”

He stared at her in considerable surprise. “You planned what?”

“You and I. Falling in love. That first evening when you came to dinner…I’d never met a man like you before. I’d never met anybody I could feel this way about.”

Franz was beginning to understand. “Are you telling me, Miss Henthorne, that all those sedate walks with your maid; all those accidental meetings out riding…”

He stopped and looked around the hall. There was still no sign of the twins. “Did you arrange this?”

“Yes,” Georgiana said baldly. Her expression was so apprehensive that Franz wanted to laugh out loud. “I saw you leave so I bribed the boys to stay away until I called for them. I didn’t know that you’d propose of course. That was a surprise, I must say. I just wanted some time alone with you. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?” Finally he allowed himself to laugh properly. He also allowed himself to do what he had been longing to do. Stepping forward, he put his arms about her and bent to kiss her for a long time.

There was no interruption. No footsteps sounded on boards or stairs. The hall clock ticked loudly and steadily and the yule log crackled in the grate. When he raised his head he could see that there were tears in her eyes but she was no longer looking worried.

“You’ve deceived me, Miss Georgiana Henthorne,” he said lovingly. “I thought you a sweet, well-brought up young lady and you’ve turned out to be the most managing female I’ve ever met.”

She did not speak for a moment. Then she said thoughtfully:

“Perhaps I can take charge of one or two of your lists. The social ones at least, Franz dear.”

***

Georgiana had worried that his determination to approach her father would spoil Christmas but Franz was adamant.

“I’m not lying to a man who’s been so generous with his friendship, Georgiana. And getting through the next two days, pretending not to love you would be deceiving him. I know he won’t be pleased. I’ll be as tactful as I can, but if he throws me out, I’ll go ahead and make the arrangements and come back to collect you. I hope it doesn’t come to that. I hope I can make him understand.”

He asked to speak to Lord Tevington after breakfast and they disappeared into the study. The closed door was infuriating. Georgiana could not settle to her embroidery nor to the cosy, gentle gossiping of her female relatives. At the same time she did not dare to go out riding or walking in case she missed Franz before he left.

A maid appeared to summon her to the study before her agitation became too much to bear. Lady Tevington looked up in surprise but made no comment. Georgiana was trembling as she knocked on the door and entered, her stomach in knots.

She was relieved to see that Franz was still there. He stood before one of the long windows, looking out into the rainy garden but he turned as she entered and gave her a reassuring smile. Lord Tevington was sitting behind his big oak desk. Georgiana approached quaking.

“My lord?”

After a painful moment, her father gave a twisted smile. “What did you expect me to do, Georgiana? Challenge him to a duel?”

Relief flooded her body. “No, Papa. But I know you must be angry and disappointed.”

“Perhaps. Not so much angry. Your fine gentleman here assures me there’s been nothing done that’s improper and no thought of elopement or Gretna Green. He’s also pointed out, very politely, that you’ve no need of either. You’re of age. He tells me if necessary he’ll marry you without a penny.”

Georgiana looked over at her love. He looked grave but the smile in his eyes reassured her further.

“I don’t want to be estranged from you, Papa. I love you both too much for that.”

“But you will if I don’t consent.”

“It’s my life. You’ve said that to me many times, when I’ve turned down another suitor. You told me to take my time because it’s my life and I have to be sure. I’m sure, Father.”

“All right then. You can take yourself off, both of you. I’ll find your mother and tell her and get her calmed down. She’ll be all right with it in the end. It’s not as if he’s a stranger that we didn’t like. You’ll take care of her, sir. Your word on it.”

“Always, my lord.”

“Very well. Come back here in an hour. She’ll have had a good cry and be planning your wedding. And you’ll allow her to do so, if you please. Some things need to be done with a good grace.”

Georgiana broke into a broad smile. “She can dress me up like a cream puff if it makes her happy, sir. Thank you so much.”

She spent a joyous hour with her betrothed, walking through the damp tangled shrubbery and returned with a sparkle of moisture on the hood of her cloak and a fine sheen of raindrops on the good dark wool of his coat. She gave their outer clothes to a servant and moved towards the study but Franz caught her hand and drew her to stand before the gently burning yule log in the fireplace. A sleepy urchin was curled up on a cushion, watching the flames.

“Wait just a moment. I’ve something to give you. It’s not new. For a wedding ring, I’ve a very beautiful stone I bought in Madras. We’ll go up to London, there’s a goldsmith who does excellent work and you can choose your own setting. But this is the best I can do for a betrothal gift. I wasn’t expecting to need one.”

She took the small leather covered box in surprise and opened it. It was a delicate gold cross set with pearls on a fine chain. Georgiana lifted it from its velvet setting, enchanted.

“Franz, it’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”

“It was my mother’s. My father gave it to her when I was born. Their initials are engraved on the back. The pearls are real. When she died, he divided up her jewellery between my brother and I. I’m glad I got this. May I put it on you?”

She allowed him to fasten the dainty chain. There was a long mirror on the wall outside the study and she went to study herself.

“Thank you. I’ve never owned a piece of jewellery I love this much.”

He grinned. “It suits you, but I’m hoping you like the diamond as well, since that will be my personal contribution to your jewel case. Come on, let’s see how things are with your mother.

Lady Tevington had been crying. She cried again when Georgiana went to embrace her and then cried even more when her future son-in-law did the same. Georgiana noticed that she hugged him very tightly though and was satisfied. She suspected that for all her disappointment in this marriage for her daughter, Lady Tevington was already dreaming of wedding clothes and then possibly grandchildren.

His lordship was jovial. He poured wine for them all and toasted the happy couple and their future, then went on to make plans for a family announcement over the Christmas dinner and a more formal one to the district at large at a reception to be held in a few days time.

Lady Tevington, still rather dewy-eyed, held her daughter’s hand and talked about wedding plans and a trip to London to shop for bridal clothes and a trousseau. In the background, the gentlemen talked settlements then moved on to trade and politics. There was not the least hint of awkwardness or animosity between them.

Georgiana allowed her mother’s soothing chatter to wash over her and eavesdropped shamelessly. Several times she glanced over at her father. He was listening to Franz talking about his first trading voyages, nodding quickly and asking the occasional intelligent question.

She thought back to other conversations, with Cousin Edward and several other promising suitors. Her father had always remained determinedly detached from her mother’s efforts to find her a husband. He had been kindly and distant, never trying to befriend any one of them. He had never, with the obvious exception of Edward who came anyway, invited any one of them to spend Christmas or any other time at the house. He had always allowed Georgiana to make up her own mind.

Eventually her mother rose, smoothed out her morning gown and made noises about checking that all was well with the Christmas meal. She reminded her husband and future son-in-law of the time appointed for the guests to meet in the drawing room before dinner and departed.

Franz rose as well. “With your leave, sir, I’d like to write one or two letters. I should inform my man of business at least and I’ll write to my brother and his family. I’ll be down in plenty of time for dinner.”

“Of course, of course,” his lordship said cheerfully. “Take whatever time you need, my boy.”

Franz planted a chaste kiss on Georgiana’s cheek and left the room. His lordship gave her a jovial smile.

“Well well, I’m beginning to think this might turn out very well after all, my dear. He’s not quite what we intended, but he’s as shrewd as they come and if he doesn’t make his million before I’m in my grave I’ll be very surprised. Now then…”

Georgiana closed the door with a decided snap and advanced on the desk. “Do not speak to me of what you intended,” she said forcefully. “You are an unprincipled, untrustworthy conniving old rogue. You knew!”

“Knew what? And that is no way to speak to your father, young lady. If your…”

“No, it’s worse than that. It’s not just that you knew. You planned it. I thought I was being clever, but I have just realised that it was you all along. You threw us both off the scent with that very public declaration about his unsuitability as a husband and then you threw us together at every possible opportunity. Including this Christmas. You planned this whole thing. You arranged this marriage.”

Lord Tevington’s round face softened into a singularly sweet smile. “I did no such thing,” he said firmly. “I didn’t need to. You were smelling of April and May within two weeks and with a man like that I couldn’t possibly risk him getting away. What if your mother had managed to persuade you into marriage with some brainless idiot who would have bored you to death in a year and very likely me as well? All I did was give you both the chance to see how very well suited you are. As for the deceit, your mother would never have agreed if I’d told her straight out that I approved the match. This way is much better. She has had the opportunity to attempt to find the husband she thought you should have and I have managed to ensure that you have the husband you deserve. Really, it could not have gone any better. Drink another glass of wine with me, Georgiana, before we change for dinner. It’s Christmas, after all.”

An Unquiet Dream

An Unquiet Dream is not, in fact, my new free short story for Halloween 2023. For those of you who have been waiting for that, it is coming I promise you. This year, it’s running slightly late.

When I wrote my Halloween story for this year, which is called The Sight, I chose to link it to the new book. An Unattainable Stronghold, for anybody who hasn’t realised, is out on November 1st. I intended to publish the story first but after reading it, my editor made a really good case as to why the story would work better if it was read after the book.

This left me with a dilemma, as I wanted to put out something for Halloween. My solution has been to delay The Sight until November 5th. Instead, I’m sharing An Unquiet Dream. Those of you who have read the Historical Writers Forum anthology Hauntings will already have read this. It’s been the only one of my short stories not to be freely available until now.

For those of you who haven’t read it, I hope you like it. It’s set during 1812 at an army hospital in Elvas and features one or two familiar characters. If you enjoy it, I really recommend you try Hauntings which has some excellent ghost stories from a variety of historical periods.

Watch out for the Sight on November 5th…

This story is also available as a pdf here.        An Unquiet Dream

An Unquiet Dream

Elvas, Portugal, 1812

The dreams were the worst.

They came relentlessly every night, so that after two months of waking trembling and bathed in sweat in the early hours of the morning, Sean O’Connor dreaded going to bed. He knew that he cried out in his sleep from the awkward enquiries of his room-mates, and Sean was embarrassed. He was immensely relieved when Dr Adam Norris, who was in charge of the general hospital, approached him as he was leaving the mess one afternoon and suggested a change of room.

“It’s very small, Captain, one of the attic rooms. I’ve had Colonel Stephens in it, but he left us on Thursday. There’s a convoy leaving for Lisbon, he’s going home.”

“Do I warrant a single room, Dr Norris? I thought you usually reserved those for more senior officers.”

“We don’t have any senior officers left, Captain O’Connor. And I thought you might prefer it.”

Sean felt himself flush. “I think my poor room-mates might prefer it. Have they been complaining?”

“They’re worried about you, Captain. As am I.”

“Thank you, Doctor. There’s no need, I’m doing very well.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m fine. The infection has gone and I’m getting stronger…”

“Captain O’Connor, you spent eighteen hours lying under a pile of dead bodies with your abdomen slashed open, it’s astonishing that you’re still alive.”

“Don’t,” Sean snarled, and Norris fell silent. After a long pause, he said:

“I’m sorry. I know you prefer not to talk about it, but…”

“I can’t talk about it,” Sean said. He could feel his muscles beginning to tense. There were beads of sweat on his brow and he longed to turn and run. It happened all the time. He could manage short, simple conversations about the weather or the quality of the food, but anything that touched on the long hours of his ordeal at Badajoz set off a collection of incomprehensible physical symptoms which terrified him.

“All right, Captain,” Norris said soothingly. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get one of the orderlies to move your kit to the new room…”

“I don’t need help,” Sean snapped. “I may not be capable of doing my job any more but I’m quite capable of shifting a few bags up a couple of flights of stairs. Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your concern.”

Sean had made it to the door of his current room before he remembered there would be no solitude there. Captain Hendy and Lieutenant Brooke were still downstairs in the mess room, but Captain Smith would probably be in their shared room as he could not yet make it downstairs without assistance. Sean changed direction and went down the back stairs and outside. He was sorry that he had snapped at Dr Norris because he liked the man and he knew that Norris was genuinely concerned for him, but it did not help Sean to talk any more than it helped him to be silent.

Sean had been moved from the general hospital on the edge of Badajoz to the attractive little town of Elvas. There was no accommodation for officers within any of the three hospitals there. It was one of the ironies of Wellington’s army that the privilege of holding an officer’s commission turned into a significant disadvantage when an officer was sick or wounded. It was considered unsuitable for them to be treated alongside the common soldiers, so they were billeted in individual houses and left to fend for themselves. Those officers with private servants, or who had the means to pay for help, might do well enough. Others, who had nobody to tend them, were left to the mercy of whichever householder they had been billeted on and Sean had heard of men dying alone and untended.  

Sean was surprised and relieved on his arrival in Elvas, to be offered space in a tall house in a narrow street behind the cathedral. It was under the supervision of Dr Adam Norris who ran one of the hospitals and was also responsible for the care of a dozen sick or wounded officers billeted in the Casa Mendes. The house was plainly furnished but scrupulously clean and food and basic nursing care was provided by Señora Avila the stout housekeeper who spoke little English but ran an efficient household. The officers combined their pay and rations, and Captain Hendy’s servant ran errands and assisted with the heavier nursing tasks. The arrangement was very effective.

“Better than being in one of those hospitals, old boy,” Hendy said to Sean at their first meal together. “They’re hellish.”

“I’ve never heard of an arrangement like this for officers.”

“It’s not common, although Norris and Guthrie and a few of the other surgeons have been writing to the medical board to ask for better provision for the officers. This was set up by the regimental surgeon from the 110th but most of their wounded have been moved out, so Dr Norris has taken it over.”

“Thank God for the 110th,” Sean said with real feeling.

For ten days after his arrival, Sean was confined to bed, still burning with fever. There was a small isolation room on the first floor and having established that Sean could pay, Norris found a skinny twelve year old to take care of him, ensuring that he was fed when he could eat and kept reasonably clean. Eventually he examined the appalling wound across Sean’s midriff and gave an approving nod.

“It’s doing well, Captain, and the fever has gone. I thought we might lose you, but it appears you’ll live to fight another day.”

Sean tried not to shudder at the thought. He could not explain to Norris or anybody else how that day haunted his dreams. Badajoz had not been his first battle and not even the first time he had been wounded but the long hours that he had lain trapped under dead and dying men in the breach had left him with wounds that could not be seen and could not be treated. Around him, his fellow officers moved on. Some were sent back to England to recuperate while others went back to join their regiments with real enthusiasm.

Sean could do neither. Physically he was becoming stronger every day and Norris continued to give positive reports on the healing of his horrific wound. Mentally, he was a broken man. He started at every sound, cried out in his sleep and awoke sweating and terrified after dreams of blood and death. He was morbidly anxious about his health, and that of his fellow officers, checking on them compulsively and asking Norris worried questions about anything that seemed unusual. Sean knew that his fellows regarded him with a mixture of compassion and embarrassment and had begun to avoid his company.

Outside in the narrow street, Sean walked quickly down to the cathedral. The doors were open, and he slipped inside and made his way to a pew. There were several other people around, all of them locals who were either praying or sitting in quiet contemplation. One or two shot Sean a curious glance but did not speak to him. The priest was at the lectern, flicking through a huge bound bible and he looked over and gave a faint smile. Sean nodded in response then sat back and closed his eyes. Father Nani had become accustomed to his daily visits during these past weeks. He spoke a little English, and had even discreetly heard Sean’s confession when the cathedral was empty and there was no danger of an unexpected visit from a red-coated tourist. The religious preferences of Irish officers were never discussed in the mess. Sean kept silent on the matter and practised his childhood Catholicism in secret when he could.

He found the church both a comfort and a refuge in his current misery although so far his impassioned prayers had brought no answer. Sean knew that his continued, steady recovery was putting Dr Norris in a difficult position. Within a few weeks, he was going to have to declare Sean fit for duty again and that would place the onus of making a decision squarely upon Sean’s shoulders. Sean knew that Norris was trying to avoid that for as long as possible. If Sean was physically fit, he needed either to return to his regiment, resign his commission and go home, or at the very least, request a spell on half-pay.

Sean could not decide. Theoretically, an officer could sell out at any time, but few did during wartime unless they were too sick or too badly wounded to carry on. Sean’s wound had healed well, and he suspected that at least some of his fellow officers would think that fear, rather than necessity, had made him leave the army and despise him for it. He rather despised himself.

There was no comfort today in religion. Arriving back at the Casa Mendes Sean was both relieved and irritated to find that Norris had ignored his wishes and that Private Coulson was already arranging his possessions in his new room. He saluted as Sean arrived and Sean found a coin and handed it to him.

“I can unpack for you if you like, sir.”

“No need. I’m not that helpless, Private. Go on, off you go.”

The room was small and clean with a narrow bed, a wooden table and chair and a small wash stand with a ceramic bowl and jug. Sean had few possessions, and it did not take him long to arrange them, using one of his boxes as a table beside his bed and the other as storage for his clothes. He set out writing materials on the table alongside a bottle of brandy and a pewter cup. It had been two weeks since his last letter to his wife and he knew she would be frantic for news, but somehow he could not bring himself to write until he had a decision to give her. Janey would want him to come home. Were it not for the children, she would have been on a transport to nurse him herself. Sean ached to see her but was glad she was not here. At some point she would have to know how badly his ordeal had affected him, but he was happy to delay it until he had made his choice. He sat staring at the blank page and had written nothing when the call came for dinner.

Meals, for those who were able to attend, were served in what must have been a parlour and which the officers had turned into an informal mess room. After dinner a few officers generally lingered on in the room playing cards, sharing wine and swapping battle stories. Sean rarely joined them. He desperately missed the camaraderie and banter of late nights playing whist for pennies and making bad jokes, but he could not risk making a fool of himself by flinching at a slammed door or getting a bout of the shakes at the mention of Badajoz. His mess mates were kind, but Sean did not expect them to understand.

Sean spoke little during dinner. He managed a conversation about the departure of Colonel Stephens and his new quarters and listened to a squabble between two subalterns about the best fishing spots on the Guadiana River. When the table was cleared and the cards were produced, Sean made his excuses and went up to his room. The others no longer tried to persuade him to linger.

Sean had recently received a parcel of books from Jane, and he sat on his bed under the sloping attic window and read until the light faded. He could hear the others going to bed, the opening and closing of doors and a muffled curse as Captain Gregg missed a step and stumbled, with his newly fitted wooden leg. Eventually it was quiet, and Sean got into bed and lay there, both longing for and dreading sleep.

It came eventually but when he awoke it was still dark. For a moment he was disoriented, expecting to see the shape of his room-mates on their narrow bunks and the litter of their possessions scattered around the room. Instead there were the few items of furniture and the closed ill-fitting door. Sean lay still for a few minutes with a sense of bewilderment, although he did not immediately know why. Finally it dawned on him that he was awake but perfectly calm. There was none of the usual panic and he could not recall dreaming.

The realisation almost sent him into panic and Sean unexpectedly wanted to laugh at how stupid that was. His usually lively sense of humour had been one of the first casualties of Badajoz and it was very good to see that it had not gone forever. Sean sat up, listening, and realised that he had been woken, not by his usual terrifying dreams, but by a sound.

Sean sat listening for a while. It sounded like footsteps, pacing backwards and forwards across a room. Occasionally it would stop, as though the person had paused in their restless movement, but then it would start up again.

Sean could not work out where the sounds were coming from. They could not be above him as his room was at the top of the house. There were other rooms on this floor, but as far as he knew they were not occupied by patients. Dr Norris definitely had the room next to his, and Sean had an idea that the other rooms belonged to the medical orderly and two or three officers’ servants’ as well as the Portuguese maid who was employed to clean the house and to help in the kitchen. Norris had not returned from the hospital by the time the other officers went to bed. Sean supposed it could be him, but somehow he could not reconcile this restless pacing with the doctor’s calm demeanour. When he had told Norris about his sleep problems, the doctor had replied that his long hours of work left him so exhausted that he slept the moment he got into bed.

Sean got up and padded to the door, listening. After a moment, he opened it cautiously and stepped out onto the landing. Out here, the sounds were quieter. Sean tiptoed to the door to the next room and listened again. He could still hear them but not as distinctly. For a moment, he hesitated, then shrugged and went back into his room, closing the door. He was curious but he could hardly knock on the doctor’s door in the early hours. Given the noise he frequently made in his own room during the night, he did not have the right to complain about anybody else. Sean got back into bed, closed his eyes, and resigned himself to a sleepless night, hearing the steady tramp of the footsteps.

It was light when he awoke, dawn coming early on these summer days, and he lay there for a while feeling very relaxed. The bed, although narrower than the wide bunk in his previous room, was very comfortable. It was covered by an old patchwork quilt which must have been part of the original furnishings of the house. It reminded Sean of home, where his mother and sisters had worked at quilting through the long winter evenings. This one was faded but very soft and Sean ran his fingers over it and wondered about the women who had made it and whether they had lived in this house.

Eventually there were signs of life below, and Sean got up. He had no servant with him so he had got into the habit of bringing up water each evening so that he could wash in the mornings. It was cold, but that hardly mattered at this time of year. Sean washed, shaved, and dressed. He was sitting down to pull on his boots before he realised what had brought on this unaccustomed sense of well-being.

He had not dreamed.

The realisation shocked him, and he remained seated on the wooden chair, gazing up at a blue sky through the high window without really seeing it. Sean could not remember the last night he had slept without the awful nightmares. Nothing had happened to bring about the startling change and Sean was almost afraid to hope that this was more than a temporary respite. All the same, it had cheered him up considerably and he arrived at the breakfast table and collected his portion of bread and spiced sausage in an excellent mood. The arrival of a supply convoy meant that there was sugar for his tea and Sean ate with a good appetite, listening to the usual conversations.

Letters had arrived from Wellington’s army, marching towards Salamanca and Madrid to engage the French, and there was a lively discussion about his Lordship’s probable plans which Sean found himself able to endure surprisingly well. There was also news of a convoy travelling to Lisbon within a fortnight to convey some of the sick and wounded either to convalescent hospitals in the capital or back to England. A hunting party had brought down several deer which promised a feast of venison that evening and Captain Hendy, who was almost fully recovered and expected to be able to re-join his regiment in a week or so, offered to supply the wine for a celebration.

As the other officers left, Dr Norris appeared in search of a belated breakfast. Sean sat down again and poured more tea into two cups. Norris thanked him and began to eat.

“You seem better this morning, Captain O’Connor.”

“I had a better night,” Sean admitted. “At least, I didn’t dream. I did wake up though. It was very odd, I thought I could hear somebody walking about in the early hours, but when I checked the corridor there was nobody there. Did you hear anything, Doctor?”

“I wasn’t there,” Norris said, around a mouthful of bread. “I was called out at about eleven and ended up having to perform an emergency operation on a German cavalry officer. I’ve only just come back. Once I’m at the hospital, there are always patients to see and I’m never back before morning. I was going to eat and go up to see if I can get a couple of hours sleep. God, I’d forgotten what tea with sugar in tasted like. Is there any more in the pot?”

“I’ll get some,” Sean said, getting up. He took the pot through into the kitchen, ignored Jenkins’ rolled eyes at the request and went back to the table to find Norris regarding him with some amusement.

“You really are a lot better, Captain. Who knew that a night without dreaming could bring about this effect?”

“It probably seems stupid,” Sean said. “It’s just that I think I’d convinced myself it was never going to happen. That I’d be like this forever.”

“The reassuring thing for me is that you’re talking about it,” Norris said. “You’ve been trying to hide from it.”

“We don’t discuss fear in the officer’s mess, Doctor.”

“No, because you’re all too frightened to,” Norris said without irony. “But that doesn’t mean men don’t talk about it at all, among friends. And it affects most soldiers at some point or another, even those who haven’t been through such a horrific ordeal as you. I’ve a friend, a fairly senior officer these days, who freely admits that in the early days he used to throw up after every battle and that his hands shook for half a year after Assaye. You’re not unique.”

“I bet he doesn’t talk about that in front of his junior officers, though.”

“I’ve no idea, although knowing him, I wouldn’t place a bet on it. But congratulations for taking the first step. Don’t panic when it comes back – because it will – and don’t run and hide again. Now that we’ve spoken, believe that I can be trusted. I’m not going to share your confidences with the rest of the army.”

“I know you won’t. Doctor – thank you. You’ve been the soul of patience and I know you’ve delayed signing off my sick leave for longer than you should.”

“I have, and I’m going to extend it for longer. You shouldn’t rush into a decision either way, just yet. In fact, I’ve a proposal for you. We’ve no commandant in charge since poor Major Clarke died of typhus. Eventually they’ll assign somebody, but how do you feel about helping me out with the running of the place until they do? I’ll write to Dr McGrigor, and he can speak to Lord Wellington and your commanding officer about it.”

Sean was taken aback. “I know nothing about medicine, Doctor.”

“That’s why I’m here. The medical staff are my responsibility, but there should be a regimental officer as commandant, in charge of the orderlies and ward-masters and to take care of general discipline. It won’t be a formal appointment, but it would be a big help, and it might give you more time to decide.”

“All right,” Sean said. “Doctor, I’m not sure I’ve ever said this, but I’d like…it was always my aim to get back into combat again.”

Norris smiled and poured tea from the replenished pot. “I know, Captain. If it hadn’t been, you’d have allowed me to send you home on those first transports. Let’s give it some time, shall we? Now what was this about footsteps in the night?”

“I thought it was you, at first,” Sean admitted. “They sounded so close, like a man pacing up and down the room.”

“Not me. By the time I get to my bed, I’ve no energy to pace the floor. I wonder if it could have been in the room below? Sounds can carry in an odd way in these old houses.”

“Who has the room under mine?”

“Ashby and Newton. It won’t be Newton, though, I’ve had to move him out, he’s down at the fever ward.”

“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that.”

“I must say I’ve never heard Ashby moving about in the night, but that doesn’t mean much, I sleep like the dead and besides, my room isn’t above his.”

“I wish I knew,” Sean said. “If it is him, then there’s a reason behind it. I don’t know Ashby well. I don’t know any of them that well, but perhaps something’s troubling him.”

“He never seems that troubled to me,” Norris said frankly. “But in any case, he’s got a clean bill of health and he’s off back to his regiment.”

“I’ll be the only one left soon,” Sean said.

“Not for long, Captain. There’ll be another battle and another wave of wounded men coming in by wagon and it will all start up again. That’s why I need your help.”

Sean was doubtful about his new role as temporary hospital commandant, but he quickly found that his new responsibilities kept him very busy and kept his mind occupied. Over the following week he met with the commandants of the other two hospitals in Elvas and began to familiarise himself with his new duties. There was a lot to learn but Norris was a patient and informative teacher.

There were no more dreams. Most nights, Sean slept through, tired out after a long and busy day. Twice he awoke in the night to the sound of pacing footsteps, and lay listening to them in growing bewilderment. He broached the matter with Lieutenant Ashby just before his departure and Ashby stared at him so blankly that it was clear that he knew nothing about the matter. It was a mystery, but Sean had no time to dwell on it.

The dream came after ten days and was so unexpected that it shook Sean, who had begun to think that his troubles were over. He awoke after hours of peaceful sleep into a room bathed in silvery moonlight. He had left the window slightly open against the stuffy heat of the summer night and a breeze had sprung up, wafting cool air into the room. At the foot of his bed, a woman stood immobile.

The moon made it possible to see her clearly. She was dressed in a shapeless white garment, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders. Sean thought that she looked very young but also very unwell. She was thin and gaunt, her arms almost skeletal and the bones of what should have been a very lovely face standing out in sharp relief. Her eyes were pools of darkness.

The shock make Sean yell. He closed his eyes tightly and pulled the quilt up over his head. There was no sound in the room. Sean lay curled up for some time, sweating in fear, with his heart pounding. Eventually, reluctantly, he forced himself to move. Peering over the top of the quilt, he saw the room, neat and unremarkable as it had been when he went to bed. The girl was not there, and Sean decided that she never had been.

Sean got up and went for the brandy. Pouring a generous measure, he went back to bed and sat sipping it, waiting for his heart to slow down. He realised it must have been another dream and that his first waking had been part of the illusion. It was disheartening, but Sean sternly forbade himself to overreact. He had gone for almost two weeks without dreaming and this dream, although terrifying, was nothing like the repetitive nightmares of Badajoz. At the very least, that cycle had been broken.

Sean mentioned it to Norris when they were going over some supply requisitions the following day. His instinct had been to keep quiet about his relapse, but he remembered what Norris had said and decided that talking about it might be a good idea. Norris heard him out without interruption.

“Well done for talking to me,” he said, when Sean had finished. “And it’s certainly different from your previous nightmares. I wonder why this woman? You didn’t recognise her, did you?”

“No. She looked ill…half-dead to be honest. I did wonder…”

“Go on.”

Sean took a deep breath. “I could hear them screaming,” he said abruptly. “When I was lying there all those hours, thinking I was about to die. I could hear the people screaming when the soldiers sacked the town. Especially the women. I heard afterwards what they did to them. How many of them were raped. And I felt guilty that I was lying there listening to it happening and I couldn’t get up to help.”

“Dear God, I didn’t realise that,” Norris said softly. “No wonder you have nightmares, Captain. Look, try not to worry about it too much. You’ve come so far in the past few weeks. Do you want me to give you a sleeping draught?”

“No. I tried that at the beginning, and it made me feel terrible. I’ll be all right.”

“Well let me know how it goes over the next few days,” Norris said. “Are you still hearing the footsteps?”

Sean laughed. “Yes. Although not last night, oddly enough. They don’t bother me, I think it’s just the house falling down around us. They don’t even keep me awake for long, although I always wake up. I do wonder what it is, though.”

“Rats scampering around and chewing on the plasterwork, probably. We’ll know when a section of the roof caves in,” Norris said philosophically. “I’m glad that you’re taking a more light-hearted attitude Captain, it’ll do you good.”

Sean agreed with him. While he was unable to deny his disappointment at the return of his nightmares, he was pleased that his mood remained optimistic. He was enjoying having a job to do and he realised it was improving his confidence. As many of the convalescents left and others arrived, he had no need to explain his continuing presence at the hospital. Norris merely introduced him as the temporary hospital commandant and his new mess mates did not hesitate to come to him with questions and complaints. While it was not the same as being in command of a company of the line, it made Sean feel useful and for the most part it kept the nightmares at bay.

He saw the woman again a few nights later. This time, the dream caught him just on the edge of wakefulness and he made himself lie still, his heart pounding with the shock, staring at the slender form. Without the panic he had felt at his first sight of her, he was able to observe details that he had not noticed before. She was definitely wearing some kind of nightgown, stained in places and with a ragged hem. Her hair looked dishevelled and the sunken misery of the dark eyes unexpectedly wrung Sean’s heart. His eyes hurt as he forced himself to stare at her, trying hard not to blink. He could not help himself, and in that flicker of an eyelid, she was gone.

Sean sat up. The dream puzzled him because he had no sense of when he had slipped between sleep and wakefulness. The first time he had seen her, it might have happened at any point when he was huddling under the bedclothes, but tonight he would have sworn that he had been awake the whole time. It was clear that he could not have been. If he had, then his illness had taken an unexpectedly sinister turn. Sean settled down, then lay awake for several hours worrying about brain injury.

He took his concerns to Norris the following day. Norris had asked Sean to join him on an expedition to inspect a building which might be suitable for a new fever hospital. Fever patients were currently lodged in one of the convent buildings, but it was not large enough. Sickness was rife in Wellington’s army and far more men died of fever or dysentery than in battle. Norris had been searching for a new location for his fever patients for some time and walking through the dusty sheds of an abandoned winery, Sean thought he might have found it.

They were at the site for several hours, making lists and notes and talking to the owner, an elderly farmer who had lost his son to war and clearly had very little interest in what became of the unused farm buildings. Repairs would be needed and a thorough cleaning before bunks could be installed, but Sean thought that there were probably enough walking wounded to do much of the work. His new position had quickly introduced him to the idlers and malingerers who haunted every army hospital and he suspected that giving them an honest day’s work would convince many of them that it was time to return to their regiments.

It was evening before they rode back towards the hospital, and Norris suggested that they stop at one of the taverns in the square for a meal and a drink. It was the first time since Badajoz that Sean had done anything like this, and he enjoyed it enormously. They sat outside on wooden benches after they had eaten, sharing a jug of wine and swapping stories.

“How are your nightmares?” Norris asked finally, as they poured the last of the wine.

“I’m not sure. Yesterday, I started to wonder if it’s a dream at all or if I’m going a bit mad. I saw that girl again, but it felt as though I was wide awake. Is it possible that I’m seeing things?”

“Hallucinations?”

“Are they real? I’ve heard of them, but I’ve no idea.”

“Oh yes. It’s not unusual with a brain injury, I’ve known men who have seen the oddest things. I suppose it’s possible, but if you hurt your head in that mess I’d have expected to see signs of it weeks ago. If you want my honest opinion, I think it’s another of your dreams and you just didn’t realise it. But this one doesn’t seem to be upsetting you as much, and you’re definitely less jumpy now.”

“That’s the wine,” Sean said, lifting his cup. Norris laughed and raised his in a toast.

Sean felt pleasantly mellow as they went back to the house and up the stairs to their rooms.

“If they need me in the middle of the night you’ll have to shake me awake, Captain, or I’ll never hear them,” Norris said. “I’d invite you in for a last brandy, but I’ve run out.”

“I’ve got some,” Sean said. “Come in. It’ll help you sleep.”

They laughed together as Sean poured the drink, slightly tipsy and shushing each other loudly. Sean sat on the bed, giving Norris the chair. It was a bright clear night, a sliver of moon and a canvas of brilliant stars shining through the window. Sean lit two candles and sat back, sipping the brandy and enjoying the companionable silence. He realised he was becoming sleepy and closed his eyes. Norris had fallen silent as well and Sean wondered suddenly if he had dozed off on the hard wooden chair and opened his eyes to look.

She was there, as on the previous occasion, wholly immobile, with the dark eyes staring sightlessly towards him. She was so close to where Norris sat that he could have reached out and touched her. The shock of it drew a squawk of alarm from Sean. He scuttled backwards on the bed into the corner by the wall, spilling the dregs of his brandy onto the quilt, and closed his eyes tight.

“Captain! Captain! Are you all right?”

“No,” Sean said, shaking his head violently. “No. Oh no, no, no, no, no. I can’t stand it. I’m going bloody mad. Bad enough with the dreams, but now I’m seeing things when I’m wide awake and I can’t take it.”

A hand grasped his arm. “Up,” Norris said in peremptory tones. “Come on, into my room. Don’t argue with me, move.”

He bundled Sean into the next room and pushed him into a folding camp chair. Sean realised Norris had brought the brandy with him and watched, silent and trembling, as the doctor poured two cups. He carefully put one into Sean’s shaking hand and made sure that he drank some before sitting in an identical chair opposite him and drinking a large gulp from his own cup.

“Better?”

Sean nodded and drank more. “I’m sorry. Look, I know you’ve tried, but I need to resign my commission. I’m never going to…”

“Sean, will you shut up for five minutes and let me speak. Don’t say anything at all.”

Sean was surprised into obedience. He suddenly realised that there were beads of sweat of Norris’s forehead and his hand holding the cup was not entirely steady either.

“You’re not going mad and you’re not seeing things,” Norris said quietly. “Or at least if you are, it’s contagious. I saw her too.”

Sean stared at him. It was at least a minute before he really understood the words and when he did, he could not say anything, frozen with shock and sudden terror. His voice when he finally spoke was a croak.

“You saw her. You mean…”

“No, don’t say anything,” Norris said quickly. He was on his feet, rummaging around on his desk. His room was considerably larger than Sean’s with a wide old fashioned bed and a collection of battered furniture. Norris came back to him with paper and a pencil. He handed Sean a large book to lean on.

“Write, he said briefly. “It doesn’t have to be neat. That’s why I wanted you to keep quiet. I want to compare what we saw. You’ve seen her several times, so yours should be a lot more detailed than mine. Get on with it.”

Sean put down his glass on the floor and took the pencil while Norris went to the desk. Having something to do helped to calm his fear and he found that after a moment he was able to write fluently. As he wrote, Sean reflected that it was an advantage to have a scientific mind. It would not have occurred to him to compare notes in this way.

Eventually, Sean ran out of things to write. He read what he had written and put down his pencil. He got up and handed Norris the paper and Norris scanned it, his lips quirking into a smile.

“Yours is a lot neater than mine. I suppose you’ve had time to get used to her.”

Sean looked over his shoulder. “Or it could be because you’re a doctor. I’ve never yet met one who could write legibly.”

Adam gave him a look. “Perhaps I should hand over more of my paperwork to you, Captain O’Connor, as you’re so proud of your penmanship. As I thought, yours is a lot more detailed. I didn’t notice the embroidery on the shift although I did see the stain, mainly because I thought it might be blood. I didn’t see as much of her face as you did, and I didn’t notice that her feet were bare. But I wrote a lot about her physical condition because she looked as though she was half starved.”

“That may also be because you’re a doctor. It makes sense that we noticed different things.”

“But generally, the accounts tally remarkably well. I’d say we saw the same thing.”

“I can’t believe it,” Sean said. “I thought I was going mad. But Doctor…”

“My name is Adam. I think we’ve gone beyond formality.”

Sean smiled faintly. He was beginning to feel a lot better. There was something very reassuring in Norris’s practical approach to the vision. “Adam, how did she appear? Every time I’ve seen her, I’ve had my eyes closed and I’ve just opened them and she’s there.”

“It’s difficult to say. I was looking at you, laughing to myself, thinking you were going to fall asleep in front of me. And then I saw something to my left, like a flutter of movement, so I turned my head, and she was right there. I nearly died of fright.”

Sean could not help laughing at his frank admission. “It probably sounds rude to say that I’m glad, but I bloody am. Look, Adam…have you ever come across anything like this before? I mean what is it? What is she? Is she…have we seen…?”

“A ghost? How the hell would I know? No, I’ve never seen anything like it before, although I’ve met men who say they have. To be honest I’ve generally put it down to too much drink and a dark night on sentry duty.”

“We’ve been drinking.”

“That’s why I wanted to write it down,” Norris said. “I think it’s entirely possible for two men in drink to egg each other on to the point that they’re convinced they’ve seen a ghost. But I don’t think they’d be capable of the kind of detail we just produced independently. Admittedly you did tell me previously that you’d seen a woman, but you gave me no details at all.”

Sean regarded him for a moment. He felt very sober, with the beginnings of a headache. “So who the hell is she? Or was she?”

“I’ve no idea. Look, why don’t you sleep in here tonight, Sean, I’ve…”

“No, it’s all right. I’m not afraid of her, Adam, it’s just a shock when I see her. But she never appears more than once a night. I wonder if it’s always the same time, I’ve never looked.”

“Well it was around midnight when she turned up this evening because I’d just taken out my watch. I was going to wake you up to say goodnight.”

“I’ll add that to the notes,” Sean said, and his companion grinned.

“We’ll make a scientist of you yet. Get some sleep, Sean. I need to do my early rounds tomorrow, but we’ll meet up during the afternoon and talk about it. If you want to.”

“I do. There must be some explanation for this.”

***

Adam Norris slept late the following morning and dragged himself through his rounds with an effort. He was usually a moderate drinker, and it was not until midday that his headache subsided, and he began to feel better. The evening was one of the strangest he had ever experienced, but Adam found himself thinking about the early part as much as its dramatic conclusion. He had enjoyed spending time with Sean O’Connor, and it reminded him how much he missed his friends who were up at the lines. It had been a promotion to be placed in charge of a general hospital, but there were some disadvantages of being away from the main army and isolation was one of them.

Sean’s ghost was entirely another matter. Adam considered himself a rational man and had made it a principle during his medical career to weigh the evidence as far as he could before making a decision about diagnosis or treatment. In the heat of battle, there was no time to do anything other than react to every emergency and Adam knew that he sometimes made mistakes, but it was part of the job to accept that many patients could not be saved and live with it. Generally, however, he took his job seriously, studied whenever he could to keep up to date and was willing to accept new ideas.

Adam had never expected his open-mindedness to be tested by the appearance of a ghost, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not come up with any rational explanation for the figure he had seen the previous evening. There was no possible way the girl could have entered the room without him seeing her do so, or indeed hearing her, as Sean’s door creaked horrendously. She had looked, for those few moments, as real and solid as Sean, but then she had vanished as Adam blinked and left no trace behind.

The apparition had alarmed Adam at the time, but there had been no sense of menace about the woman. She seemed sad and possibly desperate, but not threatening. Making his way through the hot, stinking wards of the hospital, Adam found himself wondering about her. Having never believed in ghosts, he knew nothing about them apart from stories around the fireside during his boyhood, but all the tales of hauntings he had ever come across involved a person once living.

He mentioned this to Sean when he joined him in the commandant’s office that afternoon before dinner. Sean looked surprisingly well and grinned when Adam said so.

“Ten years of army life will give you an awfully hard head for the drink, Adam. Sit down. I’ve a very nice madeira or I can send Private Edwards for some tea if you’d prefer.”

Adam laughed. “Let’s try the madeira, although if this goes on I’ll be dead of the drink before the end of this war. I’ve been thinking about your ghost all day.”

“My ghost, is it now? I did wonder about that, you know, because I’m assuming that Colonel Stephens never mentioned seeing anything. So is it the room she’s haunting, or is it me?”

“I don’t know,” Adam admitted. “To be fair, Stephens was in a lot of pain. He’d lost his right arm and I had him dosed on as much laudanum as I could. Which he later supplemented with wine. He’d have slept through an army of ghosts marching through that room, and this one was fairly silent.”

“Was she though? I admit she’s never made a sound when I’ve seen her, but I’ve heard those footsteps pacing many times.”

Adam was startled. “Good God, I’d forgotten about that. So you never found out who it was?”

“No. I’ve asked around, but they all looked at me as if I was mad. As you know, I put it down to rodents of some kind but I’m not so sure now. It didn’t sound much like rats or mice, it’s too regular and too loud. And honestly, it didn’t sound as if it came from below me. I’d have said either next door or above, but there’s nothing up there that I’m aware of.”

“Or in the same room,” Adam said quietly.

“Now isn’t that a delightful thought.”

“Well it’s one you don’t need to dwell upon. I’ve had them clearing out Major Clarke’s room for you, I wanted it well scrubbed because of his illness, but it’s ready now. It’s on the floor below mine and it’s a lot more comfortable than the room you’re in. You could move your kit before we go into dinner. I’ll help you if you like.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” Sean said. “It’s not that it’s frightening exactly, but it’s a little unnerving now that I know she’s not just in my head, not knowing when she’ll make an appearance. And we can treat it as a piece of research. At least that way, we’ll find out if it’s me or the room.”

Adam laughed aloud. “Whatever the cause of this, Captain O’Connor, it’s been the making of you. You’re a changed man, between ghosts and your new responsibilities.”

“And a man I can call a friend,” Sean said, echoing closely what Adam had been thinking earlier.

“That as well.”

“About those dreams, though. I actually think she did help me out with that infernal pacing. It woke me up so many nights, that I think it interrupted the dreaming. By the time I went back to sleep, I was thinking of something else and once I stopped worrying about the dreams, they stopped coming so much. Although I still jump like a nervous colt if a door slams close by.”

“One thing at a time, Sean, you’re doing very well. Have you written to your poor wife yet?”

“I have, so. I told her I’m staying out here for the present, in a temporary posting and that I’ll make my decision when they find a replacement for me.”

“Good for you.” Adam paused. He had a question, but he was not entirely sure how to phrase it. “Look, Sean, we can leave it here if you like. If you move into another room and the whole thing stops. I’ll close that room down, use it for storage.”

He could see the Irishman considering it. “We could do that,” he said. “But I rather like the notion of a hospital for officers, I think we should have more of it not less. And besides, now that I’ve seen her, I want to know.”

“Know what?”

“Who she was. What happened to her. Why in God’s name she’s wandering the rooms of this house.”

“And how are you going to find that out?” Adam asked with genuine curiosity. Sean grinned and raised his glass.

“Research, laddie. I learned the value of it quite recently from a scientific mind that I very much respect. Your good health.”

***

Sean slept well and dreamlessly in his new room. He was kept busy for a few days because of a selection of disciplinary matters among the convalescing soldiers. It was well known that idle soldiers were the most troublesome to manage and Sean was finding that discipline was the biggest challenge of his new post. He had been trying to steer a course between firmness and compassion, but a report from the Portuguese authorities in Elvas about a raid on a local farmhouse pushed him beyond his limit. The owners of the house had been robbed and beaten, but what infuriated Sean was the tearful aspect and bruised face of the farmer’s daughter. No complaint of sexual assault was made, and Sean was not surprised, since the farmer would not wish to broadcast his daughter’s shame, but he was determined to make an example. Too many of the more active convalescents assumed that their status on the sick roll made them immune from punishment and Sean summoned a court martial, determined to prove them wrong. He could not flog them for rape, but their other crimes were well documented and although the punishment was relatively light, Sean could sense their shock that he had administered it at all, and in front of every man fit to witness it in the entire hospital.

When it was over, Sean informed Dr Norris that the men involved had effectively proved their fitness for duty and would be sent back to the lines with the next convoy, along with a letter to their commanding officer about their crimes. Adam made no attempt to argue, and with the matter concluded, Sean had time to turn his attention to the matter of spectres. He knew nothing about how the Casa Mendes came to be part of the general hospital and took his initial queries to Adam, who shook his head regretfully.

“I wish I could tell you, but I had nothing to do with it. We were struggling with the wounded after Badajoz and the officers were billeted all over the place and then Mrs van Daan informed me that she had found this place and that we could have the use of it. Señora Avila and her staff came with the house, but I know nothing of the owners.”

“Mrs van Daan?” Sean said blankly.

“The wife of Colonel van Daan of the 110th. He commands the third brigade of the Light Division. She helps out with the wounded, and…”

“I’ve heard of Mrs van Daan,” Sean said, and then saw the expression on Adam’s face and hastily revised a large amount of gossip he had been about to repeat. “I mean…isn’t she the lady who has worked with the surgeons and who does rather more than nursing?”

Adam Norris studied him for a long moment then gave a faint smile. “Anne van Daan and her husband are two of my closest friends, Sean. She came to work with me as a volunteer in Lisbon three years ago and I trained her, against enormous opposition from my fellow surgeons. She’s extraordinary. She’s also a very good organiser and she found this place. I’ll write to her to see what she knows. In the meantime, I’ve had another idea. We need an excellent source of local gossip and I know just the place to find it.”

“Where?”

Norris grinned. “At the local brothel, of course.”

Sean stared at him. He realised his mouth was hanging open like a callow boy who had never heard of a brothel and closed it quickly. “I wonder why I didn’t think of that.”

Norris laughed aloud. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. There’s a young woman by the name of Pereira who runs a very pleasant tavern on the edge of town. I have been there, but not as a customer. One of the girls was very unwell during the time we were here, and Senorita Pereira had no faith in the local apothecary so I was asked as a personal favour if I would attend.”

“A personal favour for whom?” Sean asked.

“A young officer who is a particular friend of the lovely lady. I’m not giving you his name, it wouldn’t be right. We can walk over tomorrow if you wish. It’s not far, just near the Santa Luzia Fort.”

“Convenient for the garrison, then. If my wife knew I was planning a visit to a brothel, she’d never speak to me again. I’m assuming you aren’t intending to tell yours either?”

“Oh, I’m not married. I can’t imagine how your wife would find out, but I promise to bear witness to your good behaviour if ever I’m asked. You’ll like Diana Pereira, she’s not at all what you’d expect.”

It was less than two miles to the tavern, and they walked through quiet streets as the people of Elvas generally took a siesta during hot summer afternoons. Sean wondered if they would be admitted but the tavern door was wide open. They went in and found the tap room almost empty apart from two elderly men seated on a bench with a jug of wine and a chess board between them. A stocky dark-haired man was seated on a high wooden stool behind the bar with what looked like an account book in front of him, but he stood up as they entered and gave a little bow.

“It’s Emilio, isn’t it?” Adam asked pleasantly. “Dr Norris. I was here last year, to tend Lotta; I’m not sure if you remember me?”

The man nodded but did not speak. Adam ordered wine. As he was paying, a door at the back opened and a woman came into the room. She was dressed in yellow muslin, and she wore her hair pulled back at the sides with decorated combs but otherwise loose down her back. Sean thought she was probably in her twenties and was very attractive and very self-assured.

“Welcome, gentlemen. A pleasant change to see a red coat, we don’t see so many of them these days. Have you just arrived…?”

She stopped, her eyes on Adam’s face, and then she smiled again and there was warmth in it. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t recognise you immediately. You’re even more welcome as an old friend. Please, put your purse away. You wouldn’t take a penny for your services to Lotta, the least you can do is allow me to buy you a drink.”

Adam took her outstretched hand and raised it to his lips. “Miss Pereira. May I introduce the acting Commandant of my hospital and my good friend, Captain Sean O’Connor.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

“Mine too, Captain. Are you just here for a drink, Doctor, because I’ll willingly leave you in peace?”

“I was hoping to speak to you, ma’am. We’re in search of some information about the Casa Mendes and the family who lived there before the army medical service took it over. An administrative matter.”

Bright brown eyes surveyed them with amusement. “Well I can’t help much with that, Doctor, because I understand the place is rented through an agent. Although I imagine you knew that.”

Adam grinned. “I do, ma’am, and you have caught me out. I’m in search of gossip.”

The woman gave a broad smile. “Ordinarily, I would tell you that you have come to the wrong place, Doctor. Discretion is, after all, my business. In this case, however, there is no need for discretion since none of the Mendes family have ever patronised my establishment. Come through to my sitting room and I will give you a rather better wine.”

The sitting room was a comfortably cluttered room at the back of the house. Diana offered chairs and wine then seated herself in a comfortable armchair. Sean tried hard not to stare. It was many years since he had last visited a brothel as a very young officer but he was sure that it had been nothing like this. He looked around the room curiously and looked back to see that his hostess had caught him staring. She smiled.

“It is my place of work, Captain, but it is also my home. And since you are probably wondering, my English is so good because my father was English.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I was being rude.”

“No, just curious. What do you want to know?”

“Did you ever meet the Mendes family, ma’am?”

“Heavens, no. Dom Alfonso was a gentleman in his fifties, a widower for several years. There is a son, who serves at court in some capacity or other, so he went to Brazil when the royal family fled Lisbon. I believe the house is rented out through an agent.”

“You said ‘was’, ma’am.”

“Yes. Dom Alfonso died several years ago which means the house belongs to his son. I must tell you that I was not in Elvas at the time of these events, by the way, so I am repeating gossip. But I have heard the story often enough from a variety of local gentlemen, and I think it is largely true.”

“Go on.”

“When the French invaded in 1808, the house was occupied by Dom Alfonso and his sixteen year old daughter Juana. She was convent educated and I am told she had only recently been brought home because a marriage was being arranged for her. Her mother was already dead.

“Dom Alfonso could have fled south to Lisbon and joined his son, but he did not wish to leave his various properties to the mercy of the French, so he remained. He was apparently furious when they took the town, and very quickly commandeered his house as billets for French officers. He loathed the invaders and made no secret of it.

“They were here for six months and when they marched out after Lord Wellington’s victory at Vimeiro and the peace treaty, Dom Alfonso was left in the house again, without the invading officers but also without his daughter.”

“You mean she left? Or did she die?”

“Well that, of course, is the question. Here, I am afraid, there are several different versions, and I cannot tell you which is true. Dom Alfonso gave out the story that his daughter had been abducted and murdered by a French officer. He behaved from that day on as though she was dead, and very soon made arrangements to leave for Brazil to join his son. He never arrived, however, but died of some illness aboard ship.”

“But was the murder never investigated?” Sean asked. He had forgotten his awkwardness in her presence in his interest in her story. “Surely if he reported this to the local French commander, there would have been a court martial?”

“One would think so, but the French had gone before he ever told the tale,” Diana said. “This of course, led to a number of different theories which quickly spread through the town and probably contributed to his sudden decision to go to Brazil. Some people suggested that Juana’s father found her dead and killed the officer then hid his body. Another story was that the girl fell in love with the officer and left with him, either married or in disgrace. Either way, Mendes would never have forgiven an alliance with the enemy, so he cut her off entirely. I would like to believe that one.”

“Any others?”

“Many people seem to think that Mendes found out about the affair and killed the girl himself. I do not think he could possibly have killed her lover, since the French would have arrested him and the whole story would have come out. But his daughter? From what I’ve heard of him, I think he might have done it.”

“Do you think anybody suspected?” Adam asked.

“As I said, I wasn’t here then, but Elvas is a small place and Mendes had boasted about the grand Court marriage he planned for the girl. I think he might have considered she had dishonoured him. He was a minor member of the nobility and he had high hopes for the alliance.”

“What of her brother?”

“Still in Brazil as far as I am aware. When Dom Alfonso packed up and left for Brazil to join the royal family he employed Señora Avila with a small staff to take care of the house until a tenant could be found. I believe it was briefly used to billet some of the Light Division officers last year and then Mrs van Daan took it over for the 110th regimental hospital.”

“That poor girl,” Sean said softly. The woman studied him thoughtfully for a long moment.

“Yes, I’ve always thought it a very tragic story. As I said, I would love to believe she managed to leave with her French lover, but I am rather afraid she did not. I am longing to know why two English officers have such an interest in a long-buried local scandal.”

Sean could think of no answer that would not leave Miss Pereira thinking them mad, but Adam was better prepared. “There is a question over the lease,” he said. “If we are to make further improvements to the hospital, we would like to know that the family are not about to return, demanding their house back. The agent was odd about it, but it sounds as though he was concealing a scandal rather than avoiding a business arrangement. Thank you, Miss Pereira, you’ve been very helpful.”

Sean drank deeply. He was vaguely aware that the wine was excellent, but he found it hard to think of anything other than the thin, tragic figure of the girl in his room. He endured the rest of the visit as best he could and waited until they were well away from the tavern before he said:

“It has to be her.”

Adam glanced at him. “Our ghost?”

“Yes. It must be Juana Mendes. He killed her.”

“Her father or her lover?”

“Either of them. Or both of them, one way or another. She was just a child, straight out of the convent. Whatever they did to her between them, somebody should have been there to look after her.”

“Well if they didn’t, there’s nothing you can do about it now, Sean. She’s dead. She died four years ago.”

“Is that what you think? You don’t think she went off with her French lover?”

Adam glanced at him. “We’re probably never going to know for sure,” he said gently. “Honestly, we’ve found out more than I thought we would. I still don’t really know what it was that I saw that night in your room, but it’s clear we saw the same thing and if you add that to the story we’ve just heard, then I think it was some kind of ghost or spirit – the spirit of Juana Mendes. I wish there were something more we could do, but there isn’t. Unless you feel like talking to the local priest about an exorcism, and I must say…”

“No. Oh God, no,” Sean said, revolted. “You’re right, I need to let it go. I’m glad we found out what we did, though. Adam, thank you for this. For all of it. Wherever I end up, I’ll always be glad I had this opportunity to get to know you.”

***

High summer brought news from the front, of a spectacular victory at Salamanca and a march further into Spain. Wagons full of wounded and convalescent men made their way back to the general hospitals in Portugal and Adam Norris was so busy that he had no time to ponder the sad little story of Juana Mendes. The usual autumn sickness arrived early that year and Adam was grateful for Sean O’Connor’s capable presence as the hospitals were overrun and new premises became essential.

In November, they received word that Lord Wellington’s glorious campaign had come to an abrupt halt against the implacable walls of the citadel of Burgos and his Lordship’s army was retreating through appalling weather back to the safety of the Portuguese border, with the French snapping at their heels. Adam was supervising the unloading of a convoy of medical supplies outside the hospital when Sean joined him.

“The post is in. Endless letters telling us to expect a flood of sick and wounded. It sounds as though they’ve had another Corunna, poor bastards.”

“I know, I had a couple of letters from friends. Something went badly wrong with the supply chain.” Adam noticed that Sean was holding a letter. “What’s that?”

“A job offer,” Sean said. “Did you know about this?”

“Yes,” Adam said. “They wrote to ask if I would recommend you for the job. I said I would.”

“It comes with a promotion to major.”

“I also told them that I thought you were fully recovered and ready to return to combat if you should wish to do so, Sean.”

“I know. It’s my choice.” Sean looked around him. “It didn’t occur to me that I’d end up doing this permanently.”

Adam eyed him hopefully. “That sounds promising.”

“I ought to make you sweat, you underhanded bastard, you’ve been working at this, haven’t you?”

“Sean, it’s my job to make sure this place is well run. The improvement since you took over is astonishing, I’d have been mad not to ask them to make you permanent. But you can go if you want to. We’ll still be friends.”

“I’m staying. There’s so much to do here. In addition to running this place, they’ve made me district superintendent, which means I can inspect and make recommendations about the other hospitals.”

“Thank God for that,” Adam said. “The large convent is a bloody disgrace, I wouldn’t send an animal to stay there.”

They dined together in celebration and Adam felt pleasantly mellow as he settled to sleep. It had rained for almost a week and many of the town streets had turned to quagmires, the mud churned up by wagons and carts bringing in supplies and the first sick men from the retreat. Adam fell asleep thinking of the men currently marching into Ciudad Rodrigo with empty stomachs, camp fever and unhealed battle wounds and felt very fortunate.

He woke in darkness to an unfamiliar sound and sat up in bed. For a moment, disoriented, his mind flew to the apparition of the young girl and he wondered if this was some new manifestation of the ghost, but a moment later, he realised that what he was hearing was very much of this world. The rain was still falling, a strong wind driving it against the wooden shutters but there were sounds in the corridor outside, loud voices and footsteps and an alarming crashing sound.

Adam scrambled out of bed and into his clothing, then opened the door. Every occupant of the top floor of the Casa Mendes was there, the housekeeper and maids with cloaks and shawls over their nightclothes, and the clamour of voices was deafening.

“Sean, is that you? What the bloody hell is going on?” Adam called, and a voice floated up the stairs.

“The roof has caved in. Must have been a leak and the plaster has rotted. Thank God it’s above the empty room. Don’t go in there, Adam, it’s not safe. The rooms below are flooded though. Can you get everyone downstairs? I’m helping Fellowes down, he can’t make it on his own. The ground floor is dry, they’ll have to camp out down there until the morning, then we can get somebody to take a look.”

Adam groaned inwardly and turned his attention to the staff. Fortunately, after her initial panic, Señora Avila had regained her usual calm and was shepherding them downstairs with armfuls of bedclothes to find refuge in the dry part of the house. Adam made his way to the next floor down, where eight sick or wounded officers had their quarters. Sean had managed to light two oil lamps and was guiding the men, wrapped in blankets, down the narrow stairs, their feet splashing through water on the bare boards.

It was dawn before they were finally settled. The kitchen was in the basement and thankfully unaffected and as a grey light began to filter between the shutters, Señora Avila roused her staff and chased them upstairs to dress properly then down to the kitchen to begin preparing hot drinks and food for the exhausted invalids. Adam drank coffee with Sean in the mess room then rose with a sigh.

“Shall we have a look?”

“Might as well get it over with. The rain seems to have stopped, so I’d like to get someone out as soon as possible to start clearing up this mess so that Da Costa can have a proper look at it. I don’t want to have to give this place up if I can help it, Adam, not now. We’ll be back to having sick and injured officers scattered all over the damned place and with so many men coming in from this bloody retreat, we don’t need that. I want that roof repaired. We can round up enough convalescent men to do the clear up and if that’s not enough, I’ll write to Lord Wellington asking for a work party. There must be some men still on their feet in his army.”

“If it comes to that, I’ll write to Colonel van Daan. It will avoid a lot of unnecessary argument, he’ll just march them down here and claim it’s a training exercise,” Adam said with a tired grin. “But let’s see what we’ve got first.”

They made their way up the stairs, inspecting the damage. The south facing wall of the house was drenched, but not damaged and Adam thought that it could be dried out, as could the floorboards. They sounded walls and moved furniture and tested floorboards.

“I think we’ll have to keep an eye on that corner of the ceiling, but this is not as bad as I thought,” Sean said. “I wonder why it came down in such a deluge?”

“At a guess, I’d say the water has been pooling somewhere, it’s been raining for weeks. We’d better have a look in that empty room. Are you all right about that?”

“I’m fine, Adam. Come on.”

It was the first time Adam had been in the corner room since he had helped Sean move his possessions to his new quarters. The room was empty apart from some crates of medical supplies, the meagre furniture having been put to good use elsewhere. Fortunately, the equipment had been piled against the internal wall because the ceiling against the outside wall had completely collapsed. A pile of soaking, unpleasant smelling rubble was piled beneath a gaping hole and the room was covered in sticky plaster dust.

“What a mess.”

“It is. We’ll need to get this room cleared out as soon as possible and get the builder over to have a look. The first priority is to fix the roof, since it’s clear that’s how the water has been coming in. I’d guess it’s been collecting in the roof space above this room and soaking the plaster until it just gave.”

“Yes, the roof comes first. We could just board this up since nobody is using the room.”

Sean walked over to the pile of rubble and peered upwards into the dark hole. “I can see daylight up there,” he said. “I think a couple of tiles are missing.”

He paused and stood staring. Adam waited but his friend said nothing. After a while, Adam said:

“Sean? Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Sean turned. “Adam, this doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“This house. The roof of this house. Come with me.”

Adam followed him downstairs and out into the street. Although it was still early, there was a good deal of activity as the people of Elvas emerged after the storm. A few doors down, an elderly man stood on a ladder wielding a hammer, the nails held between yellow teeth as he repaired a broken shutter. Sean looked up at the house and Adam followed his gaze.

“Look at the slope of that roof. That’s the window of the small room. If you move this way a bit, you can see the missing tiles. That’s where the rain came in, it’s probably been collecting there for months.”

“Very likely, it will have rotted the boards through.”

“But what’s above there? It must be an enormous space.”

“You mean under the eaves? Attic space, I presume. There’s nothing odd in that, Sean, loads of houses have a decent amount of space under the eaves, most people use it for storage.”

“How do they get up there?”

“A loft hatch, usually. I’ve seen them with wooden pull down ladders in some old houses, or they just keep a ladder nearby to be used when they need it.”

“So why is there no hatch in this house?”

Adam stared at him blankly. “I don’t know. Isn’t there?”

“No. I’ve been in and out of all the rooms on the top floor since I took over as commandant and none of them has a hatch. In most of the houses I know, it’s above the corridor but there’s nothing there. Why wouldn’t there be? Everybody needs storage space. Even if the house was built without a hatch, it’s an old building. You’d think one of the owners at some point would have seen the need for it and put one in.”

Adam stared at him. Sean was right and for some reason the thought made him uneasy, although he was not sure why. “I can see your point,” he said slowly. “It is unusual. But why does it matter?”

Sean’s eyes were troubled. “Because I think there was a hatch,” he said softly. “Looking up where the ceiling came through, I can see the remains of a wooden square hanging down. I think there was a loft space and it’s been boarded up. That’s why the rain pooled so specifically in that area.”

“You mean…in that room?”

“Yes,” Sean said. “Is there a ladder about the place somewhere?”

“I think there’s one in the wood shed although I don’t know its condition. Sean are you sure?”

Sean turned back. “I have to,” he said, almost apologetically. “I have to know.”

***

They found the ladder attached to the wall in the wood shed. It looked in good condition and as they carried it up the stairs between them under the curious eyes of a number of the other occupants, Sean reflected that the last time he had climbed a ladder had been at Badajoz. He did not mention the fact to Adam, however, as he wanted to be the one to go up into the roof space and he did not want Adam fussing over his emotional state. Sean did feel emotional and a little shaky but that had nothing to do with his experience at Badajoz.

It took several minutes to work out the safest place to set the ladder. Adam looked at him, but Sean shook his head firmly. He could not have said why it was so important to him, but he needed to be the first to enter the roof space. Adam nodded and took firm hold of the ladder and Sean climbed up.

As his head and shoulders emerged above the ragged hole in the ceiling, he could see immediately that he had been right. Part of the wood had rotted away and been pulled down when the ceiling fell, but the remains of the square loft hatch were unmistakable. There had been no sign of it from below, Sean was sure. He had spent plenty of time looking up at that ceiling when he could not sleep, and he would have seen the outline. Somebody had not only boarded up the loft but plastered over it.

The space was enormous. It must stretch the full length of the top floor of the house and had clearly been used for storage at some point, since it was fully boarded with wooden planks laid over the rafters. A variety of objects were scattered about the room, all covered in a thick blanket of dust. The light was good, owing to the missing roof tiles, and Sean could see several chests, a pile of mouldy fabric which may have been curtains, a broken mirror and a battered table with miscellaneous objects piled on top of it. Further down the space were two stacked wooden chairs, a wicker basket and a sturdy box of the kind Sean had seen used to store letters and paperwork. At the far end was an old mattress with straw poking out from its torn cover. There was something lying on top of it which looked very much like another hand stitched quilt although this one was covered, like everything else, with a thick layer of dust.

Sean stepped off the ladder. The roof was steeply sloped and at its highest point down the middle of the attic, he could stand upright. He took two or three steps forward then stopped. After a moment he set off again. The sound of his steps was unmistakeable. Sean felt that it should have been obvious that the footsteps could have been from a room above his head, but then he had not known this space existed.

He stopped before he reached the mattress and stood looking down. Nothing could be seen other than the quilt, but Sean had absolutely no doubt that she was there. He waited for a moment, steeling himself, then bent and lifted the edge of the quilt very gently, coughing in the cloud of dust that arose.

Sean had been dreading some horror, some sign of the agony of her last days, but he supposed at the end, after long hours of pacing the room, probably of crying out for help, she had grown progressively weaker and had just lain down. The bones were white, resting within the tattered fabric of her shift. The most upsetting thing was her hair, which had not yet rotted away and lay dark against the white of her skull. Sean felt tears start to his eyes and he settled the quilt back over her as she had been before and turned away.

As he turned, he thought Adam had followed him up the ladder, but he quickly realised his mistake. The girl stood before him and in the bright daylight spilling through the broken roof, Sean saw her more clearly than ever before. Her eyes were a deep brown and must have been lovely before dehydration and starvation had hollowed out the sockets. There were the tragic remnants of beauty in the bone structure of her face.

Something was different though, and Sean felt a sudden chill as he realised what it was. For the first time, the girl was looking at him. Before, in the room below, she had been an image, like a portrait with eyes staring into nothing. Now the eyes were on his face and he was sure that she could see him. For a moment, he was terrified, and then the fear receded and instead he felt a deep and abiding sorrow.

“He left then, did he?” he said very softly. “Your lover? He probably had no idea what that evil bastard did to you. I don’t know what happened on that ship, but however he died I hope it was long and painful. I’m sorry, Juana. All I can do is see you properly buried, but that I’ll gladly do. Then you can rest, I hope.”

She said nothing, but Sean had an odd sense that she could hear him although he did not know if she would have understood since he had no idea if the living Juana understood any English. He could feel tears on his cheeks and as he blinked and then wiped them away, she was gone and there was no mark in the dust where she had stood.

***

The burial service was private, with only the priest, Sean, and Adam present. Sean used bribery, when persuasion had failed, to pay for a simple stone with Juana’s name and the dates of her birth and probable death. Adam listened in shocked silence to his friend’s account of his experience in the loft and did not question his insistence that Juana have a memorial. She was buried in an army coffin, wrapped in the dusty quilt from the attic and afterwards, Adam arranged for dinner to be served in his room and opened a bottle of wine.

“Are you ready to hear the rest?” he asked.

“The rest of what?”

“We’ve been clearing out the loft ready for the repairs. The carpenter is going to restore the hatch and put a proper ladder in so that it can be used for storage again.”

“Not while we’re here.”

“No, but in the future. The point is that they found some papers in a box and brought them to me as they’d no idea what else to do with them. They should go to the family agent but given how that girl was murdered by her own father, I felt no scruples about going through them, and I’m glad I did.”

“What did you find?”

“Letters. Her lover wrote several of them in the weeks after his immediate departure, asking her why she didn’t keep their appointment and begging her to join him. That bastard Mendes must have put them up there with her deliberately before he walled her up and left her to die. He probably thought it was fitting. I hope she found comfort in them.”

“Oh God, Adam. You mean there really was a French lover?”

“More like a French suitor, as far as I can see. He wanted to marry her and when the old man refused, they planned to elope. When the French marched out after Cintra she should have been with him as his wife.”

“I wonder if he’s still alive?”

“I don’t know, Sean, but I’m going to write to him to tell him that she died and where she’s buried. Not the details of how, he doesn’t need to know that. But if he’s still alive and still out there, I’d like him to know that she didn’t mean to let him down.”

“Can we do that?”

“Oh yes. There are regular channels of communication regarding prisoners and if we enclose a note explaining it’s about a family matter, they’ll see he gets it. It’s surprisingly reliable, I was a prisoner myself for eight months.”

“Do you mind if I do it?”

“Not at all. I have the letters here, you can read them. It gives his regiment four years ago, but if he’s moved on for promotion they’ll know how to find him.”

They finished dinner in companionable silence, then Adam produced the letters and finished his wine as Sean sat reading them. Afterwards, Adam was called to a patient in the main hospital. Sean walked part of the way with him then made his way through the town to the churchyard and stood in the gathering dusk before the fresh grave in the churchyard.

Sean could give no reason for his certainty that Juana Mendes was finally at peace. He thought about the young Frenchman who had fallen in love with her during those months at the Casa Mendes. The man’s letters had upset him with their increasing desperation at receiving no word from Juana. It was clear that he had loved her very much and Sean wondered if there were other letters, written after her death and destroyed by her vengeful father. Adam was right, the man deserved to know at least part of the truth.

It was full dark now, and Sean could barely see the grave. He bent his head and spoke a short prayer for Juana and for the young man she had loved, then he crossed himself and turned to walk back up to the hospital. He had paperwork to do, then he would open another bottle of wine in case Adam was back early enough to share a drink. While he was waiting, he would write a letter to his wife to remind her of how much he loved her, and another to a young French officer called Louis Bernard, to tell him that he too had been loved.

Author’s Note

The idea for this ghost story came from somebody I met locally who was reading my Peninsular War Saga and told me the story of his ancestor. Lieutenant Waldron Kelly, an Irish officer who served in Wellington’s army eloped with a well-born Portuguese girl and married her against furious opposition from her family. Mrs Kelly went back to Ireland, partly because her family threatened to kill her for disgracing them. The story is told in some detail in Charles Esdaile’s Women in the Peninsular War and is one of a number of tales of local women becoming involved with British soldiers. It occurred to me that this probably also happened during the French occupation, and that a Portuguese or Spanish family might have been even more angry if their daughter became involved with a hated invader.

While both Adam Norris and Sean O’Connor are fictional characters, there really were several general hospitals in Elvas and they would have been jointly run by a senior doctor and an officer commandant. Hospitals for officers were rare, although in 1813 the voluntary provision of a separate hospital for sick and wounded officers was finally included in regulations. It was hugely inconvenient for medical staff to have to travel to wherever a sick or wounded officer happened to be billeted, and there are several accounts of what appear to be informal hospitals for officers throughout the war. It seems madness to us today that considerations of rank were placed above good medical care, but Wellington’s army existed in a very different world.

 

 

An Unassuming Gentleman

Welcome to An Unassuming Gentleman, my free short story for Valentine’s Day 2022. For this story, I’ve gone back to the first weeks of 1809 when Sir John Moore died on the field of Corunna and his army returned to England suffering from sickness, exhaustion and starvation after an appalling retreat over the mountains in winter.

As it’s Valentine’s Day, this story is not about that retreat, it’s about one of the officers who took part in it. Gervase Clevedon has been part of the Peninsular War Saga from the first, one of Paul van Daan’s inner circle, moving in and out of the action regularly. Yet very little has been said about his personal life. We know he is the younger son of an Earl, with a difficult relationship with his elder brother but the books have been silent on the subject of his marital status.

An Unconventional Officer - love and war in Wellington’s armyTo set this story in context of the books, it would slot in part way through An Unconventional Officer. Paul van Daan has returned from his memorable time in Yorkshire and sailed with Wellesley to fight at the battles of Rolica and Vimeiro. After the unpopular convention of Cintra, the three commanders were summoned back to London to face an inquiry and the army marched into Spain under Sir John Moore. The exception was a few companies left behind in Lisbon under Major Paul van Daan, many of whom were suffering, like Paul’s wife, from camp fever. After Moore’s disastrous campaign, which ended with his death at Corunna, the army returned to England for a few months to recover before going back to Portugal under Wellesley. Captain Gervase Clevedon was with them.

I wanted to make a brief mention of my heroine’s name. I’m very fond of the name Heather, and I’ve been dying to use it, in honour of my editor but I wasn’t sure if it was used as a girls’ name during this era. A check of the incredibly useful Ancestry.com told me there was no problem with it.

As I know my readers love to work out links to characters in other books, I’ve managed to work in links to both my standalone early novels in this story. Readers of A Respectable Woman may like to know that Gervase Clevedon is the uncle of Kit Clevedon who is the hero of that book. Meanwhile Heather MacLeod’s brother is Lord Crawleigh, a Scottish title going back to the sixteenth century where the second Baron Crawleigh defended his lands against the invasion of the Earl of Hertford in A Marcher Lord. 

Happy Valentine’s Day to all my readers. This one is unashamedly romantic. I hope you enjoy it, and it’s free, so please share as much as you like.

An Unassuming Gentleman.

 

It rained on the evening of Lady Sefton’s ball and a canopy had been set up across the street, to shelter the revellers during the short walk from the carriage steps to the house. Mrs Heather MacLeod, who had not particularly wanted to attend the ball, found herself wondering how much it had cost to effectively close off part of the square, so that her Ladyship’s guests might keep their feet dry.

Heather had been on a routine visit to London when she found herself ambushed by her sister-in-law. Lady Crawleigh had invited her down from her home in Scotland for a few weeks, with the promise of the theatre, the opera, some concerts and a new exhibition at the Royal Academy. Taking part in the balls and receptions of the London Season was not part of the plan and Heather was infuriated when Lady Crawleigh presented her with a pile of invitations on which her name was included.

“You may take those away, Fiona, for I shall not be attending any of them. I didn’t come here to go to parties, I cannot think what possessed you.”

“I have already replied on your behalf, Heather, so it will seem very rag-mannered if you don’t turn up,” Fiona said cheerfully. “You could of course write to the hostesses excusing yourself. I’ll leave them on the mantlepiece in case you wish to do so.”

“I? It was not I who accepted in the first place.”

“They don’t know that.”

“Fiona, how dare you? You know how much I dislike this kind of thing. I shall be bored witless. Besides, I don’t have anything suitable to wear since I never go to balls or receptions since Alex died and you promised me culture.”

“You shall have all the culture you desire, my love, providing you come out of your self-imposed seclusion and join the rest of the world for a few months. It won’t hurt you at all. I’ve made an appointment with my dressmaker. You are quite right, your gowns are looking dated. And…”

“I don’t want this.”

“You need this,” Fiona said with sudden quiet ferocity. “You’ve been hiding away in Comrie Castle for three years now and it is enough. Charles and I both agree on this. It isn’t good for you.”

“Charles is a traitor and I disown him as my brother.”

“Charles loves you. Alex was his friend he knows how much you miss him. But you’re only twenty-eight, Heather, you’re too young to wear widows’ weeds for the rest of your life.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Fiona, I stopped wearing mourning two years ago.”

“I was speaking metaphorically. And how would I know what you’ve been wearing? I never see you.”

“Nonsense, I’ve stayed with you every summer.”

“And refuse to see anybody else. It’s not good for you, Heather.”

“I don’t want anybody else.”

“Well this year you will have to put up with it. I mean it, Heather. Not one single concert or play will I attend with you unless you agree to accompany me to these parties. Your word on it.”

Heather glared at her. “This is blackmail and you will regret it. You may force me to attend, but you cannot make me enjoy it.”

“You sound like a five-year-old, dearest sister-in-law. Well, we shall see.”

Heather’s new gowns had not arrived by the date of Lady Sefton’s ball. Fiona had offered to lend her something, but Heather refused. Partly it was from sheer perversity, and partly it was because Fiona was six inches taller than her, with a fuller figure, and Heather suspected that even when altered, the gown would look cobbled together. She selected the best of her ballgowns, a charming green silk which she had not worn since her husband had died of a summer fever three years earlier. Heather supposed that the eagle-eyed ladies of fashion would be able to detect that the gown was out of date but she decided she did not care. She allowed Fiona’s maid to arrange her hair in the latest style, purchased new slippers and gloves and accepted a very pretty painted fan as a gift from her brother with a grim smile. The fan would be useful since Lady Sefton’s rooms were insufferably hot.

Heather was not new to London society and recognised enough people to make her feel at ease despite her long absence. Lord Crawleigh and his wife kept a house in town which they used during the Parliamentary season and were very much at home in government and diplomatic circles. Several women who had made their debut at the same time as Heather, and were now married, stopped to speak to her. She made polite conversation, accepted their congratulations at her re-emergence into society and tried not to grit her teeth too obviously.

Heather met with nothing but kindness and within an hour, she realised she was beginning to thaw. She was not ready to admit it to her interfering relatives, but she was quite enjoying renewing old acquaintances and catching up on the gossip. The music was infectious, and Heather stood beside her brother watching a cotillion and realised her feet were tapping. She remembered a little sadly how much she had enjoyed dancing with Alex during the first heady days of their courtship. She watched this year’s debutantes, their faces bright and eager and full of hope for the future and wondered if any of them was experiencing the breathless happiness of falling in love that she remembered so well.

Heather’s drifting thoughts were interrupted by a loud laugh. She glanced around and saw that it came from a group of men who, like her, were watching the dancing. At their centre was a tall, well-built individual who was probably in his thirties. He was expensively dressed, with his hair carefully styled and he had an over-loud voice which made everything he said easily audible to those around him.

“What do you say then, Alverstone? Who is to be this Season’s Incomparable? Miss Hibbert? Lady Caroline Forster?”

“Not at all,” the big man said. “The Hibbert is too tall and the Forster has crooked teeth. The Middleton girl is pretty, but her father’s got money troubles, or so I’ve heard. No, the girl for me is the little Flood heiress. Going to speak to her father as a matter of fact. It’s time I got my house in order now that I’ve come into the title. Nice little thing, good manners, very good Ton and a lovely figure. No reason to kick her out of bed on a cold night.”

There was more laughter. “You’d better watch it, old man, she’s over there dancing with Evesham, and he looks very pleased about it.”

“I don’t need to dance with her, Sheldon. I’ve got the title and the fortune. All I need is for her father to agree, and he will, believe me.”

Heather could feel her lip curling in distaste. She began to turn away but realised that the unpleasant Lord Alverstone had noticed her scrutiny and possibly her expression. He was staring at her, running his eyes over her in a way that made Heather’s skin crawl. Deliberately she turned towards her brother, presenting the other man with a view of her back.

“Who’s that with Crawleigh, Sheldon?” Alverstone asked loudly.

“I believe it’s his sister, Mrs MacLeod. I vaguely remember her from her debut, it was years ago. I think she’s widowed now.”

“Ha! Well her late husband did himself a favour if you ask me. Fancy being leg-shackled to a nondescript dwarf wearing last season’s gown. Couldn’t she be bothered to tidy herself up to enter polite society again?”

The words were loud enough to be heard by everybody in the vicinity. Heather was furious to feel herself blushing scarlet. She felt her brother stiffen in anger beside her and heard a murmur of comment, and one or two hastily suppressed sniggers.

“Heather, do you want me to…”

“No, Charles, please don’t. It will only encourage him.”

Heather took a deep breath and turned to look fully at Lord Alverstone. He was looking back at her mockingly, daring her to make a scene. Heather very much wanted to slap him, but she knew that for her brother’s sake she must not.

She turned away, furious to realise that she was shaking a little, with a combination of anger and embarrassment. She should not have agreed to attend such a fashionable ball in her outmoded gown, but she had been enjoying herself and nobody else had shown any sign of caring until Alverstone had drawn it to everybody’s attention.

“Are you all right, Heather?”

“Yes. No. I need to get out of here, Charles, but I don’t want him to think that I’m running away…”

“Lord Crawleigh.”

Heather turned in surprise. The voice was very different to Alverstone’s. It was a quiet baritone which held unconscious authority. She had noticed him standing on the edge of Alverstone’s group of cronies, a man of medium height, in military dress with mid-brown hair and attractive hazel eyes. Heather had no idea who he was and wondered if he had come to apologise for his friend’s rudeness. She hoped not.

“Clevedon,” her brother said delightedly. “I didn’t realise you were here tonight. Or even that you were back in England. How are you, old boy? Were you at…I mean, I’m assuming you must have been…”

Captain Clevedon smiled slightly. “Corunna? Yes, I was there. I’ve not been all that well as you can imagine, this is my first proper attempt at being social.”

“Well, I should think so. Dreadful business. Very sorry to hear about Sir John Moore, he’ll be much missed.”

“He will.” Captain Clevedon transferred his attention to Heather. He bowed. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, ma’am.”

“No, of course,” Charles said quickly. “This is my sister, Clevedon, Mrs MacLeod. She married Alex MacLeod, you’ll remember him. Died three years ago, some ghastly fever epidemic. Heather, this is Captain the Honourable Gervase Clevedon, a friend from my army days. He started off in the 71st with me then transferred to the 110th.”

Heather recognised the name and was furiously aware that Captain Clevedon had indeed approached her to apologise, not for his friend but for his brother. She glared at Charles, since she could hardly glare at the hapless Clevedon, and wished he would get this over with so that she could leave with dignity and have a good cry in the carriage home.

“It is very good to meet you, Mrs MacLeod. I was wondering if you would consider dancing with me? I’ve been away from London for so long. I am hopelessly out of practice, but if you’d take pity on me I would be very grateful.”

It was worse than she had expected. Heather shot her brother an indignant look, and Charles looked back with eyes which entreated her not to make a scene. He was right, she knew. There was no way to withdraw without making it look as though she was storming out. She gave a rigid smile and placed her gloved hand in Clevedon’s.

The dancers were forming up for a country dance. Heather took her place opposite Clevedon. He shot her a reassuring smile and she forced herself to respond, wishing this were over. The orchestra struck up the opening bars and Clevedon held out his hand.

“If I forget the steps, just push me,” he whispered. “I’m very good at taking orders, I promise you. Good luck.”

The remark was so unexpected that Heather let out a giggle. Her partner grinned back at her as he stepped back and then forward into the opening figure of the dance. Heather took a deep breath and let him turn her neatly before passing her hand onto the opposite gentleman in the set.

It was immediately clear that if Gervase Clevedon had not danced in London for a while, he had definitely danced somewhere. Heather had not and she had to concentrate to remember the steps. The music was lively and within a minute, Heather stopped thinking about her gown or her wounded pride and was caught up in the sheer joy of dancing again after so long.

When the music ended, Captain Clevedon bowed and raised her hand to his lips. “Thank you, I enjoyed that so much. I was worried I’d run out of energy halfway through, but we carried the day.”

Heather smiled. “I almost refused to dance with you.”

“I know you did, ma’am, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. You must have been furious.”

“I thought you were going to apologise to me.”

Clevedon led her from the dance floor and neatly removed two champagne glasses from the tray of a passing waiter. “For Alverstone? I make a point of never apologising for him, or I’d never do anything else.”

Heather laughed aloud as she took the champagne. “Then why did you ask me to dance?”

“Mostly to annoy him. But also, I’d noticed you earlier because of that green silk gown. Several years ago, when I was last in London, I solicited a lady for a dance, who was wearing just that particular shade. She was a considerable heiress and a noted beauty and she turned me down very haughtily. I was hoping I might do better this time. I’m delighted to say that I did.”

Heather could not stop laughing. “I have no idea if any of that is true,” she said.

“I promise you that it is.”

“I collect you don’t get on with your brother.”

“I dislike him excessively. I hope that doesn’t shock you? Your own brother is a very good fellow. I’m deeply envious of you.”

“Doesn’t that make it difficult living with him?”

“Oh, I’m not staying at Alverstone House, ma’am, I wouldn’t dream of it when he is in residence. I have a house of my own near Ampthill in Bedfordshire. I inherited the estate from my mother’s family. And when I’m in London, I have a standing invitation to stay with the family of my commanding officer in Curzon Street. They’re very good hosts, especially just now, because none of them are there. Are you staying with Crawleigh?”

“Yes, for a few weeks. I live in Scotland, I inherited my husband’s estate and I seldom come to London. My sister-in-law has been bullying me, saying I should make more effort to be social.”

“Well I’m very glad you did,” Clevedon said. “May I take you into supper?”

“I…yes, if you wish it.”

“Will you dance with me again?”

Heather was laughing again. “Isn’t there some kind of rule which says we may only dance together twice?”

“Oh no, surely that rule only applies to debutantes.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well can we pretend that neither of us knows any better? They won’t be surprised. You’ve been hiding in a Scottish castle for three years and I’ve been in the army, they don’t expect any better from us.”

Heather felt as though her head was spinning slightly. “Are you always like this? How did you know it was a castle?”

“No, is it? I just made that up. I must have the second sight. Dance with me again, Mrs MacLeod. I’ve just survived the worst retreat…you honestly can’t imagine. Please?”

Heather sipped the champagne. “Was it really that bad? The retreat to Corunna?”

Unexpectedly the laughing eyes were serious. “Yes,” he said. “So bad, in fact, that I’m trying not to think about it too much at the moment. I’m supposed to be convalescing.”

“By dancing.”

“It is good for both the body and the soul. Especially dancing with you. You have the prettiest eyes.”

“Captain Clevedon, are you trying to flirt with me?” Heather said in what she hoped was a repressive voice.

Clevedon looked at her for a long moment. “Do you know, I think I am,” he said cordially. “Do you think that’s a sign of recovery? Come along, they’re about to start the quadrille and I think I can remember that one.”

***

The rain had stopped when Gervase Clevedon stepped out into the cool winter air. London was not particularly sweet smelling most of the time, but the rain had washed down the streets and given them a fresh damp scent. Gervase stood for a moment, his head swimming pleasantly, and decided he was sober enough to walk home. A queue of carriages stood waiting to collect their occupants. Gervase’s hosts had informed him that he was to make use of their town carriage without hesitation, but Gervase preferred to walk although he knew perfectly well that his brother would never dream of walking the ten minutes to his home in Berkeley Square. More than ten years in the army had given Gervase considerable hardiness and he would have been embarrassed to call for the carriage for such a short distance.

Gervase had stood up with Heather MacLeod for more than the regulation two dances. If anybody had cast disapproving glances their way, he had not noticed and did not care. When he had limped off the transport from Corunna to begin his convalescence, Gervase had been so weak from starvation, exhaustion and a minor wound to his shoulder that he could not have contemplated even a short walk, let alone an evening dancing. Physically he had recovered very quickly but the emotional effects of the long agonising retreat followed by a battle he was not fit to fight were taking longer to shake off.

The retreat to Corunna had been a disaster for the British army. Only two thirds of Gervase’s battalion had marched into Spain with Sir John Moore. The rest of them remained in Lisbon, struck down by the worst epidemic of camp fever Gervase had ever seen. At the time, Gervase had thought himself lucky to have avoided it. Colonel Johnstone rallied those men fit enough to fight and joined the main army, and Gervase felt sorry for Major Paul van Daan who was both his commanding officer and his friend. Paul’s friendship with Sir Arthur Wellesley had given him a significant part to play in the victories at Rolica and Vimeiro the previous year, but this time he was left in Lisbon in command of the sick troops while Johnstone marched to potential glory. To make it worse, Paul’s wife succumbed to the sickness and Gervase knew he had spent a miserable six weeks in Lisbon fretting over her before returning to barracks in Melton Mowbray with his much-depleted companies, to receive the news of Moore’s death.

Moore’s campaign had gone wrong from the start. He had taken over command of the army when the three previous commanders had been summoned back to London to face an inquiry over the convention of Cintra, which had caused public outrage because of the lenient terms granted to the defeated French. Gervase wondered if Sir Arthur Wellesley would have done any better than Moore, given the impossible circumstances. Moore could not be asked to account for the failure of his campaign. He had been killed during the desperate battle fought on the shore at Corunna where his sickly, starving and exhausted army managed to beat back the French long enough to board the transports waiting to take them home.

Gervase had lost both his horses during the long retreat, and too many of his men. They fell beside the road, dying of sickness and hunger and cold and he could do nothing for them. He also lost control of them, unable to prevent episodes of looting and drunkenness whenever they happened upon a village or a farm where food was available. Spanish farmers and their families were murdered and women were raped. Gervase did not know if any of his men were responsible for the worst of the depredations but even the fact that they might have been left him depressed and ashamed.

Flirting with Heather MacLeod on the dance floor and across the supper table had made him happier than he had been for months and Gervase was enormously grateful. He was also intrigued. She was an attractive woman who seemed entirely without vanity. In place of it, she had ideas, and interests and laughter. She laughed more than any woman he had ever met. She also talked a lot. Gervase thought of himself as a quiet man, but Heather MacLeod was amazingly easy to talk to. He discovered, with some surprise, that they shared a lively sense of the ridiculous and her conversation was peppered with observations about their fellow revellers that kept him in a ripple of laughter all evening. He realised, as he turned into Curzon Street, that he could not wait to see her again.

It was past two o’clock as Gervase mounted the steps to Tevington House. He did not knock, unwilling to wake up the neighbours, knowing that the butler or one of the footmen would be on the watch for his return. Sure enough, the door opened after only a few moments and Gervase stepped into the hallway, which was dimly lit by a branch of candles set on a polished table. He took off his hat.

“If you think I’m taking your damned hat as well as waiting up to let you in, you’re much mistaken, Captain Clevedon.”

Gervase turned in astonishment, his face lighting up at the sight of a tall fair man in uniform who was smiling at him.

“Paul! What on earth are you doing here, acting as butler at this hour?”

“Are you drunk, Gervase? This is my house. At least it’s my father’s house.”

Gervase set his hat down on the side table, carefully avoiding the candles, and remembered to salute. Major Paul van Daan regarded him critically. “Not much more than half-sprung, I suspect. I got here very late after the journey from hell, so I had supper and thought I’d wait up for you. They said you were at Lady Sefton’s.”

“I was. It’s the first time I’ve ventured out to anything more strenuous than a supper party at White’s, but unexpectedly I enjoyed myself. I’m surprised to see you, sir, I thought you fixed in Leicestershire.”

“I am. In fact, I’m completely invisible and I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from advertising my presence in town. Wellesley wrote to me asking me to come up for a few days. I’m dining with him tomorrow. It seems we’ll be going back to Portugal with him.”

“They’ve given him the command?”

“Yes, although I don’t know how official it is yet. Are you too tired for another drink? I’ve kept the fire going in the library.”

“As long as it isn’t champagne. I have drunk enough champagne this evening. Why are you travelling incognito?”

Paul picked up the candles and led the way into the library. He set them down and went to pour wine. “Because I don’t want to see anybody,” he said frankly. “Apart from Wellesley, and of course you. I’m enjoying the life of a country layabout for a month or two, with nothing more strenuous than the ride into barracks, and I promised Rowena I wouldn’t stay long.”

“How is she, sir?”

“She seems fully recovered, but it’s going to take me a while to get over the fright she gave me.”

“And how are the men?”

“Improving. We’ve lost some, Gervase, I can’t lie to you. I can’t decide if I feel guilty or relieved that I wasn’t there.”

“Feel relieved,” Gervase said sombrely, drinking the wine. “It was pure hell, appallingly organised with a complete breakdown of discipline. We lost control of our men, Paul, and I’ve never had to say that before. It’s a miracle we got as many of them out of there as we did. You missed nothing.”

“That’s never going to happen again.”

Gervase grinned at the ferocious certainty of the other man’s tone. “Yes, sir. Now let’s talk of other things, it depresses me. I saw Wellesley tonight. He was dancing with a number of pretty women, none of whom were his wife.”

“That is no surprise at all. He has reason to celebrate. Wholly exonerated by the inquiry, a vote of thanks from Parliament, and the promise of a new command.”

Gervase gave a faint smile. “And did he deserve all of those?”

Paul grinned. “Two out of three,” he said honestly. “He signed that bloody thing along with the other two. I doubt he agreed with it, but I’m also damned sure he didn’t realise the furore it was going to cause, or he’d never have done it. Needless to say, he didn’t ask my opinion. I’m glad he got away with it though because he deserves the command and the approbation. Now let’s see what he can do with nobody holding him back. Was your brother at Lady Sefton’s tonight?”

“To my sorrow. He’s the reason I was planning to post up to Bedfordshire at the end of the week. Just being in the same room as him makes me want to punch him, I cannot think how we came to be related. He tells me he is about to make an offer of marriage to some unfortunate girl. I wish I could put a spoke in the works because he’ll treat her appallingly, but there’s nothing I can do. He’s an Earl, her parents cannot wait to hand her over.”

“Who is it?”

“Lady Clarissa Flood. She’s nineteen.”

“Dear God.”

“I know. He can’t even be bothered to woo the girl. He’ll just sign the marriage contract and start giving her orders. Thank God I’ll be back in Portugal with you and won’t have to watch it.”

“Ambitious parents create a lot of misery. When are you going to Ampthill? It’s not that far, you should come up to Southwinds for a few days. I promise not to make you run drill or skirmish training.”

Gervase laughed. “You would break that promise in two days, sir, you can’t help yourself. I’m not sure actually. I was going to go, but I may decide to stay in town for a week or two. I ran into an old friend this evening. Do you know Crawleigh? We were in the 71st together, but he sold out when he inherited the title. His wife has invited me to dine on Tuesday, and I’m joining them at the theatre on Friday.”

Paul van Daan studied him for a long silent moment, sipping his wine. Gervase drank his, saying nothing. Eventually, Paul set his glass down and got up to bring the bottle to the low table before the fire. He refilled both glasses, sat back and studied Gervase thoughtfully.

“What’s her name?” he asked.

***

It was the first time in many years that Gervase had spent any time in London during the season and he was surprised at how much he enjoyed it. As the younger son of the Earl of Alverstone, his place in society was assured but his loathing for his elder brother meant that he tended to avoid town when the new Earl was in residence.

Gervase could tell that Alverstone was baffled by his extended stay. They spoke occasionally when meeting at social events and his brother was probing, trying to discover what was keeping Gervase in London. His curiosity amused Gervase since it was clear that Alverstone had absolutely no idea of his real motives. He questioned Gervase about possible financial problems, difficulties with his Bedfordshire estate, health problems after the brutal retreat to Corunna and even asked if Gervase was considering selling his commission and returning to civilian life. Gervase gave him little information and enjoyed watching his brother’s puzzlement.

Gervase could not believe Alverstone had not noticed the object of his real interest. Lord Crawleigh and his wife were definitely aware, and they encouraged him shamelessly. Gervase wondered if they had bullied Heather into coming to London in the hope of finding her another husband, but he did not think so. Lady Crawleigh was clearly devoted to her and he suspected that Heather’s self-imposed solitude since the death of her husband had been a source of concern for some time.

It puzzled Gervase, because it was quickly clear that Heather MacLeod was not a naturally solitary person. She was awkward at times, but he thought that was lack of practice rather than a native dislike of company. Over the following weeks he spent increasing amounts of time with her, and he found her completely charming.

Heather quickly admitted to him that Lady Crawleigh had tricked her into coming to London with the promise of cultural activities. It proved an excellent opportunity for Gervase to spend time with her in settings more conducive to conversation than a ballroom. He accompanied her to the theatre and the opera, escorted her to the Royal Academy and attended several concerts, both private and public. She laughed at his willingness to accede to any of her suggestions.

“Captain Clevedon, you are far too amenable. I am tempted to see how far I can push this. There are several public lectures coming up on the subject of anatomy and the structure of the brain. I’m sure they will be interesting. Would you be willing, should I require an escort?”

Gervase surveyed her with interest. “How fascinating, ma’am. You may not know it but I have always wanted to know more about human anatomy. Should we ask Lady Crawleigh if she wishes to attend with us?”

Heather gave him a long look. “I’m not sure if I should call your bluff. Would you really endure such a trial just to prove me wrong?”

“The difficulty you have, ma’am, is that if you call my bluff and I don’t fold, you’ll have to attend the lectures yourself. Is it really worth that just to watch me squirm?”

Heather gave a peal of laughter. “You are the most exasperating man, Captain. It’s impossible to put you out of temper.”

“It can definitely be done, ma’am. You should talk to my brother.”

“Goodness, why ever would I do that?”

“I’ve no idea. Silly notion, forget I mentioned it. Will you ride with me tomorrow? Major van Daan has offered me the pick of their stable. I’m sure I can find suitable horses.”

“I would love to, but I will provide my own horse. Fiona always brings several to town during the season, because she knows she looks good on horseback and likes to show off. I can borrow one of hers.”

“Excellent. I hope the weather holds.”

They rode together through the cold weeks of February and into early March, danced at every ball and took long walks through the London parks, trailed by Heather’s uninterested maid. She told him about her husband, about the sixteenth century castle she had inherited near the village of Comrie and about the lands and people who had become her responsibility through her marriage. Gervase talked of his parents, his career in the army and of the extensive estate in Bedfordshire that he intended one day to make his home.

“Most of the family estates are entailed, of course, and went to my brother. I didn’t mind, it’s the way things are done. It’s why I joined the army when I was younger. I wanted a career of my own, to make my way in the world. I didn’t want to depend on him. My mother always understood that. She inherited the estate from a childless uncle and made it over to me as soon as I came of age. She lives there now and keeps house for me. She doesn’t get on particularly well with Alverstone either.”

“It must be a great joy to him, to be so universally loved.”

Gervase spluttered with laughter. “I think he strives to deserve it,” he said, when he could speak again. “You were able to inherit Comrie Castle unentailed, I gather.”

“Yes. There’s no title to inherit, just the lands. If we’d had a son they’d have gone to him, with me to manage them until he was older, but we never had children. I wish we had.” Heather smiled unselfconsciously. “Alex had several male cousins who were most put out when he left everything to me, but he was perfectly entitled to do so.”

“I think you had a very happy marriage, ma’am.”

“I did. I was the most fortunate of women.”

The sadness in her voice pierced Gervase’s heart. It was unworthy he knew, to envy a dead man, but sometimes he could not help it. As the weeks passed, it was becoming more and more clear to him that his feelings for Heather MacLeod went well beyond friendship, but he was by no means sure that she felt the same way. Clearly, she enjoyed his company, and Gervase suspected that to the outside world their uncomplicated friendship looked very much like courtship, but he worried that to Heather it was nothing than a pleasant way to pass her time in London. He was beginning to understand why she had locked herself away in her grey stone tower at the edge of the Highlands for so long. Heather MacLeod had been passionately devoted to her husband and Gervase was not sure she would ever be ready for another man to take his place.

It grieved Gervase, because he wanted more, and he was becoming conscious that he had very little time. He received regular letters from his regiment, informing him of arrangements for travelling to Portugal and he was torn between the usual sense of anticipation at the beginning of a new campaign and a feeling of misery that if he sailed away from Heather without at least making a push to tell her of his feelings, he would lose any chance with her. It could be several years before he returned to England, and by then she would probably have met somebody else.

His commanding officer had returned to Leicestershire, offering several wholly unsolicited pieces of advice about Gervase’s courtship before he left. Gervase was glad to see him go. His friendship with Paul van Daan was of long-standing and he generally enjoyed his commander’s lively sense of humour, but his relationship with Heather was too new and too precious to be the subject of even the most well-meaning banter. Gervase fretted pointlessly at the problem. He knew that the only possible solution was to pluck up the courage to speak to her before he had to leave, but he was discovering that it was far easier to display courage in the face of a French cavalry charge than when faced with making an offer of marriage to a young woman who might well say no. The weeks flew past, and Gervase was beginning to dread the arrival of orders to return to duty immediately, which would rob him of any chance of speaking to Heather. He needed to gather his courage in both hands and take the risk, and he needed to do it soon.

They rode out on a bright Spring morning towards Barnet, where the horse fair sprawled out over several fields. Gervase was under no illusion that he would find a suitable opportunity to propose on this day, but he was in dire need of new horses. He had several excellent hunters in his stables in Bedfordshire but none of them were suitable for the long hours and difficult conditions of campaign life.

It was many years since he had been to Barnet Fair, and he discovered that Heather had never been. She was openly delighted with the eclectic mix of market stalls, sideshows, food and drink booths and huge pens where cattle and horses were displayed for sale. The buying and selling of livestock was the real purpose of the fair and farmers and landowners rubbed shoulders with private customers looking to buy a riding hack or a pair of carriage horses.

It was crowded and noisy. Gervase had attended such fairs in several countries and entertained Heather with stories of India as they stabled their borrowed horses in a temporary horse pen and left them under the watchful eye of one of the Van Daan’s grooms. They made their way through the throng to the horse pens, accompanied by Southworth, Gervase’s own groom. Southworth had accompanied Gervase on campaign for ten years and knew exactly what he was looking for in an officer’s mount.

Gervase had wondered if Heather would be bored by the laborious process of selecting and purchasing horses, but she seemed to enjoy herself. She was a good horsewoman and was knowledgeable enough to make intelligent comments about the various animals. They wandered through the pens, stopping every now and then to examine a promising mount and Gervase had to force himself to pay attention to the horses, since he actually needed to buy some, instead of watching Heather.

It was afternoon by the time he had made his selection and agreed the arrangements for delivering the horses. They spent the rest of the day at the fair, wandering through the market stalls, eating hot pasties in a crowded food tent and drinking cider at a rickety table overlooking the huge field where a racetrack had been laid out. In addition to its commercial purposes, Barnet Fair was famous for its sports, and both horse racing and boxing matches attracted visitors, not only from London, but also from the surrounding counties.

Heather disclaimed any interest in watching the races and the entirely masculine crowd of sportsmen surrounding the boxing ring was clearly unsuitable for a lady. The groom who had looked after their horses told them that the Prince of Wales had arrived with a party of friends for the boxing and was expected to remain for the races. It seemed like an excellent time to leave before the light began to fade and the fair grew even more rowdy.

Heather was unusually quiet on the ride back into town, but it was a comfortable silence. Gervase rode beside her, pleasantly tired after a very productive day, and decided that he was going to speak to her as soon as possible. If he had completely misread her feelings, it was better to know it. Today had clarified his own feelings and he no longer had any doubts.

Gervase was at the breakfast table two days later when the note was delivered. He did not recognise the hand, and he opened it and began to read, his teacup halfway to his mouth. After the first few lines he put the cup down and pushed his plate away, his appetite gone. It was from Heather MacLeod, a pleasant note informing him that she had made the decision to return home to Scotland almost immediately.

Gervase read the letter again. There was no mistaking the warm, friendly tone of her farewell. She thanked him for his friendship and for the many occasions when he had escorted her and expressed her hope that they would meet again at some future date. Gervase, depressed, tried to imagine how that might come about and could not. When they had parted after their day at the fair, she had given no hint of any intention to go home so soon. He found himself running over their conversations in his head, wondering if he had said or done something to upset her. He did not think he had. Foolish to think this was about him. It was looking increasingly likely that Heather MacLeod had not considered him at all when making her decision.

The thought hurt, but at the same time it was a call to action. Gervase realised that he could not allow her to leave without at least trying to tell her how he felt about her. It would be awkward for her and painfully embarrassing for him if she rejected his proposal, but it would be far worse if he just let her walk out of his life. He was in love with her and had begun to believe that she might feel the same way about him. If he was wrong, then he needed to know it and he could not put this off any longer or he might miss his opportunity.

***

Heather had been prepared for her family to object to her sudden decision to go home, but she had not been prepared for the ferocity of the storm.

She made the announcement at breakfast, dropping it casually into a conversation about Lord Crawleigh’s lame horse and the likelihood of rain that day. Neither topic served as an effective screen. Both Crawleigh and Fiona stopped their conversation and turned to stare at Heather.

“Going home? When?”

“On Friday, I think,” Heather said lightly. “I’ll make the arrangements today. I’ll travel post.”

“Heather, you cannot. We are promised to Lord and Lady Jersey on Saturday and there is the Mortimer’s ball on Monday. You have so many engagements.”

“I have made a list,” Heather said, keeping her voice steady. “I will write to all of them with my apologies, Fiona, I am not so rag-mannered as to leave that to you.”

“It seems fairly rag-mannered to walk out on your family halfway through a visit without so much as a conversation,” Crawleigh said bluntly. Heather shot him a look.

“May I remind you, dear brother, that this is not the visit I had planned? You took control of my time without so much as a by-your-leave, as though I were a silly girl of eighteen, and I think I’ve been very patient about it. I’ve had enough now and I want to go home and get on with my life.”

“What life? Mooning about the castle and discussing cattle feed and crop rotation with the farmhands? Don’t pretend you’ve not enjoyed yourself, Heather, I’m neither blind nor stupid. Three days ago you were talking about ordering new gowns for the warmer weather. What’s got into you?”

“I have enjoyed myself and I am very grateful,” Heather said between gritted teeth. “But it is enough. I don’t belong in London. I miss home. I want to go home.”

She was horrified at the little break in her voice. Fiona heard it and motioned for the servants to leave the room, then gave Crawleigh a look.

“Don’t bully her, Charles. Heather, what has happened to upset you? Do not spin me some tale, if you please, I’ve known you for too long. You had no intention of leaving early, this is a sudden decision.”

Heather got up and walked over to the long windows which overlooked the square. “That does not mean it is the wrong decision.”

“Is this about Clevedon?” her brother demanded. “Does he know you’re about to head for the Scottish hills, dear sister? Or were you just going to leave him without a word?”

Heather felt a rush of sheer fury. She spun around. “And now we have reached the truth of it, have we not, Charles? You do not give a rush about me or my feelings or how difficult this is for me. You just want me respectably married again so that the likes of Lord Alverstone do not whisper behind their hands that your sister is a little odd.”

Crawleigh got to his feet, almost upsetting the chair in his anger. “How dare you say that to me? I’ve offered you nothing but sympathy since Alex died, he was my friend. But you…”

“And now you’ve found another one of your friends to marry me off to…”

“That’s enough!” Fiona broke in angrily. “Sit down immediately, both of you. I do not care how upset you are, you will not yell at each other across the breakfast table and make a gift of our family business to the servants. Sit down.”

Heather stood irresolute. She wanted to run to her room, probably slamming several doors on the way, but the expression on Fiona’s face made her pause. Her sister-in-law was generally very placid, but she looked furious now. After a moment, Crawleigh seated himself again. Heather stalked back to her chair and did the same.

“Have you written to Captain Clevedon, Heather?” Fiona asked.

“Yes. I sent a note to him this morning.”

“I hope it was civil,” Crawleigh growled.

“It was more than civil,” Heather snapped. “I expressed my warmest friendship and appreciation for all his kindness and hoped we should meet again one day.”

“You’ll be glad you said that, sister, if you get the news he’s been blown apart by French cannon before the end of the year,” Crawleigh said unforgivably.

Heather burst into tears. She got to her feet and ran to the door of the breakfast parlour just as the butler opened it.

“Captain Clevedon, my Lord,” Campbell said, sounding surprised. “I believe he is engaged to go for a walk with Mrs MacLeod.”

Heather had completely forgotten the arrangement. She froze for a long moment, staring into Clevedon’s astonished eyes. Clevedon looked back steadily, and Heather wondered how much of the altercation he had heard. Nobody moved or spoke.

Captain Clevedon was the first to recover. He stepped to one side, his eyes not leaving hers. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “Go on. But if you can bear to come back down, I would like to speak to you.”

Heather ran past him. She was crying too much to answer, but she was grateful for his quick understanding. It made her feel rather worse. She paused at the bottom of the wide, sweeping staircase and looked back. The Captain had just entered the parlour. Before the door closed, she heard his voice, using a tone she had never heard from him before.

“I heard every word of that, Crawleigh, and you can thank God there’s a lady present or I’d punch you so hard you’d still be unconscious at dinner. Lady Crawleigh, your servant, ma’am. Sorry to arrive so early.”

***

After ten minutes of painfully stilted conversation, Lady Crawleigh excused herself to see how her sister-in-law did. When she had gone, Gervase looked at Crawleigh. The Earl groaned.

“That expression is the reason I sold out, Clevedon. I couldn’t bear you looking at me for another week like a weevil in a tack biscuit.”

“You sold out when you inherited the title, Crawleigh. It had nothing to do with me. And just at the moment, I’d say the weevil is ahead of you for brains.”

“I’m sorry. I said I’m sorry. I lost my temper.”

“It isn’t me you should be apologising to, you bloody idiot. Of all the things to say to the poor girl, given what she’s been through.”

“Clevedon, I love my sister dearly, but you have no idea how infuriating she can be. I’m assuming you had her note.”

“Yes, it’s why I came so early. I read it twice and decided she’d forgotten that she’d promised to go for a walk with me today. I wanted to get over here before she remembered and sent me another note to cry off.”

“That’s the reason you’re a captain and I’m a member of the idle classes. You always were a planner. I’m surprised you’re not angry with her yourself. She’s been leading you a fine dance for more than two months. It was unforgiveable to turn you off with a note because she has a whim to go home all of a sudden. I’ve no idea what’s got into her. I would have sworn…”

He broke off realising what he had been about to say. Gervase grinned. “I would have sworn as well. She’s not been leading me a dance. Your sister doesn’t have it in her to behave that way. Whatever has happened to upset her, she’s not being deliberately difficult.”

“Really? I do hope you manage to marry her, Clevedon, you’re far nicer to her than I am.”

“After today’s effort, I will not argue with you.”

“Look, I’ll ring for more tea for you and then I’ll go up and tell her…”

“If you go anywhere near her, Crawleigh, I will beat you senseless, I swear it. I’ll have the tea and you can pass me the Times. I’m going to wait.”

Thirty minutes passed. Gervase read the newspaper, which contained nothing of interest at all. Crawleigh worked his way through a pile of letters. Eventually he looked up.

“How long are you going to wait?”

“Until she comes downstairs.”

“What if she stays upstairs?”

“Then I’m staying for dinner.”

Crawleigh rolled his eyes. “Is it too early for brandy, do you think?”

“Yes.” Gervase took out his watch. “Give it another hour.”

“Do I have to sit here with you?”

“You can go to the devil for all I care.”

There was a sound in the hallway and then the door opened and Heather appeared. She was dressed in a stylish full-length blue pelisse, complete with military-style epaulettes and frogging. Only the hem and lace collar of her white gown were visible, and she wore neat black half boots and a cream-coloured bonnet trimmed with feathers. Gervase had not seen the pelisse before and, as he rose and bowed, he thought how well the colour suited her fair hair and skin. He moved forward and took her hand, raising it to his lips.

“Mrs MacLeod, I’m so glad you came down. As you are dressed for walking, I’m hoping you haven’t come to tell me you’re crying off. I’m sorry I arrived so early. I wanted to speak to Crawleigh, but it was thoughtless of me.”

“Not at all, Captain. You weren’t responsible for my dramatic exit, my brother has the tact of a bear.”

Crawleigh got up. “Exit, pursued by a bear,” he said morosely. “Good day, Clevedon. Feel free to drown her in the Serpentine if the mood takes you.”

When he had gone, Gervase looked at his love. She had been crying, but had done a good job of disguising it with a little powder and seemed perfectly calm. He took her arm and they made their way through the grey early afternoon towards the gates of Hyde Park, with Heather’s maid following at a respectable distance. Gervase realised he was dry mouthed with nerves. His strategy to speak to her alone had succeeded very well, but he was not sure that he could carry the next line of her defences.

“Are you really going back to Scotland?” Gervase asked, once they were in the park and walking along a tree lined avenue. He realised that the usual easy flow of their conversation had dried up and he was struggling to know how to raise the subject.

“Yes, I think so. I’ve done as I promised and spent a season in London. I’ve ridden in the Row and attended the balls and the receptions and the routs. I’ve been entertained by the Prince of Wales and eaten the worst supper I’ve ever been offered in my life, and I’ve seen the very latest exhibition at the Royal Academy. I’ve even been to Horse Guards and seen some very pretty soldiers on parade. I’m exhausted with all the frivolity.”

“You haven’t danced at Almack’s yet,” Gervase pointed out.

Heather laughed aloud. “The underworld will freeze over before they allow me through those hallowed doors, Captain, and you know it. Besides, I’ve no wish to go.”

“The suppers are even worse than Prinny’s, and they make the gentlemen wear knee breeches.”

“Then it’s no place for a – what did the Earl call me? A nondescript dwarf in last Season’s gowns, wasn’t it?”

“My brother’s manners are as appalling as his arrogance. I am ashamed to be related to him.”

“I would be too. I like Lady Clarissa Flood, though, it will be a pity if her parents shuffle her into it. He’ll lead her a dog’s life.”

“I cannot allow myself to think about it, ma’am, since I can do nothing to prevent it.”

Heather gave him one of her grave looks, as though she was assessing his sincerity, then she gave a rather sad smile.

“I feel the same way. But it’s another good reason to be home in Scotland, so that I don’t have to watch it. I’ll miss our talks though. When do you leave for Portugal?”

“I had a letter this morning. I’ll need to leave for Southampton in about three weeks. Major van Daan has given me leave to go straight there with no need to travel up to Melton first.”

“That’s good, as you’ll have time to say goodbye to your friends in London.”

“I thought I might go back to Ampthill, to spend a week or two there and to see my mother. I think I’ve been social enough for a while.”

“Won’t you find that hard back with your regiment?”

“The regiment…oh, you mean my fellow officers? That’s different, they’re my friends.”

Heather’s smile broadened. “The way you say that makes me wish I’d had the opportunity to meet them.”

“Oh, I wish you had too. Meeting me in London like this, during the Season, will have given you very little idea of me really. This is not…these are not really my friends.”

Another awkward silence fell. Behind them, Gervase could hear the maid sniffing noisily as though she intended it to be heard. He turned to look at her and his companion giggled.

“She doesn’t like walking,” she said softly. “I wish they’d stop this nonsense about having me chaperoned every time I walk outside the house, it’s ridiculous. I’ve been married and widowed and I’ve no reputation to worry about.”

“That’s not true and you know it, ma’am. London is very censorious.”

“It can be as censorious as it likes, I’m unlikely to hear it from my crumbling pile of stone in Scotland.”

Gervase laughed. “Is that another one of my brother’s remarks?”

“No, that one was Lady Commyngton. Though to be fair, I think she only said it when it became clear to her I’d no intention of encouraging the attentions of her youngest son. He’d have been very happy to take on my crumbling pile of stone and the income my husband left me.”

“Is it really crumbling?”

“Well it’s old, and the plumbing could do with updating,” Heather admitted cheerfully. “Alexander never really cared for such things, but since he left me in better case than I expected, I had thought of doing a little work on it. But it’s a castle, Captain, not a mansion. I doubt Mr Commyngton would have wanted to live there much, and I’d never marry a man who wanted to sell my home to fund a London lifestyle.”

“I suspect your Scottish castle suits you far better than these well-tended gardens, Mrs MacLeod.”

“I suspect you’re right. Though this is pretty with the spring flowers coming up, even on such a dark day. I wonder if we should turn back before my maid develops inflammation of the lung?”

Gervase felt a sudden lurch of misery, realising that this might be the last time he saw her. He sought frantically for the right words, wishing for a more fluent tongue.

“Do you ever get leave once they get you out of England, Captain?”

The question surprised him. “It’s very unpredictable, ma’am. When the entire army has fallen apart and the campaign has collapsed into disaster, leave is very likely, as you can see from Corunna. But we try not to hope for that too often. It will depend on how successful Wellesley is. He’s the man of the hour just now, the government would far rather focus on his triumphs than on poor Moore’s failure.”

“Is he truly that good?”

“A general is only as good as his last campaign, ma’am. But my commanding officer says he’s the best general in the army.”

“Now that is high praise indeed. Do you trust Major van Daan’s opinion?”

“I trust him with my life, ma’am, so I suppose I’d have to say yes.”

“Captain Burrows described Major van Daan as a monied upstart who has bought his way to promotion over longer serving men.”

Gervase considered it for a moment. “I think he’d agree with that.”

She gave a peal of laughter. “Oh no, you’re such a disappointment, Captain. I was sure that would make you angry.”

“Captain Burrows has never set foot on a battlefield, ma’am, and I suspect if they ever try to send him abroad, his Mama will quickly pay for a transfer to a safer regiment. Preferably not the 110th because Major van Daan would end up punching him.”

She was smiling up at him as they approached the park gates. “I wish I had met your Major when he was in town.”

“If there is ever the opportunity, Mrs MacLeod, I will gladly introduce you.”

“I hope we meet again, Captain. I realise you may be away from England for a long time, but should you find yourself with a period of leave…”

Heather stopped and Gervase glanced at her and realised, to his complete astonishment, that she was blushing. He had never before seen her do so and had thought her incapable of it.

“If I ever find myself in Scotland, ma’am, I will definitely call.”

“Scotland is a long way away, Captain. I might possibly find myself in London again.”

Gervase stopped in his tracks, so abruptly that the maid, who was not looking where she was going, almost walked into him. Heather was a few steps ahead of him before she realised. She turned with a surprised expression.

“Are you all right, Captain?”

Gervase looked at the maid. He realised guiltily that she actually did not look well. Her nose was red and her eyes were sore.

“What’s your name?”

“Brown, sir.”

“Brown, you look terrible. I’ve been listening to you sneeze for the past twenty minutes. Go home immediately. Tell Lady Crawleigh that you had no choice, I ordered you home because I was worried about contagion. Mrs MacLeod and I will take another turn about the park, and then I will return her home, I swear it.”

The woman stared at him in blank surprise, then unexpectedly she seemed to understand and gave a broad smile and dropped a curtsey.

“Yes, Captain. Thank you, sir.”

Gervase dug in his pocket and produced a coin. She took it, looked at it then looked up with wide, surprised eyes.

“Thank you, sir.”

When she had gone, Gervase took a deep breath and risked a look at his companion. She was wearing exactly the expression he was expecting.

“That was extremely high-handed of you, Captain Clevedon. How did you know I wasn’t tired and ready to go home?”

“A lucky guess, ma’am. Besides, I suspect you’re used to walking a lot further than this, and over far rougher ground.”

She gave a smile. “Yes, I am. This is very tame. Very well, let’s walk over to the lake. I have taken a liking to the lake.”

“I like it myself. I’ve a small ornamental lake on my estate in Bedfordshire. It is home to the most aggressively hostile flock of geese I have ever encountered in my life. They barely tolerate my presence.”

Heather gave a gurgle of laughter. “Really? Birds can be like that. When I married Alexander, one of his cousins presented us with a pair of peacocks. I think she thought they would lend an air of gentility to the place. All they did, of course, was leave droppings all over the carriage drive and kept us awake with their shrieking. Fortunately, my sister married the following year, so we presented them to her.”

“I wonder who she passed them on to when she got tired of them?” Gervase said, much entertained. “I envision them being passed on through the family until they have toured the whole of Scotland and finally settled into honourable retirement somewhere in Berwick.”

Heather was giggling. “Don’t. Now I am going to have to ask her. I wonder if she did pass them on again. I don’t remember seeing them the last time I visited her.”

They were still laughing as they arrived at the Serpentine. The water was silver-grey on this cloudy afternoon, and the path around the lake was deserted. It was growing colder, and a breeze blew across the water, rippling the smooth surface and setting the feathers on Heather’s bonnet dancing. Gervase eyed her blue pelisse.

“Are you going to be warm enough? I hadn’t realised it was this cold. In fact, I’m looking at the sky and wondering if this was a good idea. It might rain.”

“Well if it does, we shall not die of it. Though my hat may not survive. A good thing too, I dislike it very much.”

Gervase studied the bonnet. “I don’t see why. It’s a perfectly good hat.”

“With half an aviary pinned to the top. My sister-in-law chose the trimming, she assured me that it was all the crack, but every time I wear it, I expect to be the target of some amorous pigeon. Look at it, it’s ridiculous.”

Gervase began to laugh again. “I’m never going to be able to look at a feather trimmed bonnet in quite the same way.”

“You certainly won’t have to look at this one for much longer. Once I get home it will go into a hat box and remain there until one of my periodic cleaning frenzies, when I will find it in some dark corner, remember why I never wear it and give it to the housekeeper.”

“It’s too pretty for a housekeeper.”

“Don’t be so appallingly top-lofty, Captain, you sound like your brother. Why should a housekeeper not have a stylish bonnet? You have quite decided me, Mrs Mackinnon shall have this hat. She will wear it to church with the greatest pride and be the envy of every other female in the servants’ pews.”

“I wish I could see it,” Gervase said wistfully.

“So do I.”

They stopped to watch two swans gliding gracefully over the surface of the lake, occasionally bending their necks in search of food in the water. After a moment, Gervase transferred his gaze to the woman’s face. Heather was smiling a little, either because the elegant birds pleased her or because she was still amused at their previous conversation. She was a small woman, and very slight, which gave Gervase the pleasant sensation of being taller than he was. He thought how much he liked her upright carriage and the confidence with which she held herself.

She seemed to sense his gaze and turned her head to look at him. “You look very serious, Captain. Tell me you are not regretting the impending loss of this hat.”

“I am not regretting the loss of the hat, ma’am. I’m afraid I’m finding it difficult to contemplate losing the wearer, though.”

As soon as he said it, Gervase wished he had not. He had no idea how to say what he wanted to say, but the glib compliment made him cringe. He waited for the set-down he so richly deserved. Instead, she tilted her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully.

“I am not about to succumb to some fatal illness, Captain, I am simply returning to Scotland.”

“I know, but it’s too far. I only have three weeks, I can’t possibly travel all that way. If you lived in Hertfordshire or Kent I could wait a few days then invent a perfectly plausible and entirely spurious reason to visit the county and follow you. And possibly, away from the balls and the routs and the worst supper in history, I might be able to pluck up the courage to say…to tell you…”

He broke off, trying to read her expression. To his surprise, she still wore the little half-smile. “To tell me?”

“To ask you.”

“What is it that you wish to ask me, Captain?”

“If you would consider postponing your journey in favour of marrying me instead.”

Heather did not move or speak for such a long time, that Gervase felt an urge to babble, simply to fill the silence. He managed to restrain himself with a huge effort. He had not really intended to blurt out his proposal so clumsily, but now that he had done so, he needed to close his mouth and give her time. He wished she was not taking so long.

Finally, she stirred. “I want to say yes,” she said.

“Then say it.”

“I’m afraid to. I did not think I would ever marry again. Not because I have anything against marriage. Quite the opposite. I was very happy for a few years. I simply did not think I would ever meet a man I could care about, the way I cared about Alex.”

“And have you?”

“Oh yes, I think I have. The problem is that I didn’t expect Alex to die so young. It was a terrible shock, and for a time I think I was quite beside myself with grief. It passed eventually and I recovered. But you…with you…I would need to come to terms with the fact that it could very well happen to me again. And I would not even be there.”

Gervase understood, with a sharp pain around his heart. “Because I am a soldier.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I could stop being a soldier.”

She gave a little laugh. “No, you could not, Gervase. You know you couldn’t. The army is part of you, it’s woven into the very fibre of your being. If you failed to report for duty in three weeks’ time, you would be dreadfully unhappy. And I should never stop feeling guilty.”

Her use of his name brought a flood of happiness and with it, a rush of misery as he understood that she was right. He studied her features, admiring the well-marked brows, the slightly arched nose and the mouth which always seemed to hover on the edge of a smile.

“I don’t know what to say to persuade you,” Gervase said finally. “Heather, I love you. I know this is too sudden, I know I’ve not given you time. I’m sorry, I don’t have the time. I want to make some dramatic declaration about giving everything up for you, but…”

“Oh, please do not, it would be so embarrassing,” Heather said fervently. “And then I should be in such a quandary because I haven’t the least intention of giving everything up for you. I don’t want to give up my home and move to London. I’m not even sure it is good for people to give up the things they love to be with another person. Surely there is a better way.”

Gervase reached out and took her hand, raising it to his lips. “I hope there is,” he said. “I hope we can find it. Please don’t give me an answer now. This may be rushed, but at least think about it. Please.”

Heather reached out and caressed his cheek. “Of course, I’m going to think about it,” she said, and Gervase was surprised to hear the catch of tears in her voice. “If I didn’t love you, Gervase, I would just say no.”

Something splashed onto Gervase’s hand. He looked down in surprise and then felt another splash and another. He looked up and realised that the clouds had darkened while they had been talking, and huge raindrops had begun to fall.

“Oh no. No wonder we’re the only people in the park. We need to get back. I think we’re in for a downpour.”

“I think we may be in for a storm, Captain.”

Gervase realised she was right. As they made their way back along the path, it grew steadily darker. Long before they reached the gates the sky lit up with the sudden brilliance of a flash of lightning, followed by the crash of thunder. The rain increased to a downpour and Gervase was soaked within minutes. He looked at Heather. Her pelisse clung to her as though she had fallen into the lake and the despised feathers were a sodden mess over her bonnet. He had thought the pelisse warm enough for a spring walk in the park, but she was shivering now. He hesitated and she flashed him her familiar grin.

“Don’t bother, Captain, your coat is just as wet as I am. I’d suggest we run but soaked skirts are a hazard.”

Another flash of lightning split the dark sky and the crash of thunder was so immediate that Gervase jumped. He looked around him but there was no shelter to be had. The avenue which led to the gate was lined with trees, which bothered him, but it was by far the most direct route and he decided that speed was of the essence. He reached for her hand, and her soaked kid glove squelched.

“I think I may need new gloves as well as a hat,” Heather said. She was trying to sound matter of fact, but the effect was rather spoiled by her chattering teeth.

“I know you can’t run but let’s walk as quickly as possible. It will keep you warmer.”

She kept up with him very well, despite the heavy sodden skirts. The rain was torrential, showing no sign of easing off and there were repeated flashes of lightning. The thunder reminded Gervase of the roar of cannon. He had been through a number of bad storms but this one felt as though it was happening directly over his head.

To his relief, he could make out the shapes of the elaborate iron gates through the rain. Heather sounded breathless and he glanced at her, wondering if it was because she was shivering so much or if he was walking too fast for her.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. Just cold and wet. My sister-in-law will be having a fit, she hates thunderstorms.”

“At least she’s not out in it. Take my arm, it’s not far now, and only ten minutes once we’re outside the gates. I’d call a cab but we’d never find one, they’ll all be hiding out waiting for this to finish.”

“They have my sympathy, I’d welcome a nice dry stable right…”

The crash was enormous, shockingly loud amidst the steady beating of the rain, and very close. Gervase jumped violently, and his companion cried out. The dark sky was illuminated above them, then the thunder boomed. Something fell onto the path beside them and it took Gervase a moment to assimilate that it was a piece of burning wood. The brilliance of the lightning was gone, but there was still a fiery glow and an ominous cracking sound. Gervase spun around. The tree was ablaze, orange flames leaping up into the sky. It was also listing dangerously towards the path.

Gervase gave a yell of warning, grasped Heather’s arm and began to run. She kept pace for a few seconds before her legs became entangled in the heavy dragging skirts and she stumbled and fell heavily. Gervase bent to help her up, hearing the crackling of the flames and the creaking, rumbling sound of the tree. The strike had gone deep into its core and it was falling, the branches on fire and the entire trunk looking as though it was alight from within.

Heather made it to her feet, but as they began to run, the tree came down behind them, with a thunderous crash. They were out of reach of the trunk, but not of the blazing branches. Gervase felt one strike his arm, the flames terrifyingly close to his head, and he threw out his arm to bat it away. He thought they were clear, then Heather screamed and went down again, dragging on the hand he was holding. He turned and saw, in horror, that a blazing branch had hit the back of her legs, knocking her off her feet again.

Gervase released her hand and hooked his boot under the branch, kicking it away. Heather’s skirts were blackened to the knee at the back, but they were not alight, probably because they were too wet to catch. Gervase bent and scooped her up into his arms, thanking God that she was not heavy. He ran towards the gates, intent only on getting far enough away from the burning tree to be out of further danger.

When he was sure it was safe, he stopped. Carefully he lowered Heather to the ground. He thought she was unconscious, but as he bent over her, rain pouring off the brim of his hat, she opened her eyes.

“Are you all right, Gervase?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing. Your legs…”

“It hurts.”

“I need to get help.”

“No. Help me up, would you? I don’t want to lie here in the rain, I’ll freeze. It’s painful, but I think I can walk.”

Gervase complied reluctantly. As he stood, holding her arm, waiting for her to compose herself enough to begin the walk, he heard voices raised in a babble of consternation. Turning, he realised that the lightning strike had attracted attention out in the street and a dozen or more people were running towards them. Gervase felt a rush of relief.

“It’s the cavalry, ma’am. Late as usual and no clue what they’re doing, but when they see something bright and shiny, they can’t resist. Which on this occasion, is a good thing, because they can find me a carriage of some kind, and I can get you home. Just hold on, it won’t be long now.”

He realised that she was swaying on her feet, and he put his arm about her and lowered her once again to the soaked grass. She closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I feel very dizzy. What an unexpectedly dramatic end to a walk.”

“It didn’t really end the way I’d hoped, ma’am.”

Heather opened her distinctive blue-grey eyes and fixed him with a look. “If you call me ‘ma’am’ once more, I will not be answerable for my actions,” she said, and closed her eyes again with an air of finality.

***

By the time the doctor had left, Heather was exhausted and wanted only to sleep. Dr Medway had dressed the burns on her calves, examined and commented on her very badly skinned and bruised knees from her fall, and bled her. Heather submitted although she privately thought that she might have been better without his treatment. The burns were superficial although sore, her knees hurt but would recover and the bleeding made her feel light-headed. She was not hungry but ate supper to please her brother and his wife who hovered anxiously around her until she feigned sleep to make them go away. Gervase Clevedon had left as soon as he had seen her safe. Heather was both sorry and glad. Their conversation had resolved nothing, and she knew she needed to give him a definite answer, but she had to have some time to herself.

She had expected to lie awake turning the matter over in her mind, but to her surprise she fell asleep quickly and did not wake until her sister-in-law appeared along with a maid carrying a breakfast tray. Fiona watched critically until she was sure that Heather was eating, then sat down.

“You seem surprisingly well for a woman who was almost burned to death in Hyde Park yesterday.”

“Yes, I take these things in my stride,” Heather said, sipping her tea. She put down her cup and met Fiona’s interested gaze. “It was utterly terrifying,” she admitted.

“I’m not surprised. What on earth possessed you to stay out so long? We could see that storm coming in. When Susan returned to the house alone, I was about to send the carriage out to find you.”

“We lost track of time, we were talking. I didn’t notice anything until it began to rain.”

“I see.”

Heather finished her tea and contemplated a baked egg. “Fiona, if you continue to beat around the bush, it will be dinner time before you have discovered what you wish to know, and you know how quickly I become bored.”

“Did he ask you to marry him?”

“Yes.”

“Did you give him an answer?”

“No. I asked for time to think about it. After that, events rather took over.”

“I can see that they would. Heather, I don’t wish to pry…”

“Yes you do.”

“All right. I have every intention of prying as much as I am able. My dear, I’ve known you since we were both children. I’ve been watching you for two months trying not to fall in love with Captain Clevedon, and you have made a very poor job of it. Why did you not say yes?”

“It isn’t that simple, Fiona. I do…like him. And he seems to like me as well. But…”

“From the moment you walk into a room, Heather, he cannot see anybody else.”

Heather felt her pulse quicken a little. She looked up from her plate. “Really?”

“Really. It is generally assumed, you know, that you will be engaged before he goes back to Portugal.”

“By whom?”

“By everybody who has seen you together. Nothing could be more suitable. He is charming, personable, not at all bad to look at…”

“Not bad?” Heather said indignantly. “I consider him very handsome.”

“He could be taller, but he has very fine eyes.”

“Well, he is quite tall enough for me, given that I am a midget. Besides, looks do not matter. Alex had a face rather like a friendly goat, and I was devoted to him.”

Fiona studied her sympathetically. “Is Alex the problem? It’s been three years, Heather.”

“It isn’t Alex. He would tell me to do whatever I wanted and be happy. I think he would approve of Gervase.”

“So do I.”

“But I never thought I would marry again, Fiona. I don’t need to. I have Comrie Castle and a comfortable income.”

“Don’t you want children?”

“I’ve no idea if I can have children. Fortunately, you and Charles seem willing to provide me with plenty of nephews and nieces. That’s not a reason for me to marry, Fiona.”

“But you love him.”

Heather lowered her eyes to the tray. She had lost interest in the food. “I don’t know. I thought I did. I think I do. But surely if I did, I wouldn’t have these doubts?”

“Were you going home early because you were running away from him, Heather?”

Heather looked up with a rueful smile. “Yes. And if it had not been for this wretched accident, I would be packing now.”

“Well you can’t leave yet, the doctor is adamant you should at least rest for a few days. And those burns look nasty.”

“They’re not that bad. But you’re right, I am not feeling equal to days of travelling. Besides, now that he has asked me, I cannot run away without giving him my answer.”

“I don’t think he’s going to let you, my love. He’s already called this morning and asked if he might come back this afternoon if you’ll be ready to receive callers.”

“Oh no,” Heather said, startled. “I cannot see him like this, I look like a scarecrow.”

Fiona stood up, laughing. “I’ll call Sally to take that tray and I’ll send up Susan to help you dress.”

“Fiona, are you by any chance trying to coerce me into this marriage?”

“I’m not, Heather, truly. But I don’t understand what is stopping you. Perhaps you can explain it to him.”

“I’ve already explained it to him,” Heather said in a rush. Suddenly she was close to tears. “He’s a soldier. Three weeks, that’s all I have. After that, I wave him off and sit waiting for the post to see if he is alive or dead. It could be years before he comes home, and we can be married. I don’t know if I can bear it, Fiona.”

Her sister-in-law stood looking at her for a long moment. Then she said quietly:

“Heather, do you think you will feel any better if you refuse him and read about his death in the Gazette? Or if he comes home and finds a pretty little debutante and it’s his marriage announcement you’re reading?”

“Don’t. You’re as bad as Charles.”

“Charles is a tactless oaf, but he is right. You’ve already fallen in love with Gervase Clevedon. What he does and where he goes is always going to matter to you, whether he’s betrothed to you or to somebody else. And he’s the son of an Earl, you can’t avoid hearing about him unless you never read another newspaper.”

“That would not be a hardship.”

“Utter rubbish, you’ll be scanning the army lists and the gossip columns for the rest of your life. I know how much losing Alex hurt you, Heather, I was there, remember? But you can’t shield yourself from pain without losing the chance of happiness. And I think this man might make you very happy.”

Heather realised she was crying. She scrubbed at her face fiercely and the china on the tray rattled dangerously. Fiona caught it before it slid onto the floor, lifted it onto Heather’s dressing table, then went to the bell pull.

“You have to see him,” she said.

***

Captain Clevedon arrived punctually at the afternoon calling hour and was shown into the ladies’ parlour. Heather was sure Fiona had instructed the butler to refuse all other callers. Fiona greeted him pleasantly, thanked him again for taking care of Heather on the previous day, then departed with no excuse at all. Heather glared after her retreating back, then turned to her visitor, quaking.

He was as immaculately turned out as ever, with no sign of their adventure apart from a long scratch on one cheek. As soon as the door had closed behind Fiona, he came forward and took Heather’s hand.

“How are you? Lady Crawleigh said that the burns weren’t serious, but I didn’t sleep last night worrying about you.”

Heather felt irrationally guilty. “I slept very well, I must have been exhausted.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ve never known a stroll in Hyde Park to be so exciting, I’m almost looking forward to a battlefield in Portugal for a rest. Seriously though…”

“Seriously, Gervase, I’m very well. What of you? I didn’t notice that scratch yesterday.”

“Nor did I, it must have been a branch. I’ve a burn on my upper arm and my jacket is beyond hope, but I’ve a spare and time to order a new one, thank goodness.”

“I’m afraid my hat did not survive,” Heather said apologetically. “I’m sorry, I know you were very attached to it.”

He started to laugh. “We’re about to start talking utter nonsense again. And I do enjoy it, Heather, really I do. But I’m too nervous to make the best of it today. Do you mind if we’re serious, just for a short time?”

Heather smiled back at him. “Of course. Shall we sit down, then? It’s far better to have serious conversations when seated, it checks the urge to pace about the room dramatically.”

“I’d never thought of that. I might suggest it to Major van Daan. From a safe distance, mind, just in case he punches me.”

When they were seated, Gervase cleared his throat. Heather recognised his nervousness and decided to speak first. They spoke at the same time and both stopped immediately.

“Gervase…”

“Look, Heather…”

There was a short awkward silence. Then Gervase said quickly:

“I know that the gentlemanly thing to do would be to allow you to go first, but may I?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday. Sorry that it descended into such a disaster, but sorry as well that I made such a mull of proposing to you. I’ve been trying to work myself up to it, but I was rather thrown when you told me you were going out of town so soon. I rushed it.”

Heather smiled. “Gervase, it didn’t matter how you said it, I was always going to panic.”

“Didn’t you realise I was going to ask you?”

“Oh…I don’t know. I knew how I felt of course, and I suspected that you…I don’t know, Gervase. I think I did know. I think that’s why I decided to leave. I was running away, which was very silly and a little unkind. I’ve been concentrating so hard on how I feel that I’ve not considered you at all. I’m not usually this selfish.”

“Are you still leaving town?”

Heather shook her head. “No. I can’t travel that far until I feel a little better. But I wouldn’t anyway, now. I’m so glad you spoke when you did, it has made me realise that I cannot flee back to Scotland and pretend this has not happened.”

“I’m glad too. I asked you to think about it, but I don’t suppose you’ve had the chance…”

“Oh for goodness sake, Gervase, do not speak like an idiot when you are clearly very intelligent. I’ve thought of nothing else all day.”

“Then tell me.”

“I am very confused,” Heather said, twisting her hands together in her lap. “When I try to imagine agreeing to a betrothal, it terrifies me. I will have three lovely weeks as your fiancée, and I know perfectly  well that by the end of them I will love you more than ever. And then I will wave you off and go home to wait for you, and dread every letter that is delivered in case it is bad news. I know how it feels to lose the man I love. I don’t know if I can bear it again. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Oh love, yes, of course I understand. No wonder you’re terrified. But I am too.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. I had no intention at all of falling in love this season, it is a ridiculous thing to have done. I meant to attend a few parties, meet some old friends and then go home to Ampthill and spend a week or two recovering before going back to barracks in Melton Mowbray. You turned everything upside down.”

Heather was astonished. “Are you telling me you have remained in London because of me?”

“Of course I have. My brother is here, Heather, which is always my cue to be somewhere else. It’s been torture seeing so much of him.”

“I must say, that is an impressive sign of your devotion.”

“Don’t start, or we shall get nowhere, and we’re running out of time. I want so much to tell you that I will leave the army and devote my life to making you happy. But…”

“I wouldn’t allow you to do that, Gervase. It would be like you asking me to sell Comrie.”

“One day I’ll be home, love, but I can’t tell you when that will be and I won’t lie to you. I love you. I want to marry you. I know I’m asking a lot. I know it might be too much. It’s all I have.”

Heather could feel tears beginning to fall. “Gervase, I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do.”

“Nor do I, but I’ve found that panic is a great motivator, so here’s what I’ve done. Yesterday, after I left you here, I made a number of calls, while still soaking wet, covered in mud and looking like a lunatic. I’m surprised nobody sent a message to either Bow Street or Bedlam, but I managed to obtain this.”

Heather regarded the folded paper he was holding out to her. After a moment, she reached out and took it. She unfolded it and stared at it for a long time. He waited in silence. Eventually she looked up.

“It’s a special licence.”

“It is. I also made a visit to the rector of St George’s, who is an old family friend. He clearly thought I was mad, but he examined his church calendar and, subject to your approval, he is able to marry us on Wednesday at eleven o’clock. You may invite whomever you choose, but I would be happy with just your brother and his wife.”

“Oh.” Heather knew she sounded utterly witless, but she felt the need to say something and could think of nothing better. “That is very organised of you, Captain Clevedon.”

“Thank you. If you agree to this piece of insanity, I propose to take you home to Bedfordshire to meet my mother and I will spend three weeks trying to convince you you’ve made the right choice. After that, I have to leave, and you’re free to remain for a while to get to know your new home, or to return to your old one and wait for me there. Or you can come back to London and cut a dash as the new Mrs Clevedon. As long as you’re happy and safe and well and will wait for me…Heather, I know this isn’t good enough for you. Nothing I can offer is good enough for you. But…”

“Yes, it is.” Suddenly, Heather found that she could both move and speak, and she followed her instinct and moved towards him. He put his arms about her without any hesitation and kissed her. For a while, she lost all sense of time and when they were finally interrupted by a polite cough from the doorway, Heather realised that she was lying across his lap in the most ridiculous position. It felt very comfortable and she sat up somewhat resentfully, noticing that her hair had come down.

“I am so sorry to interrupt,” Fiona said. “It’s just that Dr Medway has called. He wants to look at the dressing on your burns. And I was wondering if Captain Clevedon will be staying to dinner. We don’t have any other guests today.”

Heather turned her head to look at him. He was smiling at her, waiting, and she knew with complete certainty that even now, if she sent him away, he would go without recrimination. She decided that life back at Comrie would be far better waiting for his letters and knowing that he would be coming home to her one day.

“Captain Clevedon will be staying to dinner,” she said firmly. “And Fiona, I need your help. I’m getting married in two days’ time, and I don’t think I have anything suitable to wear.”

***

 It was the usual chaos at Southampton and it took Gervase half a day to find the correct transport for his company. He felt slightly guilty knowing that his subalterns had done all the work preparing the company for embarkation, but there was little for him to do, so he inspected his men, complimented his juniors and then went in search of his commanding officer.

Gervase found him in a comfortable inn not far from the quayside. Major Paul van Daan was writing a letter at a table in the tap room, but he rose as Gervase entered and came forward. Gervase saluted and Paul returned the salute and then pulled out a chair.

“Sit down and have a drink. It’s good to see you, Gervase. Are you fully recovered? You look so much better, I was delighted when you wrote that you were well enough. Not everybody has done as well, we’ve only six companies setting sail, but I’m hoping they can bring the others up to strength soon.”

“I’m very well, sir. Looking forward to getting back to work. Is Sir Arthur Wellesley sailing with us?”

“Yes, he’s aboard my transport. Along with my wife, she’s coming with me this time, at least as far as Lisbon. I’ve kept on the villa I rented last year.”

“I look forward to seeing her, sir.”

They talked for a while of army news and Gervase enjoyed the sense of being part of the regiment again. He had no particular desire to share his own news. It was too new and too precious and he would have liked to keep it to himself for a while longer, but he knew he could not. In the general conversation of regimental life, and the banter in the officers’ mess, he would either have to speak up or lie, and he would not lie. He waited until the first exchange of news was over. Eventually, Paul summoned the waiter with more drinks.

“Did you see your brother?”

“Briefly. I also saw your brother, sir, which was much more pleasant.”

“Did you? Joshua didn’t mention it, but he’s been busy. What about…”

“Sir, I imagine some of the others are going to be joining us for dinner, and there’s something I need to speak to you about first.”

Paul stopped and regarded him in surprise. “Of course. Go on. Unless it’s going to annoy me, in which case stop now.”

Gervase laughed. “I don’t think it will annoy you, sir, but I do have a confession. I’ve rather broken army rules, I’m afraid. A minor matter. I didn’t even think about it until afterwards.”

“Captain, in the five years I’ve known you, I swear to God you’ve not put a toe out of place. I’d be amazed if you could upset me. What have you done?”

Gervase took a very deep breath. “I got married, sir, without asking your permission.”

There was a very long silence. The waiter appeared with the wine and poured. Paul waited until he had gone.

“You did what?”

“I got married, sir.”

“And you didn’t think to write to me?”

“I’m sorry, sir. It was all rather sudden. It honestly didn’t occur to me.”

“Gervase, I do not give a damn about permission. You have it, retrospectively. But this great hurry…is everything all right?”

Gervase tried to suppress a grin and failed. “We married in a hurry because we wanted some time together before I left,” he said.

Paul’s expressive face cleared. “An excellent reason. I’m assuming this is the attractive Mrs MacLeod.”

“Yes,” Gervase said suspiciously. “How do you know she’s attractive?”

“I asked Wellesley if he knew her and he managed to point her out her when we were riding in the Row on the day before I left. You’ve excellent taste, Captain.”

“Sir…”

“I will behave, I swear it. Gervase, congratulations. I wish I’d known, I’d have posted down to meet her. Was there even a notice in the Times?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I missed it. I never read the thing anyway. This has been done very quietly. Is that how you want it?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell my friends of course, but I don’t want a big announcement or a celebration. It was a very quiet affair, which is what we both wanted.”

“That’s your choice, Captain. Johnny and Carl and a few of the others are dining here today. Do you want to tell them, or shall I?”

“You can do it,” Gervase said gratefully.

“I’ll propose a toast to the bride and groom and after that, we’ll leave it alone. If I were you, I’d tell the men though. They’ll find out anyway and they’ll appreciate it coming from you especially with an extra grog ration to drink your health.”

“I’ll see to it, sir. Thank you.”

Paul sipped his wine and regarded him with amusement. “Of all the men I’d have expected to make a hasty marriage on furlough, Captain, you’d have been close to the bottom of the list. She must have made a big impression on you.”

Gervase suppressed a grin. He felt suddenly as though Heather was in the room with him and he managed not to snigger.

“Like a bolt of lightning, sir,” he said seriously.

 

 

 

 

 

The Gift

Welcome to The Gift, my free Christmas story for 2021. After spending last year in London at the Frost Fair, with Captain James Harker, I’ve decided to follow another of my secondary characters home on furlough. The fairly long time spent in winter quarters in 1812-13 presented an opportunity for a number of officers to travel home to see family, recover from injuries or sickness or to deal with family business. Lord Wellington hated giving leave, although he was more generous with it when it was an officer he liked making the request. However, the need to deal with business matters following a bereavement would probably have been granted. Grudgingly, of course.

After the publication of the Frost Fair, one of my most engaged readers told me she would love to read a short story about Captain David Cartwright, as she felt he’d had a raw deal in the books so far. Davy’s career prospects improved with his promotion to major in An Unmerciful Incursion, but after the long, painful retreat from Burgos and Madrid towards the end of 1812, his personal life is still in the doldrums. This story is dedicated to Janet Watkinson – I hope this is what you wanted.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my readers. I feel so guilty about the slow progress of the latest book, but family difficulties have made it impossible to meet my intended deadlines. I’m working frantically on the edits for book seven, An Indomitable Brigade, and if it’s not ready for Christmas, it will be ready very soon afterwards. I hope 2022 is better for all of us, and I’m hoping I’ll have a great writing year and be back on track.

Thanks once again to Heather Paisley, my amazing editor and very good friend, who dropped everything in her very busy life to edit this for me. She is, and always will be, a star.

As always, the story is free, so please share as much as you want. Enjoy.

The Gift

1st March, 1812

Wanted, for immediate employment. Respectable female to act as housekeeper and companion to elderly lady, living alone in the town of Rye.  References required. Apply in writing to Captain Cartwright, via this newspaper. 

14th March, 1812

Dear Captain Cartwright

I write to apply for the situation advertised. I am a single lady, aged thirty-four, with considerable experience in housekeeping. Until recently, I was employed in taking care of an elderly relative. I have provided a recommendation from a clerical gentleman and, should this prove satisfactory, I would be free to take up the position immediately.

Yours, respectfully

Miss H Carleton

Quinta de Santo Antonio, Freineda, Portugal, November 1812

Major David Cartwright of the 112th infantry did not generally consider himself burdened by family responsibilities, so it was a shock to find a package of letters awaiting him on his arrival in Ciudad Rodrigo in the November of 1812, giving him news of two bereavements.

The first of them, that of his elderly Aunt Susan, should not have been a surprise. Mrs Everton was in her eighties and had been unwell for so many years that David was amazed she had lasted this long. During her final months her recent memory had faded, and she had drifted into the distant past. She had done so happily enough, according to Miss Forbes, her long-time housekeeper and companion, who wrote to David occasionally with news. David was grateful, but missed his aunt’s regular letters, full of acerbic remarks about her neighbours, the current government, and the iniquities of the butcher.

Miss Forbes was elderly herself and had written to David as her own health began to decline, suggesting that it was time for a younger replacement. David, newly transferred into the 112th from a tedious post in the quartermaster’s department, had no time to take furlough to attend to distant family affairs. He had taken Miss Forbes’ advice and advertised the post, leaving it to the departing housekeeper to select the new incumbent.

Miss Forbes wrote to him just before she left for an honourable retirement with her widowed sister, expressing cautious approval of her successor. Miss Helen Carleton was, in her opinion, young for the post, but appeared very efficient and good with her elderly charge. David grinned at her assessment, since Miss Carleton was apparently in her thirties, but he supposed she seemed young to a woman approaching seventy. Having discharged his duty to Aunt Susan, he thought no more about it until he arrived back on the Portuguese border, exhausted and dispirited after a long and dangerous retreat, to find a letter from his aunt’s solicitor informing him that she had died, leaving a simple will making him her sole heir.

David read the letter again, thinking about his aunt. He had last seen her just before leaving for Portugal to join Wellesley’s army four years ago and there had already been signs of her deterioration. Their meeting had been hurried, made awkward by the presence of Arabella, David’s wife, whom Mrs Everton cordially disliked. David found himself wishing he had made time to see his aunt alone that week, given that it had been the last time he saw her, but he could not have known it.

Mrs Everton was not a wealthy woman, but she had left David her rambling house in the little seaside town of Rye, in Sussex, and a small income from government bonds. Along with a similar income from his deceased parents, it would enable him, should he decide to leave the army, to live comfortably. David wondered what his wife would have thought of that, then dismissed the thought. Arabella would never have been satisfied with mere comfort. She wanted wealth and social status and a number of other things David was unable to give her, and her disappointment had led to repeated infidelity and their eventual separation.

It had been eighteen months since he had last heard anything of Arabella and during the past year, busy with an unexpected revival of his career, he thought of her less and less. Their marriage had been unhappy, and their separation, although painful, had come as a relief to him. He thought of her briefly when he received the news of his recent promotion to major, but he did not think even that would have satisfied Arabella’s ambition.

David opened the next of his letters and began to read. After a moment, he put it down and sat very still, staring out of the window into a damp winter morning, not seeing the drizzling rain.

Arabella was dead.

The letter was from a Mrs Hetherington, who claimed to run a lodging house in Shrewsbury where Arabella had lived for five months before her untimely death. She had died on the charity ward of a local hospital and Mrs Hetherington, who needed to let the room, had taken it upon herself to pack up her possessions and had found several letters giving David’s name and regiment. She gave the impression of being surprised to discover that her lodger’s claim to a married woman’s status was true but stated that she considered it to be her Christian duty to inform him. There were several trunks and boxes of Mrs Cartwright’s possessions, and Mrs Hetherington would store them until the end of January, when if not collected, they would be sold. David wondered if the rent was unpaid. He was surprised that the woman had taken the trouble to write to him but supposed she had genuinely felt that it was her duty.

David read both letters several times, unable to decide what to do. Eventually, he took his troubles to his commanding officer.

“I’m wondering if it would be possible to take furlough, sir,” he concluded. “I’ll have missed my aunt’s funeral, but I should see the lawyers and work out what’s to be done about the house. It’s a decent property just on the edge of town, with a big garden. I’ll probably rent it out rather than leave it empty. It shouldn’t take much more than a month to arrange everything, but…”

“Take whatever time you need, Major,” Colonel Wheeler said. “I’m sorry to hear about your aunt, but in terms of convenience, this couldn’t be better. We’re in winter quarters and are likely to be for a few months yet. If it was the middle of a campaign, I couldn’t manage without you but we’re not going anywhere until spring.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Wheeler stood up and limped to a side table to pour wine for them both. David got up quickly and went to carry the glasses back to the table. Wheeler had been badly injured during the recent retreat and could only walk using a cane for support. Wheeler hobbled back to his chair and sat down with relief.

“I keep forgetting,” he said. “I’m not accustomed to being waited on. Thank you, Major.”

David sipped the wine. “Is it still painful, sir?”

“Bloody painful, but not as bad as when they first brought me in. I can put weight on it now, but Dr Daniels says I should rest it as much as possible. Davy, I’m conscious that I’ve said everything that’s proper about your aunt and nothing at all about your wife. I don’t know what to say. I know you were separated and there was no possibility of a reconciliation, but she was very young. I am sorry.”

David was grateful. His own emotions about Arabella’s death were still raw and too muddled to make sense of, but he appreciated Wheeler’s tact and also his bravery in raising the matter where another man would have let it pass. Wheeler had known Arabella during the time she had travelled with the army and knew the full circumstances of her various, very public infidelities. One of her first affairs had been with David’s current brigade commander. A recent one had left her carrying a child which could not possibly have been her husband’s and had led to their final separation.

“Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say myself. It doesn’t feel real. I hadn’t heard from her since the day she left, but it’s difficult to believe that she’s dead. As you say, she was so young, only just thirty. And she was always so full of life.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Some kind of fever, according to her landlady. There was an outbreak in the town. She was taken into the local hospital but died within a few days.”

“Had she other family?”

“Her father is still alive as far as I know, and there was an aunt. Her mother died a few years ago. I doubt Bella had any contact with her father. When the scandal broke, he wrote to her telling her he never wished to see her or hear from her again. I think I should write to him all the same. He should know she’s dead.”

“What of the child?”

“I don’t know,” David said. “I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl, or if it’s alive. Possibly not, so many children die in infancy and the landlady doesn’t mention it. But I should at least make a push to find out.”

“It’s not your responsibility, Davy,” Colonel Wheeler said gently.

David looked at him, troubled. “I know it isn’t. But sir, who else is going to bother?”

***

Arriving in Southampton on a bright, blustery day, David made enquiries about the best method of travelling to Rye, which was about a hundred miles along the south coast. There were no direct mail coaches, and David objected to the cost of hiring a post chaise, but he was able to find a place on a carrier’s wagon leaving early the following morning. The journey was not particularly fast, but was surprisingly entertaining, as Mr Samuel Rochester regaled his passenger with stories of his life on the road. David slept in small inns along the way and was finally deposited, along with his luggage, at the gates of Oak Lodge just after midday. He had written to inform Miss Carleton of his expected arrival.

The door was opened by a maid in a plain dark gown and white apron. She bobbed a curtsey and stood aside, murmuring that she would call the boy to bring in his box. The boy turned out to be a sturdy manservant who was probably approaching forty. As far as David was aware these were the only two servants apart from the housekeeper.

He stood in the hallway awaiting the appearance of Miss Carleton. A door opened and a young woman emerged from the kitchen area at the back of the house. She wore a respectable dark green woollen gown, with a lace-trimmed cap pinned to very fair hair, and she had a pair of bright blue eyes, a decided nose and an expression which hovered between apprehension and defiance. David, who was hopeless at such things, thought she was probably not much above twenty. The girl approached and gave a little curtsey. David bowed, utterly bewildered.

“Major Cartwright. Welcome home, sir. Harvey will put your luggage in the master bedroom. It’s been cleaned and aired, and I’ll ask Sarah to unpack for you. Unless you’ve brought a valet?”

“No, I haven’t,” David said. “Thank you. Only, I do not perfectly understand…who are you?”

The girl folded her hands at her waist. “I am Miss Carleton, sir, your aunt’s companion and housekeeper. You arranged for my employment.”

David stared at her for a very long time, then surprised out of his customary good manners, he said:

“I’m not sure who I employed, ma’am, but I’m very sure it wasn’t you. The lady who applied for that post gave her age as thirty-four, and I’ll be surprised if you’re older than twenty. Who the devil are you?”

The girl raised well-marked eyebrows and looked down her slightly long nose. “Well you must be surprised then, Major, because I am twenty-four. And I am indeed Miss Carleton. I have been working here since Miss Forbes left at the beginning of the year, and I nursed your aunt through her final illness. Obviously I am in the process of seeking a new post but Mr Bourne, her solicitor, suggested I remain to keep the house in order until your arrival. And to cook your meals for you, unless you intend to do that for yourself, because neither Harvey nor Sarah has the least aptitude for cooking.”

David stared at her open-mouthed. Miss Carleton stared back. There was definitely defiance in her expression now. Eventually David said:

“You lied to me in your application.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because yours was the tenth post I had applied for, and all of the others rejected me on the grounds of my age.”

“I would have done the same.”

“Then it is unnecessary for you to ask why I told an untruth.”

“Was any of your application true?” David asked. He was genuinely curious. Miss Carleton lifted her chin with something like indignation.

“Of course it was. All of it, apart from that one small detail. I am a gentleman’s daughter, I have been used to acting as housekeeper to my parents, who live in Leicester, and I cared for my elderly grandmother before she died.”

David studied her for a long time. “So why were you seeking employment?” he asked finally. “If your parents…”

“My parents do not employ a housekeeper, Major Cartwright, and I was tired of working for nothing. My mother was not grateful for my efforts, I spent my time running the household or visiting my older sisters to help with their children. All my mother’s attention was focused on finding a husband for my youngest sister, in the hope that might repair the family fortunes. I was sick of being an unpaid drudge, so I chose to seek paid employment instead. My father called me undutiful, and my mother prophesied that I would ruin my reputation and come to a bad end, but so far, I think it has gone rather well. Until today, that is.”

David could think of nothing at all to say. He stood looking at her, struggling to think of a suitable response. Miss Carleton looked back, daring him to speak. The silence went on.

Abruptly, the girl straightened her back and bobbed another neat curtsey. “Would you like some tea, Major? I can serve it in the small parlour. Neither the drawing room or the dining room have been much used this past year, although I have cleaned the whole house and removed the holland covers. I baked a cake this morning.”

“Thank you,” David said faintly. “That would be very welcome. No, don’t trouble yourself to show me the way. I know the house very well.”

The small parlour was situated at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. At this time of year, it was a tangle of damp greenery, but David remembered it as a riot of colour in the spring and summer. His aunt had loved gardening during her younger days.

It was obvious that Miss Carleton had made the room her own. A cosy arrangement of furniture around the fireplace included her sewing box, and a partly darned stocking lay neatly folded on top. On another small table was an inlaid portable writing desk. Against the far wall was a small table and two chairs, which suggested that Miss Carleton dined in this room as well. It was common for upper servants to take meals in the kitchen or in their own room, but Miss Carleton was effectively mistress of this small household and David did not blame her for making herself comfortable.

She returned shortly, shepherding the maid who carried the tea tray. David ran his eyes over it and looked at the maid. “Bring another cup, please. Miss Carleton will be joining me for tea.”

The girl did so. David indicated that Miss Carleton should pour. The tea was welcome after his long journey and the cake was excellent. Both improved David’s mood considerably. He watched her sip her tea.

“How did you persuade Miss Forbes to collude with your falsehood, Miss Carleton?”

The girl gave him a look. “I did not,” she said. “She had no idea, of course, that I had lied about my age. She expressed surprise at how young I was, but once she saw what I could do, she did not mention it again. Why should she? I can cook, I can keep house and I was very good with your aunt. She liked me.”

David could not help smiling. “I don’t suppose you gave her much choice, ma’am, you’re a very decided young woman.”

The blue eyes were unexpectedly misty with unshed tears. “I was very fond of your aunt. Even though she was confused, she was so kind. And she could be very funny. I am sorry she’s gone, sir.”

“So am I,” David said. “I’ve not inspected the rest of the house yet, ma’am, but I don’t need to, I can see you know your work. The place is immaculate. Thank you for your efforts.”

“Thank you for acknowledging them.” Miss Carleton sniffed audibly. “I’m sorry I deceived you, sir. It was wrong of me, but I was becoming desperate.”

“What will you do now? You mentioned seeking another post, but have you not thought of going home?”

“Not unless I have to,” the girl said. “I have written several applications, and I shall continue to do so. I am not sure if you intend to sell the house, Major, but if so, I will naturally leave as soon as you wish me to do so. I am not wholly estranged from my family, they will have me back if needs be. I hope I don’t have to though, my mother will be unbearable.”

Unexpectedly, David laughed. “Is she really that bad?”

“Yes. She has never got over my father’s reversal of fortune. He made several bad investments, and my mother was extravagant. She also had five daughters. Marrying us off successfully has been the aim of her life, and she tried hard to maintain her position in society in the hope that a good marriage could save the family fortunes, but it was not to be.”

“But your elder sisters married, I think you said?”

“Yes, eventually. But not the kind of marriage my mother had in mind. They are respectably established, with a collection of children, but none of them could afford to give anything away to my parents. Recently they were obliged to sell Carleton Hall. It has been in the family for almost two hundred years, and it was a great blow.”

“I can imagine it was,” David said. Now that he was beginning to relax, he decided he rather liked this straightforward young woman. She was easy to talk to, with no affectations or pretensions to grandeur. David, who had married a woman full of affectations and pretensions, had developed a dislike of both.

“Not that they are in any way destitute, you understand,” Miss Carleton said. “They own the house in Leicester, and it is a perfectly good house. A little larger than this, and not as old. With the proceeds of the sale of Carleton House and the estate and the income from my father’s remaining investments, they could live perfectly comfortably. They could even afford a housekeeper. But my mother still has ambitions. My youngest sister, Katherine is just seventeen and is by far the prettiest of all of us. My mother is saving up to give her a London Season in the hope that she will attract a wealthy or titled gentleman and we shall all be saved. Well, at least, I shall not be saved because I have ruined my reputation by seeking paid employment as a housekeeper instead of doing the same job at home and being paid nothing.”

David laughed aloud. “I do hope it is not that bad,” he said. “Although now you have explained your situation, I do have some qualms about staying here myself. You are, when all is said and done, a young unmarried lady and…”

“If you continue in that vein, Major Cartwright, I shall not be answerable for what I may do,” Miss Carleton said in freezing tones. “I am your housekeeper. Your servant. Your paid employee. Nobody gives a fig about such things with the staff. And if I had not told you my background, neither would you.”

David took a second slice of cake. “Well either way, I’m not going to stay at an inn. The cooking here is far too good. Miss Carleton, I have no set plans, but I won’t be here for long. I have to see my aunt’s solicitor to find out how things stand, and then I have to make a journey to Shrewsbury on a separate family matter. I had not thought of selling the house. I may rent it out while I remain with the army. I’m fond of this place, I spent a lot of time here as a boy, fishing off the quay and listening to smuggler’s tales from the grooms.”

“I’m glad you said that sir. Your aunt would be happy to think that you intend to settle here one day.” Miss Carleton stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be needed in the kitchen. Will you be dining at home today?”

“Yes, thank you. If it is not too much trouble.”

“It is my job, Major Cartwright. You pay me.”

“You seem keen to remind me of it. I am not sure what your usual arrangements are, but will you join me for dinner? It seems foolish for two people to eat in solitary splendour, and there is nobody to mind.”

Miss Carleton studied him for a moment, then smiled broadly. “Do you know, Major, when you arrived and looked at me so censoriously, I decided that you were a very strait-laced gentleman, but I think I was wrong.”

David found himself smiling back at her. “I think I was in my younger days,” he said. “Army life alters your priorities. Although it is unlikely to change my opinion that you should return to Leicester and make your peace with your parents. At least for the Christmas season.”

***

Helen found cooking a very soothing activity. The kitchen at Oak Lodge was old-fashioned, but well designed and after almost a year in post, she felt at home there. The thought that she might not be here for much longer saddened her. She had been telling the truth when she told Major Cartwright that she was happy in her position.

Helen understood she had potentially committed social suicide in taking the post as Mrs Everton’s companion-housekeeper. It was one thing for a young lady in straitened circumstances to seek employment as a governess or companion, or even as a schoolmistress in some respectable establishment. But cooking and cleaning placed one firmly among the ranks of the upper servants. Helen had accepted the post in a spirit of seething resentment at the constant, unreasonable demands of her family and the complete lack of appreciation for the work she did, but she had not really intended to stay for so long. When the expected letters began to arrive from her family, pleading, cajoling, and castigating her rash decision, Helen had expected she would probably give in and go home. To her surprise, she realised she was happy where she was and wanted to stay.

Taking care of Mrs Everton was not difficult and with two servants to assist her, and most of the rooms in the house unused, Helen’s housekeeping duties took considerably less time than when she was living at home. Her mother employed a cook, but Mrs Beech could manage only plain dishes, and when the Carletons entertained, it was Helen who planned elaborate menus and spent long hours in the kitchen preparing them. She enjoyed the challenge of complicated dishes but was tired of being used as an unpaid servant, while her elder sisters clamoured, from their various households, for her equally free services as nursemaid and governess. Her youngest sister Katherine spent hours studying her reflection, dreaming of a titled husband, demanding Helen’s help with refurbishing her gowns and pouting when Helen told her shortly that she did not have time.

“You are so grumpy, Nell. It isn’t as though you did not choose to remain as the daughter at home. Everybody knows that you had every opportunity to marry and have a home of your own, and you refused two perfectly good offers.”

“One offer was from Mr Grant the solicitor,” Helen said, trying not to grit her teeth. “He is forty-five and drinks so much port that his nose looks like an overripe plum. The other was from the curate, who informed my father that his interest had alighted upon me because he thought it his duty, as a man of God, to eschew all thoughts of beauty in favour of a plain woman with a light hand for the pastry. He further said that he thought in time he would be able to repress my tendency to levity and teach me to show greater modesty in public. Even Mother thought that was a bad idea.”

“Well it is your own fault, Nell. You are not at all plain, you have beautiful hair and lovely eyes. You simply refuse to try.”

“I have the Carleton nose, Kitty.”

“It is a perfectly nice nose, if a little more prominent than others. If you would look at your wardrobe and curl your hair and learn to flirt a little, you would do so much better. Look at Eliza. Nobody thought she would do so well.”

“I have the greatest respect for Mr Ingram, Kitty, but if I had to be married to a man that dull I should expire within a year.”

Her younger sister laughed. “Well I shall not care how dull my husband is, dearest Nell, as long as he is rich. Now come and look at my old blue and tell me if you think we can remove the train.”

Helen paused in rolling out her pie crust, surprised to realise that there were tears in her eyes. She blinked them back firmly. She missed Katherine’s laughter and occasional sisterly confidences, but she did not miss being expected to act as a ladies’ maid every time her sister was invited out. She supposed that Major Cartwright was correct, and she should go home to her family for the Christmas season, but she was surprised at how little she wanted to.

It felt strange to sit across the table from the Major at dinner. Helen had never eaten in the dining room. She instructed Harvey and Sarah to remove all the extra leaves from the big table and set out the various dishes on the polished sideboard so that they could serve themselves. Major Cartwright went to investigate the wine cellar and as Helen filled their plates, poured two glasses of cool white wine. Helen eyed it suspiciously and the Major laughed.

“I take it you haven’t been raiding my aunt’s cellar?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been down there. She liked a glass of wine with her dinner though, right up to the end. I remember you sent her some, once or twice, and it pleased her very much to receive the gift, though I’m not sure she understood where it came from.”

He smiled. “I’m glad she got some enjoyment from it. She and I shared a liking for good wine and when I first joined the army and began to travel, I used to try to send her some local wine from wherever I was stationed. When I was in Naples…”

He broke off abruptly and Helen said nothing. She sipped the wine, enjoying the crisp, fruity taste of it. Her employer did the same. She could see him considering, wondering what he should tell her, and whether it was at all suitable for him to tell a housekeeper anything at all. He would not normally have shared details of his personal life with an unmarried young lady from a respectable family whom he had just met, but then he would not have been dining alone with such a person either.

“I was married,” Cartwright said abruptly. “I don’t suppose you knew, since my aunt was already very forgetful by the time you arrived. She cannot have told you anything about it. Naples was my first posting after we married. Less than a year and Arabella was already very bored with me and wishing she had waited for a better prospect.”

“I know about your wife,” Helen said. She saw his head snap up and the brown eyes darken in sudden anger and wished for a moment that she had not spoken.

“Who told you?”

“Miss Forbes. She had been with your aunt for so many years, I think they were more like family than employer and servant. I asked, very casually, if you were single or a widower. I thought it unusual that it should be a gentleman placing the advertisement for such a post. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Major, it wasn’t my intention. Miss Forbes was not gossiping, but she said that she thought I ought to know in case I did come across any idle gossip in the town.”

“Miss Forbes was probably right. What did she tell you?”

“That your marriage had not been a success and that you were separated from your wife. She told me that Mrs Everton used to say that she thought your wife a fool for not appreciating you.”

Cartwright gave a very faint smile and began to eat again. “My aunt was invariably biased in my favour, Miss Carleton. She and Arabella never got on well, they were too different. She tried to persuade me against the match. I had very little money, but when I was younger I was ambitious and thought I could make my own way in the world.”

“Have you not done so?”

“Yes, I think I have. But it did not come fast enough for Arabella.” Cartwright hesitated, seeming to recollect that he was talking to a stranger. “My apologies, Miss Carleton, this is a very unsuitable conversation. Did you make this pastry? It’s excellent, I feel very spoiled.”

Helen allowed him to turn the conversation neatly away from personal matters. She asked him about his service in the army and found it unexpectedly interesting. He had served in Italy, in Portugal and in Spain, with a spell in Ireland. He spoke little of the battles he had fought, but a great deal about the places he had seen and the people he had met. There was nothing boastful or vainglorious about Major David Cartwright, but Helen thought that he had seen more and done more than most people of her acquaintance. She did not usually find it easy to talk to people she did not know well, particularly gentlemen, but as they finished their meal and Helen rose to clear the table, she was aware of a sense of regret that it was coming to an end.

“I should get these to the kitchen, sir.”

“Let the maid do that. Please, sit down and join me in a glass of port. Or if you prefer, you can watch me drinking it. I feel as though I have bored you senseless with my army tales all through dinner and given you no chance to talk about yourself.”

Helen subsided, watching Sarah clear the plates. “I’ve already told you about my situation, sir. I left home in a temper with my ungrateful family. I remained because I liked it here. But I suppose that unless I find another situation as much to my taste as this I shall have to go home.”

“Do you think it will be a problem for you? Socially, I mean?”

“I don’t suppose for one moment my mother has told anybody that I have been employed as a housekeeper, let alone a cook. She will have said that I am acting as companion to an elderly lady, which is perfectly respectable, you know. Anyway, I had no social life.”

“None at all?”

“I used to go to parties when I was Kitty’s age. But I didn’t really enjoy them that much. Dancing and trying to flirt and speaking nothing but inanities never suited me.”

“I can imagine. That doesn’t mean you have nothing to say. I’ve really enjoyed this. May I…that is, I shall be here for a few days, seeing the lawyers and working out how things stand. After that, I am travelling to Shrewsbury on business. But I would like it if you would dine with me again while I’m here. As you are, even temporarily, my housekeeper.”

Helen laughed. “As you are, for a short time longer, my employer, sir, I am at your disposal.”

As she rose to leave finally, he escorted her into the hallway and bowed. “Thank you again, ma’am, for the meal and the company. Both were excellent.”

“I enjoyed it too, sir, although I’m aware that I’ve stepped above my station this evening.”

“Or back into the station you were born to, depending on your perspective. Look, about earlier. The conversation about my wife. I should tell you, that she recently died. A fever outbreak. It was very sudden.”

Helen felt a little shock. “Oh no. Oh Major, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. I’m going to Shrewsbury to see where she’s buried. I want to make sure she has a proper gravestone. There are some things I need to collect, and I’ll pay any debts that I can find out about.”

Helen studied him for a long moment. Major Cartwright was unexceptional, apart from a pair of very fine brown eyes and a rather nice smile. Helen wondered how old he was. She thought possibly in his thirties, although his self-contained manner may have made him seem older than he was.

“I think that is the right thing to do, Major. I hope you won’t find it too distressing. I wish, while you are here, that you would furnish me with a list of what you most like to eat. And if there is anything else I can do for you – laundry or mending or suchlike – please let me know. With your aunt gone, I have so little to do.”

Cartwright smiled, and she could see the warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. I’ll probably take you up on that. But there is one thing you should do. Write to your family, ma’am, and tell them you’ll be home for Christmas, even if it is just a visit.”

“What will you do for Christmas, sir?”

“I’ll stay here and make do with Sarah’s cooking.”

“It isn’t very good.”

“It will still be better than what I ate during the retreat from Madrid, ma’am. Goodnight.”

***

David decided to hire a post-chaise for his journey to Shrewsbury. He had quite enjoyed his adventure with the carrier’s cart, but Shrewsbury was a lot further and David had no wish to spend weeks on the road. He admitted to himself, with some amusement, that some of his desire to have this journey over and done with, was because he wanted to get back to Rye before his eccentric housekeeper left for Christmas with her family.

He had not formally given Helen her notice, though he knew he should have done. He was sure that once she was back home, she would decide to stay, and write to tell him so. So far he had made no arrangements with the lawyer about advertising the house for rent. He had asked Helen, during her remaining weeks, to go through his aunt’s personal possessions, dispose of the clothing however she thought best and pack up the rest. When he returned, he would go through the boxes for any small items he wanted to keep and make arrangements to put the rest into storage, along with the contents of the wine cellar and a few of the finer items of furniture. He could manage all of that without the help of the estimable Miss Carleton, but he did want to see her again to say goodbye. He had taken a liking to the girl, and she had made his week at his aunt’s house thoroughly enjoyable.

He left Helen indulging in an orgy of cooking and food preparation. Clearly the thought of him spending the Christmas feast at the mercy of Sarah’s cooking troubled her mind, and David suspected he would be left with a larder stuffed with enough puddings, cured hams and pies to feed half his company. He wondered if she would have to do the same work over again for her unappreciative family and hoped that her mother had the decency to employ a proper cook for the season, so that her prodigal daughter could take her rightful place as a family member. Then again, remembering the sight of Helen in the kitchen, singing Christmas carols, with flour on the end of her nose and her hair curling in little wisps around her face with the steam from the puddings, David wondered if in fact, Helen might be perfectly happy in the kitchen if her family would just show some appreciation.

David had been to Shrewsbury once before, in the early days of his courtship of Arabella, when she had taken him to spend a few days with her aunt who lived in a graceful eighteenth century house close to the Abbey. He had rather liked the ancient town and had hoped that Arabella might settle there with her child, finding some respectable occupation and using the opportunity to make a new start. Mrs Hetherington’s lodging house suggested that she had not managed to do so.

The lodging house was better than he had expected, and Mrs Hetherington was a dark-eyed handsome woman in her thirties, who kept a clean house, served plain food to those lodgers who required it and showed a rather touching reticence at sharing with her widower the details of Arabella’s life. David set aside his awkwardness in favour of plain speaking and over a good cup of tea at the big square kitchen table, managed to drag the information from his reluctant informant.

“I wouldn’t normally have let a room to a woman like her,” Mrs Hetherington said. “Not that I haven’t had lady boarders before. Mostly it’s gentlemen, though. Music masters and young officers and those fallen on hard times. I don’t take the labouring classes, my rooms are too good for that. I even had a poet once. I take the money up front for some of them, mind, being as they come from a class used to paying their bills when they feel like it. Still, I don’t have much trouble. The rooms are clean and well furnished, and I’ve got three gentlemen who have been with me a long time. The ladies come and go. Governesses and the like, between jobs. I feel sorry for them. Nowhere to go and no money for expensive lodgings. I keep the top two attic rooms for the ladies. They can be private up there, and I let them share my sitting room while they’re here.”

“And my wife?”

“Anybody could see she’d fallen on hard times. And anybody could see that she’d no intention of finding a respectable position as a governess or a companion, although that was the story she told me when she applied for the room. Still, she’d the money to pay and both rooms were empty, so I let her have one of them, providing she paid in advance for the month and didn’t bring anyone back to the room. She laughed when I told her that. ‘Mrs Hetherington,’ she said. ‘My gentlemen friends do not frequent common lodging houses. Although perhaps they should, this is the most comfortable room I have occupied for months.’”

David winced and tried not to show it. “She was here for five months?”

“She had the room for five months. She paid me, regular as clockwork and I never had to ask her for it. I wouldn’t say she stayed here for five months, mind, she was in and out. Sometimes she’d be here for a week or two. Slept half the day, ate her meals in her room and was out in the evening, dressed up like a duchess. Sometimes I’d see nothing of her for a month. I always imagined, begging your pardon, sir, that she’d found a gentleman friend who was taking care of her.”

“I’m sure you were right, ma’am.”

“I’d no idea she was truly wed. She called herself Mrs, but they often do.”

“We were separated.”

“It’s a tragedy. She wasn’t a respectable woman, sir. She had this way about her, like she was laughing at herself almost. But she was never anything but civil to me.”

David remembered the many times when Arabella had failed to be civil to anybody and was obscurely glad. Perhaps in her darker times, she had learned something that comfort, and prosperity had failed to teach her.

“Where is she buried?”

“At St Mary’s, sir. The Rector will know the details.”

The Rector was surprised but sympathetic. He led David to the plain unmarked grave and left him alone for a while. When David went to find him, he provided sherry and spiritual guidance in the Rectory and gave David the name of a reputable stonemason who could erect a gravestone.

David spent the night at the Lion Hotel, then returned to Mrs Hetherington’s lodging house the following day. She led him up two flights of stairs to a small room under the eaves, where a trunk, a wooden box and several bags contained all that was left of Arabella Cartwright’s short, tragic life. David sat on the narrow bed and cried, remembering their courtship, the first heady days of their marriage when all he could think about was making love to her, and the first painful realisation that their love was not after all based on solid ground, but on the shifting sands of her discontent and relentless pursuit of something better.

Eventually, David pulled himself together and repacked the bags and boxes carefully, piling them up for collection by the carter whom he had arranged to take them to the Lion Hotel. There was another call he should make, although he was not looking forward to it. It must have been ten years or more since he had last seen Mrs Gladstone, Arabella’s aunt, but he remembered the house well from his previous visit. The butler took his card with an expression of surprise and asked him to wait. He returned soon afterwards and ushered David into a panelled book room where a portly gentleman who looked to be around forty came forward to greet him.

“Major Cartwright. This is a surprise and no mistake, you’re the last person I expected to see here. On furlough, eh?”

David shook his hand. “Yes, sir, for a short time. I had family affairs to attend to, both here and on the south coast. I was hoping to speak to Mrs Gladstone.”

“Can’t be done, I’m afraid, Major. My mother died almost a year ago. Smallpox outbreak. Very sad. Jasper Gladstone, at your service. I don’t think we ever met.”

“No, I think you were in India when I visited last. It was a long time ago.”

“Aye, that’ll be right. I left the company service about two years ago and set up in business for myself in Bristol. When my mother died, I inherited the house, so my family moved here. I still keep rooms in Bristol, it’s where my offices are. I think I can guess what’s brought you to Shrewsbury, Major. A bad business.”

“You heard that she died, then?”

“Yes, though I didn’t wish to. The Rector took it upon himself to inform me. Damned piece of impudence, I called it. I told him I’d heard nothing of my cousin since she disgraced herself and didn’t consider her any business of mine. And frankly, Major, I’m surprised you don’t feel the same way.”

David did not speak immediately. He had no wish to be hypocritical and he thought that if Arabella’s death had not coincided with that of his aunt, he would probably not have asked for furlough to visit her grave. He had tried hard to set aside his feelings for Arabella a long time ago and he almost resented the stirring up of painful memories. At the same time, she had lived as his wife for six years and he did not think he could have dismissed all thought of her as Gladstone appeared to think he should.

“As I said, I had other family business to attend to,” he said finally. “Since I was in England, I thought it right to see where she was buried and arrange for a gravestone.”

“Women like her shouldn’t be given the luxury of a proper burial,” Gladstone said shortly. “Sherry, Major? Throw them in the ground and forget about them, that’s what I say. The grief she brought to her poor parents, and my mother. And you, of course.”

He held out the sherry glass. David took it and set it on the table, having no desire to drink it. “I understand Arabella came here to have her child.”

“So I believe. I wasn’t here then, of course, or I’d have put a stop to that. My mother was always sentimental about my cousin. I think she had some notion of finding somebody to take the brat and rehabilitating Bella, but I could have told her that wouldn’t wash. My cousin was a whore, Major. A bad ‘un, through and through. You can’t help a woman like that, and I wouldn’t have tried.”

David’s anger was beginning to settle into a cold disdain. “I am sure you would not,” he said. “Will you tell me what happened after the child was born?”

“She stayed for a month or two. I wrote to my mother to inform her that we would be unable to visit her, of course, while she had that woman and her bastard in the house. I’ve children of my own, I couldn’t have them exposed to that kind of thing. Once Bella was back on her feet after the birth it went pretty much as you’d expect. She took up with some man again – don’t know who he was, some sort of financier I believe, invested in canals and bridges and engineering works. She took off in the middle of the night with all her fine clothing, leaving my mother with the brat on her hands. I don’t know how long it lasted, but not long. She wrote to my mother begging to come back, but this time the old lady had the sense to say no, though she kept the brat. Bella had a small income of some kind.”

“It was very little, just the interest on her marriage settlement. Pin money only.”

“I think she took rooms in town and made up for any shortfall by selling herself to whoever would have her.”

David felt very sick. He had guessed the bare bones of the story, but hearing it related so brutally hurt all over again. He hoped his distress did not show on his face, because he did not wish to give this man a present of his feelings. He would not willingly have given him the time of day.

“What happened to the child?” he asked in neutral tones. “Did it contract the smallpox as well?”

“Lord, no. My mother had the nursemaid keep it isolated. No, it outlived her, that’s for sure. Probably dead by now, though. Not many of them survive beyond their first year in those public institutions, do they?”

“Public institution?”

“You know. Charity wards. Orphan asylums. Workhouses. Wherever they put the little bastards nobody wants. The Rector might know if you’re interested, though I can’t think why you should be. It wasn’t your brat and I doubt she even knew who sired it. And don’t look at me like that, Major. It was nothing to do with me. When we’d buried my mother, I left the whole thing in the hands of my man of business. He paid off the staff, got the house in order and took the little bastard to the Parish and dumped it there. What in God’s name was I expected to do about it? She made her bed, my cousin Arabella, and if she’d cared about that child, she’d never have run off again. She’s better off dead, where she can’t bring any more disgrace to this family, and her bastard with her. Let’s drink to it.”

David looked at Gladstone, a florid, prosperous-looking man with thinning hair and a substantial paunch, as he raised his sherry glass and tossed back the warm amber liquid. He reached for his own glass, waited politely for Gladstone to finish drinking, then threw the contents of it fully into the man’s face. Gladstone gave a squawk of surprise, scrubbing the liquid away with his sleeve as it stung his eyes.

“You…you…how dare you, sir? To come into my house, acting as though your bitch of a wife should matter to me, and then…we’ll see about that, sir.”

He surged forward. David waited for him to be completely off balance, then punched him once, very hard. Blood spurted from the bulbous nose and Gladstone fell back, clutching his face as he hit the floor with a crash which rattled the glasses on the polished sideboard. David had only taken up boxing a year earlier in winter quarters, under the tuition of a friend in his brigade. He had never punched a man in anger in his life before and he was astonished at how satisfying it was. He stood for a moment watching Gladstone bleed onto what looked like an expensive Persian rug.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Gladstone. Please don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

It had started to rain as David made his way back to St Mary’s Church. He found the Rector in his study and blurted out his story and his concerns with little regard for good manners. He was too angry to care what the man thought. The Rector heard him out patiently.

“I am sorry, Major Cartwright. I can see this has all been a shock to you. I respect your compassion and your charity in very difficult circumstances but I’m afraid I have no information about your wife’s child. Mrs Gladstone was not a member of my church, and I did not know much about her family, although we had met socially on occasion. Naturally…Shrewsbury is not a large town, and there is always gossip. Many people felt that Mrs Gladstone was wrong to have taken in her niece in such circumstances, and I know there was a general feeling that she would never be accepted back into polite society, but no such attempt was made. When I was asked by the Parish to arrange for your wife’s burial, there was no mention of any family. I had rather assumed that if there was a child, he or she must have died.”

“Is it possible to find out?” David asked. “What would happen to such a child? Is there an orphan asylum?”

“The parishes have combined in Shrewsbury, to fund a House of Industry where the indigent and the sick are tended. Older children have their own facilities and schooling within the House, but it is customary for the Parish to send babies out to nurse in local households.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Women are paid to take care of the child until it becomes old enough to enter the House of Industry. I presume this child would be very young?”

“Around eighteen months, I suppose. There must be records of where such children are sent.”

“You should apply to the workhouse clerk, Mr Jackson. Wait, I will write a brief note to him. He knows me and it will probably speed your enquiries along.” The Rector reached for his pen, then paused and looked at David. “Major – what do you intend to do if the child is alive?”

David was unable to reply. He realised he had no idea.

***

Mr Jackson scanned the Rector’s letter and gave a sigh which blew the papers about on his desk. He got up and went to collect a ledger from a shelf. David watched as he ran a bony finger down a column, muttering to himself. He turned a page, then another, and began a tuneless whistle, peering at the unintelligible scrawl which passed for writing. David wondered if it was Mr Jackson’s own writing and if so, why he did not learn to read it more quickly.

“Aha!” Jackson said triumphantly. “Aha! As I thought. Now we have him. Now we have him, indeed.”

“Him?” David said quickly.

“Him. A boy. The boy. Delivered to this establishment on the date in question by Gareth Southern, clerk to Mr Timothy Prestcote. It says here…well now. It says the boy is an orphan.”

“Does it not say the mother’s name?” David asked.

“It does,” Jackson said doubtfully, peering so closely that his nose almost touched the page. “Difficult to read it…Cartridge…no, Cartwright, I think. Looks like Billy. Billy Cartwright. Funny name for a female.”

“Bella,” David said, trying to sound patient.

“Is it? Oh. Oh yes, could be. Yes, I think it is.” Jackson sounded pleased. “Bella Cartwright, prostitute. Presumed deceased.”

Jackson froze. On his desk beside the Rector’s note was the calling card David had given him. David watched as he read the name again and made the connection, then saw his eyes widen. He looked up very slowly and suddenly there was a wealth of apprehension in his expression.

“Oh. Oh, my. Major Cartwright?”

“As I told you earlier.”

“Oh my. Oh dear. How awkward. How very embarrassing. I have no memory for names, sir, but in this case I ought to have. Oh my. But this child…he cannot be related to you, surely?”

“I think you’ll find he is,” David said pleasantly. “Was no effort made to trace his mother?”

“Well no, sir. Not given that she was reported to be dead. I cannot understand…was she not dead?”

“Not then,” David said. “She left the child in the care of her aunt, Mrs Gladstone, who sadly died soon afterwards.”

“Gladstone? Do you refer to the family of Mr Jasper Gladstone, Major? But this is extraordinary. He is a member of our board. I cannot think how such a terrible mistake came to be made.”

“I can,” David said briefly. “Am I to understand that the boy is still alive? Where can I find him?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed. At least, according to our records. He was sent out to nurse with Mrs Bonel, and we’ve heard nothing to the contrary.”

“But?”

“They don’t always tell us straight away, sir. If the child dies. Sometimes they bury them quietly and keep taking the money. Eventually the yearly inspection comes around and then they’ll come forward and claim the death was recent.”

David felt sick again. “Annual inspections for a baby that young?” he said. “Is that all?”

“We’ve not the time or the staff to do more, sir. I can give you Mrs Bonel’s address if you want to visit the boy.”

David found the cottage easily enough. There was a narrow frontage open to the River Dee, with chickens scrabbling in a fenced yard and a strong stench of excrement and urine. David paused by the door, taking a deep breath. His stomach was churning so badly, he was worried he might vomit and for the first time ever he felt the urge to flee in the face of the enemy. Before he had the opportunity to do so however, he heard the cry. It was a long wail of misery which drowned out the cackling of the hens and the steady rush of the river, swollen with winter rains.

Inside the smell was stronger, but there was no sign of life in the main living area of the cottage. David walked through to a small doorway at the back and out into a muddy yard, where two pigs snuffled around, splashed with mud, and snorting indignantly. There was still no sign of occupation, but at the back of the yard was a rough wooden lean-to and the wail was stronger, floating out into the freezing winter air. It sounded like a young child. David walked across the yard and went in through the door.

He found the child in a rough wooden cot, little more than a box, built high against the wall of the shed. He was dressed in a linen smock which was smeared with his own dirt. There were several reeking, threadbare blankets in the cot and the child was crying and shivering, his voice high and thin in the chill air. He was thin and pale and his hair was a coppery red.

“There, then, what’s that yelling about, it’s not nearly time for your dinner, and if you don’t shut up…”

David turned. The woman was thin herself, with sharp features and brown eyes, wearing a respectable brown dress and a warm woollen shawl. She looked irritated, but at the sight of David she froze, ran her eyes over him then managed a wholly false smile. She dropped a little curtsey.

“Good day to you, sir. May I help you?”

“Mrs Bonel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve come about the child. I understand he was put out to nurse last year by the Parish?”

“That’s right, sir. A poor little orphan mite. I’ve looked after him as if he was my own, haven’t I, poppet?”

The child had stopped wailing and was staring at David, one grubby fist pushed into his mouth.

David walked forward. He had spent the walk down to the cottage calculating the boy’s age and decided he must be around seventeen months, though he was small, probably through poor nourishment. David studied the child and saw Bella’s beautiful hazel eyes looking back at him with wary interest.

“What’s his name?”

“Whatever you want it to be. He doesn’t…”

David spun around in sudden fury. “What name did they give you for him, you slovenly bitch? Any more of this and I’ll have the magistrate down here, and if you’ve nothing to hide from them I’ll be very surprised.”

The woman visibly flinched. “George. They called him George.”

George had been the name of both David’s and Arabella’s fathers. He looked back at the child. “George? Georgie?”

The boy stared at him for a long moment. Then, cautiously, he shifted onto his knees, reached for the wooden slats of the cot and pulled himself up to his feet. David looked at the streaks of filth on the smock and consciously reined in his anger. He studied the child. The child stared back. After a moment, David reached out and touched one of the tiny hands clutching the edge of the cot. George flinched away as if expecting a blow and David felt an overwhelming wave of protective tenderness.

“He’s cold. And he seems terrified.”

“It’s his own fault, sir, he throws off his blankets. And they’re like that at this age. Skittish, like.”

David kept his eyes on the child and reached past him into the cot to feel the blankets. As he had suspected, they were soaked.

“Does he have any other clothing?”

“Another gown, but it’s wet. I do my best, but I can’t keep up with the laundry.”

“Then get me a dry blanket to wrap him in. I’m taking him with me.”

“Sir, without proper authorisation…”

David turned to look at her. “You will receive authorisation before the end of the day,” he said in icy tones. “Get me a blanket for him. Now.”

Afterwards, seated in the post-chaise as it rattled its way towards London and then on towards Rye, David looked back over that long day and found it hard to recognise himself. He had been carried on a wave of indignant fury which swept aside all difficulties and opposition. His years as an army quartermaster had given him a talent for organisation and the ability to juggle too many tasks, all of them urgent. David was thankful for the experience since he did not think he would ever have made it into the coach early the following morning otherwise.

He was also thankful for the support of Mrs Hetherington, who greeted his arrival with the child with blank astonishment.

“I know I’m imposing on you, ma’am, but it’s only for today. I’ve nobody else to turn to in Shrewsbury, and I’ve a great deal to do to be ready to travel with him tomorrow.”

“I don’t understand,” the woman said, studying the crying child. “Who is he? Where does he come from? Dear God, look at the state of him. He’s filthy and he looks half-starved.”

“He is half-starved,” David said grimly. “It’s a disgrace, sending a child out to a place like that. She was keeping him in an outhouse, with the pigs and the chickens. I could kill her, and the Parish Board along with her, except that I don’t have time.”

“Is he your wife’s child, Major?”

“Yes. She can’t have known where he was, though. She left him with her family. She probably thought it best for him, but when her aunt died, that odorous piece of pig’s excrement Jasper Gladstone sent him to the parish. His own cousin’s child. When I’ve got time, I’m going to ensure that his reputation in this town ends up in the sewer. I don’t need to be here to do that, I can write letters, and I intend to ask for the assistance of my Brigadier’s wife in the matter. She will enjoy the challenge.”

Mrs Hetherington looked amused. “And I thought you such a quiet gentleman,” she said. “But Major…he may be your wife’s child, but surely he isn’t yours? A gentleman like you wouldn’t have let her take his son away like this. Are you sure you can just remove him from the Parish because you want to? There will be regulations.”

“If they try to stop me, I will take their regulations and shove them where they deserve to be. But they won’t. They can’t. He is my wife’s child, born within wedlock. We were legitimately married, that never changed. If I say he is my son, and can prove she was my wife, there isn’t a damned thing they can do about it.”

Mrs Hetherington gaped at him. “Sir…are you sure?”

George had stopped crying, probably because he was too exhausted to continue. He was watching David from enormous tear-drenched eyes, but David thought that he seemed more relaxed in his arms. He looked back at the child and finally admitted to himself what he had been unable to recognise two years earlier.

“Yes,” he said. “Oh God, yes. I should have done it then. I should have gone to her and offered to acknowledge the child. Because I wanted a child so badly that it hurt. Arabella didn’t really, and when I found out, I was furious. It seemed so unjust, because I realised that it might have been my fault that we couldn’t have children. Which meant I might never be able to have a child.” David stopped, realising that he was babbling. “I’m sorry, this is the most inappropriate conversation I have ever had.”

“Lord bless, you sir, I run a lodging house. You’d be amazed what people tell me. Leave him with me. I’ll get him bathed and fed, and I’ll send Sally to the market, if you’ll leave the money. There’s a booth that sells used clothing, they’ll have baby clothes there. I don’t know how you’ll manage him on the road, mind. He’s not clean yet, so you’ll need to change his clouts and wash him, and it’s not work for a gentleman.”

“I’ll learn, you can show me. It’s only for three days, and once I’m back in Rye I can hire a nursemaid. I’m going to have to write to extend my furlough, but they’ll understand. It’s winter quarters. Mrs Hetherington, thank you. I will never forget what you’ve done for me today.”

It took longer to reach Rye on the return journey. It was necessary to stop more frequently because of George, and overnight stops were more complicated. David had no experience of taking care of a child, but Mrs Hetherington gave him an emergency lesson in feeding, bathing, and changing clouts in half a day. The journey was a nightmare of a crying child, desperate inn staff and irritable post boys.

After two days of almost constant wailing, and fighting against every attempt to comfort him, George fell suddenly into an exhausted sleep in David’s arms. He barely awoke as David carried him into the Swan Inn. The landlord was more sympathetic than on the previous two nights, and sent a chamber maid to wash, change and sit with the boy so that David could eat in peace in the dining room. After two glasses of burgundy, David was almost falling asleep at the table. He went up to his room and found that the girl had just changed George and was settling him into the bed.

“Will you be all right with him, sir? You should have a nursemaid with you.”

“She fell ill, and I couldn’t delay my journey,” David said with a smile. It was the story he had told all along, not really caring who believed it. This girl apparently did and gave him a somewhat misty smile.

“Bless you, sir, I’ve never seen such a devoted father. Have you much further to go?”

“No, we’ll be home before tomorrow evening.”

“I’m glad to hear it, you’re in need of a rest. With your leave, sir, I’ll come back in the morning and get him fed and ready while you have your breakfast.”

“Thank you. You’ve been so kind.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

David undressed, then checked that there was water in the jug on the washstand and that there were clean clouts available in case of disaster, then he got into bed. The boy lay beside him, long lashed eyes watching him curiously. Over the past days he had seemed to David to see every human contact as a potential threat, and David tried not to imagine the miserable existence that had taught such a young child that nobody was to be trusted. Now, though, he lay wakeful but calm. David looked back at him.

“Are you in the mood for conversation, Georgie? I’m not sure I’ll be much use at it, I’m so tired. Still, we can give it a try. I’m your Papa. You don’t know it yet, and nor did I until just recently, but we’ve a lot of time to get acquainted. At least we will have, when Bonaparte is gone, and I can come home to you. In the meantime, we’ll need to find you a good nursemaid and a new housekeeper…”

David froze suddenly. He realised that he had forgotten, in the stress of the past days, that his departing housekeeper might well still be in residence when he arrived with a child she knew nothing about. It had not occurred to him to write to Helen Carleton, he had been too busy. Now he realised he should have done so. He wondered if she had already left for her family home in Leicester for Christmas. Part of him hoped she had done so. The other part hoped he would have the chance to see her again, to thank her for her kindness.

He fell asleep quickly and woke in the half-light of dawn. To his surprise, George still slept, curled up against his body, warm in the chill air of the inn bedroom. David lay very still, savouring the moment. Very gently, he kissed the top of the child’s head. The colour of his hair reminded David sharply of Arabella and he wept a little, regretting all the things they might have shared.

They arrived at Oak Lodge late in the afternoon, several days before Christmas. George was asleep when David lifted him from the chaise and instructed the coachmen to go to the kitchen for refreshment while the baggage was unloaded. He walked into the house and stopped in the hallway in considerable surprise. The stairs were decorated with greenery and tied with red ribbons. It reminded him of the Christmases of his childhood, and he stood in the hall, the child in his arms, unexpectedly assailed by a rush of memories.

“Major Cartwright.”

The girl’s voice was astonished. David turned to see her emerging from the kitchen area, still wearing her white apron. She had discarded her lace cap and looked neat and efficient and surprisingly attractive. David quailed internally but took his courage in both hands, remembering that this was his house, and he was her employer.

“Miss Carleton, what on earth are you still doing here?” he asked sternly. “By now, you should be at home with your family, ready to celebrate…”

Helen came forward, ignoring him, and drew back the grubby blanket from George’s flushed face. “Is this your wife’s boy?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” David said. “His name is George. And he is my son.”

Helen lifted her eyes to his face. “I’m not going home for Christmas,” she said. “I’m sorry, Major, I know I was ordered to do so. But it occurred to me that I might be needed here. And it turns out that I was more right than I knew. Here, let me take him. How on earth did you manage on the journey with him?”

“Very well, ma’am,” David said haughtily. He decided not to mention how appalling it had been at times. “I’m an army man, we’re very adaptable.”

Helen looked up at him, a smile lurking in the blue eyes. “So am I, Major Cartwright. And since I do not think you intend to abandon your profession just yet, that is just as well. I’ve had a lot of practice taking care of my sisters’ children, you know, and we still have a few days before Christmas to get the nursery set up just as it ought to be. He’s a beautiful child.”

“He’s been badly treated. I will tell you everything, ma’am. But just now…”

“Just now, we should take him upstairs. I think he needs changing.”

David trod up the stairs in her wake, remembering his resolve of earlier. “I told you to go home.”

“I ignored you.”

“You cannot remain in my employ if I dismiss you.”

“That is very true. I think we should discuss it again after Christmas.”

“You are not going to listen to me, are you?”

Helen shot him a look. “Don’t you trust me with him, Major?”

David looked back at her steadily. “I cannot think of anybody I would trust more,” he said simply. “But Miss Carleton…”

“Major Cartwright, why don’t you let me decide for myself? There is nothing more irritating than a man trying to tell a woman how she should think or feel. Just now, let us take care of your son.”

***

It was frosty on Christmas morning. Helen reluctantly left George in Sarah’s devoted charge and went to church with her employer. Inside, she headed towards her usual seat among the tradespeople and upper servants at the back, but Major Cartwright took her arm and steered her firmly into the pew beside him.

Gossip travelled fast in a small town like Rye and there were sly looks and veiled hints which, over sherry in the rectory, turned into open questions about Major Cartwright’s new charge. Helen watched admiringly as the Major responded, his replies so bland that eventually even the most avid gossip became frustrated.

“He is my son. My wife and I were temporarily estranged. Tragically she died just as we were planning to reconcile. I am, as you can imagine, heartbroken. Miss Carleton has agreed to remain in my employment as his governess, and to oversee the nursery once I return to the army. I am very grateful to her.”

He told the story over and over, varying the words but sticking firmly to the message. Helen felt enormous respect for him. She could not imagine how badly he must have been hurt by his wife, but his thoughts were all of the child. After church, he sat at a table in the hastily furnished nursery, with George on his lap, showing him how to build a simple tower with wooden blocks. George picked up the idea quickly, and then abruptly reached out and pushed the tower over. The hazel eyes flew to the Major’s face apprehensively. David Cartwright was laughing.

“Good at siege warfare, I see. Shall we do it again?”

He did so, and this time George gave a crow of laughter as the tower fell. The Major bent and kissed the soft copper hair. Helen stood up, fighting back sentimental tears.

“I will be needed in the kitchen, Major, so I’ll leave you to it.”

He looked around quickly, smiling. “Come back as soon as you can. It’s important that he gets to know both of us, but you especially. If you’re really going to take on the job of raising him. Are you good at building towers, Miss Carleton?”

Helen smiled, her heart full. “I have three nephews, Major, I am an expert. I just don’t want to intrude.”

“This is your home too, ma’am, for as long as you choose to stay. You couldn’t intrude. And I hope you’ll be dining with me as usual. It’s Christmas, you cannot leave me to eat alone.”

“I should be delighted, sir.”

“Was your mother very angry?”

Helen laughed. “Yes,” she admitted. “But she is happier that I am now able to call myself a governess rather than a housekeeper, so it could have been worse.”

She had received the letter from her mother the previous day. Lady Carleton had expressed herself freely, but Helen felt that the anger was half-hearted. It seemed that Kitty had made the acquaintance of a titled gentleman at a hunt ball, who appeared very taken with her, and who openly expressed his hope of renewing their acquaintance in London next year. Helen had no idea if the attachment was real, but it was a useful distraction for her parents.

They dined on roast goose and traditional Christmas pudding and drank a rich red wine which Major Cartwright told her came from the vineyards around the River Douro and was a favourite of Lord Wellington. He made her laugh with stories of various Christmases spent on campaign and asked her about her family. Helen had wondered if she would miss the noisy family gatherings of her childhood, but she did not.

They went together to settle George into his cot. He was already half asleep, worn out by the unaccustomed excitement. Major Cartwright bent to kiss him, then stood back for Helen to do the same. She did so, suddenly very aware of how domestic the moment was. They might have been any young couple, putting their child to bed after a busy and very happy Christmas Day. It made Helen feel unexpectedly shy and she wondered if the Major was aware of it. If he was, David Cartwright gave no indication.

Afterwards, Helen sat beside the fire, in the drawing room, sipping sherry and trying to pretend that this was normal behaviour for a governess who was also a housekeeper and a cook. David Cartwright sat opposite her.

“Do you play chess, Miss Carleton?”

“Yes. I’m quite fond of the game.”

“Would you do me the honour?”

They sat with the board between them like a shield and Helen concentrated on her moves and tried not to think about anything else, until he said:

“Do you really want to stay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to increase your salary, and I’d like you to employ a kitchen maid and a nursery maid. You can’t leave it all to Sarah and you’ll be very busy with George.”

“Thank you, Major. I…”

“I feel as though I ought to send you home, but I don’t want to. You’ll be so good for him. I want to be here, but I can’t. Not yet. Still, it’s a huge responsibility, and if you change your mind, please tell me and I’ll find somebody else.”

“I won’t change my mind, Major. I really want this post. He’s a beautiful child, I’m already a little in love with him.”

“Will you write to me with news of him?”

“All the time,” Helen said warmly. “There will be nothing of him that you do not know.”

“Thank you. I’ve felt so resentful about Arabella but in the end, she gave me something priceless, something I’ve wanted for so long. A child. A family. I’m so grateful. It’s your move, Miss Carleton.”

Helen studied the board. After a long moment, she moved her rook. “I think you are going to lose, Major Cartwright.”

“I don’t.”

Helen looked up in surprise and found that he was looking at her, with a hint of a smile behind the steady brown eyes.

“I’m playing the long game,” he explained, and reached to move his piece.

A Winter in Cadiz

https://www.carmenthyssenmalaga.org/en/obra/vista-de-cadiz

A Winter in Cadiz is my Valentine’s Day short story for 2021. It takes place during Lord Wellington’s brief trip to Cadiz and Lisbon during winter quarters 1812-13 which is mentioned during An Unmerciful Incursion. As always, the story is free so please share it as much as you like. 

 

The glorious painting above was borrowed from here.

I had intended to do something with more of a Spanish theme for this story, but Captain Graham has been in my head for a while, prodding me from time to time and reminding me that I introduced him at the beginning of An Uncommon Campaign and have barely given him a job to do since, let along a chance of romance.  I hope he’ll be happy now.

Thanks so much to all my fabulous readers for continuing to read the books, love the characters and constantly nag me to write more. I’m on the job, I promise you.

A Winter in Cadiz

“I have been three days longer on my journey than I intended, owing to the the fall of rain, which has swelled all the torrents, and I am now detained here by the swelling of the Gevora. I hope, however, to get to Badajoz this evening.” (Wellington to Beresford, 18 Dec 1812)

“The weather is foul and the roads are impassable, we are held up every day by floods and even Lord Fitzroy Somerset is low in spirits. His Lordship’s temper is so bad that the men of our escort invent excuses to scout the area to avoid him and Lord Fitzroy and I are counting the days until we reach Cadiz so that he will at least have somebody else to shout at. I wish he had chosen someone other for the honour of accompanying him so that I could have joined you for Christmas. (Captain Richard Graham to Major-General Paul van Daan, 18 Dec 1812)

Cadiz, Spain, 1812

Captain Richard Graham had almost forgotten about Christmas. During his army career he had spent the season in a variety of places, some of them extremely uncomfortable. During their long, wet, miserable journey from Freineda to Cadiz he had fully expected to spend the day huddled in a draughty farmhouse listening to Lord Wellington complaining. They arrived in Cadiz at midday on the 24th and Richard was swept from drenched, muddy misery into surprising luxury in a matter of minutes. Lord Wellington and his two aides were conducted to an elegant house in a side-street just off the Plaza San Antonio and Richard found himself in a comfortable bedchamber with a maid bringing hot water and wine and the information that a light meal would be served before his Lordship joined the parade through the city.

Wellington was in the salon and Richard drank wine and listened to his commander being charming to his host and hostess as though the irritability of the past weeks had not existed. Colonel Lord Fitzroy Somerset, Wellington’s young military secretary, appeared at Richard’s side eating a chicken leg.

“Grab some food, Captain, while you can. We’ll be off shortly and I’ve attended these things before, it could be hours before we see food again.”

Richard headed for the silver platters laid out on a sideboard. Filling a plate, he said:
“Should I take some to his Lordship?”

“I just tried,” Fitzroy said. “He looked at me as though I’d offered him a dead rat then waved me away like the under-kitchen maid. Feel free to see if you do any better.”

“Does he even need food?” Richard said, spearing a slice of cheese.

“Yes. He just doesn’t remember that he does. I’m not too worried, there’ll be some kind of ball or banquet this evening, he’ll be hungry enough to eat by then.”

“Well if he’s not, I definitely will be,” Richard said philosophically and Fitzroy laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m very glad he chose you for this journey, Captain, you are so blissfully even-tempered. Most of the others would have been worn down on the way but it doesn’t matter what he says, you don’t flinch.”

Richard felt absurdly flattered. “I’ve no idea why he chose me, sir. I’m by no means his favourite ADC.”

Fitzroy gave a little smile. “You’re mine,” he said. “The others are all very good fellows, but when I need something done without a discussion about whose job it is, you are my absolute favourite, Captain Graham. And although he hasn’t the least notion how to express his appreciation, I suspect he feels the same way.”

The thought cheered Richard. He had arrived in Portugal eighteen months earlier with a position on Lord Wellington’s staff after a miserable few years in the Indies. His appointment had been the result of a good deal of hard work by a cousin at Horse Guards and Richard had arrived with the strong sense that he was here on sufferance. His discomfort had initially increased when he realised that Lord Wellington’s staff consisted  almost entirely of young sprigs of the English aristocracy plus the twenty-one year old Dutch Prince of Orange. Richard’s fellow ADCs had been polite but puzzled and Wellington had been coolly civil. Richard, who was not particularly sensitive and knew how fortunate he was in this appointment, gritted his teeth and smiled a good deal.

His breakthrough into acceptance had not come from within the commander-in-chief’s household, but from an early meeting with a young colonel, recently promoted to command a brigade of the light division. Richard had instinctively liked Paul van Daan, who came from a very wealthy Anglo-Dutch trade family. Paul was not of the aristocratic background of Wellington’s inner circle although his mother had been a viscount’s daughter, but he seemed to have the ability to effortlessly bridge the gap. Wellington was rigidly wedded to the existing social order and enjoyed the company of his young ADCs, but he was at his most relaxed and informal in the company of Colonel van Daan and his attractive, intelligent wife.

Richard quickly became friends with Paul van Daan. Such friendships happened in the erratic shifts of army life. Sometimes they proved as fleeting as a short posting and at other times they stood the test of sudden parting and long absences. Richard suspected that Paul’s early friendship with Wellington had been the subject of some jealousy and backbiting at headquarters although by now he was recognised as a valuable asset in managing the commander-in-chief. Certainly he appeared to understand why Richard felt like an outsider, and he invited him frequently to dine and to socialise with the officers of the 110th. Richard was grateful initially for the company, then unexpectedly for the opportunity it gave him to see his difficult, irritable commander in a completely different light. All of his first real conversations with Lord Wellington had occurred at Anne van Daan’s table and it had enabled Richard to see past Wellington’s defensive and often sarcastic manner to a man whom he actually quite liked.

Richard was not sure that Wellington reciprocated the feeling and he was genuinely surprised when he was informed that as the rest of the army settled into winter quarters to recover from the appalling hardships of the retreat from Burgos and Madrid, Wellington required his company on a visit to Cadiz and Lisbon to meet with the Spanish and Portuguese governments. He suspected his surprise had shown on his face because Wellington looked amused.

“I will not be taking my household staff, Captain Graham, just one or two servants, a cavalry escort and Lord Fitzroy Somerset. We will be riding as fast as possible as this cannot be a long trip. I have observed that you are an excellent horseman, you do not complain about difficult conditions and your Spanish and Portuguese are both very good. Please be ready to leave in two days.”

The citizens of Cadiz greeted Wellington with joyous enthusiasm, which may have been an expression of gratitude for all that he had done so far in helping to drive the French out of Spain, but might also have been a useful excuse for parades and parties. The streets were illuminated at night in a way that reminded Richard of their arrival in Madrid earlier in the year. Wellington’s every public appearance was greeted with cannon salutes, cheering crowds and women throwing flowers from balconies or running to lay their shawls and scarves before his horse’s hooves. Wellington accepted the adulation with dignified restraint. He had chosen to wear a Spanish uniform in his capacity as Duque de Ciudad Rodrigo, probably to reinforce his new position as commander-in-chief of the Spanish army.

One of the reasons Wellington was here was to address the Cortes and to negotiate the terms of his new command with the Spanish government. It was also a family reunion as his younger brother, Sir Henry Wellesley, had served as ambassador to Spain for several years, negotiating the stormy waters of Spanish politics through the years of the French siege and beyond. Richard had never met Sir Henry who had followed a diplomatic career alongside Wellington’s military success. He decided, on introduction, that there was a strong family resemblance but that Sir Henry seemed easier in his manners. There was obvious rapport between the two brothers and Richard wondered if it was a relief to his generally reticent commander to have a trusted member of his family beside him. 

It relieved Richard of many of his duties. Lord Fitzroy Somerset was called upon to take notes at a number of meetings, and there was the usual enormous amount of correspondence to manage, but most of Richard’s time seemed taken up with dinners and receptions and balls as the Spanish government and their ladies vied with each other to provide the most lavish entertainment. There was a formal dinner on the day of their arrival followed by an evening reception in one of the gleaming white mansions which overlooked the bay. The English community in Cadiz consisted of the officers commanding those troops remaining in the city, diplomats and a few hardy merchants who had not fled during the long siege. Richard made small talk with a collection of Spanish politicians, paid compliments to their wives and daughters and smiled until his cheeks ached. Across the room he could see Somerset performing the same duty. There were several pretty girls clustered around him and Richard grinned. There was to be a full ball the following evening and he suspected that his fellow ADC was being importuned for dances. Somerset’s excellent manners and sunny disposition made him popular with the ladies.

“Captain Graham.”

Richard turned quickly, saluting. Wellington was accompanied by a young woman dressed exquisitely in a dull yellow gown with gold embroidery which looked as though it must have cost a fortune. She was small and delicately made with mid-brown hair curling around an appealing heart-shaped face. Richard was not at all surprised to find a girl this pretty on Wellington’s arm. He also recognised with some puzzlement that Wellington was desperate to get rid of her.

“Captain, allow me to present Miss Honoria Grainger. Miss Grainger was here with her Mama who has most unfortunately been taken ill and had to leave. I promised her we would take care of her daughter and see her safely home when she is ready to depart. I need to have a word with Sir Henry and one or two gentlemen before our meeting tomorrow, may I ask if you would be my deputy?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

Wellington bowed and departed at speed and Richard dug into his memory for a time when conversing with young ladies at elegant receptions had been part of his normal life. It must have been ten years ago and since then he had married and been widowed and killed men on a battlefield, but he thought he could still remember how it was done.

“It is very good to meet you, Miss Grainger. What brings you to Cadiz, is your father an officer or a diplomat?”

Miss Grainger turned a pair of frosty blue eyes onto him. “What makes you think that I am here with my father at all, Captain Graham? Do you suppose that a young female is incapable of travelling of her own accord and must remain entirely at the beck and call of her father or husband?”

Richard stared at her in astonishment. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said stiffly. “I made an assumption based on Lord Wellington’s introduction and also, I confess, on my own experience so far. I would be delighted if you would tell me how you do come to be in Cadiz since it is probably a far more interesting story.”

The girl looked at him for a long moment. “I believe I was just very rude,” she announced finally. “I apologise, Captain. I am not quite myself this evening.”

“Has that to do with your Mama’s sudden illness or is that another assumption?” Richard asked.

To his surprise she bestowed an approving look on him. “How very astute you are, Captain Graham. My Mama is not at all unwell, she was simply unbearably embarrassed by her daughter and fled the field in confusion. If she had been ill, I would have gone with her.”

Richard stared at her. He was completely bewildered. “Miss Grainger, it is a very long time since I regularly attended occasions such as this, but I am sure that this is not the conversation that normally follows an introduction. Perhaps the rules have changed.”

Honoria Grainger regarded him thoughtfully and then suddenly gave a broad smile. It lit up her face and gave a sparkle to her eyes. It also displayed a wide gap between her front teeth. Richard was utterly charmed. “The rules are exactly the same and I am breaking all of them,” she said. “My mother is appalled and my father would give me a stern look if he was here. The trouble is that he is not here. And he is supposed to be.”

Richard had begun to wonder if Miss Grainger was a little mad but her last statement caught his interest. “Are you saying your father is missing?”

“Yes, I think he is. I have been trying to have this conversation with Lord Wellington but he was either disinterested or unwilling to share information with me. It is very frustrating.”

“Given that this is Lord Wellington, it could be either or both. But to do him justice, he has a great deal to do here in a very limited time. Is there not somebody else who could assist? There are a number of diplomats present, Miss Grainger…” Richard broke off at the expression on her face. “And I am treating you like an idiot, which you are very clearly not, I’m sorry. You’ve already spoken to them, haven’t you?”

Miss Grainger let out a long breath. “Many, many times,” she said. “We have been in Cadiz for four weeks, Captain. We received a letter from my father from Toulouse, suggesting that we meet him here…”

“Toulouse?” Richard said, bewildered. “What in God’s name was he doing in France?”

“He was on a diplomatic mission,” Miss Grainger said in exasperated tones. “Did I not tell you that he is a diplomat?”

“No.”

“Oh. I thought I had.” The girl was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry. I am being very ill-mannered. None of this has anything to do with you, and you are probably wishing me to the devil. And I am sorry for my language as well. I think I should probably go home, my mother was right, there is no purpose to this.”

Her tone was flat and Richard saw suddenly that she was close to tears and trying very hard not to shed them. He had no idea at all what was going on but he felt a sudden need to comfort this odd, likeable girl which overrode his strong sense that he should take her home and forget about this.

“Miss Grainger, I have no idea at all what is happening here, but I can see that you are genuinely upset and more than a little angry. I can probably do nothing to help you, since I am with Lord Wellington and we shall very likely not be here much above a week. But if you wish to tell me the whole story, I’m very willing to listen and to give any advice that I can. A room full of people isn’t the best place for this. May I have permission to call on you tomorrow morning and you may tell me whatever you wish?”

Miss Grainger lifted grateful eyes to his face. “Truly? Captain Graham, thank you, that is so kind of you. I cannot remember the last time anybody actually listened to me, it is driving me mad.”

“If it helps, you’ll have my undivided attention,” Richard promised gravely. “Let’s get you home. Have you a carriage or a maid…?”

“My maid escorted my mother home, but she will have returned by now. And I am afraid we walked here, we are staying with Sir John Marlow and his wife and their house is only a few doors away. I refuse the ridiculous notion of calling for a carriage to drive a few feet.”

“Then I shall walk you home. Let me send one of the servants to find your maid.”

***

Richard presented himself promptly at Sir John’s house the following morning. He had wondered if he might be expected to run a gauntlet of concerned chaperones, but the girl was alone in the small salon when the servant announced him. Richard bowed and she came forward to shake his hand.

“I’m very grateful you came, Captain. You must have thought me a madwoman last night, I made no sense at all. I think, very foolishly, I had convinced myself that if I could just speak to Lord Wellington he would take my concerns seriously and I was very disappointed. Please, sit down.”

Richard sat opposite her on a brocade sofa. “Tell me about your father, Miss Grainger.”

“My father is Sir Horace Grainger. He is a diplomat and has served the foreign office in various capacities all his life. Often, my mother and I travelled with him. I have lived all over the world.”
Richard thought that probably explained her surprisingly self-assured manner for such a young woman. “Why did he go to France?”
“He was to visit several towns and cities where English prisoners of war are being held, particularly those civilian prisoners who were caught in France when the war resumed in 1803. He went as far as Verdun and held discussions about possible prisoner exchanges in the cases of several high-profile prisoners. He told us that the French were being asked to send a similar mission later this year.”

Richard frowned. “That surprises me. I know that the French are seldom willing to exchange prisoners and there have been repeated attempts to get the civilians released, always unsuccessful.”

“Yes,” Honoria said neutrally. “Anyway, my father travelled as usual with his valet and his groom, both of whom have been with him for years, plus a French escort. He visited the prisoners and attended a number of meetings, it was a lot of travelling. During that time, he sent regular letters home, both to the Foreign Office and to us. He told us a great deal about the countryside and the food and very little about his work but that was not unusual. His last letter was from Toulouse. He told us that his mission was over and that he would be travelling into Spain to board a Royal Navy ship from Bilbao which would take him to Cadiz. He was expecting to be detained here for some time on business so suggested we sail to meet him here.”

“And he did not come? Have you had word?”

“Nothing. It is very unlike him, Captain, he is a very affectionate husband and father. He and I are especially close. He always writes. But what is even more worrying is that the foreign office have heard nothing either. He did not board the ship as expected.”

Richard did not speak for a moment. He realised that he had been hoping he could allay her concerns, but instead he shared them. The situation on the northern coast of Spain had been volatile for months and in many places the partisans had seized control of entire areas of the countryside from the French. Richard had seen letters describing guerrilla raids and skirmishes and he could offer this girl no real reassurance. He wondered if he should lie, but discarded the idea immediately. She was far too intelligent to believe him.

“Do you think he might have been detained in France?”

“I don’t know. I have spoken to Sir Henry and he assures me that the foreign office are making enquiries, but he will not tell me any more. Letters can take many weeks and are frequently lost, especially given that it is the stated aim of the Spanish forces to disrupt French lines of communication.”

“What does he suggest that you do?”

“He suggests we go home and wait.” Honoria’s voice was bitter. “After all, that is what women are supposed to do, is it not?”

“I suppose so. It isn’t easy though.”

She studied him for a moment. “Is that what you expect your wife to do, Captain?”

Richard hoped that he had not flinched. “My wife died, Miss Grainger, along with our child. Six years ago now. I wasn’t there, I often wonder if I had been…but I’ll never know.”

Honoria Grainger went very still and Richard was horrified to see her eyes fill with sudden tears. He was annoyed at himself for blurting out so much information to a virtual stranger and one with troubles of her own. After six years it hurt less but he still hated having to explain about Sally and he felt that he had done it clumsily.

“Oh, I’m sorry. That is so very dreadful, and I’ve made you think about it. I am the worst person, I always ask the wrong questions and I never know when to stop. I’m so wrapped up with my own worries, I didn’t think.”

Richard got up and moved to sit beside her on the other sofa, reaching for her hand. “Stop it,” he said firmly. “This is not your fault, and I’m perfectly fine. I will miss her until the day I die, but I can talk of it now. In fact, I’m glad that you know, because when people don’t, there is always that uncertainty…is he married, is he a bachelor, should I ask about his family? I’m glad that you know. And probably because of Sally, I understand a little of what you feel. She hated waiting at home.”

“Sally? What a pretty name. What was she like..no, I’m sorry.”

“She was lovely,” Richard said, to his considerable surprise. “She was witty and kind and gentle and very loving. She wanted a home and children and all the things I wanted too. I felt very cheated.”

The girl’s hand squeezed his. It startled him because he had forgotten he was holding her hand. “I’m very envious, Captain. Firstly because I could never be all of those things and secondly because I suspect I want all of those things too. I’m sorry you lost her, but you must be so happy to have had her.”

Richard could feel himself smiling. “Miss Grainger, do you always say everything that comes into your head?”

“Far more often than I want to,” Honoria said fervently. “Have I offended you?”

“Not at all. Talking to you is a genuine pleasure, I don’t feel as though I need to be on my guard at all. Look, I don’t honestly know if there is any way that I can help you, but I would like to try. May I share your story with Lord Fitzroy Somerset?”

“That charming young man who asked me to reserve a dance this evening? I suppose so, but why?”

Richard was surprised to realise that he was thinking uncharitable thoughts about Somerset. “He is a senior officer, and very close to Lord Wellington. He may have an idea of how best to approach him.”

“He is your senior officer?”

“He is a lieutenant-colonel and his Lordship’s military secretary, ma’am.”

“I expect that is because he is a lord,” Honoria said sagely. “My father has often commented on some of the odd choices for promotion within the army.”

Richard laughed. “Your father is right, but not in this case. Lord Fitzroy is both an excellent officer and an excellent fellow. Also, he is my friend and will take the matter seriously. Between us, we cannot solve your problem, but we may be able to ensure you are given full information.”

“That is all I can ask, Captain.”

“Do you think you will go home?”

“I barely know my home,” Honoria said sounding suddenly lost. “We have a house in London but I have never lived there for more than a year at a time. My mother is talking of returning there while we wait for news, but I don’t want to leave without knowing.”

Richard felt an irrational lift of his heart. “We are probably going to return via Lisbon but we are here for at least another week. I am really hoping you hear good news soon, Miss Grainger. It may be nothing more than an illness on the road.”

Steady blue eyes regarded him. “I hope so too. But it may be very much worse.”

***

Honoria was not sure why her conversation with Captain Graham made her feel so much better, since he had promised nothing and she knew that realistically he might not be able to help at all. At the age of twenty-one, she had moved in diplomatic and military circles all her life and understood very well that Captain Graham’s position was relatively lowly. What he did have, however, was the advantage of access to Lord Wellington, and temporarily to his brother, the Ambassador. Honoria was not naïve enough to assume that either of the Wellesleys would be able to produce her missing father out of thin air, but she did think that between them they possessed enough influence to push the foreign office into pursuing more rigorous enquiries.

Lady Grainger shook her head when Honoria told her of her conversations with Captain Graham. “It was not well done of you, Honoria. Captain Graham is not in a position to make demands of Lord Wellington and should not be pressured into doing so out of kindness.”

“Captain Graham is not obliged to do anything at all, Mama. But somebody should be doing something. Father has given his entire life to the service of his country, they cannot just shrug their shoulders and pretend he did not exist.”

“I am sure they are not doing so, my child. It is just they have not yet informed us…”

“It is just that we are two silly females who cannot be trusted not to swoon at the implication that something may have happened to him,” Honoria said furiously. “I wish I had been a man, they would not have fobbed me off like this then.”

“Of course, if you had married Mr Derbyshire last year, he would have had the right to enquire on our behalf,” her mother said archly. Honoria set down her tea cup with an unnecessary clink.

“If I had married Mr Derbyshire last year, Mama, I would have died of boredom by now, so it would be of no concern to me.”

Lady Grainger laughed. “He was not that bad, Honoria. I thought him very charming, and he has a very promising Parliamentary career ahead of him. I think you would do very well as a politician’s wife.”

“I think I would do very well as a politician, but we know that is not possible.” Honoria sighed. “I am not set against marriage as you seem to think, Mama. I would like all the things that go with it – a home of my own, children, a position in the world. But I cannot marry I man I neither like or respect. Marriage lasts too long.”

“I know. And neither your father or I would try to force you. It is just that you have led such an unusual life for a young girl, following your father around the world. And he has always shared so much with you, as if you were the son we did not have. I wonder sometimes if that makes it harder for you to find a man you like.”

“If I did meet a man I liked, the chances are we would have moved on before I could form an attachment,” Honoria said. She was surprised to realise that she was thinking about Richard Graham. Whatever help he might be able to give her in her search for her father, he would be gone before she really got to know him, and Honoria was faintly depressed at the thought.

“Honoria, will you at least attend the ball this evening? There is nothing more you can do now, and while we are here, I would like to see you enjoy yourself a little.”

“I must attend, since I have promised several gentlemen that I will dance with them. Mama, how long must we stay in Cadiz?”

“I was hoping to remain until your father arrived, but I wonder now if we should return to London,” Lady Grainger said. Her voice shook a little on the words and Honoria took her hand. She knew that her mother was trying to maintain a hopeful manner for her sake, but Honoria was not deceived. Her mother was as worried as she was.

“I think we should remain here a little longer. Why don’t you write to the housekeeper giving her a date for our arrival, she’ll need time to prepare. We can always change our plans if Father suddenly turns up with the news that we are all off to Cape Town.”

“I rather liked Cape Town,” her mother said wistfully. The memory made Honoria laugh.

“Apart from Sir Home Popham.”

“Oh that terrible man. He talked to me – no at me – about some kind of nautical chart for an hour or more without taking a breath. I was never more relieved than when he sailed off to South America and got himself court-martialled.”

“Father said it was the closest he’d ever seen you to failing as a diplomat’s wife.”

“Your father was no help at all, he just laughed.” Suddenly there were tears in Lady Grainger’s eyes. “Oh Honoria, where is he? What if he doesn’t come back at all?”

Honoria put her arms about her mother and held her close, trying hard not to cry with her. “We’ll be all right, Mama. I just hope he will too.”

The ball was hosted at the embassy and the rooms were crowded with both British and Spanish dignitaries. It was very warm, despite the season, and there was a smell of cigar smoke which made Honoria wrinkle her nose. Both Lord Wellington and Sir Henry greeted her pleasantly in the receiving line with no indication that they had held any conversation about her that day, but Honoria supposed that Captain Graham had not had time to speak of the matter.

A British regimental band played and Honoria danced with several gentlemen she already knew, including a dark eyed young Portuguese officer who had been assiduously pursuing her since the day she arrived. Honoria quite liked Lieutenant Souza but had no interest in any form of dalliance and she was relieved when Lord Fitzroy appeared to claim the promised waltz.

“You are a capital dancer, Miss Grainger, I am very happy you decided to attend. I was a little concerned after Captain Graham spoke to me of your father.”

“He spoke to you?” Honoria said quickly. “Oh. I had not thought…that was very quick.”

Somerset grinned. It was different to the social smile she had seen so far and it made her like him suddenly. “One of the reasons I begged Lord Wellington to bring Captain Graham on this visit, ma’am, is that he is a man who gets things done. Generally, I am very over-worked, but when I need help, he is the man I call on. Have you met him before?”

“No,” Honoria said, surprised. “Lord Wellington introduced us yesterday. I do not…I have no idea why I told him about my father. He is very easy to talk to.”

“He is a thoroughly good fellow. I asked because he approached Lord Wellington and Sir Henry this afternoon about the matter and I was a little concerned. He was very plain spoken, which Lord Wellington does not always appreciate.”

Honoria was appalled. “Oh my goodness, no. I had no intention of him doing any such thing. I hope he has not got himself into trouble.”

“I think it will be fine. Lord Wellington was very irritated and I tried to intervene, but as it happened, Sir Henry was there before me. It seems he has been very concerned about the fact that nobody is talking to you about your father. But I do not intend to say more, I will let Captain Graham tell you himself.”

Honoria danced with her mind on anything other than her partners. Her dance with Captain Graham was a country dance with frequent changes of partner and no possibility of rational conversation. She enjoyed the dance, and the few words she exchanged with him, and tried not to make it obvious that she was desperate to question him. She was not sure she was successful, because as the dance ended he bowed over her hand and said quietly:

“Thank you, Miss Grainger, that was a very enjoyable dance. May I hope for another? A waltz, if you have one free?”

“I should be delighted, Captain.”

“May I also ask if we might speak alone for a moment. Or with your Mama present, if you prefer. We could step out onto the terrace if it is not too cold for you?”

“I am not engaged for this next dance, Captain.”

Graham placed her hand on his arm, leading her through the long doors at the end of the room. The terrace was well lit and not entirely deserted, with several couples admiring the view over the lights of the lower town and out towards the lighthouse. A man stood alone at the stone balustrade. He turned as they approached and Honoria was surprised, and a little alarmed, to realise that it was Lord Wellington. Captain Graham saluted and Wellington returned it, then bowed to Honoria.

“Miss Grainger. I hope it is not too cold for you out here?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Excellent. We should keep this brief, however. Miss Grainger, I took part in a very acrimonious meeting earlier with Captain Graham, Lord Fitzroy Somerset and the Ambassador. I have to tell you that during the course of that meeting, I dismissed the captain from his post as my ADC.”

Honoria was appalled. She shot a look at Graham, who appeared completely unmoved by this statement.

“Twice, I believe, my Lord.”

“It would have been three times if I had not been outrageously bullied by my brother and my military secretary,” Wellington said crisply. “I have, however, been brought to believe that the captain may have a point. Despite the urgent requests by the foreign office in London for complete secrecy about your father’s disappearance, it is not acceptable to keep his family so much in the dark. Your distress and that of your poor mother is understandable and your determination to discover what has happened is both commendable and extremely irritating.”

“I had no wish to annoy your Lordship. I was just frantic to know, even if the news is bad. My father has never before failed to write to us for so long. I know something is wrong.”

“Very well,” Wellington said. Honoria had the impression that he wished nothing more than to get this interview over with. “You are correct in your assumption, Miss Grainger. Your father has gone missing and we have no idea where he is. I will tell you as much as I know. Like you, Sir Horace’s employers at the foreign office have not heard from him for more than a month. There has been an exchange of letters between diplomats in Paris and London. The French authorities are being extremely cooperative and appear to be as keen to discover the truth as we are. On his arrival in France, Sir Horace was met by a small escort of French cavalry. Over a period of two months, he travelled widely, visiting various prison facilities. His reports arrived frequently and were factual and very much as expected. I presume during that time he was also writing to you?”

“Very regularly, my Lord.”

“Sir Horace concluded his visit in Toulouse and his last report was written from there. He set off for the Spanish border, where a Royal Navy frigate under a flag of truce was waiting off Bilbao, to take him home. Nobody has heard from him since. Naturally, when Sir Horace failed to appear at the ship, enquiries were made, in case he had met with some accident that had delayed him. What is worrying, is that according to our French sources, his entire escort has also disappeared along with his servants and his Spanish guide.”

Honoria felt a hollow sickness settle into her stomach. She could not speak for a moment. Somebody took her hand and held it and she realised it must be Captain Graham.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Grainger. I realise this is not good news.”

“At least it is news,” Honoria said. “Is anything being done to search for him, my Lord, or is that not possible? I know that the northern provinces are in open revolt.”

“They are, and it is essential to my campaign that they continue to be so. Given the circumstances, we cannot send a battalion of troops into the region and I am not sure what good they would do anyway. I am going to write to the various Spanish leaders in the area to ask if they have any information about your father. I am also authorised by the foreign office, to send somebody else.”

Honoria studied him and realised that Wellington was uncomfortable sharing this piece of information. She watched him struggle for a moment, then said:

“My Lord, I understand that there are aspects of this matter that you cannot discuss with a civilian and that you are probably unwilling to discuss with a female. I just need to know that something is being done.”

For the first time, Wellington’s face softened into an expression that was not quite a smile. “It is not because you are a female, Miss Grainger, I have an enormous respect for intelligent women. Indeed, on occasion I regret that I cannot employ them, I am sure they would outstrip some of the men. Why do I suddenly begin to wonder if your father shared more of his work with you than he should have done?”

“He did not,” Honoria said quickly. “That is exactly why I know there is more. My father and I were very close. He never had a son and in some ways, he treated me as if I had been a boy. We talked of everything and my mother and I travelled the world with him for many years, but there were always moments when he would say nothing at all and I learned not to ask. I don’t know what my father was really doing in France, but I know it may have been far more dangerous than inspecting prison camps, which is why I am so worried.”

Graham squeezed her fingers sympathetically and Honoria returned the pressure gratefully. After a pause, Wellington said:

“Very well. I am instructed to send two of my intelligence officers along with a guide into northern Spain to try to find information about your father. I have written the letter, it will go off in the morning. Nobody here knows anything of this, other than my immediate party and Sir Henry. I am trusting you not to discuss it with anybody other than your mother.”

“I shall not, my Lord, I give you my word. Mother is not a gossip, she has been a diplomat’s wife for too many years and she will not ask any questions if I just tell her that a search is being made. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for telling me all this. I’m very well aware that there may be no good news, or even that we may never find out at all. But just knowing that an attempt is being made is very helpful.”

Wellington bowed. “You may thank Captain Graham, ma’am. My instinct was to share no information at all, but he argued your cause with great passion and won over Sir Henry who in turn convinced me. You may be pleased to know that Lord Fitzroy has also persuaded me not to dismiss him. You should go inside now, you are becoming cold. It may be weeks, possibly months before we have news. I do not know what your mother’s plans are, but if you will allow me to give you some advice, I believe you should return home to England where you will have the support of your many friends.”

Honoria dropped a small curtsy. “Thank you, my Lord, I imagine that is what we will do. Will you…that is to say, how will we be notified if there is news?”

“The reports will come directly to me, ma’am, and I will keep you informed with any progress.” Wellington shot a slightly malicious glance at Graham. “I believe I will make Captain Graham my deputy in this matter, since he has interested himself to such purpose. Will you excuse me, ma’am, I must return to my social duties. Captain.”

When he had gone, Graham touched her arm. “He’s right, you’re shivering. Come inside and I’ll find you a glass of wine.”

Honoria allowed him to lead her back into the house and through the hallway into a dim room which seemed to be a library. He seated her on a leather sofa and went to summon a servant, requesting a fire, candles and wine in fluent Spanish. Honoria felt numb with misery but it occurred to her that there was something very pleasant about Richard Graham’s enormous competence. She could not imagine him paying a girl flowery compliments or promising to worship at her feet, but within five minutes she was seated before a small fire with a glass of wine on the table beside her, studying her companion in the light of several oil lamps.

“You are very free with embassy hospitality, Captain.”

“Sir Henry will not mind, ma’am, he is very concerned about you. Without his help and that of Lord Fitzroy, I am not sure that I would have been able to persuade Lord Wellington.”

“I’m very grateful to all of you, Captain, but I know I owe the greatest debt to you. Nobody was listening to me. I cannot believe you have managed this so quickly.”

“I wish it had been better news.”

“It is the news I expected,” Honoria said honestly. “Since we are quite alone, and very unsuitably so, by the way, I need to tell you that I have known for a number of years that my father’s diplomatic career is often a cover for something less respectable. He is a spy, and probably a very useful one.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, but I’m not stupid, Captain. Sometimes one can learn a lot by a man’s silence.”

“This must be incredibly hard for you, Miss Grainger. I wondered about the wisdom of doing this in the middle of a ball, but I knew how desperate you were for news. Would you like me to find your mother to be with you?”

“In a moment. I’ll need to tell her and I imagine she will wish to go home immediately. I do myself. But if you do not mind very much, I would just like a few minutes to recover myself, before I have to…” Honoria broke off. She was horrified to realise suddenly that she was about to cry. She put down the wine glass hastily, fumbling in her reticule for a handkerchief. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Graham took the bag from her hands, retrieved the handkerchief and gave it to her. He sat beside her on the sofa, and Honoria gave up and began to cry in earnest. After a moment she felt his arm go about her shoulders and she forgot about propriety and leaned into him, sobbing. Graham held her, stroking her back soothingly, murmuring comforting nonsense as if she was a small child.

Eventually Honoria’s sobs died away. She knew that she should move, but she remained still in his arms. She needed to dry her tears and tidy her hair and be ready to face her mother’s grief when she told her the news but she was unexpectedly enjoying the sense of being taken care of, even if it was by a man she had known little more than a day. That thought made her blush and she shifted reluctantly away from him. He did not move away, but studied her with concerned dark eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Honoria said again.

“I’m not sorry at all, I’m very glad that I’m here. You shouldn’t be going through this alone. Give yourself a moment while I find your Mama. I’ll leave you alone with her and make sure you’re not disturbed and I’ll call for your carriage.”

“We don’t keep our own carriage here, Captain, we came with Sir John and Lady Marlow. I don’t wish to disturb them…”

“Don’t give it another thought, I’ll arrange something. I’ll wait in the hallway for you and I’ll escort you both home. Call me when you’re ready.”

***

Richard slept badly and rose early, taking himself down to the shore to watch the dawn spreading its rose gold light over the choppy waters of the Atlantic. He could not stop thinking about Honoria Grainger. Her dignified reception of Lord Wellington’s news had touched his heart, but the sobbing misery which followed had broken it. Richard could remember how much he had cried in the months following the loss of his wife and child and he would have done anything to ease Honoria’s suffering, but he knew that there was nothing that he could do. He wandered aimlessly as the streets of Cadiz stirred into morning life around him and returned to the house on the Calle Veedor to find Somerset eating breakfast. Richard joined him at the table and Somerset regarded him thoughtfully.

“You look terrible, didn’t you sleep?”

“Not much.” Richard accepted coffee with a murmur of thanks to the maid and reached for the bread. “I’m sorry, sir, I went for an early stroll and went further than I intended. I hope I wasn’t needed?”

“No, he doesn’t need us this morning apart from to sort through his correspondence, the packet came in. But I can do that. Are you going to call on Miss Grainger?”

“I’d like to,” Richard admitted. “I don’t want to shirk my duty, sir, but they were both in a terrible state when I took them home. Do you think he’ll mind?”

“He’s left specific instructions that you’re to make yourself available to them and help them in any way possible, Captain. I think he’s feeling guilty. We have this gala dinner with members of the Cortes this evening. You should be there for that, but why don’t you finish your breakfast and go and see if they need anything?” Somerset studied him with sympathetic eyes. “Those poor women. I’m guessing they’re not holding out much hope?”

“No, and they shouldn’t. I’m not sure how much Lady Grainger knows, but Miss Grainger is very well aware that her father is a government agent and she knows that if he isn’t dead, he may have been imprisoned by the French. They shoot spies, sir.”

“He could have been taken ill somewhere.”

“Along with his servants, his guide and his entire French escort?” Richard shook his head. “If there was a simple explanation we’d have heard it. Do you know who has drawn the short straw for this very unpleasant assignment, sir?”

“Giles Fenwick. I think his Lordship has asked Colonel Scovell to find another man to go with him in case one of them is killed but I don’t know who that will be.”

“They really want to find him, don’t they? I wonder what he was carrying?”

“I don’t think even Lord Wellington knows that at present. Give the ladies my compliments when you see them, Captain, and if there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

Richard sent in his card and was surprised when the servant returned immediately to escort him to the same small salon where he found Honoria Grainger alone. She looked calm although rather heavy-eyed and she shook his hand and asked him to sit down.

“I’m so glad you called, Captain. I wanted the opportunity to thank you for your kindness last night. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“You’re very welcome, Miss Grainger. How is your Mama this morning?”

“She has remained in bed. I don’t think either of us slept very much.”

“I hope you did not come down just to see me.”

“No, I promise you. Although I would have done. I am far better to be up and around. Mama will be the same in a few days. I think it is more of a shock to her, since she had been convincing herself that it was all a mishap and that he was going to turn up as though nothing had happened. But she is a sensible woman and she just needs time to come to terms with this.”

“What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. Eventually we will go back to England, but at present Mama is very reluctant to leave, since it is obvious that news will reach here first. I will talk to her when she is a little calmer and we will decide. It may be that we look for a small house to rent in Cadiz or even Lisbon for a month or two, if that will make her happier.”

“Have you no male relative who might be able to support you through this?”

“Do you think the presence of a man would make this any easier, Captain?” Honoria said frostily.

“No, not at all. But forgive me, your Mama is obviously very distressed and in matters of business and finance, your father must have had someone in mind who could assist her should anything ever happen to him. It is usual.”

Unexpectedly there was a gleam of amusement in the girl’s eyes. “Oh yes, he did,” she said smoothly. “He was very farsighted about such matters since he always knew, I suppose, that he could die suddenly and a long way from home. He was very frank about it, we talked everything through.”

“Is it somebody you could write to? Perhaps we could arrange…”

“It is me, Captain Graham. I am of full age and my father taught me to understand business some years ago. He always knew that my Mama is not of a practical bent, so he arranged that she should be paid a very generous jointure and the expenses of her household are to come out of the estate, but everything else is in my charge.”

Richard stared at her and she looked back defiantly. “Have I shocked you, Captain?”

“You have certainly surprised me,” Richard said. “Your father clearly had immense faith in you, Miss Grainger, and since he knew you far better than I do, I am sure he was right. But I think this is a lot for any one person to manage alone, especially when you are still reeling with the shock of this news.”

Unexpectedly her eyes filled with tears again. “It is,” she said. “I have no wish to shirk my duty, Captain. Until we know for sure that he is dead, I will continue to manage things as I always have in his absence. But it feels very difficult today.”

“May I help?”

Honoria eyed him uncertainly. “I do not see…”

“Not to do it for you, ma’am. But just to think through what might need to be done, who needs to be notified, how to manage finances if you intend to remain in Spain for a while. I have worked for Lord Wellington for more than a year, if there is one thing I am very good at, it is managing lists and correspondence and administration. Just while I am here, of course.”

“Of course. Captain – could you?”

“Yes,” Richard promised rashly. “Give me time to speak to his Lordship, and I’ll join you. He will not object, I know, since he is keen to be of service to you and your mother, but I should ask as a matter of courtesy. After that, you shall make a list and we shall decide what needs to be done immediately and what can safely be left until later.”

It was the beginning of a very strange and curiously satisfying week. Relieved of all duties by a rather amused Lord Wellington, Richard presented himself at the house each morning where he found Honoria Grainger ready with her note tablets, paper and pens. They made a list of what needed to be done immediately and another, rather more painfully, of what would need to be done if news came of Sir Horace Grainger’s death. Honoria wrote letters to Grainger’s lawyer and man of business, his banker, the land agent who managed his estate in Hertfordshire and the housekeeper of his London home. She also penned more personal and more difficult notes to several relatives.

“You had better read these, Captain, to ensure that I have not said anything indiscreet. I cannot hide the fact that he is missing, since people will soon be asking questions, but I have simply said that we fear some mishap and that enquiries are being made. Will that do?”

“It will indeed, ma’am. Very well-worded and very discreet. You are your father’s daughter.”

Honoria smiled as though he had paid her a compliment. “Thank you. I’m proud to be so.”

After lengthy discussions with Mrs Grainger, and some hasty research on Richard’s part among the English community in Cadiz, Honoria inspected a small house on the edge of the old town, which had previously been occupied by a Scottish major and his wife. It was conveniently situated although in need of a good clean. Richard asked the embassy housekeeper to help him find servants and watched admiringly as Honoria ruthlessly supervised operations. He thought it was rather a shame that she had not been a boy, since she set about every task with a military precision that Lord Wellington would have loved.

Neither Honoria nor her mother felt able to attend the many parties and dinners being held in honour of Lord Wellington, but Richard insisted that she leave the house each day to take the air. He asked her to show him the town and after a little hesitation, she did so willingly. They were fortunate with the weather, which was unusually dry for early January, with several warm afternoons. Followed at a considerable distance by a bored Spanish maid, they walked through the narrow streets and explored the castle, various churches and the old lighthouse which was situated on the long, dangerous reef known as Porpoise Rocks.

The town overlooked a bay which was around twelve miles long. They walked up to Fort Catalina, its cannon pointing solid defiance at the French or anybody else who might try to take this Spanish island city. There were spectacular views over the surrounding countryside, dotted with villages and criss-crossed with vineyards, orange groves and grazing cattle. Honoria pointed out the distant spires of the town of Medina Sidonia.

“You are a very knowledgeable guide, Miss Grainger,” Richard said, leaning on the stone parapet. “How do you know so much about this place, when you only arrived a few weeks before I did?”

“Lieutenant Sousa,” Honoria said, pulling a face. “He was here during the siege and is now stationed here. He is a most estimable and very romantic young man, who believes it is important to learn as much as possible about every place he visits.”

Richard gave a choke of laughter. “Which he then conveys to you?”

“With inexhaustible detail. I have heard things about the stonework of the cathedral they are building that I hope never to hear again. Have you seen enough, Captain? The wind is growing cold up here.”

“Of course. It’s beautiful though. Would you like to go home?”

“Not yet. I thought we could walk down the Alameda.”

She took his arm as they turned onto the broad avenue, lined with ornamental trees and plants and blessed with wide views of the open sea. The Alameda was the main promenade of the city and the wealthier citizens of Cadiz could be found strolling there on any dry afternoon. Honoria asked him questions about his home and his family and Richard told her about Sally and his hopes for their future which had been cruelly snatched away. He wondered if it was wrong of him to speak so freely of loss to a girl who was experiencing it herself, but Honoria seemed genuinely interested. In his turn, he asked her about her father, and she made him laugh with stories of Sir Horace’s illicit passion for Spanish cigars.

“My mother loathed the custom and would never allow him to smoke them, so he used to sneak out to the garden in all weathers and with the most flimsy excuses. I used to cover for him from a very young age.”

“It sounds as though you were very good friends.”

“We were. Are. I don’t know, of course. I think he is probably dead, but there is a part of me that dreams of him arriving unexpectedly with some horrendous tale of danger and narrow escapes. He is a very good storyteller.”

“I think you’ve inherited that from him. I’m afraid we must go back. We are to attend a concert after dinner and I should not take too much advantage of his Lordship’s goodwill.”

“Does he enjoy music?”

“Very much, as it happens. I believe he used to play the violin in his youth, although I find it hard to imagine.”

“Do you like him?”

Richard thought about it. “He is a difficult man to like,” he said after a moment. “He’s a very private person. He can be irritable and sharp-tongued and when something has displeased him, he is appallingly sarcastic. I’ve seen him reduce an officer to tears. He’s hard to know. But…”

“Go on.”

“But he can be very kind and thoughtful at unexpected moments. He has very few close friends and I don’t count myself among them, but when I see him with those people, he is like a different man. And he’s funny. Even on his worst days, there are times when he makes me laugh aloud.”

Honoria was studying him with a little smile. “I think you do like him, Captain Graham. What is more, I think he likes you too.”

Richard grinned. “Honestly? I have no idea, ma’am.”

“We were supposed to be attending the concert,” Honoria said, and Richard caught the wistfulness in her voice.

“Are you musical, ma’am?”

“Very much so, it is my greatest love.”

“Then come. It is not the same as a ball or a reception, you will not be obliged to speak to many people, and it will do you good.”

“My Mama is not well enough.”

“Come anyway. Join our party, I’ll speak to his Lordship, I know he’ll agree.”

“I feel guilty for wanting to go out when my father is…when I do not know if he is alive or dead.”

“What would your father say?” Richard asked impulsively.

She looked up at him and he could see that he had said the right thing. “He would tell me that it was stuff and nonsense and that I should do as I liked.”

“Your father is a very wise man. I will call for you at seven o’clock.”

***

Two weeks was not enough.

Lord Wellington’s departure for Lisbon was delayed once again by appalling weather and reports of a flooded road, and Honoria and her mother were unexpectedly invited to dine at the embassy. Lady Grainger had barely left the house during the previous week but she studied the invitation then looked up at her daughter.

“Would you like to attend, Honoria?”

“Yes,” Honoria said honestly. She was trying not to think about Richard Graham’s departure. He had spent the previous day with her, going through the rooms of their new temporary home and confirming when the carters would arrive to convey their belongings to the house. He had been kind and funny and helpful and the thought of the next weeks, miserable about her father and trying to comfort her mother, without his steady presence at her side, was unbearable.

“I think we should. Lord Wellington has been so kind in our trouble, I would not wish…”

“Lord Wellington?” Honoria exploded. “Allow me to tell you, Mama, that if we had left the matter to Lord Wellington we would know nothing about what happened to my father. Lord Wellington was perfectly happy to treat us like two empty-headed females who cannot be trusted…it was Captain Graham who intervened on our behalf and it is to him that we owe all the help and comfort we have received this past fortnight. I must say…”

“No, dearest, do not say it again, I think I have understood,” Lady Grainger said. She sounded amused. “I presume if we are to dine with Sir Henry and Lord Wellington that Captain Graham will also be present. It will give me an opportunity to thank him again and to say goodbye.”

The meal went very well. Lord Wellington was unexpectedly entertaining and put himself out to be kind to Lady Grainger. As the group finally broke up, a servant went to call for the carriage and the ladies’ cloaks and Sir Henry drew Lady Grainger to one side with a question about her new residence. Honoria found herself face to face with Richard Graham.

“Will you be all right?”

Honoria nodded. “Sir Henry has been very kind and has said we may call on him for any assistance.”

“How long do you think you will remain here?”

“I am not sure, Captain. I think perhaps until we have news. Or until we are told that there is no news. You promised that you would write to me…”

“Everything that I know, you will know, I give you my word. Should I address my letters to your Mama or to you?”

“To me,” Honoria said. “If there is distressing news, it’s better that she hears it from me.”

“I understand. You are, after all, the head of the household.”

“You are teasing me, Captain Graham.”

“No, I’m not. You’re the most extraordinary young woman…may I write to you about other matters?”

“Other matters. What kind of other matters?”

“I don’t know. Anything. What the weather is doing and where we are marching and what kind of mood Lord Wellington is in that day. And you shall tell me if your new harp has been delivered and if the stove in the kitchen is working properly and whether you think of me at all as you are shopping in the Calle Ancha with your maid.”

“I will think of you and your kindness in every street in Cadiz, and I would very much like to write to you, Captain, if you will promise to reply.”

He smiled, reached for her hand, and raised it to his lips. “You’ll get sick of reading them,” he said.

***

Freneida, May 1813

With the preparations to march complete, Richard rode out through the dusty little village which had housed Lord Wellington’s headquarters for two winters and wondered if they would come back. Wellington seemed convinced that they would not. He had spoken to his staff on the previous day, giving orders and explaining his plans in more detail than Richard was used to. There was an energy about the commander-in-chief which made Richard believe that this time, Wellington did not expect to have to retreat again.

There was little to see in Freineda, so Richard rode further afield, through small villages and stone walled towns where people had begun to return after long months of exile. Farmers were planting again and houses battered by shot and shell were being gradually rebuilt. Richard absorbed the sense of hope and renewal and prayed that it would last and that the war had finally moved beyond these people so that they could resume their lives.

Much of the army had already moved out, and Lord Wellington’s staff were packed and ready to go the following morning. Riding back into the village, Richard dismounted, handing his horse to a groom, and went into the long low house which Wellington had occupied through winter quarters. His chief was in his combined sitting room and study with Somerset, Colonel Murray, his quartermaster-general and the tall fair figure of Major-General Paul van Daan of the light division. Wellington turned as Richard entered.

“There you are,” he said irritably, as if he had sent a summons which Richard had failed to answer. “I have been waiting to question you about that blasted female.”

Richard was completely at sea. “Blasted female, sir?”

“Yes. She has just arrived, completely unannounced, apparently on her way back to Lisbon to join her unfortunate mother. What can have possessed her to make such a journey without any warning, I cannot imagine, but I did not know what to do with her, since I cannot delay my departure for her.”

“Who, sir?”

“Miss Honoria Grainger, Captain,” Somerset said. He was grinning broadly. “It appears that she journeyed by ship to Oporto to visit her father’s grave.”

“Oh my God,” Richard said appalled. “Is her mother with her? What on earth is she doing here?”

“That is a question to which we would all like an answer,” Wellington snapped. “I presume you wrote to her telling her how he died?”

“You know I did, sir, I told you. She replied, thanking me. I’ve not heard a word since, I thought they’d be on their way back to London.”

“Which is what any normal female would have done.”

“Where is she?” Richard said. His voice sounded very strange in his own ears and he wondered if the others could tell. “I mean, where is she going to stay? There’s nowhere here…”

“Evidently not,” Wellington said. He sounded slightly calmer. “I see that you are as surprised as I am, Captain, which is most reassuring. Fortunately, I have found a solution. Or rather, General van Daan has. Mrs van Daan and her household have not yet left the Quinta de Santo Antonio as there was some delay in transporting the final patients from the hospital. They will follow the army in a day or two, with an escort of the King’s German Legion under Captain Kuhn. Miss Grainger has gone to join her, she can rest her horses for a few days before resuming her journey to Lisbon and then on to London.”

“Why is she here, my Lord?” Richard said.

“I think it’s something of a pilgrimage, Richard,” Paul van Daan said quietly. “She went to Oporto to see where Sir Horace was buried and then she travelled here overland, because she wanted to speak to Captain Fenwick and Captain O’Reilly about her father’s last days. She’d hoped to be here days ago but she was delayed on the road, a broken carriage wheel, I believe. It’s unfortunate, but I’ve told her that I’ll ask them both to write to her.”

“Did she receive his effects?” Richard asked. There was a hollow pain in his stomach. He knew that on the night before the march he could not possibly ask for leave to visit her. He had no formal relationship with Honoria Grainger, and a dozen or more letters, stored carefully in his baggage, would not be considered reason enough. Richard had thought himself resigned to not seeing her again and found himself praying that she would remember him and that he had not imagined the connection between them. It might be several years before he could return to England and during that time she would emerge from her mourning and into the world and there would be many men, younger and more handsome and wealthier than he, who would find Sir Horace Grainger’s outspoken daughter to their liking. His chances were very slim but he allowed himself his dreams anyway.

“Yes,” Paul said. He was regarding Richard sympathetically. Richard wondered if he was that obvious. “She was very surprised to discover that he’d written two letters during his last days, one to her and one to his wife. It seems he was too weak to write properly but he dictated them to Brat, Michael O’Reilly’s servant. He managed to sign them himself. I’ve no idea what they said, but it seemed to affect her very strongly. I only met her briefly, but she’s a fine young woman, her father would be very proud.”

“Yes,” Richard said numbly.

“Very well,” Wellington said. “General van Daan, my compliments to your wife, please thank her for her assistance. We will be ready to move out at dawn towards Ciudad Rodrigo, you will join us then, and you may ride on to your brigade from there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Richard turned miserable eyes to the general. “Please give my respects to Miss Grainger, General, and tell her how sorry I am to have missed her.”

“I will, Captain. Goodnight.”

It was barely light when the headquarters party, including Major-General van Daan, assembled in the square outside the church. Richard checked the baggage wagons and spoke to the muleteers and grooms while Wellington and Murray gave a pile of letters and some instructions to a courier. It was already warm, with the promise of a hot day. Richard looked around with an odd feeling of finality, then went to his horse and swung himself into the saddle. Vaguely, he was aware of the sound of horses’ hooves and he turned to look. Two riders were approaching at a canter. All the men in Wellington’s party turned to watch and the swirl of dust resolved itself into a woman mounted on a pretty black mare, dressed in a striking wine coloured riding dress and followed by a dark haired groom. The woman slowed her horse and trotted into the square. Nobody spoke for a moment, then Major-General van Daan said pleasantly:

“It is very good to see you, bonny lass, but I thought we’d said our farewells for the time being.”

The woman flashed him a dazzling smile. “We had. You are safe, General, I am not here for you. Lord Wellington, good morning. I’m so sorry to interrupt your departure, it will take just a moment. I need a word with Captain Graham.”

Richard jumped at the sound of his name. He stared at Anne van Daan in some surprise. “Ma’am?”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me, Captain. Did I, or did I not tell you that I wanted to see you in the clinic before you rode out?”

Richard searched his memory and drew a blank. “Erm…I do not perfectly recall…”

“Ha!” Anne said triumphantly. “I knew you would say that. Men! You are all the same. You will not admit to the least discomfort, but if you attempt to ride out without treatment, you are going to be completely incapable of continuing beyond Ciudad Rodrigo. It is utterly ridiculous that you refuse to submit to a small operation that will make you much more comfortable. And I can see by his Lordship’s face that you have not even told him.”

Wellington stared at her then turned an arctic glare onto Richard. “What has he not told me, ma’am?”

“Boils, sir,” Anne said, triumphantly. “Given the size and position of them, I am surprised he can sit that horse at all. Let me tell you that of all the boils I have treated these are…”

“No, indeed, ma’am, do not tell me anything about them at all,” Wellington said, sounding revolted. “General van Daan, are you aware that your wife has been treating this gentleman for…oh dear God, could anything be more unsuitable?”

“Probably, sir,” Paul said. Richard thought that his voice sounded rather muffled as though he might be trying hard not to laugh. “My dear, do you need to see Captain Graham before he leaves?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but if he tries to ride like that, he’s at risk of serious infection. He’s just trying to hide it because he doesn’t wish to miss the start of the campaign.”

“Utterly ridiculous,” Wellington snapped. “Captain Graham, not another word. Go with Mrs van Daan and get this problem dealt with. Preferably by a male doctor, if one is available. Join me as soon as you are able, I need you.”

Richard met Anne van Daan’s lovely dark eyes gratefully. “A day or two, no more, sir. I’m sorry, it was stupid. I didn’t want to let you down.”

“You never let me down, Captain. I value you, your health is important to me. I will see you as soon as you are fit.”

Anne van Daan said nothing until they were out of earshot of the departing headquarters party then she shot Richard a sidelong look. “I’m sorry it had to be boils, Captain, it is just that I needed something that Lord Wellington would not wish to discuss in detail. I was right too, did you see the look on his face?”

The study at the Quinta de Santo Antonio looked oddly bare without the litter of ledgers and correspondence of brigade headquarters. Honoria Grainger was seated in a wooden armchair reading a book. She looked up as Richard entered, then rose, setting the book down. The mourning black made her look older and rather more lovely than Richard had remembered.

“I cannot believe you are here. I thought I’d missed you.”

“I thought I’d missed you too,” Richard said.

“How did…”

“Why did…”

They both stopped, smiling. Then Richard said:

“Miss Grainger, I’m so sorry you had a wasted journey, but I promise you I’ll speak to Captain Fenwick and…”

“I didn’t have a wasted journey. I didn’t travel all this way to speak to Captain Fenwick. I wanted to see you before I returned to London. If that seems too forward or too…”

“No, it doesn’t. Oh God, it doesn’t. Honoria, please tell me I’ve not got this wrong?”

Honoria smiled and Richard felt his heart turn over. It was ridiculous. “No,” she said. “Although I’ve been terrified all this way in case I had. I just needed to see you. To say…to ask…”

Richard stepped forward and took her into his arms. He kissed her for a long time, and she clung to him, convincing him beyond all doubt that he had not made a mistake. When he finally raised his head there were tears in her eyes.

“I went to his grave,” she said. “I sat there for a while, talking to him in my head.”

Richard’s heart melted. “Oh, love, I’m so sorry. It’s so awful for you and I can’t even be here to take you home and look after you. And we’ve so little time.”

“Mrs van Daan said she thinks we can have two days.”

“Two days?” Richard thought about such bounty and found himself smiling again. “I thought I’d have to wait two years. I’ve a lot to say to you in two days, Honoria. Will you marry me?”

She was laughing and crying at the same time. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

“Thank God. I’ve read every one of your letters a hundred times, trying to decide if I was being a fool or if you might feel the same way. I even thought of trying to say it in a letter, but I couldn’t find the words. Besides, it didn’t seem fair when I’ve no idea when I’ll get back to England. And even now…it’s so long to wait, love.”

Her smile was luminous. “Richard, do try not to be an ass, it is very unlike you. Do you seriously think I would have made this mad journey in the worst conditions if I was not very sure?”

Richard kissed her again, deciding that she was right. For a time, it was enough just to hold her, revelling in the sense of her in his arms, but Honoria had an inquisitive nature and he was not surprised when she finally stepped back and asked the question.

“Richard, how did you manage this? I asked to see you but Lord Wellington said it was impossible, that you were about to march out and that you would not have time. I truly thought I had missed my opportunity.”

“What did you say to Mrs van Daan?” Richard enquired.

“I couldn’t say much at all. I was so disappointed, I’m afraid I cried a lot, and then I told her the truth. Did she do this? But how?”

“Boils,” Richard said. “Let us sit down. It is rather a painful story.”

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