The Pressed Man

I wrote the Pressed Man in 2021. It was part of Paul van Daan’s back story that he was illegally pressed into the Royal Navy when he was fourteen. It’s mentioned a number of times in both series and several readers had asked me if I would ever write the story of Paul’s days in the navy.

I was always non-committal about it, mainly because I wasn’t sure how I could manage it. Paul’s boyhood spell in the Royal Navy was a formative period in his life, but readers of the novels will also know that it was very traumatic in places. When I write about Paul, I find it easy to get inside his head but on this occasion I wasn’t sure that I should be there.

I think I would have continued to dodge it indefinitely if it were not for my friend and editor, Heather Paisley. Having heard some of my ideas about Paul’s brief navy career, she nagged me ruthlessly to at least write the story for her, even if I didn’t publish it. She always wanted to know where a posh boy came up with the endearment ‘Bonny Lass’ for the love of his life – an epithet often associated with ‘Geordies’: hailing from the area around Newcastle upon Tyne.

Once I began writing it, everything fell into place. When Paul first tells Anne about what happened to him as a boy, he briefly mentions the ship’s Bosun who had taken him under his wing. From there came the character of Geordie Armstrong, one of the most important influences in the young Van Daan’s life.

The Pressed Man

April, 1797

The wind began to pick up ten days after leaving Antigua, following a week of depressing calm. The crew were restless, the Captain morose and the Boatswain, who had been wishing for months that Captain Dalton had not been appointed to command HMS Hera, awoke to an unaccustomed noise from the men’s quarters. The bell had not sounded, so something was clearly wrong. Geordie Armstrong groaned and swung his legs over the edge of the narrow bunk he shared with his wife.

“What is it, my dear?”

“No bloody idea, Janet. Stay there, bonny lass, it’s freezing.”

His wife ignored him and got up, reaching for her gown.

“It can’t be far off the bell, lad and you’ll want your tea. I’ll get to the galley while you find out.”

Geordie stepped to one side to let her reach her shawl. A private cabin was one of the many perks of being Bosun, but it was small, especially for two people. He and Janet had shared such cabins for so many years that they were now expert in moving around it without getting in each other’s way, like the carefully learned steps of a well-known dance. Outside on the wooden companionway they parted, Janet on her way to the galley for hot water, while Geordie made his way down to the lower deck where the crew slung their hammocks.

It was not yet light, but someone had lit a few lanterns. Most of the men were up, in various states of undress, huddling together talking in small, uneasy groups. Nobody had given an order yet, probably because it was too early for the bell. Geordie took out his pocket watch and saw that it was thirty minutes to first bell. He debated with himself. He could pipe for the removal of hammocks then send them about their usual business early, which would get them out of the way, but he knew Captain Dalton loathed even the slightest deviation from routine and he was reluctant to have the argument without knowing what had happened first.

“Bosun. Pipe up hammocks and send a message to the galley. I know it’s early, but we need to get them moving.”

Geordie obeyed, dying of curiosity. He had a lot of respect for First Lieutenant Daniel Eaton, and he knew he would find out in time. It was clear that something unusual had disturbed the crew, but Geordie could not imagine what.

He was too busy during the next hour and a half for speculation. Returning to his cabin, he found that Janet had tea ready for him and he gulped it down gratefully, then set off on his inspection of the rigging. Rashford, the ship’s carpenter, was inspecting the gunports, hatches and boats and Sharpe, the gunner, checked the guns. The three men met at seven-thirty in Captain Dalton’s day cabin to make their reports. They found Lieutenant Torbin, the officer of the watch, already there. Dalton listened in stony silence to Tobin’s report and when Torbin saluted to indicate he had finished, Dalton said:

“Haven’t you missed something, Mr Torbin? What was that God-awful racket that brought me from my bed early?”

Torbin, who was red-haired and had a very fair complexion, went scarlet and saluted again. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir, it’s just that Lieutenant Eaton said he would report to you about that: he’ll be here any minute.”

“Well unless he’s invisible, he’s not here now. What happened?”

Torbin gulped nervously. “There was a death, sir. Among the crew.”

“Death? Death? What kind of death? Fever? Cholera? By God, if that bunch of scurvy louts we picked up on Antigua have brought sickness aboard my ship, I’ll throw them overboard.”

“Not fever, sir,” Torbin said, in agonised tones. His awkwardness was painful to watch, and Geordie was desperately trying to think of a way of rescuing him without drawing Dalton’s fire himself, when there was a knock on the door and First Lieutenant Eaton entered, saluting.

“Ha, there you are. What’s going on? Torbin is blathering about a death in the night. Is that good enough reason to disturb my sleep at that hour?”

“My apologies, Captain,” Eaton said politely. Geordie hid a smile. Eaton’s unruffled manner made him the best first officer Geordie had ever sailed under, but he knew it infuriated Dalton who was rude, bad-tempered and incompetent and seemed to find Eaton’s placidity a personal insult. “Perhaps I should wait until these gentlemen have given their reports.”

“No, they can bloody wait. What happened? Who died?”

“It was Mackay, sir.”

“Mackay?” Dalton sounded surprised, probably because he knew the man. Dalton did not bother to learn the names of most of the crew, but Mackay had sailed with him for many years. He had been in his forties, a big man from Inverness who was an excellent seaman and an inveterate drunk. “What happened; did he fall out of his hammock onto his head?”

“He was murdered, sir.”

“Murdered?” Dalton froze and sat for a while, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Geordie shared his astonishment. He had been at sea since he was ten-years-old, almost thirty years, and he had never heard of a murder on board. There had been one or two deaths after a fight which had been tried as murder, but nothing worse.

After a long time, Dalton spoke again. “Eaton, I want the full story now. The rest of you, out. You can make your reports later.”

Geordie left and went in search of breakfast with Janet. After the meal he went up to the quarterdeck and smoked a pipe while watching the ship’s marines on their morning parade. He was not disappointed. Just after nine o’clock, as they were beginning drill practice, Lieutenant Eaton appeared and came to join him at the rail. He lit his own pipe and stood smoking in silence.

“The surgeon is inspecting the body at the moment,” he said finally. “He’ll write up a medical report for the Captain and we’ll bury him later today.”

“Aye, sir. Do we know what happened? I mean is there any doubt?”

Eaton shot him a sideways look. “Able Seaman Mackay was found in a dark corner of the hold with his throat slit from ear to ear. Not much doubt.”

“Holy Mary. Anyone suspected?”

“Yes. We’ve arrested one of the new men we picked up in Antigua. He was out of his berth without leave or reason.”

“Any other signs? There must have been blood.”

“Oh there would have been, and that’s what’s suspicious. It seems this man fell overboard with all his clothes on.”

Geordie was startled. “In the dark? How the devil did they find him? And why didn’t I hear the call?”

“There was no call. Nobody saw or heard him go over. His story is that he felt sick and went up for air, came over dizzy and went over the side. He was lucky enough to be near the ladder and the shock of the water woke him up fast. He grabbed hold and pulled himself up.”

“I’m surprised the watch didn’t shoot him.”

“He’d the presence of mind to call up as he was climbing, to identify himself. They pulled him in and hauled him before the watch officer, who was just ordering him put in irons for roaming the ship without permission when they found Mackay’s body.”

“It looks suspicious, sir, no question. But why the hell would anyone kill Mackay?”

Eaton did not speak for a long time. Eventually he said:

“Don’t be bloody naïve, Bosun.”

Geordie felt an odd little lurch in his gut. “Christ,” he said softly. “Do you think that perverted bastard finally went after someone big enough to give him what he deserved?”

“I didn’t tell you the whole,” Eaton said flatly. “They found him dead in a corner. The slash was huge, he’d have bled out in minutes. But whoever killed him cut off his balls and stuffed them in his mouth. I don’t think there’s any doubt why he died.”

Geordie felt sick. “Who could do that? And why?”

“I don’t know, Bosun, but I’m guessing it’s to make a point that any other man who tries buggering the boys is going to get the same. I don’t know if there’s anyone else on this ship who shares Mackay’s nasty habits with the young ones, but if there is, I think he’ll keep it in his trousers from now on.”

“Bloody hell.” Geordie considered himself unshockable, but admitted to himself that he had been wrong. “I wonder what made this man set himself up to defend the ship’s boys? It’s a reet shame he’s like to hang for it; that bastard Mackay has had it coming for years. I’ve only served with him on this one voyage, and I’ve been haunting him ever since young Price went overboard and drowned. It was down as an accident, but the whole crew knew Mackay had been at him for months. I couldn’t get him to testify.”

“You can’t blame him, Bosun. Sodomy is a capital crime, and if Mackay were brought to trial he could easily claim the boy consented.”

“It’s impossible to prove anyway as there have to be witnesses to every detail. I didn’t blame Price, he couldn’t hide from Mackay forever, and he’d have got a good hiding on top of everything else. I tried talking to the Captain about it.”

“Several of us tried, Bosun, but Captain Dalton simply said that Mackay was an excellent and very experienced seaman and that’s all he cared about. I’m not sorry the man is gone; it infuriated me knowing he was getting away with it. But it will be a shame if this boy gets hanged for defending himself.”

“Boy?” Geordie said, startled. “It’s one of the boys?”

“Fourteen or fifteen years old at a guess. I’ve had nothing to do with him so far. He was picked up with the rest of the crew of that shipwrecked merchantman. All the others did the sensible thing and signed up as volunteers, but this boy refused to do so. He’s a pressed man, and Marshall, who’s the petty officer in charge of his mess, says he’s been difficult from the start. At best, he’ll get a flogging for being where he shouldn’t be. At worst, they’ll hang him.”

“But no blood on his clothing,” Geordie said softly.

“A few stains that might be, but we can’t be sure. If he went in before it dried, chances are there wouldn’t be.”

“Clever little bastard.”

***

Prisoners awaiting trial were kept in irons in the half-deck, an area beneath the quarterdeck which was covered but not fully enclosed. It was used partly for storage, but there were often one or two prisoners chained up to heavy metal rings set into the bulkhead. Discipline aboard ship was largely Geordie’s responsibility, with the help of his bosun’s mates, so when he had given his delayed report to the Captain, he gave instructions to his juniors, made a tour of the ship checking that all was well, then went to inspect the accused. The boy was the only prisoner chained there, a leggy form huddled against the wooden wall in an attempt to keep out of the brisk wind. His clothing was still very damp, the regulation loose trousers, rough shirt and blue jacket clinging to his body. His tousled fair head was bowed, and his arms wrapped around his knees. He was visibly shivering, and Geordie swore under his breath.

“On your feet, boy.”

The boy looked up, giving Geordie a glimpse of startling blue eyes, then unwrapped himself and got to his feet in one smooth movement. He stood straight, tall for a boy of his age but still heartbreakingly young. Geordie looked him over curiously. He looked well-nourished when compared to the skinny children who often came into the navy from poor households and although he kept his eyes lowered to the deck, he bore himself with a certain arrogance which aroused Geordie’s curiosity even more. Listening to Mr Eaton’s bloodthirsty tale, Geordie had doubted that any boy of this age could undertake the murder of Jemmy Mackay then endure the freezing waters of the Atlantic. Looking at this boy, Geordie was suddenly not so sure.

“What’s your name?”

The boy looked up. “Van Daan. Paul van Daan.”

Geordie did not respond for a minute. The voice was surprising and raised immediate alarm bells. He had served, during his time, alongside men of all nationalities and all social classes. It was not at all unusual for a young gentleman of this age to join the navy, initially as an officer’s servant, and then as a midshipman, with a view to taking the lieutenant’s examination and becoming an officer. Geordie recognised this boy’s accent, and it did not come from any fisherman’s cottage or dockyard slum. He was beginning to wonder why this boy was below decks as a pressed man.

“Van Daan? That’s not an English name.”

“My father is Dutch; I was born and raised in England.”

The alarm bells were growing louder. Geordie often supervised the signing on of new crew, but the dozen pressed men picked up during their stop at English Harbour had been from the crew of a shipwrecked merchantman. They were obvious targets for the press gang; all were experienced seamen and Geordie had seen no need to get involved. He had a feeling he should have.

Geordie reached for his whistle and summoned one of his bosun’s mates. “Smith, let the watch officer know I’m taking Van Daan below to Janet for a spell. He’s injured and he’s still soaked, and he needs feeding. I’ll return him when he’s fit and I’ll speak to the Captain later to see what charges he’s bringing, if any. Unchain him.”

Smith moved forward readily, but shot Geordie a wary look. “You sure, Bosun? You want to watch this one, he’s like a wild thing. Pushed Marine Bennet right off the dock when they was bringing him aboard and punched the lights out of Snyder when he used his cane on him. Snyder had to give him half a dozen of the best before he went down.”

Geordie studied the boy. He still had the over-long limbs of boyhood, but he had the grace of an athlete and Geordie wondered if he boxed. Geordie had been a very good boxer in his youth and still entered the odd bout during shore leave, just to keep in practice. He was glad of Smith’s warning. Pointedly, he drew the baton he wore at his waist.

“You try that with me, laddie, and you’ll be back in irons with a couple of buckets of cold water over you and a thumping headache to go with it,” he said.

The irons clanked as they were removed and Van Daan flexed his wrists in relief and rubbed them. “What would be the point out here?” he asked. “There’s nowhere to run.”

There was something about the bald truth of that statement which tugged at Geordie’s heart unexpectedly. He motioned for Van Daan to follow him and led the way to the galley. At this hour the huge stove was roaring, and the ship’s cook and his assistants were busy over the main meal. A savoury smell reminded Geordie of how hungry he was. It was almost dinner time and the Captain and the master would be on the quarterdeck taking the noon sight.

There was a wooden bench and table outside Geordie’s cabin which was located in the bow of the ship. Geordie indicated that Van Daan should sit. He opened his mouth to warn the boy again about the consequences of moving, then caught his eye and stopped himself. He did not know why, but he was absolutely certain Van Daan would simply remind him again that he had nowhere to go.

“Janet, are you there, bonny lass?”

“Aye, where else would I be at this hour?” Janet opened the door, a shirt she was mending in her hand, and surveyed the prisoner thoughtfully. The boy stared back.

“And who’s this half-drowned rat you’ve brought for dinner, husband?”

Geordie opened his mouth to explain, but the boy was on his feet and the bow he executed chilled Geordie to the bone. “My apologies, ma’am, I had something of an accident in the small hours. I was feeling sick and leaned over too far. It’s lucky I’m a strong swimmer. Paul van Daan. Pressed man.”

Geordie saw his wife give the youth a long sweeping glance, then she smiled. Janet was a very comely woman with a lovely smile. To Geordie’s complete astonishment, the boy smiled back. “And a bit of a drowned-rat,” he said apologetically.

Geordie put his hand on Van Daan’s shoulder and shoved him back onto the bench. “Will you have a look at that gash on his hand, bonny lass, while I get some dry clothes from the slops for him? He might be about to hang for murder and he’s definitely due a flogging, but we can’t have him freezing to death, it’s not in the regulations. He can eat dinner here with us and warm up a bit and then he’ll need to go back where he should be.”

“Thank you,” Van Daan said. “It’s very good of you, sir.”

“Not sir, laddie. I’m not a commissioned officer: you should call me Bosun.”

“Sorry, Bosun.”

“And try and pretend to do it respectfully, you arrogant little shit. Do you know how much trouble you’re in?”

“Yes, Bosun.”

Geordie studied him, grunted, and disappeared to find clothing. He allowed the boy to change in the cabin, while Janet set the table and went to collect the food. As Van Daan emerged, Geordie ran his eyes over him, and the boy held out his arms at his sides.

“I’ve not stolen anything, I swear, you can search me. I’m not that stupid. Like you said, I’m in enough trouble.”

Geordie could not help smiling. “Oh sit you down and drink your grog. Here’s my lass with the food. Eat.”

Geordie watched the boy covertly as he ate, while telling Janet about the events of the morning. He did not give the full details of Mackay’s murder, but he could see she was still shocked. Van Daan did not look up from his meal, eating stew with the concentration of a boy who had not eaten for a while.

“I just stopped for a chat with Petty Officer Marshall about you, Van Daan,” Geordie said, when the bowl was empty. “He says you’ve not made a good start aboard the Hera. You’ve barely gone a day without a punishment in the log. Insolence, abusing your seniors, fighting in the mess.”

“If I didn’t fight, I wouldn’t eat, Bosun.”

Geordie eyed him with reluctant respect. “Aye, there’s probably something in that, lad, they’ll steal your rations if you let them. But to put another boy in the sickbay for two days…”

“He had a knife. But I did hit him too hard. I was…I got angry.”

Geordie wondered if he had been about to say that he was scared. He glanced at Janet, who got up. “I’ll get you some more,” she said, sounding alarmingly maternal. “If you’ve been fighting over every meal, it’ll make a nice change to sit and eat like a decent human being.”

Van Daan looked up quickly and smiled. “Oh it does, ma’am. But please, I don’t want to put you out.”

“It’s no trouble for a lad with manners like yours,” Janet said, and bustled away. Van Daan’s smile faded, and Geordie thought that without it he looked very young and very lost. He wondered again what the hell this boy was doing below decks as a pressed man.

“All right, laddie,” he said gruffly. “You’ve been fed, and you’ve had your grog. At least…you’ve barely touched it. Don’t you want it?”

The boy gave a somewhat embarrassed smile. “I can’t stand it,” he said frankly. “I’d rather have water, actually.”

Geordie studied him, then sighed. He got up, went into his cabin, and returned with a bottle and two glasses. Setting them on the table he poured.

“Sip it,” he said shortly. “This is not rum grog.”

Van Daan picked up the glass and sniffed suspiciously at the amber coloured liquid. “What is it?”

“Scotch whisky, laddie. Comes from a little distillery just over the border from where I grew up. My sister sends it to me from time to time. Try it.”

Van Daan took a sip. Geordie watched his expression. He swallowed and coughed a little as the peaty spirit caught in his throat then looked up. “That’s excellent.”

“Spoken like a connoisseur,” Geordie said ironically. Janet was back, setting another plate in front of the boy, along with a chunk of dark bread.

“I need to turn the laundry, husband, so I’ll leave you to it,” she said, with her accustomed tact. Van Daan got to his feet with instinctive courtesy. Janet studied him for a moment.

“Eat,” she said. “You’ll need your strength for whatever comes next. And then talk to my husband, tell him the truth, and listen to his advice. He’s a good man.”

The boy offered his charming smile again and Geordie decided that he was glad Van Daan was not ten years older. “Thank you for your kindness, ma’am. Whatever happens, I won’t forget it.”

When Janet had gone, Van Daan returned to his meal. Geordie finished his grog, since it should not go to waste, then sipped his whisky and waited for the boy to finish. He was looking better, with more colour in his cheeks, and the fair hair had dried to a dark gold: shoulder length and tied back with a grubby strip of linen. Eventually, Van Daan set his spoon down.

“That’s the most I’ve eaten since I came on board. Worth getting hanged for. Thank you, sir…I mean, Bosun.”

“Tell me what happened?”

“I already told the Lieutenant. There’s not much to tell. I felt sick. I’m over it mostly during the day, but sometimes at night…I went up on deck because it’s not civil to cast up accounts where men are sleeping.”

“You’re not allowed to wander around the ship at night, boy, they must have told you that.”

“I’d forgotten, I was feeling so ill. Anyway, I must have had a dizzy spell and gone over. Thank God I didn’t hit my head on the way down or I’d have drowned.”

The blue eyes were limpid and innocent. Geordie studied him. Despite his height and surprising air of self-assurance, this was still very much a boy. Geordie thought again about what had happened to Mackay. He could imagine this lad striking out in self-defence, but the cold-blooded killing and mutilation of a man seemed beyond him. At the same time, his story sounded carefully rehearsed rather than natural. Geordie had sent his bosun’s mates to make enquiries among the crew and there was no evidence of anybody else being away from his proper place at that time.

“You must be a very strong swimmer,” Geordie said.

“I am. I learned in the lake as a boy.”

“Which lake?”

“At Southwinds, where I grew up. It’s in Leicestershire.”

“How did you cut your hand?”

“It must have been when I was trying to grab the ladder from the water.”

“A thin cut for a splinter. Almost looked like a knife.”

“No, I’d have remembered if I’d cut it on a knife.”

“You bloody liar,” Geordie said softly. “You killed him, didn’t you?”

“No, Bosun.”

“Well somebody killed him and cut his balls off. Now why?”

“I don’t know, Bosun.”

“Don’t you? I bloody do. Able Seaman Mackay had some very nasty habits with the younger boys aboard ship. I’ve been trying to get somebody to speak up about it for months. One young lad, a boy called Harry Price, drowned himself a few months back, and I’ve always wondered if it was because he couldn’t stand it any longer. What do you think, Van Daan?”

Paul van Daan looked back at him. He had flushed a little, but to Geordie’s surprise he neither turned away nor dropped his gaze, although Geordie could see that his fists had clenched together until the knuckles were white.

“I don’t know what to think, Bosun, I wasn’t there when Price drowned himself. But do you know what? I wish I fucking had been.”

The obscenity sounded odd in Van Daan’s well-spoken accent, but his tone told Geordie everything he needed to know. Reaching for the bottle, he poured another shot into each glass.

“What did he do to you, Van Daan?”

“Nothing, Bosun.”

“What did he try to do?”

“Nothing, Bosun. I never met Able Seaman Mackay.”

Van Daan reached for the glass. Geordie watched as he inhaled the rich aroma of the whisky and swirled it around the glass a little before sipping it appreciatively. Somebody had taught this boy how to enjoy good wine or good brandy.

“You’re a bad liar, Van Daan.”

“I’ve been told that before, Bosun.”

“Don’t you know they could hang you for this?”

“Don’t they have to prove it?”

Geordie met his eyes for a long time. He was fascinated by Van Daan’s odd blend of boyish vulnerability and adult intelligence. During his years at sea Geordie had come across a lot of boys of this age, but he had never encountered one quite like this.

Finally he reached for his own glass. “Let’s try a different question. What the bloody hell are you doing here, boy? For one thing are you even old enough to be pressed? And secondly, from your voice and your manner, you’re not a common seaman.”

“No. I’ll probably need to work on that if I’m going to survive the next few months.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you. Paul van Daan.”

“Your family?”

“My father owns a shipping company.”

Geordie stared at him very hard for a while. The boy’s gaze did not waver. Eventually, Geordie said:

“You’re a gentleman’s son?”

“Yes. And I’m almost fifteen. Not quite old enough to be pressed, but close.”

“Did you tell them that?”

“Do I look stupid? Of course I did. Repeatedly. Then I hit people and tried to escape. That didn’t work either.”

Geordie closed his eyes. “Oh shit. Somebody is going to be very sorry for this.”

“Yes, they are.”

Geordie opened his eyes at the tone. Abruptly he was absolutely sure Van Daan had killed Mackay. Geordie suspected he also knew what had been done to him to drive him to commit such an appalling crime. He understood why Van Daan refused to talk about it. Geordie could only imagine the terror of a gently-bred boy thrown into a situation so far removed from the life he was used to. Mackay’s assault, coming before Van Daan had time to even begin to adjust, would have been enough to break most boys. Geordie wondered what it would take to break this particular youth and hoped passionately he was not about to find out.

“Bosun. Captain wants to see you.”

Geordie sighed. “I’d be willing to bet it’s about you, you troublesome wee bastard. Finish that drink and get up.”

Van Daan obeyed, getting to his feet. “If I can stand. It’s stronger than I’m used to.”

“You’ll need to get yourself a stronger head and stomach if you’re going to survive the navy, laddie.”

“You might not have to worry about that for much longer,” Van Daan said. It was a creditable effort, but Geordie could hear the tremor in his voice. He silently applauded the boy. Only a fool would claim not to be afraid when faced with a hanging, but this slender youth was controlling it very well, and Geordie knew that in the noise of battle or the screaming height of a storm at sea, that was what mattered. He regarded Van Daan and decided to be honest.

“You’re going to get hanged or flogged, Van Daan. I’m going to the Captain and I’m going to tell him the truth about you. I’m also going to try to convince him that a young sprig of the gentry couldn’t possibly slit a man’s throat and mutilate the body. That won’t be difficult because until today, I wouldn’t have thought it myself. But Captain Dalton’s an awkward man and I can’t tell what he’ll do.”

“It’s all right, sir. I mean Bosun. Just…thank you for this. Thank Mrs Armstrong as well, will you? Whatever happens, I’m grateful.”

Geordie studied him, troubled. “No point in asking you why in God’s name you did it that way, I suppose. Given that you didn’t do it.”

“Is it bothering you?” Van Daan said unexpectedly. “I’m sorry. Look…your wife said I should trust you, but I don’t know you yet, it would be stupid. So I didn’t do it. But if you want me to guess, I’d say the man who did it was pretty sure Mackay hadn’t done that for the last time. Maybe he could have found another way to protect himself. I don’t know what’s possible, I’ve not been here long.”

“I know. You poor little bastard, you don’t know your head from your heels, do you? And then this. But Christ, to mutilate him like that…”

“Once again, Bosun, I can only guess,” Van Daan said gravely. “I don’t know how common it is in this navy for a man to do what he did and get away with it for years. How many boys, I wonder? He needed stopping. Not just for one attack but for all the others he was going to do in the future. And if there’s any other perverted bastard aboard this ship thinking about doing the same thing, I don’t think he’ll be in any doubt about what’s going to happen to him if he does. Maybe you don’t think that’s worth risking a hanging. Maybe I don’t. But I can tell you for sure that whoever killed him did.”

Geordie suspected that was the closest he was ever going to get to an admission from this boy. Van Daan’s reasoning made terrifying sense given what had happened to him, although Geordie was still astonished that a lad of not quite fifteen had not only come up with the plan but carried it through. He felt oddly flattered that Van Daan had admitted even this much. Geordie reached for his whistle to summon one of his mates. Derbyshire was in his twenties and of medium height and watching them walk away, back to the half-deck, Geordie realised Van Daan was already as tall and probably still had a few years of growing to do. He hoped the boy survived long enough.

***

Geordie found Lieutenant Eaton with Captain Dalton. The Captain was in a foul temper, which was very common. He barked out questions and Geordie responded, keeping his answers short and factual. When he had finished, Dalton sat back in his chair.

“Did he do it?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” Geordie said without hesitation. “He’s a tall lad, but he’s very young and Mackay was a big man. Besides, I don’t think a boy from his background could do what was done. I don’t think it would occur to him.”

“He was the only man away from his hammock.”

“The only one who was caught, sir, but a murderer would be canny enough to sneak back to his place without being seen.”

“What about the blood?” Eaton asked. “He’d have been covered in it.”

“He could have changed. It’s not impossible that he’d purloined spare clouts from somewhere. Dumped the bloody clothing over the side in the dark, sluiced himself down with a bucket of water and got back to bed. Nobody searched, sir, because everybody thought we’d got our man.”

“Damn it, I still think he’s guilty,” Dalton snarled. “He should be hanged.”

“I think he’d get off at a trial, Captain,” Eaton said quietly. “No witnesses and no evidence. They searched his hammock and the few possessions he has. No knife, no bloody clothing. Nobody saw or heard anything apart from Van Daan scrambling back up onto deck half-drowned. He’s a landsman and a pressed man, it’s not impossible to believe he was seasick and fell overboard.”

“Well who the hell killed Mackay?” Dalton roared. “What if he does it again? What if he kills an officer? What if he kills me?”

Geordie met Eaton’s eyes and looked away quickly, suppressing a snort of unsuitable laughter. “I don’t think that’s likely sir,” Eaton said gravely. “It seems pretty obvious that whoever did this was either a victim of Mackay’s unsavoury practices or a friend of a victim. He’s gone. No reason to kill again.”

Dalton did not reply. He was looking down at a log book. Eventually he looked up. “Well that little bastard isn’t getting away with this. I’m ordering a flogging.”

“What’s the charge, Captain?”

“Being bloody annoying,” Dalton said.

“That’s not actually a crime, Captain,” Eaton said patiently.

“Although with this lad, it probably should be,” Geordie said, mostly under his breath.

“Well he’s been in the punishment book every day since he got here, and he was bloody well out of his hammock when he shouldn’t have been. Maybe fifty of the best will teach him a lesson. See to it, Bosun, tomorrow.”

Geordie froze and looked at Eaton. The First Lieutenant stared back. Neither spoke. A captain could only order twelve lashes without a formal trial. It was not unheard of for a captain to order more, and within reason, it would be quietly ignored, but fifty was too many.

“Sir, we’d need a trial for that. And besides, you can only use the cane on him, he’s fourteen.”

“He commits a man’s crime, he gets a man’s punishment, Mr Eaton. Anyway, I don’t believe he’s fourteen, any more than I believe the rest of that nonsensical story he told you.”

Geordie looked again at Eaton. “Look, sir, I really believe this boy has been pressed illegally. I talked with him for a long time and it’s obvious he’s well-spoken and educated. I don’t think he should be here.”

“He’s taken you for a fool, Bosun. He’s a practiced liar and probably a thief.”

Geordie could feel his temper rising. He opened his mouth to speak then closed it again at a very tiny shake of the head from Eaton.

“Whatever the boy has or hasn’t done, Captain, I think it would be a mistake to administer as many as fifty without a formal trial,” Eaton said. “It is up to you of course, but even if the boy is over fourteen, he is still young, and we do not know his state of health. If anything should go wrong, I am afraid you could lay yourself open to serious criticism.”

“I am the captain of this ship and I will not be held to ransom against the word of a dirty little ragamuffin with a fluent tongue!” Dalton exploded. “Flog him. Thirty lashes, and with the cat, not the cane, during the punishment hour tomorrow. As for this pack of lies about being a gentleman, I want to hear nothing more of it. Get out of here.”

Outside, Eaton beckoned for Geordie to follow him to the starboard rail. “You need to stop pushing him about an illegal impressment, Bosun.”

“Talk to that boy for ten minutes, sir, and you’ll agree.”

“I believe you. But for the boy’s sake, you need to shut up about it. It’s recorded in the log that the boy protested his impressment. Dalton failed to listen, he failed to investigate, and he took that boy to sea in the full knowledge that his impressment might well be illegal, because he was drunk, and he didn’t care.”

“That’s no surprise to me, sir.”

“Or me. But if it turns out that young Van Daan really is the son of a man of influence, and he makes it out of here in one piece, it could mean the end of Dalton’s career. I would rather Dalton didn’t work that out.”

Geordie felt suddenly very cold. He turned his head. “You don’t think he would…?”

“I don’t know what he’d do. I’ve served under him for five months and the minute I get the chance, I am leaving this ship. I don’t care if I have to go onto half-pay, or take a post as a second lieutenant again, I’m not working under that man.”

“I don’t blame you, sir. I’ve been with the Hera a long time, but if he doesn’t go, I might.”

“A bosun of your experience won’t have any trouble finding another ship, Armstrong. It might take me longer, but I don’t care.”

“Can’t we get a letter out to his father?”

“Not without Dalton knowing. He should write one, though, and I’ll take charge of it. If we’re in port, I predict that boy stands no chance of leaving this ship even if he does sign up as a volunteer. But I might be able to send it off.”

“If you’re right about the Captain, that won’t help, sir,” Geordie said. “Because if the boy’s father goes to the Admiralty about getting him back, they’re going to write to Captain Dalton directly, asking him about it. All he has to do is make sure Van Daan has an accident and is buried at sea and then he can throw up his hands and claim he knew nothing about it. Without the boy to speak up, who will care?”

“Dear God, you’re right.”

“The only thing we can do is pretend we all believe the Captain, let him flog the boy and say nothing more about it. After a few weeks of quiet, the Captain will have convinced himself the boy was nothing but a liar and a troublemaker and as long as Van Daan stays out of trouble, he’ll forget about him. When we reach a port with an English consulate, we can get him ashore and out of Dalton’s reach.”

Eaton looked troubled. “How the hell are you going to manage to persuade that lad to keep quiet and keep his head down, Bosun?”

Geordie had already made the decision. “I’m going to tell him the truth,” he said.

***

Geordie brought the boy into the small cabin and closed the door to have the conversation, stationing his wife on the bench outside in case of eavesdroppers. It felt ridiculous to be taking such precautions aboard ship, but Eaton’s words had convinced Geordie.

Van Daan sat at the opposite end of the bunk and listened without saying a word as Geordie related what had happened and repeated his conversation with Lieutenant Eaton. At the end of it, he sat in silence for so long that Geordie wondered if it had, after all, been wrong to speak to such a young boy as though he was an adult.

Eventually Van Daan stirred and looked up. “What do I need to do?” he asked.

Geordie caught his breath and realised that he had not, after all, got it wrong. “Take the flogging,” he said bluntly. “I can’t get you out of it, and it’s bloody painful, lad. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this.”

Van Daan sat silently for a moment, staring at his linked fingers in his lap. Then he looked up. “To some degree, I do, Bosun.”

Geordie could not help smiling. “Is that a confession, lad?”

“Oh no.”

“I didn’t think so. I’ll take care of you, you’ll be all right, and Mr Eaton will make sure it doesn’t go too far. After that, I’m going to get you signed up as a volunteer. I want you to behave. Keep your head down, do as you’re told and stop demanding to be taken to the nearest English port.”

“Will that work?”

“The Captain’s not that bright, laddie. If you stay out of trouble he’ll forget about you. I don’t know how long it will take, but eventually me and Mr Eaton will find a way to get you off this ship. I wish I could do better, but for now Dalton is in charge and you’re a long way from home.”

“I’m sorry, I’m causing you a lot of trouble and you’ve been very good about it. I understand, and I’ll do the best I can.”

Geordie studied him. “What does that mean?”

“Only that I’m not that good at keeping my head down. I’m not sure I can manage it for that long. But I think I know what to do to fit in better. So don’t worry.”

***

Geordie had both attended and arranged many floggings but had never before felt such distaste for the process. Van Daan was the only miscreant up for punishment the following day. At eleven-thirty, Geordie gave the order for the ship’s company to muster by watches on either side of the main deck. Van Daan was brought on deck. Tradition allowed him to plead his case to the Captain. On this occasion, Geordie could not imagine what the Captain would ask or what the boy would say. He found himself rigid with tension as Van Daan stepped forward. He looked very young, the fair hair lifted in the breeze away from the smooth lines of his face.

“You are accused of absenting yourself from your berth, boy, along with numerous other offences since your arrival aboard ship,” Dalton said, his voice harsh. “Have you anything to say?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing? No excuse for your behaviour?”

“Only that the life is new to me, sir, and I’ll try to improve.”

It was perfect and Geordie thanked God he had not tried to coach Van Daan since he could not have done better. If he had been in Dalton’s place he would not have believed a word of it, but Geordie could see the Captain relax. He appreciated humility and seemed completely unable to see that the boy’s stance radiated contempt.

“Thirty lashes Bosun.”

Geordie gave the order, and Smith stepped forward with the cat. The handle was covered with red cloth and the whip consisted of nine thin pieces of line with each section knotted several times along its length. A new cat was made for each flogging by one of the bosun’s mates. It was their duty to administer the flogging, swapping over after each dozen to ensure that a tired arm did not lessen the punishment.

Geordie had selected the three mates with care and had spoken to them in advance very specifically. He could not prevent the boy’s suffering, but he could ensure that over-zealous administration did not make it worse.

Van Daan was stripped to the waist and bound by the wrists to the wooden grating situated at the gangway. Lieutenant Gordon stepped forward to read the Article of War pertaining to the boy’s crimes aloud and then stepped back. There was complete silence across the deck. Geordie wondered if it was his imagination that the atmosphere was more tense than at a normal flogging, possibly because of the victim’s youth and possibly because of the spectre of Mackay’s unsolved murder hovering in the background.

The cat fell across Van Daan’s back, leaving long red weals. The boy’s body jumped but he made no sound. The cat fell again and again. Geordie felt himself flinch internally with each blow. He had never felt like this before at a flogging and he could not decide if it was the injustice of it or if it was because of his enormous liking and respect for the boy being beaten.

At the first changeover, the ship’s surgeon went forward to inspect Van Daan’s back. Geordie thought he looked uncomfortable. Eaton had told him that Dr Baird had insisted on registering a formal objection to the cat being used on a boy this young, and Geordie respected him for it.

At twenty lashes the skin broke. Van Daan had still not made a sound, though his body convulsed at each blow. Geordie realised he was clenching his fists so hard that his nails were digging into his palms, leaving marks. He imagined himself punching Captain Dalton over and over until he did not get up, and it helped a little.

At twenty-six lashes, Van Daan’s back was bloody and for the first time he uttered a little cry, quickly bitten back. Geordie thought about the other injuries, the bruising and the muscle damage and the battering to the internal organs, and he wondered if the crew would support him if he drew his pistol and shot Dalton through the head. He thought they might.

At thirty lashes, the third bosun’s mate, Petty Officer Ferris, lowered the cat with an air of relief. The surgeon moved forward.

“One moment, Doctor.”

Captain Dalton walked across the deck towards Van Daan. Geordie moved forward as well, ignoring the frantic signals from Lieutenant Eaton. He wanted to hear what was said. Dalton reached up and caught the long fair hair, wet with sweat. He twisted his hand in it and yanked the boy’s head back.

“Do you hear me, Van Daan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you kill Mackay?”

“No, sir.”

“Louder, Van Daan.”

“No, sir.”

“What if I told you I could whip you until you confess?”

Geordie realised he was poised, ready to attack. He had never felt such an urge to kill in his life.

“Well I can’t stop you, sir.” Van Daan’s voice was faint but his tone was loaded with so much contempt that even Dalton could not miss it. Geordie groaned inwardly.

Dalton stepped back. “Another dozen, Ferris,” he said loudly.

Ferris looked over at Geordie, appalled. Geordie took a deep breath. He decided that he was about to commit mutiny and he prayed that whatever happened, Janet would be all right.

“Belay that order, Petty Officer Ferris,” Lieutenant Eaton called out.

Ferris lowered his arm, looking relieved. Dalton swung around. “What did you say, Mr Eaton?” he demanded.

“Sorry, sir, it’s just that you’ve miscounted. The sentence was thirty, and I remember you didn’t want more than that on a boy this young, especially with the cat. It’s recorded in the log, sir.”

There was a long moment of agonised silence across the deck and Geordie silently thanked God that Daniel Eaton had all the intelligence and integrity that his Captain lacked. He hoped somebody at the Admiralty realised it soon and gave the man a command of his own. The ship’s log was inviolate and if Dalton continued with the punishment it would be recorded and could be used against him.

Dalton glared at his First Lieutenant with sheer hatred, then turned to the surgeon and nodded. Geordie felt as though the entire crew let out a collective sigh of relief. He called the order and two of his mates went forward to untie the prisoner. Abruptly, Dalton stopped and stooped. He picked up a wooden pail of salt water, turned back to the boy on the grating and threw the entire contents over the boy’s back. Van Daan screamed. Dalton turned away and stomped back to his cabin, leaving Geordie and the first officer to stand the crew down.

Geordie ran to the boy as the mates lowered him face down onto the deck. After that one agonised yell, he had made no further sound and Geordie felt a sense of panic. The damage done to a man by a flogging could be completely unpredictable, depending on the physical condition of the victim. Paul van Daan was young, much too young to have been beaten by the cat which was usually reserved for adults. He was also, Geordie discovered, a mass of bruises all over his fair skin, presumably due to the over-enthusiastic use of the cane on the recalcitrant new recruit during his first week aboard ship. Geordie had known a man die from damage to his kidneys after a flogging and he knelt beside the boy, running his eyes over the bloody mess of his back, seeing new bruising coming up beneath the existing marks.

“Van Daan. Can you hear me?”

“He’s fainted, Bosun.”

“Carry him to the sick bay,” Geordie said, getting up. “Dr Baird will see to him there.”

“I will. And please understand, Armstrong, that I will be keeping detailed notes of this boy’s condition. If he dies because of what has been done to him aboard this ship, it will be fully recorded, and I intend to complain to the Admiralty.”

“Good,” Geordie said. “Lift him carefully, Ferris.”

“Get your fucking hands off me,” a voice said distinctly. “Or I will break your fucking fingers.”

The men froze. Geordie motioned them back. “It’s good to see your punishment has settled you down proper, Van Daan. They’re trying to help you, you mannerless young twat.”

“If this is their idea of help, I’ll live without it.” The boy turned his head to look at Geordie. “I wouldn’t mind a hand up though, Bosun.”

“Let them carry you.”

“I’ll walk.”

Geordie said nothing. He watched as, slowly and painfully, Van Daan heaved himself onto all fours. He stopped, wincing at a sudden pain, and put his hand to his side. “Christ, that hurts.”

“You may have a broken rib, it’s not uncommon,” Dr Baird said, coming to his side. “Will you not let them carry you, boy?”

Van Daan turned his head to look at him, and surprisingly managed a shadow of his charming smile. “Thank you, Doctor. I probably sound mad, but I really need to walk away from this. Would you?”

Baird offered his hand without speaking and between him and Geordie, they got Van Daan onto his feet. The tall form swayed for a moment and Geordie stood ready to catch him, but Van Daan steadied himself. He shook his head at the doctor’s proffered arm but did it with a faint smile. He walked carefully, but seemed reasonably steady. Geordie trod behind him trying not to fuss like a hen with one chick. He wished the obstinate whelp had remained unconscious.

Once he had reached the sick bay, Van Daan became more cooperative, and Geordie left him with Baird and went to find Janet. He was not surprised to discover that his wife had expressed her sympathy by laundering and mending Van Daan’s few items of clothing. She had also added to them, and Geordie recognised an old shirt and trousers of his own, spotlessly clean, and neatly darned. He hid a smile, wondering if Van Daan knew that he had been adopted by the fiercest creature on the ship.

Geordie went through the rest of his day as normal, forcing himself to leave the boy alone. Van Daan needed rest in order to heal, and at least in the sick bay he would get solitude and relative quiet. He looked in at five o’clock, after the men had been issued with their second grog ration, and the mess cooks were beginning to collect provisions for supper.

There were eighteen berths in the sick bay which was on the starboard side of the ship. Half a dozen of them were occupied by sick or injured sailors, but Baird had put his newest patient in one of the two curtained alcoves which he reserved for more serious cases, where privacy might be required. Van Daan was asleep, lying on his front, the rough blankets pushed down to his hips to avoid touching his wounds.

Geordie stood looking down at him. In sleep, the boy looked more like the child he really was. What Geordie could see of his body was a mass of red bleeding stripes and black bruising, overlaying the yellowing remains of older injuries. Geordie thought he must have been in pain ever since he arrived on board and was thankful that at least now he would have no choice but to rest and heal. All the same, as he left he paused by the surgeon’s table, where Baird’s assistant was writing up the daily returns in a ledger.

“Keep an eye on Van Daan, will you, Harris? If he makes any attempt to get up and go back to his duties, tell him I’ll give him a kicking that’ll make that flogging look like a picnic.”

Harris grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “Already told him once, Bosun. Don’t worry, we’ll keep him quiet. Poor little bastard. Got balls though, I’ve seen grown men break down sooner than he did. He still a pressed man?”

“I’ll be down to get him properly signed up as a volunteer tomorrow. When he’s fit for duty, I’m getting him assigned to the rigging.”

“He’s a landsman, Bosun. He’ll kill himself.”

Geordie glanced back at the cubicle where the sleeping boy lay. “You need to trust me with this one, Harris. If we don’t keep him busy, he’ll stir up the entire crew of this ship until somebody really does kill him.”

Harris looked amused. “You adopting him, Bosun?”

“I’m going to train him. And I’ll speak to the schoolmaster about moving him up to take lessons with the older boys. He can already read and write, so he can study seamanship. At least it’ll keep him out of mischief. For now, just let him rest. He bloody needs it after what he’s been through.”

May, 1798

Geordie was writing up the Boatswain’s accounts in his store cabin, a job he loathed, when First Lieutenant Eaton appeared in the doorway.

“Do you have a minute, Bosun?”

“I’ve got an hour, sir, if it’ll get me away from this.”

“Come down to your dinner bench. I’ve got some news and we’re celebrating.”

Eaton lifted a wine bottle and Geordie grinned and got up. He locked the door carefully behind him. He could guess Eaton’s news and he was pleased for the man, although he would miss him. Seated at the wooden table, Eaton poured two cups.

“To the third rate, HMS Triumphant and her new post-captain, Bosun.”

“Congratulations, sir, it’s well deserved. Came with the mail boat, did it?”

“Yes. I’m to sail back with her almost immediately The Triumphant is with the fleet off Toulon. An old ship and in need of an update, but my first post command.”

“You’ll be missed.”

“I wish I could take you with me, Armstrong.”

“You’ll have a good bosun of your own, sir, who knows the ship. Mediterranean Fleet then?”

“Yes, and in a hurry. They’re sending a fleet under Nelson, hoping to engage the French.”

Geordie hid a smile at Eaton’s attempt to sound nonchalant. At his age, Geordie had also longed for battle and glory and the chance to shine. These days he preferred the long, easy days of blockade duty and would be happy to never hear a gun fired in anger again. He raised his cup.

“Good luck, sir.”

“Captain Dalton is going to get Powlett to act up as first lieutenant.”

“Is he sorry to see you go, sir?”

“I can’t tell, Bosun, he’s such a miserable bastard all the time, I’m not sure how I’d know the difference. But I wanted to speak to you about Van Daan.”

“No reply to your letter, then?”

“No, and there should have been. I think it got lost or went down with a ship. I was hoping I might be able to get the boy ashore, but they’re ferrying me straight to the ship, there’s no time. And I’ve no wish to dump him somewhere he might get picked up by another press gang. We need to get him to the British authorities and do this properly. A long way from Captain Dalton.”

“Once you’re away, you’ll be able to write again, sir. Dalton has taken no notice of Van Daan for a long time.”

“He might, if he receives a stiff letter from the Admiralty asking why he has an illegally pressed gentleman’s son aboard and hasn’t returned him to his proper place. Dalton got himself into this because he was too lazy and too much of a drunkard to do his job properly, but if he finds out Van Daan really is everything he claimed to be, I wouldn’t trust him not to quietly find a way to shut him up before he can give evidence about what was done to him. Look, Bosun, I know Van Daan is a bit of a favourite of yours and Janet’s. But I was thinking of taking him with me as an officer’s servant. Once aboard, I’ll promote him to petty officer. I’ll write again immediately to his father, and I’ll write to the Admiralty as well.”

“You’re taking him into battle, though, sir.” Geordie felt slightly sick.

“Probably. I can’t turn the ship round to get him to safety. But the first chance I can, I’ll drop him off at an English consulate. If he wants to go.”

Geordie laughed. “I see right through you, you duplicitous bastard, sir. You’re going to promote him to midshipman as fast as you can and hope he’ll decide to stay on and try for an officer’s commission, aren’t you?”

“Oh come on, Bosun, what would you do in my place? When did you last see a boy with his talent for leadership? I’d be mad not to try.”

Geordie got up. “Just so long as you give him a choice.”

“You’ll miss him.”

“Like a piece of my heart,” Geordie said simply. “We never had children, Janet and me. Told ourselves it was just as well, since it’s meant we’ve been together all these years. But the Van Daan boy reminded both of us what we’ve missed. Still, I’m proud of the man he’s going to become. If he can get there without getting himself killed, the reckless young bastard. Come and find him and tell him the good news.”

Up on deck, there was a flurry of activity in the rigging as the officer of the watch had ordered the main topsail to be set. The topmen were clambering up the shrouds towards the main top. Geordie and Eaton stopped to watch them, shading their eyes against the sun. They were fast and nimble, scrambling barefooted over masts and sail.

First to the top was a tall slim figure. He had removed his blue jacket and hat, and the sun sparked an occasional golden light off his fair hair. Arriving at his destination, he looked back at his fellows and pantomimed waiting impatiently for the others to be in place, the young face alight with laughter.

The sail had been tightly reefed in and Geordie watched as the men loosed the sail then kicked it out and down, where other crew members eased on the lines. It was a process Geordie had watched a thousand times during his time at sea, and probably performed as many. He watched now as the topmen completed their task then swarmed back down the rigging. It was not supposed to be a race, but the younger men often made it so. When Van Daan was firmly back on the deck, Geordie raised his voice.

“Van Daan. I catch you using the rigging as a race track again, you’ll get a clip round the ear. Get yourself over here, the officer wants a word with you.” The boy approached at a run, scooping up jacket and hat from a grating along the way and managing to arrive looking vaguely presentable. Geordie reached out to give him an affectionate cuff, knocking his hat off again, partly to prove that he was still just tall enough to make it possible and partly because he knew how much he was going to miss that simple act after tomorrow.

“First Lieutenant Eaton wants to speak to you. When he’s done with you, come down to the stores, I want a word.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, Bosun.” Van Daan eyed him warily. “Am I in trouble? What have I done?”

“Oh, wipe that innocent look off your face or I’ll do it for you, it doesn’t sit well there. And pick up your hat or I’ll charge you for it.”

Van Daan picked up the battered straw hat with a grin. “You couldn’t legitimately charge me a halfpence for this, Bosun, look at the state of it.”

“Well you’re not getting a new one, you’d wreck it in a week. Get along with you.”

It was thirty minutes before Van Daan joined him in the store, and the laughter had been replaced by an unusually serious expression. Geordie pointed to a stool and went for beer.

“So you’ll be leaving us. Officer’s servant, no less.”

“Only until we reach the Triumphant. Then it’s to be petty officer.”

“I’ll be saluting you one day, laddie, I’ve known that for a long time.”

“I don’t think so, Bosun. I’ve been honest with Mr Eaton because it’s only fair. I’ll go with him this voyage. I think I owe him that. But afterwards, since it looks as though it will be possible, I think I’ll go home.”

“To see your father?”

“I’d be happy never to set eyes on him again,” the boy said flatly. “He doesn’t want me there, he sent me to sea in the first place, to teach me discipline, since he couldn’t be bothered to do it himself. Well I think I’ve learned it.”

“Then why leave? You’re good at this, Van Daan. You’ll be a midshipman in a year or so, and you’ll pass the lieutenants’ examination without any effort at all.”

Van Daan gave a little smile. “And post-captain a year later? It’s a nice story, Bosun. Don’t think I’ve not considered it. There are things about the navy I like. But too much has happened here. And besides…a ship is too small.”

Geordie considered it and knew he was right. “Aye, that’s the way of it with you. Some of us feel secure within these wooden walls. Some feel trapped by them. Go home then, laddie, and make your peace with your Da however you can. But if you take my advice, you’ll not let him push you behind a desk in a shipping office, or into the silk suit of a gentleman. You’re not cut out for that. Think about the army. Mr Eaton is right, you’ve the makings of a bloody good officer if you can learn some respect for your seniors and keep your mouth shut occasionally.”

“The thing I will miss about this ship, is you. And Mrs Armstrong. Does she know?”

“Aye, I’ve told her. She’s in the cabin, mending everything you own twice over. You should go and see her and be prepared for her to cry over you, for she will.”

“I might cry over her too,” Van Daan said, getting up. “The packet ship leaves early. I was wondering…”

“Eat your dinner down with us today, laddie. It’ll be the last time, and I’ll miss sampling the whisky with you.”

The boy smiled. “I’ll write,” he said. “And I’ll send you a bottle myself when I can. To remember me by.”

“I’ll not be forgetting you, Paul van Daan. The ship’ll be a lonelier place without you.”

“You’ll be all right, Bosun, while your wife is here to look after you. You’ve been like my family. Some day…I wonder if I’ll ever marry? If I did, I’d like it to be the way you are with her. You’re so close.”

Geordie could feel tears tightening his throat. “Go and see her. And don’t worry about it. When you’ve done sleeping with every pretty girl that’s willing, now you’ve found what to do with them, there’ll be a bonny lass waiting for you somewhere. Write and tell me about her if I’m still alive.”

“I promise I will.”

Van Daan was outside the door when Geordie had another thought. “Van Daan – what are you going to do about the Captain? Will you report him, d’you think?”

Van Daan raised his eyebrows. “I don’t see that I can do anything else, Bosun. My father might not like me, but he’s a proud man and he’ll be furious about this. He’s going to want Captain Dalton’s head on a plate with an apple stuffed in his mouth when he sees the scars on my back, and I’m not covering up for the drunken, spiteful bastard. Why, will it bother you?”

“Not at all. I was thinking, it would be good to serve under a different captain. It’s a fine ship, the Hera. Could do great things under a better man.” The boy studied him for a long moment then gave one of his broad smiles. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Bosun.”

***

The boat left as dawn was just beginning to stain the sky with a pink wash. Geordie stood beside his wife at the rail, his arm about her, watching the oarsmen pull smoothly through the water. Eventually they could no longer see the boy’s face clearly, but Geordie remained there as the rising sun spilled amber and gold across the water. Several sea birds swooped low past the hull, diving for fish then soaring up again. The packet ship waited at anchor, its rigging outlined against the glory of the morning sky. Geordie could see the figures clambering out of the boat and climbing up the side of the fast little ship, and he felt a sudden fierce envy of the boy, setting out on a new adventure with no idea where it might take him.

“I hope he’ll be all right, Geordie. Do you think he’ll write, as he promised? A young gentleman, back with his own kind, he might well forget.”

“Well we’ll have to wait and see, bonny lass. But I do wonder you know, if yonder lad is going back to his own kind or if he’s just left them.”

“I wish he was going directly home,” Janet said. “Packet ships are often ambushed and sunk, and even if he makes it to the Triumphant, he’s likely to be in a battle before he’s safe with his family.”

“He’s fought with us in two skirmishes, Janet, and he’s a man grown now, or very near.”

“He’s just sixteen and I want to know he’s safe.”

“I think he’ll write. I’m sure he’ll write. Now dry those tears and let’s get some tea before the bell.”

They had finished their tea and Geordie had just called the pipe for hammocks to be stowed for the day when he heard a noise from the quarterdeck above. There was a commotion of shouting and then Geordie heard the Welsh accent of First Lieutenant Powlett calling down the companionway.

“Bosun, get yourself up here. There’s something wrong with the Captain.”

Geordie arrived at the door to the Captain’s bedroom, which was on the starboard side of the ship beside the master’s sea cabin, where the charts and navigation equipment was stored. The Captain’s servant, a skinny thirteen-year-old by the name of Fletcher, was holding a jug of steaming water. Beside him was Kingsley, the ship’s master and Lieutenant Marshall who commanded the marines.

“I know he’s in there, sir, he’s been making funny noises. I think he must be ill. Maybe he’s had a seizure.”

“The door?” Geordie asked.

“Locked from within,” Powlett said briefly. “I’ve sent for the carpenter.”

The ship’s carpenter arrived looking exasperated rather than worried, his curly dark hair untidy as if he had just emerged from his bed. The last rays of the glorious dawn gave a slightly garish light to the deck as they waited for Rashford to open the door. Geordie gently removed the heavy water jug from Fletcher and set it down out of the way.

Eventually the door was open. Rashford stood back with the air of a man who did not much care what was found within. Geordie looked over at him.

“I’d get to your inspection, Rash. Will you call Dr Baird first in case he’s needed?”

“I will, but we all know he’s probably dead drunk,” Rashford said contemptuously. “Let me know when I can put the lock back.”

Powlett was stepping cautiously into the cabin. It was spacious, with a curtained bunk, a wash stand and clothing chests, a red velvet armchair and small side table. The furniture was arranged incongruously around the two nine pounder guns and on the opposite wall was a closed door which led into the Captain’s day cabin, in which he dined, entertained, and took his ease. The bed curtains were closed.

As Geordie followed Powlett into the room, motioning for the others to stay back, the first thing he noticed was a muffled squawking sound from the bed. The second was the smell, which was appalling. At first, Geordie wondered if somehow a chamber pot had been kicked over, but this was far worse. The livestock pens were situated in the waist of the ship and it was often possible to smell them throughout the vessel if they were not regularly cleaned, but never this strongly.

Powlett seemed frozen in surprise, so Geordie walked forward and drew back the bed curtain. For a long moment, he stood very still, unable to believe his eyes. Captain Dalton lay on the bed. He was naked and had been neatly trussed at both wrists and ankles, which were then tied together at his back, leaving him in a painfully unnatural position. The bedclothes were in a heap on the floor and Dalton’s teeth were chattering with cold around the gag which had been stuffed into his mouth.

The only garment which the Captain was wearing was his wig. It had been placed very firmly upon his head, glued in place with a dark sticky substance which Geordie was easily able to identify as animal manure. He had a strong suspicion that the animal pens would not need mucking out this morning as they had been very thoroughly cleaned out during the night. The rest of the manure had been plastered over the Captain’s body in huge reeking dollops. Beside the bed, left very neatly, was the bucket and shovel that the assailant must have used. The Captain’s chamber pot was beside them, pointedly empty. Geordie could not be sure and had no intention of checking, but he suspected that the Captain was also wearing the contents of that.

“Oh my God,” Powlett whispered. “Who in God’s name…and how? Fletcher! Get yourself in here and help the Captain. Bring the hot water. In fact, we’d better send for more hot water. A lot of it. This is going to take some cleaning up.”

Geordie retreated to give the orders. Then, as he was fairly sure he would not be observed in the mayhem of the Captain’s deliverance, he slipped through the opposite door into the day cabin and stood looking around. It was an elegant room, with long windows which let in the light and could be opened to let in fresh air. It was clear that somebody had decided the room needed a good airing because one of the windows was wide open.

Geordie went to the window and stuck his head out, looking upwards towards the poop deck. It would be a scramble, but Geordie decided that should the mad idea ever take him, there were enough handholds for a man to pull himself upwards. It would be even easier for a slender, agile boy.

Geordie went back through the cabin and joined the master on the quarterdeck. “Any ideas?” he asked.

“God knows. The Captain isn’t the only victim. The boy who guards the livestock was found tied up, and so was the marine on duty by the Captain’s cabin.”

“I’d keep looking,” Geordie said cheerfully. “Check on anybody you think might be suspected of being involved in this, and I think you’ll find them safely tied up and remarkably unharmed. Just free of suspicion. Was the Captain hurt at all, do you know? Apart from his pride.”

“Only one injury. He didn’t see the face of his attacker, he wore some sort of black mask over his head with the eyes and mouth cut out. And he never spoke. But before he left he gave the Captain a huge whack across the nether regions with what looks like a cat o’ nine tails. Some nasty weals.”

Geordie took his pipe from his pocket and began to fill it. “Aye, that can hurt. All the same, I reckon he got off lightly, when all’s said and done. He can rest easy now. At least until the next packet ship reaches him with letters from England. If you’ll excuse me, I should be starting my inspection.”

An Unconventional Officer – free promotion

An Unconventional Officer - love and war in Wellington’s army
An Unconventional Officer - love and war in Wellington’s armyIt’s been a while since I did one of these but for three days only, starting tomorrow, An Unconventional Officer, the first book of the Peninsular War Saga, is free on Amazon kindle. If anybody who hasn’t already read it would enjoy a story of love and war in Wellington’s army, now’s your chance. The promotion is from 19-21 September 2025. I hope you enjoy it.
The year is 1802.
A fragile peace has been reached in Europe, but Britain is at war against the Maratha in India. In its Leicestershire barracks, the 110th infantry welcomes a new officer.
Paul van Daan is no typical young subaltern. Ambitious, talented and a charismatic leader of men, he has the means to buy his way up the ladder of promotion. He has an unconventional past, a fierce temper and a passion for justice which brings him into conflict with other officers.
As Paul searches for a way to adjust to the realities of life in the officers’ mess while remaining true to himself, he makes enduring friendships, forged on the battlefields of India and Europe. He also builds an unexpected bond with the unemotional commander of the Peninsular army, Sir Arthur Wellesley.
By the time the 110th joins Wellesley in Portugal, Paul has established a reputation as a respected officer, a courageous fighter and a shameless womaniser. Two women have shared his journey.
Rowena Summers is gentle and shy and brings companionship and stability to his life.
Anne Howard, the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer, bursts into his life like a shooting star, leaving him dazzled. Beautiful, intelligent and courageous, she refuses to conform to the expectations of the men around her, and changes forever everything Paul thought he knew about women.
From the slaughter of Assaye to the bloody battlefields of Portugal and Spain, this is the first book in the Peninsular War Saga which follows Paul van Daan and the 110th through war, loss, triumph and an unforgettable love story.

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 few days 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.

Welcome to 2025 from Writing with Labradors

Welcome to 2025 from Writing with Labradors. It’s New Year’s Eve on the Isle of Man and it’s foul weather; high winds and driving rain. After zooming around outside like a lunatic earlier, Oscar is very happy to snooze the afternoon away in my study, snuggled up on the sofa. Sadly for him, his younger brother is bored.

“Muuuuummm! Tell Alfie to stop wrecking the sofa. Look what he’s done to it again.”

“Alfie, don’t do that. It’s not good for the sofa and neither of you can settle properly like that. Down you get and I’ll fix it for you.”

“Sorry Mum. I’m just bored. Can I go outside again.”

“Just for a bit. I’ll get my coat.”

 

20 minutes later…

“Muuuuummm! Come and speak to the Ginger Sponge again. He’s come in soaking wet and is lying all over me chewing on his bone. It’s ridiculous, there are two sofas in here.”

“Alfie, come and get dried off before you get on the sofa. And give Oscar a bit more space. There’s plenty of room for two on there. Or use the other sofa.”

 

 

15 minutes later, I’m immersed in work.

“Muuuuuummm! He’s done it again. Look at the state of this. What’s wrong with him?”

“I think he’s just got the fidgets, Oscar. Alfie, come outside again. We’ll play with the new Christmas shark for a bit.”

“You’re not taking Big Shark out in this weather, Mum. He’ll get soaked and probably blow into next door’s garden. And don’t take Blue Octopus either, he hates the rain. Like me. Take Big Puppy.”

“All right. Come on, Alfie.”

20 minutes later, I’m in the kitchen making a cup of tea and trying to dry out.

“Muuuuummm! Look at what’s happened now. Can’t somebody adopt him when it rains? He can come back when it’s dry.”

“No, Oscar. You’d miss him. Come into the living room and I’ll light the fire. There’s more space in there.”

 

“All right. And put a blanket over his head. It might work the same as for parrots.”

“I’m not convinced, Oscar, but we’ll give it a try.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Half an hour later the house is quiet. Working at my desk I can hear the rain against the window panes and the wind blowing somebody’s left-out recycling round the front garden. I can also hear two lots of snoring on the sofa behind me.

“Are you back now, Oscar? Did you get lonely in there?”

“A bit. And look at him – he’s fairly cute when he settles down. Maybe he really is a parrot.”

“Whatever the reason, it’s worked.”

“It was a great idea. I wonder if Anya still has that weighted blanket. That would really do the trick.”

“Don’t even think about it, Oscar.”

 

 

Happy New Year from all of us here at Writing with Labradors. It’s been a very strange year in many ways but despite all the difficulties, it’s ended so much better than it began. I started the year with depression and anxiety and the horrible feeling of not knowing where I was going next. I’ve ended it feeling safe and grounded and ready to face anything.

It’s just as well, because physical health hasn’t gone quite so well this year and my osteoarthritis in both hips has got so bad that it’s severely limiting my mobility. I’m also in constant pain. As mentioned in a previous post, I’m off to Lithuania in a week for my first hip replacement operation. I still can’t entirely believe I’m doing it, but if it gets me back to climbing hills and running along the beach with my dogs again it will be so worth it.

There were some work achievements. I wrote and published book nine of the Peninsular War Saga and a Formidable Frontier is proving very popular. I was offered a three book contract by Sapere Books to write a new Age of Sail series, which I’m working on at present. I published my usual free short stories which my readers seem to have enjoyed. A Provincial Nobody for Valentine’s Day told the story of the first meeting of two well-liked characters from the Manxman series. The Kittiwake at Halloween was a ghost story with a nautical theme. The French Lieutenant brought a little Christmas cheer into the life of a French prisoner-of-war. And a bonus story, An Ungentlemanly Officer took us back to Paul van Daan’s early days in Portugal.

I’m looking forward to writing more books, more short stories, more blog posts and more tales of Oscar and Alfie in 2025 and onward. Thanks to all my readers for your messages, e-mails and fabulous reviews. Your support means so much to me.

In the meantime, it’s still raining but the boys seem to have decided that the sofa is big enough for the both of them after all.

Happy New Year Everybody.

James Spivey talking about The Last Duel

James Spivey talking about The Last Duel 

Today I’m delighted to welcome James Spivey who is here to talk about his debut historical novel The Last Duel. Set during the Crimean War, this is a tale of war, romance, feuding brothers and terrifying military incompetence.

Welcome to Writing with Labradors, James. To start with, what made you want to write The Last Duel? Did you always have ambitions to be an author or was it this particular story you wanted to tell?

Writing with Labradors is an excellent name for a group. My childhood companion was a Labrador and the most wonderful, handsome, goofy sod I ever knew.

They generally are.

I’ve always had an interest in history and paid more attention in those classes at school than others. But it was the TV Series Sharpe that really accelerated my interest. I read the books obsessively then moved onto biographies. It was period drama I originally wanted to write and ten years ago wrote a script, which provided the template for The Last Duel. However commissioning such a drama is not inexpensive and I didn’t expect it to go anywhere, but when lockdown went ahead in 2020 I decided to adapt it to a novel.

Why the Crimean War – how did you become interested in it?

If Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe was my first love, then George MacDonald Fraser’s Flashman series was my second. His writing is peerless and even Bernard Cornwell dedicated a book to him. If you don’t know, it’s a comic and subversive take on the boys own adventure in which the protagonist is the antithesis of a stoic Victorian hero, even though he looks like one. While I was aware of the Charge of the Light Brigade, it was his magnificent book Flashman at the Charge which fired my interest.

This year was the 170th anniversary of those great and shambolic battles; The Alma, Balaklava and Inkerman and there was a disappointing lack of attention given to them. The veterans of Crimea, who endured so much, have been overshadowed by the Napoleonic Wars on one side and two World Wars on the other. But if you study the Crimean campaign you’ll see how it foreshadowed the events of WW1 and the US Civil War; a naïve expectation of a rapid victory turning to an industrialised slaughter in the trenches and a slow, grinding, attritional slog.

The reason I chose it as the setting for my story is because it was the nadir of the ancien regime and the purchase structure in the army. Britain was becoming a modern, industrialised nation while the likes of Lucan and Cardigan were anachronisms who embodied aristocratic entitlement and ineptitude. It also matched the timeframe for the eradication of duelling.

I loved the book. It looks as though a lot of research went into it. Can you tell me a bit about it. What sources did you use? How hard was it to find material? There are loads of published accounts of the Peninsular War, which is my own period. What about the Crimea?

I was ridiculously lucky. I started the novel in the first winter lockdown, but when I went back to work, the writing stalled. A chance conversation with a colleague revealed that her father, John Cotterill was a Veteran of the Sherwood Foresters and a battlefield guide who had toured the Crimea 13 times before that modern Tsar, Vladimir Putin decided he wanted it. John had a bookshelf of materiel which he was kind enough to lend me for a year, thereby imposing a deadline that I just managed to keep. Kinglake’s 9 book series is the most comprehensive. Terry Brighton’s Hell Riders provides an excellent chronological analysis with supporting testimony from the Light Brigade. Obviously I read the journals of Fanny Duberly and William Russell. I think I identified with them as sceptical writers more than the obedient soldiers. “Theirs not to reason why?” I’d have been the first to say, “get stuffed.”

Yes, it’s difficult sometimes to imagine what it must have been like for those men just to have to ride into that.

I’m interested in the idea of the duel and its importance in your book. Did you read much about duelling? How common was it in the run up to this period? I mean during the Peninsular War it was fairly common, it used to make Wellington furious. Which is rich given that he went on to fight a duel. But if this was the last duel, what stopped it?

I started writing about the Crimean War because I was already interested in it, but I only read what I needed on the topic of duelling once I had decided to write about it. I wanted to signal the end of an era in the most dramatic way possible. Social attitudes had changed significantly by the Victorian era so duelling was less common, though naturally Lord Cardigan had fought one in dubious circumstances and avoided prosecution on a technicality concocted by the House of Lords. There was widespread public disgust and Cardigan himself was chased out of a theatre by an angry mob.

The last (recorded) fatal duel in England was fought in 1852 between two French emigres; Barthélemy and Cournet. Barthélemy killed his opponent and was charged with murder. Meanwhile in Ireland, British troops had fired upon a crowd of unarmed Irish peasants and killed six of them. They were arrested and charged with murder but the Attorney General had them released on bail. Barthélemy’s lawyer argued for the same leniency, as they were “honourable” duellists. Unsurprisingly this request was denied, but in doing so, the judiciary had to come down hard on the practice of duelling. It was now harder to escape the penalties, though I suspect a good many more were hushed up.

I suspect you’re right about that. You mingle your fictional characters with real personalities very well. Who would you say was your favourite real character to write about and why?

Fanny Duberly by Roger Fenton, 1855 (Wikimedia Commons)

Easy: Fanny Duberly. It took a huge amount of nerve to smuggle herself to the front line (would you leave your home to go to the front line in Ukraine today?) and a good deal more to defy the social norms of the time, not to mention Lord Lucan. She undoubtedly used her charms to get what she wanted from men, so naturally the gossips had a field day, but there is no evidence of anything else. In fact she never conceived a child, which makes the more scurrilous rumours less plausible. In this day and age her rehabilitation is long overdue.

I think you’ve done a good job of it in the book. Following on from that, who was your least favourite real character? Was that because they were difficult to portray or because you just didn’t like them? That does happen – you should hear me on the subject of Thomas Picton some time.

Lieutenant General James Thomas Brudenell, 7th Earl of Cardigan

Thomas Picton turned out to be a nasty piece of work didn’t he? I was very disappointed when I found out about his conduct in Trinidad. Yet he was a brave and effective commander. Physical bravery isn’t always accompanied by decency as my two candidates for this accolade prove. Lucan and Cardigan (it’s a toss up between the two) were thoroughly detestable, narrow-minded snobs and frequently lacking good judgement. Terry Brighton’s Hell Riders was the first non-fiction I read on the subject and he laid out their failings in technicolour. Spoilt bullies who never grew up and were incapable of admitting fault. I got heartily sick of them.

What did you make of Lord Raglan? In my books of course, he’s Fitzroy Somerset, Wellington’s young military secretary. Everyone loves him and he has his whole life and career ahead of him. What is he like by the time you’re writing about him? What went wrong?

 

Field Marshal Lord Raglan (Wikimedia Commons)

I don’t think anything went wrong with his character, he just grew old. The fact that he died on campaign tells you the impact it had on his health. He thought it was a mistake to invade Crimea, but he believed it was his duty to do so once ordered. It would have been better for everyone if he’d passed the job on to someone else, though I suspect it would still have been too much for him if he’d been younger. After all, the Duke of Wellington preferred obedience to initiative and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that some of his junior officers foundered without his instructions to follow.

 

The logistical failings of the Crimean campaign began in Whitehall and Raglan didn’t really get on top of them. The bureaucracy must bear the brunt of the blame for these failings, but one of the reasons that Raglan failed to confront them was that, unlike his mentor Wellington, he was too averse to confrontation. For example, when dealing with Lucan and Cardigan over their conduct he merely kept them stationed miles apart instead of disciplining them, thus their feud continued and seeds of disaster were sown.

The fact that the campaign did not have a Commander in Chief like Eisenhower 90 years later was deleterious to the allied effort. The French wanted to attack at the Alma, so Raglan agreed to support them without knowing what it entailed. The result was that British troops took the heaviest casualties. Then the French refused to follow up the victory when the Russians expected Sebastopol to fall immediately and Raglan went along with it when his instinct was to advance. After Balaklava, Lucan told him not to station the survivors of the Light Brigade on the heights above Sebastopol where they were exposed and isolated. But the French requested it and so Raglan insisted upon it. Consequently the horses starved, the men froze, both became sick and died. When Raglan got things right, he was talked out of it, when he got things wrong, he went ahead regardless.

I think that’s a very interesting point about Wellington’s officers. Of course some of them did go on to prove themselves effective commanders – Sir Harry Smith being an obvious example. But he had that kind of personality from the start. More to the point, he remained on active service whereas poor Raglan spent most of his career behind a desk. And I suspect his time with Wellington honed his diplomatic skills more than his tactical ability.

This is your first novel. What was the hardest thing about writing it?

Starting. There’s nothing more intimidating than a blank page. After that it was finding the time. I work about 10 – 11 hours a day, usually 5 days a week. For a year I worked, then came home to write.

Harry and Jack. Where did the idea for their feud come from? Did you find yourself sympathising with both of them or were you firmly on one team?

Oh Team Jack all the way. Their feud isn’t based on any real life equivalent, though I’m sure there were similar ones. But when you have both a huge inheritance and a beautiful woman to fight over, things are bound to get nasty.

And Eliza. Where did the idea for her character come from? Did you realise when you started that she was going to step in and take over?

I first floated the idea for this story on a night out after leaving Uni many years ago and I’m ashamed to say in my original iteration she was merely a plot device to cause friction. It’s a good job I waited another 16 years before writing it because that gave me time to mature. Eliza herself is something of a cocktail, consisting of one measure of Lizzy Bennett and one measure of Miss Marple with a dash of my own quirks thrown in. That mixture happened by accident in the meet-cute with Jack when I wanted to demonstrate her intelligence whilst simultaneously helping the exposition. Suddenly she’s a young Miss Marple and that altered her trajectory somewhat. I had no idea she would have this kind of presence.

I’d say this was definitely a case of one of your characters taking over. I wanted to ask you a bit more about Fanny Duberly who is obviously a real character. I’d come across her in passing but really didn’t know much about her. She was remarkable. Can you tell readers a little bit about her?

I’ll just add a little more to my previous answer. She was born to an affluent middle class family, her elder brother was a cavalryman and that seemed to form an impression on her. She was exceptionally beautiful and was soon married to a cavalryman. When war broke out she was determined to accompany him to the front and wrote a journal of the campaign and provides an eyewitness report of Balaklava. After the Crimea she followed her husband to India where she was again in the thick of it during the Indian Mutiny. I wish I knew more about her life after the war because I’d like to keep her in any future stories, should I write them.

I hope you can manage it. She’s a real gift to a novelist.

Writing battles can be challenging but you really set yourself up for a big battle in your first book. Tell me about the Charge. What was it like to write about it? Did you find it difficult?

This was the moment I had always intended to write about, so was excited when I reached it. My daily word count increased significantly when I started Balaklava. In some respects it was easier to write as the work is already done for you. I took the eyewitness accounts and worked them into my description. The tricky bit was the chronology. There was so much information to stay on top of. At one point I confused the events of my original script with documented fact! Thankfully my editor picked up on that.

There have been so many opinions about this but I’m curious to hear yours. Who do you think was mostly responsible for what is known as one of the most infamous blunders in British military history?

Captain Louis Nolan (from Wikimedia Commons)

There has been a move in recent years to blame Nolan and claim that he deliberately charged the Don Cossack battery on purpose to prove a point he wrote about in his book on cavalry tactics. I don’t buy that for a minute. The accusation depends upon conflating his original assertion; that cavalry could take an enemy battery if it had previously been subjected to bombardment, with what happened at Balaklava, which was a frontal assault against a battery, which had not been softened up by artillery and was flanked by two other batteries of cannon. In these circumstances a frontal assault was suicide and he would have known this. Furthermore if he survived he would have been court martialled because Captains don’t get to decide strategy on the hoof (no apologies for the pun) without consequence. So either he committed career suicide or actual suicide.

 

 

George Bingham, third Earl of Lucan (from Wikimedia Commons)

However I do believe he bears a large portion of the blame for not relaying the message carefully. He let his personal feelings cloud his judgement and misdirected Lucan, who ought to have had the sense to clarify his orders, but he too responded poorly to be being addressed impudently by a junior officer.

Raglan himself made a mistake by ordering an advance in the first place. After restricting any initiative from Lucan and refusing him the ability to attack when opportunities presented themselves, Lucan can be forgiven for being confused by his Commanding Officer’s switch from extreme caution to recklessness. Raglan’s orders, as intended were foolish anyway. Sending a cavalry division, unsupported by infantry against troops that were occupying hilltop redoubts was pure folly and shows how much pressure he was feeling at that moment. Given that his orders specifically mentioned infantry support too, its hardly surprising Lucan was confused when told to attack immediately.

Cardigan really was not to blame for the charge, but he was to blame for deserting his men immediately afterwards. The speed with which he returned and his own justification that there was nothing else to do at that point is extremely poor and demonstrates why Lucan and Raglan were right to be cautious of giving him any authority.

So to summarise, Raglan issued a poorly worded, foolish order, which was miscommunicated and then misunderstood by a hot-tempered ADC and a General who was both over arrogant and under intelligent. So there’s quite a bit of blame to share around.

Yes, it’s hard to pick one single culprit out of that lot. It was genuinely shocking that Cardigan just disappeared off without at least finding out what happened to the men who survived. I believe some of them were taken prisoner by the Russians weren’t they?

Yes, 58 troopers were taken prisoner and one of them, Private Wightman, wrote an account of their treatment at the hands of their Russian captors. Apparently they lived in better conditions than their comrades camped outside Sebastopol. The Russians were quite impressed by them and treated them with respect, giving them the freedom of the town and a plenty of food. One, Private Henry was given over to the custody of a Russian lady and stayed in her home. He was quite distressed when he was exchanged in a prisoner swap and returned to his regiment. Very Flashman behaviour! 

What’s been the biggest learning curve as a first time author?

Discovering exactly how much research is required and even then you may fall short. Myths are being busted all the time. I may write something with absolute certainty and discover afterwards that is not the case. I spent longer than I should have liked trying to discover whether “Trooper” referred to the horse or the rider. Research is like an onion, you just keep peeling off one layer after another.

Oh, I’ve also discovered that I’m not as grammatically astute as I always thought. My editor’s red pen corrections demonstrated that.

And the big question, and I know you’ve already been asked this…are you going to write a sequel? If so – without spoilers of course – what should we expect?

I hadn’t envisaged one when I started writing, but by the end I had an idea for a sequel that picks up where I left off. It’s tricky to describe without spoilers, but the emphasis will be on Bayons Manor, not the Crimea and will give Eliza a chance to exercise her little grey cells. Once again my biggest obstacle is time, but I am going to give it a shot. I’ll still probably finish my next book before George RR Martin releases Winds of Winter though.

I think that’s entirely likely, and I genuinely hope so. James, thank you for joining Writing with Labradors today. The book is great and it’s fascinating to learn a bit more about how it came to be written. Good luck with it.

You can read my review of the Last Duel here.

 

James Spivey was born in Dewsbury, West Yorkshire. From an early age, films and history were his twin passions. He graduated from Bradford University and now works for ITV as a cameraman. He spent several years as a Parish Councillor and is a volunteer for a canine search and rescue team. His pastimes include roaming the English countryside often with a dog or two by his side, running an Airbnb and exploring places with a rich cultural heritage whether at home or abroad. Meet him on Twitter / X here.

 

 

 

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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.

A Family Row 1812

A Family Row 1812 follows on closely from the previous post. In a Redoubtable Citadel,  Paul and Anne have had a wonderful time with the children but relationships among the adults are becoming strained…

 

Lisbon, March 1812

They met the following day in the dining room with Patience included. Her taut hostility told Anne that Joshua had shared Paul’s conversation with her and she wished he had not. Seated around the long table Paul took his family through the arrangements he had put in place should he be killed. It was hard not to be sombre. He and Anne had talked it through months ago and then set it aside, refusing to let thoughts of potential disaster ruin the pleasure of their days together. They revisited it now.

When he had finished, Paul closed the file of documents. “I’ve sent copies of everything to More and also to Sir Matthew Howard’s lawyers. A third copy will be held by the firm of Blundell and Merchison in London who represent Lord Wellington. They drew up the will and the trusts and they’ll represent Nan if she needs anything.  One of their junior partners is currently attached to Wellington’s staff and knows her well.”

Anne glanced covertly at her brother-in-law who was staring at his father. There was a veiled warning in Paul’s words and she knew Joshua would have understood it. Franz was looking at Anne. “This is a huge amount of responsibility for a girl of your age,” he said.

Anne studied him, weighing up her reply. “Sir, I know it seems that way to you.  And I’d much rather not have to take it on, since that would mean the man I love is dead in some Spanish grave. But I’m capable of it. They send boys of my age out to lead men. Paul was younger than I am now, I believe, when he led his company at Assaye and nobody told him that was too much responsibility.”

“That’s different. He’s a man.”

“Why is it different?”

“Anne, I am aware that you are a very unusual young woman. And believe me, when I tell you that I have nothing but admiration for what you have done for my son. You’ve made him happier than I have ever seen him. But…”

“He’s made me happy too, sir. But that’s not our job. That’s not what we do, that’s just a consequence of two people in love being together. In addition to that we have other lives, other things that we do which matter. I…”

“My dear, while I think you are very noble to help with the nursing you can hardly equate that with what my brother-in-law does,” Patience said with biting sarcasm. “Nor can I see how that is likely to help with managing four children, at least two of whom can be very difficult. Besides which, you are very young. Forgive me, but I would not wish to see Paul’s children – or his fortune – fall into the hands of some ne’er-do-well whom you might decide to take up with after his death.”

Anne shot a glance at her husband. He was keeping his temper surprisingly well, but she wished Patience would temper her remarks. “Well I would not wish to see that either, Patience, so let us not speak of it further,” she said calmly. “I am hoping that none of this will ever be needed. We just want to be sure that if the worst did happen, my position with the children is very clear.”

“My dear Anne, like you I hope it will never come to that,” Patience said smoothly. “But if it did, I suspect in a court of law, the judge would consider everything, including moral character.”

There was a frozen silence around the table. Joshua said mildly:

“Patience, I know you’re upset, but that was uncalled for.”

“Uncalled for?” Paul said, and Anne looked quickly at his expression, seeing that his father was doing the same.

“No!” she said firmly. “Do not say any of the things you want to say just now, Paul, it will not help. And you can’t hit her, she’s a female.”

“I’m rethinking my position on that one, girl of my heart. Patience, did I just hear you suggest that if I am killed in battle, my family would consider attacking my wife’s good name in court in order to take my children from her?”

“I am simply pointing out…”

“We wouldn’t, Paul,” Franz said softly. “Christ, you must know that.”

“I hope I do, sir, but it’s an interesting light on the character of my sister-in-law. I am definitely beginning to think I want her influence on my children kept to a minimum if that’s how her mind works.”

He was visibly furious and Anne put her hand firmly on his arm. “Enough, love. We need to solve this.” She looked at Patience. “For the sake of the children, who are genuinely attached to both of us, I am hoping we can put this to one side,” she said quietly. “But please understand that if you were ever to impugn my virtue or attack my reputation in any way, the first person to stand up in court to defend me would be Lord Wellington. I would probably follow with Marshal Beresford and General Sir Charles Stewart. But I could choose any one of the senior staff. You would lose and you would look like a spiteful, vengeful female jealous of a younger sister-in-law. So let us put that idea away and focus on…”

There were sounds from the hallway and Paul looked around. Mario appeared in the doorway.

“My apologies for disturbing you, Colonel, but there is a messenger for you. It is apparently urgent.”

Paul looked over at Anne and gave a rueful smile. Anne felt her heart sink. “Well you did better than you thought you’d do,” she said gently.

“I know, girl of my heart. Who is it, Mario?”

“It’s me, sir. Sorry.”

Paul got up and Anne did the same. “It’s good to see you, Sergeant, although I wish you’d managed to lose that on the way. Everything all right?”

Hammond came fully into the room and saluted. “Fine, sir. I’ve got letters from Colonel Wheeler and Major Swanson. And one for you, ma’am, from Keren.”

“How is she, Jamie, I’m missing her?”

“She’s missing you too, ma’am, we all are. Place isn’t the same without you.”

Paul observed with some amusement the consternation among his family at the sight of his wife embracing a sergeant. “At ease, Sergeant and hand it over. Is he yelling yet?”

“He’s been pretty good, sir, but he had a letter from General Alten yesterday. It seems his return has been delayed and his Lordship is ready to move out to Badajoz. All of a sudden he’s marching in on Colonel Wheeler demanding to know where you are and why you’re not back, as if he’d no idea how it had happened.”

He handed Paul a letter in Wellington’s familiar scrawl and Paul glanced at his father. “I’m sorry, I need to read this.”

“Of course.”

Paul opened it and skimmed it quickly, his lips quirking into a smile.  “Grumpy,” he said mildly. “He seems to have forgotten he gave me leave at all. He thinks we’ll breach Badajoz before Alten gets here in which case he wants me in temporary command.”

“Of the Light Division?” Franz said, shocked.

“Well, he’s not going to put me in charge of the cavalry, that’s for sure. Barnard and Vandeleur are going to yell at this and quite rightly. I’m going to have to get back there and fast, girl of my heart, before he stamps all over their pride. He’s not noted for his tact when he’s in this mood.”

“I know, love.”

Paul came forward and lifted her hand to his lips. “I’m sorry. Look, why don’t you stay a few days longer? I’ll move faster on my own and you can come up with the supply column as we originally planned. It will give you a chance to say goodbye to the children properly, and you can make sure everything is in order with the column.”

Anne smiled. “And it means you can ride through the night and sleep rough and not have to think about my delicate sensibilities along the way.”

“You have none, bonny lass. It’s up to you…”

“It’s all right, Colonel, I know you need to get going. Stay tonight though and let Jamie get some rest since it’s unlikely he’ll get much for a few days.”

Paul laughed and bent to kiss her very gently. Behind him, his brother said:

“Paul, are you mad? She can’t do that journey without you or any respectable female to chaperone her.”

Sergeant Hammond gave a splutter of laughter which he hastily turned into a cough and Paul grinned. “Bad cough that, Hammond. Josh, she’ll be fine. There’ll be an escort with the supply column, they’ll probably pull together a few men returning from sick leave. And if they get lost, she’ll tell them which way to go.”

Anne glanced at Hammond. “Jamie, go with Mario and get something to eat.  We need to finish here and then go and tell the children. Which I am going to find very hard.”

When he had gone Anne turned back and looked at them. “I’m going to find the children,” she said. “I don’t need to be here. What you all need to do now is mend some bridges. He’s going tomorrow and you don’t need me to tell you…anyway, talk for a bit and then let’s move on. I am sorry that you don’t really approve of me yet. Perhaps you never will. But what is more important just now is that you make your peace, you don’t need me here, I’m the outsider.”

“No you’re not,” Paul said quickly and Anne smiled and went to kiss him.

“Not with you, idiot. But we’re asking too much of them in a short time, Paul. I understand you had to tell them how we’re arranging things, but they don’t have to like it. Just talk to them.”

She left and there was silence. Into it, Franz said:

“It’s gone too quickly.”

“I know.” Paul turned and studied his family. “She’s right,” he said.

“According to you she’s always right, Paul,” Joshua said.

“Josh, she’s my wife and I love her. I also love you. But when it comes to the future of my children, I’m putting them first. I really hope you don’t have to cope with this before you’ve had a chance to get used to the idea. Let’s not fight any more.”

Paul was exhausted by the time he was ready to set off the following morning, worn out by the tears of his children and the restrained unhappiness of his father and brother. Hammond waited impassively with Jenson and the horses and Paul knelt and kissed Grace, Francis and Rowena then took Will from Anne’s arms and kissed his sleeping son very gently. He handed him to the nurse and turned back to his wife.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’ll be seeing you very soon, Colonel, don’t worry.”

“I won’t, bonny lass.” Paul turned to his father. “Father, it’s been good to see you. Thank you for coming – you too, Josh. And for bringing the children. I can’t tell you what it’s meant to me. Will you tell Patience the same?”

His brother nodded and hugged him. Paul had the odd impression that they had never before really thought about the possibility of his death in battle and he supposed that talking through practical arrangements had made it real to them. He turned to embrace Franz and his father hugged him hard.

“Take care, Paul. Not that you will.”

“I will. I always do as far as I can, sir.”

“Listen to me, boy, because I know you’ve no time. You shouldn’t have to go off without being sure. Whatever you want, whatever you’ve set up for her, I’ll see it done. No question.”  Franz glanced over at his daughter-in-law with a slight smile. “You’re wrong to think I don’t approve of her. I do, very much. It’s just not what I’m used to. But I promise it will be done the way you want. And I’ll take care of her.”

“Thank you,” Paul said softly. “It means so much…look I need to get out of here before I embarrass myself. I love you.”

“I love you too, lad. Goodbye.”

A Family Reunion 1812

A family reunion, 1812 is an excerpt from A Redoubtable Citadel, book four of the Peninsular War Saga. I was asked as part of #HistFicXmas 2023 to describe my happiest family scene in the books. There a few lovely scenes between Paul and his family but this one is probably my favourite. It’s the first time Anne has met her older step-children and her in-laws and I think it gives an interesting picture of what kind of relationship they’re all going to have. It is also a lovely moment between Paul and his father.

 

 

 

Lisbon,  February 1812

They arrived at the villa shortly after noon. They had travelled at an easy pace, giving Paul’s wound a chance to heal and were greeted at the door by Mario who ran the household and who emerged shouting orders in Portuguese about luggage and horses.

“Mario, it’s good to see you. It’s been a while.”

“Too long, Colonel. You look well and your lady is as beautiful as ever. And a new little one.”

“This is William, Mario, and be thankful he’s asleep because he is very noisy.”

“He looks like his father, Señora.”

“Is my family here, Mario?” Paul asked.

“They are, Colonel. Señor van Daan is in the courtyard.”

“We’ll go straight through and then Nan can take Will up and get him settled with his nurse.”

“Yes, Colonel. I will make sure they are unpacking.”

Paul walked through into the courtyard with Anne beside him. There was a man sitting at the table reading. He looked up and then rose and Paul stopped very suddenly.

“Father. Oh Christ, I’d no idea you were coming.”

“Paul.”

Anne shot a glance at her husband and saw that there was an unexpected shine to his eyes. She looked across at her father-in-law and realised that he was equally affected. It was not surprising. They must have been angry with each other for so much of their lives, these two towering personalities. But since they had last met, Paul had almost died at Talavera, had lost a wife and married another and had risen to the rank of brigade commander at a very young age. His communication with his father had been limited to writing letters during that time and Anne wondered suddenly how much Franz van Daan worried. She stepped forward. 

“You two need some time alone,” she said quietly. “Let’s do the introductions later. I’m going to take Will up and get him settled with Gwen and I’ll change into something that doesn’t look as though I’ve been on the road for a week.” She looked over at her father-in-law, who tore his eyes away from his son to return her regard. “It is good to meet you, sir, although we’ve not properly met yet. But we’ll do that later.”

She touched Paul’s arm and made to go, but he caught her about the waist and drew her back. “Just a moment, girl of my heart. Father, have a quick look at my latest.”

His father came forward and Anne held out the sleeping child for inspection. “I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you meant your latest offspring,” she said and Paul gave a choke of laughter and kissed her.

“I did. Go on then, go and get him fed and settled.”

***

When Anne had left Paul looked at his father. Franz stepped forward and embraced him.

“Christ, Paul, I know it’s not possible, but I’d swear you’ve grown. Perhaps I’m shrinking.”

Paul laughed and released him, blinking back the tears. “You’re not, I promise you. It’s the uniform, it makes us all look bigger. I wonder if that’s why they chose it?  Something about scaring off the enemy. I’m sorry about this, you caught me by surprise.”

“I’m sorry, I should have written to tell you. It was a sudden decision. I thought about it and realised it had been too long, and there isn’t much chance you’re coming home any time soon, is there?”

“No. I’m so glad you came. Where are Josh and Patience?”

“Out sightseeing. And that was your wife.”

“Yes. Now that you’ve seen her…”

“Now that I’ve seen her, boy, it’s very clear to me how you came to marry her so damned quickly. You could hardly let her sit and wait; I presume there was a queue?”

Paul laughed, going to pour wine. “There would have been, but I was very fast,” he said, handing a glass to his father. “Sir, thank you for coming, I’m so glad I made it down with Nan, now.”

He held out a chair for Franz and sat down opposite. “So were you hoping to see me and or were you curious to meet Nan?”

Franz laughed. “Both. Brigade commander, Paul – how old are you now?”

“You’re my father, you’re supposed to know that. I’m thirty one.”

“Christ, you really took this seriously, didn’t you?”

“Very. Although I’m well aware you never expected me to.”

Franz gave a wry smile. “No. I thought you were doing it to snap your fingers at me because I suggested the law. I gave it a couple of years and thought you’d be back at home and ready to fall into line.”

“When did you stop thinking that Father?”

“After Assaye. I was privileged to watch you those first weeks at Melton and I spoke to Colonel Dixon. It was obvious you’d found where you wanted to be.” Franz glanced at him and smiled slightly. “And I’m guessing you found something else as well.”

“My lady? Yes. I’m still getting used to it, I suppose. Although I’m not sure I’m ever going to learn to take her for granted.”

“I was sorry about Rowena, Paul.”

“It still hurts,” Paul admitted. “She was so much a part of my life, it was as if there was a hole left that nothing else could fill. I have Nan, and had from the first, and I love her in a way I never did Rowena. But I don’t think I ever knew what Rowena meant to me until she’d gone. She stood by me through so much. It’s been hard at times, so much has happened in the past couple of years.”

“It is difficult to keep up by letter,” his father said dryly.

Paul accepted the implied reproof with a rueful smile. “It’s impossible, and I’m not a very reliable correspondent, I know. Once you’ve got to know Nan properly you’ll do better, she’s very good. And you can read her handwriting which is more than you can say for mine.”

“I’m looking forward to getting to know her. How long can you stay?”

“Probably not long. Wellington treats requests for leave like being bled by an over-enthusiastic junior surgeon. And he’s especially bad with me, God knows why.  Bloody Craufurd got three months in England last year and I couldn’t manage a week to get married. I’m here and I’m hoping for a couple of weeks but if one of my ensigns walks through that door in a week’s time telling me that Wellington is screaming for me, I won’t be a bit surprised. If that does happen, I may leave Nan for a bit longer if you’re happy with that. There are always supply columns coming north, she can get an escort back when she’s ready. And the way the commissariat feel about her, they’ll move a lot faster with our rations if she’s with them.”

“What on earth does the commissariat have to do with your wife, Paul?”

“More than they’d like, she’s my unofficial quartermaster. As well as my unofficial regimental surgeon. You ought to hear the medical board on the subject.”

Franz was laughing. “I am more and more glad I came. She’s got you somewhere I never thought you’d be, Paul, you can’t keep the smile off your face when you talk about her, can you? How long have you been married?”

“About a year and a half. It doesn’t seem that long, and yet it’s hard to remember life without her.”

“How old is she?”

“She’s twenty-two. She married for the first time very young, he was killed just before Bussaco and we married soon after that.”

“And how long had you known her, Paul?”

Paul could hear the suspicion in his father’s voice. He considered for a moment then decided to tell the truth. “I met her in ’08 in Yorkshire.”

“I see. You’ve been surprisingly constant then.”

Paul looked down at the wrought iron table for a moment, then up into his father’s eyes. “You mean given that I was unfaithful to Rowena? Yes, sir. If I could go back, I’d change what I did back then, but I can’t. I intend to keep my marriage vows this time around.”

Franz gave a faint smile. “This wife of yours seems to have thoroughly tamed you, my boy.”

“I don’t see that as an insult, sir.”

“It was not intended as one. Is there anything she can’t do?”

“Well I’ve yet to see her cook a meal, and if you hand her a shirt that needs mending she’s likely to tear it up for bandages. She isn’t much like other women, sir.  Although she has proved surprisingly adept at motherhood which is a bit of a surprise to both of us. I missed the birth completely but she seemed to sail through it without a hitch, and she’s proved astonishingly competent with Will. It’s going to be hard for her, he’s very young.”

“Is he weaned?”

“We’ve brought a wet nurse. She’s an Englishwoman who lost her man at Fuentes de Oñoro and she has a young daughter. She’s from London and wants to go home. Once Will is properly weaned, which won’t be long, it’s up to you if she stays on as his nurse or goes home – just make sure she gets there if that’s what she wants. Her name’s Gwen and she’s a good girl, you’ll have no trouble with her.”

“We still have Mary who came home with Rowena,” Franz said with a smile.  “She’s proved herself very useful and she married a few months ago, one of our grooms.  Paul, there’s something I’ve not told you yet.”

“Go on.”

“When we decided to come out to collect William and meet your wife, we…”

There were sounds of arrival in the hallway and Paul heard his sister-in-law’s gentle tones admonishing. The door to the courtyard burst open and a child entered.  He was wearing a white shirt and breeches with a loose jacket, open and with two buttons missing. He looked at least nine or ten from his height and manner, but Paul knew it was deceptive, knew he was not quite eight.

“Papa!”

“Francis.” Paul moved forward uncertainly and then the child ran. Paul caught him up into his arms and held him tight, the boy’s arms wrapped around his neck in a stranglehold. Paul buried his face in his son’s hair, fairer than his, almost white like Rowena’s and inhaled the scent of him. Beyond him he saw his brother coming forward, smiling, and then his sister-in-law holding the hand of a girl of around ten, dainty and fair in a pink dress with a white pinafore over it. Paul dropped to his knees, still holding his son with one arm and held out his other arm to his daughter.

“Grace. Oh lass, come here. You’re as pretty as your mother.”

Grace ran forward and joined the embrace and Paul knelt holding them and kissing them. Finally he looked up at Patience.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You’ve no idea. I’m revising my plans, if Wellington wants me out of here before two weeks, he can either come and get me himself or cashier me. I can take the loss.”

“Oh, Good Heavens.”

Paul looked up. His wife was coming into the courtyard from the inner door, laughing. She had changed out of her travelling clothes into a sprigged muslin gown trimmed with blue and she looked very young and very beautiful. “You kept this very quiet, Paul.”

“Love, I didn’t know.”

Anne smiled at her sister-in-law and Joshua, both of whom were staring at her in considerable astonishment. “But there’s one missing, and she’s the only one I’ve met before.”

“She’s here, but she’s a little shy,” Patience said, lifting the smallest child from her skirts. She was not yet two, as fair as the others. Anne came forward.

“My poor Will is going to look like a changeling in this family if he keeps that dark hair. Although he’s got the eyes and the attitude already.”

“And what makes you think that attitude comes from me?” her husband said, laughing up at her. Anne thought, her heart unexpectedly full, that she had never seen him look quite so carefree. Reaching out she took Rowena from Patience and settled her on one hip.

“You were very tiny the last time I held you,” she said, studying the child. Blue Van Daan eyes looked back at her.  Anne kissed the soft cheek. “When he’s stopped feeding, which might be a while, you shall all come up and meet your new brother.”

“Half-brother,” Grace said. She was staring at Anne as if she could not tear her eyes away.

“Grace!” Patience said, horrified. Anne laughed. 

“No, she’s completely right. There are a lot of half relationships in this family, aren’t there? I’m going to sit over here with Rowena because she’s heavy, come and sit by me, Grace, you need to help me work all this out. You’re the eldest, aren’t you, which makes you how old?”

“I’m nine. My mother is dead.”

“I know, Grace, and I’m sorry. She died of fever in India, didn’t she? Your father has told me about her.”

Paul was watching the two of them, fascinated at seeing them together for the first time. His daughter went slowly to the chair beside Anne. Rowena was fidgeting, and without hesitation, Anne took the two combs out of her hair and gave them to the toddler, showing her how to lock them together and slide them apart again. Enchanted, Rowena began to play with the combs.

“Anne, let me take her up for you,” Patience said, and Anne looked up with a quick smile.

“Oh not yet, please? I’ve waited so long to meet them all.”

“Father told you about my mother?” Grace said, sounding incredulous, and Paul felt guilt twist like a knife. 

“Of course he did,” Anne said without a moment’s hesitation. “He didn’t need to tell me about Rowena because she was my best friend. I never met Nell but your father told me she was very pretty. And looking at you, Grace, I can believe it.”

Francis was watching Anne as well. Paul set him down and got up, his eyes on the children. Francis went to stand on the other side of Anne.

“My mother was pretty as well. I’ve seen a portrait.”

“I don’t know what my mother looked like, I’ve never seen a portrait of her,” Grace said wistfully.

“No there wasn’t much opportunity going to India,” Paul said lightly. “But if you want a fairly good idea, Grace, find a mirror. Your eyes are my colour but the shape of your face is Nell’s and no mistake.”

“Did you really know my mother?” Francis asked, and the wistful tone of his voice made Paul want to cry. He had not expected to see his children this week and he realised he had given no thought to how he would explain Rowena’s death, his marriage to Anne and their complicated relationship. He realised abruptly that Anne had already thought about this and knew exactly what she wanted to say.

“I knew her very well, Francis,” she said. “She was the best friend I ever had.”

“And was she really pretty?”

“She was lovely.”

“I look like my father,” Francis said, and Anne studied him and laughed. 

“You really do,” she said. “But you have one little thing that reminds me so much of Rowena that I want to cry.”

“What’s that?” Francis said eagerly.

Anne reached out and ran her finger lightly over the bridge of his nose. “You have her freckles,” she said softly. “Each one of them stamps her name all over you, Francis van Daan. And there are other things about her I’m hoping you have too.”

“What?”

“Her goodness. Her kindness. Her sense of right and wrong. If you keep hold of those as well as your father’s stubbornness you could be prime minister one day.”

“I want to be a soldier one day,” Francis said.

“Do you? Wherever did you get that idea from? Anyway, you can be a soldier and a politician, Lord Wellington has done both. Perhaps he’ll be prime minister one day, who knows?”

Grace had reached out and was touching the silky strands of Anne’s hair, which was coming loose without the tortoiseshell combs.

“Your hair is so beautiful.”

“Thank you, Grace. Although I admit I always used to want fair hair like yours.  I was envious of Rowena for that.”

“I think you’re prettier than my mother,” Francis said quietly, and Anne reached out and caressed his face gently.

“No, you’ve just forgotten how lovely she was. You can’t see it in a portrait. In the story books they gave me as a child, the prettiest princesses were always fair haired and blue eyed, like both of your mothers. What your father was thinking when he chose me as number three, we’ll never know.”

“I know,” Francis said firmly. “I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re the most beautiful lady I have ever seen.”

Anne was smiling. “There are an awful lot of beautiful ladies out there, Francis.  But thank you.”

“Number three?” Grace said, and there was an odd tone to her voice as though it had never occurred to her to place her long dead mother on the same footing as her two stepmothers. Paul felt guilt again and opened his mouth to speak then stopped as his wife reached out and put her arm around his daughter.

“Number three,” she said firmly. “Your mother was the first, Grace, then Rowena and now me. I know I can’t replace either of them with you, how could I? But I hope you’ll get used to me. I’ve heard so much about you all. Now who is going to come up and see Will? He can’t still be eating or he’ll explode like a shell.”

“And that one is going to haunt nursery teas for a while,” Paul said, beginning to laugh. Anne smiled up at him. 

“What is the point of nursery teas if you can’t have unsuitable conversations?  You should have heard some of the things my brothers used to say around the table, Nurse used to cover her ears.”

“If your brothers were the most badly behaved at your nursery tea table, I would be very surprised, girl of my heart. Hand over my youngest daughter, you’ve had her long enough.”

“Is that what he calls you?” Grace said, wide-eyed.

“He calls me a lot worse than that. Get those combs off her before she eats one of them, Paul, she can’t be hungry it’s not close to tea time.”

Francis began to laugh. “Combs for tea!”

“Only if you don’t behave, Master van Daan. Patience, I am so sorry, I’ve not even said how-do-you-do yet. And you as well, Joshua. Let me go and introduce Will, and when we’ve all driven him mad and he’s howling through over-excitement I’ll give him back to Gwen and come down for sherry and civilised conversation, I promise you. And I’ll dump this lot off in the nursery on the way to wash themselves, Francis looks as though he’s been through a battle on a wet day his face is so dirty.”

“It is not! I do not!”

“You absolutely do, and don’t argue with me, I’ve seen a lot of battles.”

“Have you? I didn’t know girls went near battles.”

Paul was laughing so hard he could not stop. “They’re not supposed to, Francis, but try telling your stepmother that, she hasn’t the least sense of propriety.”

His wife regarded him severely. “You’re becoming as over-excited as the children, Colonel. Give me Rowena and put those combs on the table before you break them, I’m serving them to Francis for tea later. Don’t come up, stay and be civil to your brother and Patience, I’m not sure you’ve even had a chance to speak to them yet. I’ll see you later.”

She left, and they could hear her progress with Francis and Grace suggesting a collection of bizarre items which could be served for tea.

The Van Daan Family

It has never occurred to me before to write a brief history of the Van Daan family for my readers. It occurred to me today when I was trying to catch up with the #HistFicXmas fun prompts on social media. I love doing those things, they’re a great was for an author to connect with readers, but sometimes the question is just too big for a Twitter post.

Prompt number 11 was Christmas = Family. Tell us about your MC’s (main character’s) family.

Well. Where do I start?

Funnily enough I’ve just posted this year’s free Christmas story which tells for the first time, the story of how Paul van Daan’s parents first met. Through casual mentions through the book we’ve learned that Franz van Daan was a wealthy merchant and businessman from Antwerp who made a fortune in India then another in the City and married a Viscount’s daughter. When I originally sketched out Paul’s background I hadn’t really thought in any detail about when or how an upstart Dutchman from new money came to marry into the English aristocracy. The Yule Log explains all of that.

I’m going to base this post firmly in 1813 which is where I’m up to in the Peninsular War Saga. At this point, the Van Daan family is separated by war. There are also internal tensions which will presumably have to be worked out once the war is over and Paul returns home. In the meantime, for #HistFicXmas this is a brief introduction to the family so far.

Franz van Daan is Paul’s father. He’s now in his seventies and still actively involved in running his business empire although Paul is beginning to think it’s time he slowed down a bit, especially after he recently broke his leg in a fall on the hunting field. Franz has been a widower for twenty years and has never shown any interest in marrying again. He lost his beloved Georgiana along with his young daughter Emily to smallpox when his younger son Paul was only ten. Since then he’s divided his time between his London house and his estate in Leicestershire and is gradually leaving more of the business to his older son Joshua to run.

Joshua van Daan is ten years older than Paul which makes him around forty. He’s been married to Patience for eighteen years. Until recently, they had no children though Patience had a series of miscarriages, but she recently gave birth to a daughter, named Emily after Georgiana’s mother and Paul’s sister. Joshua is a much loved older brother to Paul, a great support when he first came home after his enforced service in the Royal Navy. Their good relationship has been strained recently however, due to Patience’s disapproval of Paul’s unconventional second wife.

Patience van Daan is in her thirties and is described as a pleasant woman. She came from a good family and there’s an implication that her marriage to Joshua was arranged in a very traditional way. Even so, the couple seem happy and she and Paul had a good relationship until she was introduced to Anne. The two women seemed friendly enough at first but Anne’s determination to make her own decisions about the raising of her step-children caused things to cool and a furious family argument about the provisions in Paul’s will made tensions worse. In book eight Patience tries to stop the children travelling to Portugal during winter quarters.

An Unconventional OfficerAnne van Daan is Paul’s second wife and my female MC. She’s nine years younger than him and when they met he was already married. He married Rowena, his first wife, because he had seduced her and she was carrying his child. He had an affectionate relationship with Rowena, who bore him two children but he was unfaithful more than once. Anne was also previously married to Lieutenant Robert Carlyon who treated her appallingly. Paul and Anne were finally free to marry after Rowena died in childbirth and Robert was shot while trying to murder Anne. Since then, Anne has travelled with the army, putting up with the terrible hardships of campaign life to be with Paul. She is described more than once as the heart and soul of the regiment. Formidably intelligent, she is willing to turn her hand to doctoring, nursing, administration and diplomacy – anything in fact that doesn’t involve housekeeping.

Paul currently has five children living at Southwinds under the care of their Aunt Patience. There is an older girl who may or may not be his daughter from a brief affair when he was a student at Oxford. We know little about her apart from the fact that Paul chose to take financial responsibility for her and that her mother has since married. As far as we’re aware, he has never met her.

His eldest daughter Grace arrived in his life when she was a toddler. She was the result of another of Paul’s casual liaisons, this time with Nell Kemp, the wife and then widow of a soldier. Nell remarried to a sergeant of the Highland regiment and Paul had no idea she had borne him a child until Sergeant Fraser was killed at Assaye and Nell died of fever soon afterwards. She asked one of the women to take Grace to the 110th to find her father. Paul, newly made captain and badly wounded during the battle, was about to sail home to recover. He chose to take Grace with him and developed a close and loving relationship with her. Grace is now eleven, a strong-minded child who is only too aware of the disadvantages of being born out of wedlock. She loved Rowena as the only mother she had ever known but it is Anne who really seems to understand her and there’s a suggestion that these two are going to make a formidable team as Grace grows up.

Francis is Paul’s oldest son with Rowena, named for his grandfather Franz. He almost two years younger than Grace and the pair are inseparable. Francis seems to have inherited his father’s temper and passion for justice as well as his irrepressible high spirits and he and Grace are constantly in mischief. He’s fiercely protective of her and has been known to punch other children who tease her about her illegitimacy. Both his uncle and his grandfather think he should be sent to school but Paul is adamant that he’s still too young. Francis is desperate to go into the army and follow in Paul’s footsteps. Anne thinks that two of them might be a bit tough on the army.

Rowena is three, the image of her dead mother and was inclined to be shy and very clingy with Patience. Since travelling to meet Anne however, she seems to be developing more confidence. She is particularly devoted to her younger brother William and keeps a protective eye on him even at such a young age. She doesn’t remember her mother and both Anne and Paul are determined to make sure that Rowena’s children know all about her.

William is two, Anne’s first child and has his mother’s dark hair though he still has the Van Daan blue eyes. It’s too early to know much about his personality. The same can be said for Anne’s latest child, little Georgiana who is not yet a year old. She was born prematurely after the appalling retreat from Madrid and Burgos and her birth was difficult enough for both Paul and Anne to hope that there won’t be any more too soon.

That brings me to the end of the current members of Paul’s family. Other family members are mentioned from time to time. We know that Franz had an older brother Andries who was also in trade divided his time between Antwerp and Cape Town and there is a brief mention in book one of his daughter Christina. Paul’s mother was an only child but we know that her father’s title was inherited by her cousin Edward and his family are presumably still neighbours of the Van Daans in Leicestershire. Anne also has a big family living in the industrial town of Thorndale in Yorkshire and it’s possible we’ll see more of some of them in future books.

After a shaky start and far too many youthful wild oats, Paul van Daan has proved to be a devoted husband and father and very much a family man. I’ve enjoyed getting to know his father and mother in this latest story and if all goes well I’m hoping you’ll get to know his children better in future books. I’m not convinced that the Van Daans history with the army is going to end in 1815…

The Sight

The author marching over the battlefield at Sorauren.

Welcome to The Sight, my Halloween short story for 2023. It’s freely available on my website so please share as much as you like and there’s a pdf at the end. The story has been released a little late this year, because it is so closely linked to my most recent book and works better if it is read afterwards.

 

 

 

 

 

An Unattainable Stronghold which is book 8 of the Peninsular War Saga, tells the story of the early battles of the Pyrenees. It was a confusing time, with both Wellington and Soult trying to manage their troops along a badly stretched line. Different parts of the line were defended by different divisions and it was not always easy for the commanders to know what was happening elsewhere.

Because of the way I construct my books, it wasn’t possible to cover every single battle of this part of the war. I now have British, Spanish and French heroes to follow which has given me far more scope, but my characters all belong to real life divisions and it would be unrealistic to send a major-general or chef-de-battalion racing around the countryside so that he can appear at every battle or skirmish.

History plus a bit of imagination enabled me to place characters at the storming of San Sebastian and even at the bridge at Vera but there was no way I could get any of the main protagonists to the Battle of Sorauren. I was sorry about this because I’ve been there and it’s an interesting battlefield. Running through a list of characters in my head afterwards, wondering if I could have done better, I suddenly realised that I had an excellent opportunity after all. Lord Wellington was at Sorauren with his staff members which meant I had just the man for the job.

This is not a traditional ghost story. There are probably many ghosts on a battlefield but my characters are far too busy to notice them. Instead I’ve delved into some of the history of the Basque region to find a tale that I could link to the present. I hope you enjoy it.

The story is dedicated to my friend Janet and her beautiful dog Bella, who are both eagerly waiting to hear more about Lord Wellington’s puppies.

The Sight

27th July 1813

It was an eventful ride from Almandoz to join the army on the slopes above Sorauren. They rode twenty miles through difficult country in appalling weather. The road was poor and Lord Wellington set a fast pace.

Captain Richard Graham was used to long rides in miserable conditions and had no difficulty keeping up. During a brief early morning stop, eating dark rye bread and salty bacon in a warm farmhouse kitchen, he reminisced with Lord Fitzroy Somerset about the misery they had endured during their ride to Cadiz at the end of the previous year. Both men kept a wary eye on Lord Wellington and talked in low tones. His Lordship was worried, as well as being tired and cold, which meant that his temper was uneven and he was likely to snap at them for chattering like idiots. There were several other staff members around the table, including Wellington’s quartermaster-general, Colonel George Murray. For the most part they ate in exhausted silence.

Wellington had been surprised in the middle of his plans for the current campaign by the news that the French, under Marshal Soult, had crossed the border and engaged Allied troops up in the high passes at Maya and Roncesvalles. Wellington had been focused on blockading Pamplona and besieging the coastal town of San Sebastian, but as news came in of the new threat he had shifted his attention with his usual speed and mobilised his staff members without a moment’s hesitation and without the least concern for comfort or safety.

Richard was accustomed to both danger and discomfort but, like all the headquarters staff, he preferred not to incur the wrath of Lord Wellington in one of his periodic bouts of temper. He and Somerset broke off their conversation the moment his Lordship turned a frosty glare in their direction. Just as they were finishing their hasty meal, a messenger arrived, soaked and splashed with mud, Wellington took the letters from him and stood in the middle of the kitchen reading them. The farmer’s wife moved around the men, glaring occasionally at the puddle forming on her flagged stone floor, as the messenger awaited his Lordship’s response.

Eventually Wellington looked up. “Bring writing materials immediately, Somerset. I need to send orders to Hill and to Alten. It seems that Picton has been forced to retreat further than I had expected, but this intelligence is so vague. I hope to rendezvous with General Long in person before we reach the lines. He must know more than he has written here.”

He slapped the letter irritably on the table and sat down to read a second missive while Somerset, who was his Lordship’s military secretary, brought the requested writing materials. Richard, feeling rather sorry for the farmer’s wife whose kitchen had been abruptly commandeered, shepherded the rest of the men outside. It had finally stopped raining and there was even a weak sun becoming visible between the clouds. Richard found a rickety bench for the tired cavalry trooper who had brought the letters and went to arrange food for him and to make sure Wellington’s two grooms had been given breakfast. It was not really his job to manage provisions for the journey but when Wellington was under pressure he tended to forget such trifling matters as food and rest. Richard firmly believed that both men and horses worked better if they were properly fed and chose to take responsibility for the party.

He was rubbing down his horse in the muddy farmyard when he was joined by Somerset, who was holding a letter.

“Sorry Richard, he wants this delivered to Pack as soon as possible. Are you all right to take it?”

Richard took the orders. “Of course. It’ll be a relief to get away from him to be honest. I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer yourself.”

“There were several volunteers, believe me. The risk of running into French cavalry patrols in the hills is nothing compared to another hour of listening to him snapping our heads off. He asked for you specifically. He said that he trusts you not only to deliver the orders without getting lost or distracted but also to get any reply back to him in a timely manner. He then made a complimentary remark about your horse, while not failing to remind us all that it had been looted at Vitoria.”

Richard broke into a laugh. He ran his hand affectionately down the smooth grey neck of his new gelding. “He knows perfectly well I didn’t steal this horse. I bought him from an officer of the 43rd.”

“And he bought it from two soldiers of the 112th who definitely stole it from King Joseph’s baggage train.”

“Undoubtedly. That’s why I’ve named him Joseph. But his Lordship cannot prove any of that.”

“He’s just jealous that he didn’t spot that auction before you did. We’re all a bit envious to be honest, he’s very handsome.”

“He really is. I was showing him off to General van Daan last week and he told me that if I ever want to sell, I’m to give him first refusal. I shan’t though. Any further orders?”

“Just get a reply from Pack, even if it’s no more than an acknowledgement that he’s read and absorbed every one of his Lordships dictates about the route he should take and the management of his baggage wagons. You know how he is if he doesn’t get an answer.”

“I’ll tell Sir Denis, don’t worry. If necessary I’ll write it myself and get him to sign it.”

“Good man. Take care, Richard. There actually are cavalry patrols out there and Lord Wellington is right. We really don’t have enough information yet. We’re heading towards Ostiz and then south towards Sorauren. I hope you make it back to us before nightfall.”

***

The weather remained unsettled. By the time Richard reached the Sixth Division he had ridden through a thunderstorm followed by a brief spell of bright sunlight. A sharp wind sent clouds scudding across a blue sky. Sir Denis Pack greeted him cheerfully and provided hot tea while he read Wellington’s letter. Richard saw the Irishman’s lips twitch into a smile.

“God love the man, did he think I’d try to haul the guns and the baggage wagons over the heights? How long does he think I’ve been doing this? Will he want a reply, do you think?”

“You know Lord Wellington, sir.”

Pack groaned and waved to an orderly to bring pen and ink. He perched on a folding stool, hunched over a battered leather lap desk, and grumbled under his breath as he penned a response. Richard wrapped his cold hands around the tin cup and hoped the rain would hold off for his return ride.

Pack read his short note then folded it, not bothering to search for a sealing wafer. Richard gave his empty cup to the orderly and went to take the letter.

“I’ve told him I’ll await his orders at Olague, Graham. I’ll keep them on the alert and ready to march at a moment’s notice. I won’t let the officers bring their fancy baggage and I won’t drop any guns over the mountain side. Is there anything else I need to say that will keep him happy?”

“You could try telling him Soult is on his way back to France, sir.”

“Soult will be soon enough, my boy. His Lordship is an exasperating meddler on campaign but I’d back him any day against whatever Soult has in mind. Somewhere near Sorauren, you think?”

“Based on the intelligence we have so far, sir, but that could change. He’s still waiting for further news of General Picton.”

“As far as I know, Picton’s scuttling all the way back to Pamplona but he’ll have to stop eventually. Don’t tell him I said that, by the way.”

Richard grinned. He liked Sir Denis Pack, who was a good battle commander with an irreverent sense of humour.

“I won’t, sir. Wouldn’t want to see pistols at dawn with General Picton.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m far too old for that nonsense these days and if Picton isn’t, he ought to be. Though I used to think he and Craufurd would have come to blows one day if Robert had survived long enough. Off you go, Captain Graham. Follow his Lordship’s advice yourself and keep an eye out for French patrols, though I must say we’ve seen nothing of them so far.”

Richard took his advice and kept a wary eye on the upper slopes, going carefully around any woodland which might have acted as cover for enemy troops. He saw no sign of them, though the condition of the road suggested that an army had marched this way very recently. Richard was suddenly very sure that a battle was coming and he badly wanted to reach Lord Wellington in time.

After surveying the area, he took a short cut across several sloping meadows, boggy after recent rain. The road here ran through a heavily wooded area for half a mile and Richard decided he would not take the chance. He could not be more than three miles from the village of Sorauren where he hoped to catch up with Wellington’s party and he wondered if that might also mean French pickets or stragglers in the vicinity.

The grass was muddy and hard-going and the horse slipped several times. Richard reined him in firmly. He and Joseph were still getting to know one another but the horse seemed very sure-footed so far. He was a beautiful animal, by far the best horse Richard had ever owned and he had no intention of risking a broken leg in an over-hasty descent to reach a battle which might not even happen today.

He reached a proper path with some relief and turned Joseph down towards the valley where he could re-join the main road. There was a stone cottage on the left, set back from the path. It had a weathered tiled roof, a walled garden plot for growing vegetables and herbs and a larger enclosure behind it where a cow and several goats grazed peacefully. Some chickens scratched about in a wooden fenced area outside a rickety shed.

As he passed the cottage, Richard saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A woman appeared, straightening up from behind the wall, a basket in her hand. She looked equally astonished to see him so close but Joseph was more startled than either of them by the sudden movement. He gave a squeal of alarm and reared up so abruptly that Richard was taken completely unawares. He felt himself falling and his only thought was that he had no wish to lose his new horse. Twisting the reins around his gloved hand, he landed heavily in a particularly muddy rut on the uneven road.

For a moment he could not move. The impact had driven all the breath out of him. He lay very still, trying to work out if he was hurt, but it was difficult to think straight when he could not take a proper breath. Richard tried desperately to draw air into his lungs but for a long agonising moment nothing seemed to work and he felt as though he was suffocating.

Unexpectedly he felt hot breath on his face and then a little snuffling sound. Joseph’s wet nose touched his cheek then his forehead and then the horse blew fully into his face. Richard flinched back instinctively and suddenly he could move again. He took in air in a great whoosh.

“Here, let me take him or he will step on you,” a voice said in Spanish. “Of course you will not understand me, so…”

“I understand you perfectly Señora,” Richard said in the same language. “I will hold him. He’s very strong and…”

She did not bother to reply, just removed the reins from his hand before he could stop her. He felt a jolt of pain in his wrist and up his arm as he sat up. She had led Joseph a few feet away and was holding his bridle, talking softly to him. The horse seemed calm again and Richard decided she knew what she was doing and took stock of his own injuries.

There was nothing too serious apart from his right wrist which was very swollen. His back ached badly and there was a lump on the back of his head where it had hit a broken piece of stone in the road. He was also covered in mud, which had soaked through his clothing. Richard bent to retrieve his hat, wincing a little. He brushed some of the mud off it and went to collect his horse.

“Thank you for your help, Señora.”

She turned to survey him from bright brown eyes in a weathered face. She was probably in her fifties, a thin woman in a black gown and shawl. Her dark hair was peppered with grey and worn in a neat chignon.

After a long, considering look, the woman turned towards the cottage. “Juan, come here. Take the officer’s horse and give him some water.”

A boy of about eleven raced around from the back of the cottage. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Richard, then looked at the woman.

“English?”

“Yes. But he speaks Spanish, so do not be cheeky. Come inside, sir. I will look at your wrist.”

“It’s very kind of you Señora, but I am in a hurry.”

“Your kind are always in a hurry. If you hurry with a broken wrist, you will fall off again and this time you will not hold him. My boy understands horses, he’ll take care of this one.”

Richard hesitated but she had already handed the bridle to the boy. He watched for a minute and decided that Joseph would be safe enough so he followed the woman into the cottage, looking around him curiously.

It was a typical Basque cottage although rather bigger than most. There was only one room on the ground floor, combining kitchen and living quarters. Above was a sleeping loft which was accessed by a fixed wooden ladder. A fire burned in the grate and there was something cooking in a pot suspended over the blaze.

One end of the room seemed to be set up as a still room, with a wooden bench bearing pots and jars and a big stone pestle and mortar. Bunches of herbs and strings of vegetables hung from the wooden beams giving the room a heady fragrance. There was a door on the opposite side which looked as though it led to a small lean-to. An animal, possibly a donkey, could be glimpsed through partially open door.

Richard inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent of the herbs. The woman smiled as if she understood then beckoned him to the fire. He sat on a stool and obediently held out his wrist for her inspection. She prodded and examined and told him to move his fingers. He did so, wincing.

“I do not think it is broken but it is a bad sprain. I will bind it up to give support while you ride. There is a salve I make with rosemary and hot peppers. It will ease the pain and help with the swelling. You should rest it, but you are a man. I know you will not.”

Richard could not help laughing. She reminded him of his long dead wife Sally and his recently acquired fiancée, Honoria, both of whom would have scolded him.

“I’m sorry. You’re being very kind, but I have to ride on as soon as possible. I’ve letters to deliver.”

He wondered immediately if he should have mentioned his mission but decided that he would be safe enough here. There was no sign that this neat cottage had ever been invaded by a French soldier and there was no reason for this woman to betray him. She gave no response to his explanation, but helped him to remove his muddy coat and hung it before the fire, then carefully rolled back his shirt sleeve.

The strong smelling salve felt warm on his skin. She was generous with the application and Richard wondered briefly what Lord Wellington would say when he arrived smelling like an East India spice chest but he decided he did not care. It felt wonderful and he watched appreciatively as she wound undyed linen strips firmly about his wrist.

As she did so, the boy Juan reappeared. The woman looked at him enquiringly.

“I have tied him up and given him hay and water. And I used old Fredo’s brush to get some of the mud off him. He is a lovely horse.”

“Thank you, lad,” Richard said warmly. “His name is Joseph and he’ll be very grateful. As am I, to both of you. You should be proud of your son, Señora.”

“Grandson,” the woman said with a sad little smile. “My daughter died of the birth and the menfolk were taken years ago by the army. We do well enough here alone. One day, no doubt, Juan will wish to leave, but not yet. There, how does that feel?”

Richard tested it. “Much better, thank you.”

“I’ll give you a small jar to take with you. Use it until the swelling goes.”

“Only if you’ll let me pay for it.”

She laughed again and spread her hands. “I’ve little use for coins, but if you insist, Señor. We live by barter here. Goods and services and people pay well.”

“It looks as though you’ve avoided the French army as well.”

“Oh they’ve been past. I’ve tended their sick from time to time, but they don’t trouble me much. Some of the villages haven’t been so lucky.”

“I know,” Richard said soberly. “I suppose you’re quite isolated here. Unless somebody told them or they happened to take this path, you’re easy to miss.”

“They are afraid,” Juan said scornfully. “The villagers told them Grandmama is a witch and they think she will curse them.”

Richard blinked in surprise. The woman rolled down his sleeve carefully over the bandages and got up. She fetched a bottle from a shelf above the herb bench, poured some liquid into a small iron pan and set in in a ring above the fire to heat.

“It is a tea made from ginger and a local tree bark. Very good for pain. Drink some before you go. Your coat will be dry soon. Juan, take it outside and brush the mud off.”

The boy obeyed and Richard took the pottery cup and sipped the steaming liquid.

“A witch?” he enquired with interest.

She looked amused. “A harmless local legend, Señor. My family have lived here for many generations. The knowledge is passed down from mother to daughter, though I shall be the last. Herbs and remedies and some skill with healing. I act as midwife and, when needed, I lay out the dead.”

“A wise woman.”

“Is that what you call it, back in your home?”

“I’ve heard the name used.” Richard did not mention that he had also heard superstitious villagers mutter other words and make signs against the evil eye as such women passed by. Folk stories could both protect and persecute, but in these modern times at least it went no further than some name calling and a level of social isolation. He had no sense of that here and he suspected that this woman was a valued member of her rural community.

“Well I’m grateful for your wisdom, Señora. And my manners are so poor, I’ve forgotten to ask your name.”

“It is Maria Xarra, Señor. My husband was Martinez, a shepherd, but once he died I chose to return to my family name.”

“Señora Xarra, thank you.” Richard finished the tea and handed her the cup as Juan returned with his coat. The boy had done a surprisingly good job of removing the worst of the mud and it was only slightly damp. Richard thanked him and accepted his grandmother’s help to ease the coat over his injured wrist. Despite his accident, the little interlude had been curiously restful and he was almost glad it had happened.

Taking out his purse, he counted several coins into her hand. She seemed genuinely reluctant to take them. Richard folded her work-roughened hand over them firmly.

“Please,” he said. “I want to.”

“We can spend them on schooling, Grandmama,” Juan said excitedly. Richard turned to look at him in surprise.

“You go to school?”

“The priest runs a small school in the church once a week. Juan is learning to read and write. I never did, so I’m no use to him, but a boy should learn. It’s expensive though and I don’t often get paid in coin. Thank you, Señor. It will go to good use.”

Richard bit back a rude remark about a man of God charging children for a few hours teaching, though from her clipped tone, he suspected Señora Xarra agreed with him. He had a sudden thought.

“Juan, before I go, will you bring me the cloth bag out of Joseph’s saddle bag? You can’t miss it.”

The boy sped away and came back with the knapsack. Richard rummaged through it and took out a battered wooden box. He set it on the table and opened it. Both the woman and the boy came to look.

“It’s a portable writing set. There are a couple of pens and an ink pot. This little knife is to trim the pen with. And these are my note tablets. I don’t need them, I can beg some more from Colonel Somerset. We all share such things out here because we’re always either losing our baggage or getting separated from it. Please take it Juan, as a gift. You need to practice.”

The child’s eyes were huge. He looked apprehensively at his grandmother as though asking for permission to accept. The woman nodded.

“It is a generous gift, Señor. Thank you. Juan, put it away carefully in the pantry so that the ink does not spill. With this money, I will be able to buy more when needed and you will learn faster.”

Juan carried the box away as if it was a fragile treasure and Richard smiled as he watched him.

“You’re raising a fine boy Señora. I wish I had more time, I’d help him myself.”

“You have given him something precious, Señor. Juan will bring the pot of salve for you. Have you children of your own?”

“Not yet. My first wife died, but I’m betrothed to a very lovely lady. I hope we’re fortunate. I want a family.”

“You should tell his fortune, Grandmamma,” Juan said, bouncing back with a small sealed jar. He wrapped it carefully in a scrap of cloth and placed it in Richard’s worn knapsack. Richard smiled at him and shot an amused glance at the woman.

“Do you also tell fortunes, Señora?”

“It is foolishness, nothing more. On festival days, the girls pay a trifle for me to tell them the name of their future husband. It is never hard to guess the name they wish to hear.”

Richard laughed aloud. “I’ve seen it done at county fairs at home as well.”

“But Grandmamma does have the Sight,” Juan argued. “All her family had it. A long time ago, Graciana Xarra was burned for being a witch in Logroño.”

Richard stopped laughing. He stared at Señora Xarra in considerable surprise. “Is that true, Señora?”

“It is ancient history,” the woman said lightly. “As you said, Señor, ignorant people believe in folk tales. Two hundred years ago they went a little mad in these lands and my ancestress had the misfortune to be one of six or seven who paid the price. It does not happen any more. The Inquisition – which is abolished anyway, since Bonaparte – prefers persecuting Jews and Conversos to witches. Nobody believes in such matters these days.”

“It’s still a tragic story, Señora.”

“It must have been terrible,” the woman said simply.

“But she does have the power,” Juan insisted. “Everybody knows. Not just the silly girls at festival time, but the others. Even the village elders come to her for advice.”

Richard found he could smile again. “That may well be because she is a very wise woman, Juan. No magic involved. I wish my fiancée could meet you both. I shall tell her about you in my next letter.”

“When you get some more paper and ink,” Señora Xarra said. She was smiling too.

Richard held out his left hand. “Goodbye and thank you both again. Juan, I don’t know the custom here, but in England we shake hands like this with our friends as a greeting and a farewell.”

The boy complied, looking pleased. Richard turned to the woman and after a moment’s hesitation she took his hand. She held it for much longer than he had expected and when she released it, she looked suddenly grave.

Outside, Juan brought forward a wooden stool to help Richard mount more easily without putting too much strain on his wrist. The woman carried the knapsack and put it into his saddlebag herself, fastening the strap carefully.

“It is nonsense as you say, Señor. The boy believes and so do some of the villagers. All the same…”

Richard stared at her puzzled. She gave a little self-deprecating smile. “Sometimes it comes to me. I do not look for it. It is just like a picture. A flash of something. Often it is of no use, since I do not understand it myself.”

“You saw something?” Richard asked. He felt foolish saying it, but her expression was so serious.

“When you took my hand just now. There was a man in a grey coat on a bridge. Writing something. He wore a hat – this kind of shape.” She sketched a bicorn hat with her hands.

Richard frowned. The picture she drew was surprisingly effective and he realised he was visualising Lord Wellington, bent over his writing tablets to issue a new set of orders. He wanted to ask more but before he could do so, she said:

“That is all. It will probably be nothing, but there is much danger. If you see him on the bridge, you must get him away very fast. He trusts you.”

Richard felt an odd little shiver which had nothing to do with the sharp breeze. She did not seem to expect a reply. She stepped back and lifted a hand in farewell. Richard gave a little bow and began to turn Joseph towards the path.

“And Señor…do not climb the hill of Spain. You may not survive it and I wish you to go back to that pretty girl of yours and have many children. Goodbye.”

He looked back once over his shoulder. They both stood at the garden gate, waving. Richard waved back. The little cottage looked very isolated against a spectacular backdrop of rolling hills and sharply defined ridges climbing up to the mountains beyond. Richard could not help smiling. If he tried to follow her advice and not ascend any Spanish hills in this country, he would go nowhere at all.

***

Richard found Colonel Murray in the village of Ostiz, with some of General Long’s cavalry. Murray greeted him with some relief and asked about his bandaged wrist. Richard explained briefly.

“You’ve only just missed him,” Murray said. “It’s confirmed that Picton had to abandon Zubiri last night and has taken up a position just to the north of Pamplona. The enemy is marching as we speak and there are a lot of the bastards. There’s going to be a battle, though I’ve not heard any firing yet. Did you reach Pack?”

“Yes. I need to get this letter to his Lordship in case he wants me to take orders back.”

“They’ll come through me if he does. He left me here to coordinate. Get yourself off then but don’t kill yourself trying to catch up, you’ll find him easily enough once he reaches the lines. He and Somerset were riding hell for leather, they’ve probably already left the others behind.”

Richard grinned and saluted. He turned Joseph back towards the road and set off at a gallop southwards down the narrow valley. The country opened out on the approach to Sorauren and for the first time, Richard could see Allied troops massing on the hills above the village. He slowed his horse and trotted down towards the river, running his eyes over the slopes. He could see red-coated British battalions, forming up alongside Spanish and Portuguese troops.

Through his frantic intelligence gathering of the past twenty-four hours, Richard had established that Sir Lowry Cole’s Fourth Division had retreated from a vulnerable position in the high pass at Roncesvalles and combined with General Picton’s Third Division en route. Picton had originally intended to make a stand on the heights of San Cristobel just before Pamplona but Cole had persuaded him instead to defend a higher ridge along the hill of Oricain. Richard had carried several of the letters between the various sections of the army and suspected that Picton’s vagueness about his decision and his precise location had been a major factor in Lord Wellington’s irritability. His Lordship preferred to control every aspect of a campaign and lack of information drove him mad.

Richard surveyed the troops as he rode down towards the river. Cole had take up a position on the northern slopes of the hill. A spur at the north-eastern corner was occupied by what looked like Spanish troops. Along the rise and fall of the ridge, he could see British and Portuguese brigades drawn up with their light companies and skirmishers at the front and the main troops just behind the crest of the hill. He thought Wellington would approve. He could not see Picton’s division, but according to Murray it was deployed to the rear of the main position.

Richard could see activity on the stone bridge over the river as he set Joseph to a steady trot down towards the village. There were several men at the far end of the bridge, most of whom seemed to be villagers. As he drew closer however, he could see two horses. An officer sat mounted on one of them, holding the bridle of the other. The second man wore a sober grey frock coat and a neat cocked hat and he was bending over the stone wall of the bridge. He appeared to be writing something.

Richard pulled hard on the reins, startling Joseph into a little whinny. The scene was so familiar that it took him a moment to realise that he had not in fact seen it before, merely heard it described by the Spanish woman. He turned Joseph quickly, scanning the surrounding hillside. Now he could see French troops for the first time; cavalry troopers upon the crest of a ridge opposite to that occupied by the Allied troops. He wondered if Wellington knew they were there. Richard was certain that Fitzroy Somerset had seen them; he could tell by the younger man’s agitated manner.

Some of the villagers seemed to be talking to Wellington, trying to warn him of the danger. The Commander-in-Chief did not look up and gave no sign of having heard them at all. Richard looked around again. The dragoons were still a long way off and posed no immediate danger but he felt an absolute certainty that danger existed.

He did not try to analyse his sudden illogical fear but simply dug in his heels, urging Joseph forward into a fast canter. They took the slope down to the bridge at speed and the sound of thudding hooves finally made Wellington look up.

“Graham!” Somerset said. It came out as a gasp of relief. “Thank God you’re here.”

“Have you letters for me, Captain?” Wellington demanded, bending over his task again.”

“Later. You need to get off this bridge, my Lord. The French are coming into the village.”

“They are not yet so close…”

“They bloody are. You need to move.”

Both men stared at him in astonishment. Wellington opened his mouth to ask a question, but Somerset interrupted him, something he would never normally have done.

“Let me have it, sir. If it’s not clear to Murray, I can explain the rest.”

Wellington’s eyes were scanning the village. There was still no sign of a Frenchman closer than the adjoining ridge. Richard opened his mouth to yell again, but abruptly, Wellington folded his orders and gave them to Somerset.

“Ride,” he said. “Fast. If you delay you’ll be cut off and I’ll have to send them the long way around which is an extra four leagues.”

Somerset shoved the letters into his satchel and wheeled his horse. “Richard, get him out of here,” he yelled, and was gone, galloping back up the road at full stretch.

Richard turned to look at Wellington who was already swinging himself into the saddle. He shot Richard a puzzled look then turned his horse into the village and cantered down the main street. Richard fell in behind him. About half-way along, he twisted in the saddle to look back and felt a little shock running through him at the sight of four French troopers trotting into the village.

“Sir, move!” he bellowed.

Wellington picked up the urgency in his voice and did not hesitate. He set spurs to Copenhagen’s flank and pushed him into a full gallop. Richard looked around once more to see the troopers beginning to pursue and kicked Joseph to follow. They raced out of the village, hearing shouts of encouragement from the Spanish villagers as they made their escape.

The steep track out of Sorauren led up to the tiny chapel of San Salvador at the top of the hill. It occurred to Richard suddenly that Cole’s men, deployed along the ridge, had not yet seen Wellington and would have no idea of the identity of the approaching riders. He risked another look behind him, but the French had stopped at the edge of the village. He could see other troops filing into the streets now and the villagers had disappeared within doors. There was no further attempt to follow Wellington, though Richard suspected that if they had known who it was on the stone bridge they would have moved a lot faster.

Once he was sure that there was no danger of pursuit, Richard slowed down to a decorous trot, allowing Wellington to pull ahead. Partly, it was because his wrist ached from his recent exertions but he also thought it would be good for the troops to see their chief riding in alone. He knew the moment some of the skirmishers recognised Wellington because they raised a cry, which swept on through the lines.

“Douro! Douro!”

The cry was picked up by the Fourth Division and the cheering grew louder as Wellington cantered up to Ross’s brigade. He reined in and took out his telescope, turning it onto the French troops which were beginning to deploy on the opposite ridge. Richard trotted up just as General Ross drew his horse up alongside Wellington’s.

“It’s good to see your Lordship. We have been discussing it all morning and we’re inclined to believe that Soult is considering an attack.”

Wellington did not lower his telescope. He gave an expressive shrug. “We shall see, Ross. It is just as likely that I shall attack him, but I need to speak to my officers and see how the troops are set up first. We need not concern ourselves about a surprise attack; they are not close to being ready. Captain Graham.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“I believe I owe you my gratitude for your quick thinking on the bridge. It appears, General Ross, that Captain Graham is able to see approaching enemy dragoons when they remain invisible to everybody else. Do you have a letter for me, Graham? And what the devil have you done to your wrist? I forbid you to gallop like a madman again today or you will break your neck and I may have need of your mystical powers again before we kick Soult out of Spain.”

“They will be at your disposal, my Lord.”

Handing over the letter, Richard could not help smiling; though now that the danger was past he felt oddly unsettled by what had just happened. He had no belief in fortune telling and knew that Señora Xarra’s surprisingly accurate prediction was pure coincidence but he was grateful to her nevertheless. If she had not put that picture into his head he would never have thought to chase Wellington off the bridge so precipitately and the French might well have caught up with him.

***

There was no battle that day. Wellington, with Richard beside him, surveyed the ground and inspected the troops but made few changes to Cole’s arrangements. He moved O’Donnell’s Spanish troops off the knoll and replaced them with the 40th Foot from Anson’s brigade, along with two other Spanish battalions. He also sent out further orders to Pack, telling the messenger to take the long way round as the village, including the bridge, was now occupied by the French. Richard’s offer to take the messages had been firmly refused.

He was touched and a little surprised by his commander’s gruff concern for his injury. Wellington was not known for his sympathetic nature and nobody hearing his blunt observations on Richard’s carelessness would have imagined that he felt anything other than exasperation, but his actions told another story. He insisted that Richard be relieved of any further messenger duties and summoned his own surgeon to examine the injury. The doctor inspected  the swollen wrist. The swelling had reduced considerably since earlier in the day and Richard mentioned his curious encounter with the Spanish wise woman.

To his surprise, Dr Long grunted then asked to inspect the salve. He sniffed it suspiciously.

“Did it help?”

“Yes. Do you know why?”

“No earthly idea, but we’ll put some more on before I bind it up. They’re invaluable, some of these women with their herbal remedies. Ever met General van Daan’s wife?”

“Yes. They’re both friends of mine.”

“Extraordinary woman. Utterly terrifying. Some of her ideas are mad but she gets good results. She’d probably like your Spanish wise woman.”

“I thought that at the time,” Richard said.

“During winter quarters I came across her teaching young Mrs Smith how to set stitches in a sabre cut on a leg of pork. Poor Smith was hovering in the background looking absolutely appalled.”

Richard gave a splutter of laughter. “I wish I’d seen it.”

“There, that feel all right?”

Richard tested the wrist. “Yes. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Try and rest it. Which might be easier said than done if his Lordship decides we’ll fight today.”

“We’re not going to fight now,” Richard said, looking up at the rapidly darkening sky. “Visibility is too poor. I think it’s going to rain.”

He was proved right within the hour. Wellington shared a scratch meal with his staff while torrential rain battered against the canvas of his tent. He was still writing orders to the scattered commanders of his army and one by one his ADCs collected their allotted letters and went out into the storm to ride the long way round to Pack, Hill, Alten and Dalhousie. Richard watched them go sympathetically but also with relief.

***

Richard slept poorly on the hard ground, partly because of the thunderstorm and partly because his wrist ached so badly. By morning the weather had cleared and it was bright and sunny, giving Wellington excellent visibility from his chosen command post at the top of the Oricain heights. Richard sat on his horse beside him and wondered if the French had any idea how clearly their troops could be seen moving from one position to the other.

Pack brought the Sixth Division up by mid-morning and Wellington sent Richard with orders for their deployment. The arrival of additional troops seemed to be the signal for the French attack and the sound of gunfire could be heard from the direction of Madden’s brigade. It was desultory at first; the stuttering fire of tirailleurs fanning out in a skirmish line. Gradually it increased in volume and intensity and was followed by the crash of artillery. Neither side had many guns but the French had four howitzers trained on the knoll to the left of Wellington’s line, which was occupied by the 40th and two Spanish battalions.

The noise intensified and dark smoke began to roll across the battlefield. The main French assault came in columns, crossing the hollow at the foot of the slope and then beginning to climb steadily. Richard was back with Wellington and watched them come. They were making use of an unusual number of skirmishers, presumably to keep the Allied troops occupied while the columns made their way up the steep slope.

Initially it seemed to be working as the first French brigade to reach the top made a fierce attack on General Ross’s men. Richard glance sideways at Wellington. The Commander-in-Chief’s steady gaze was fixed on the combat. Already the cacophony was deafening but Wellington looked as though he was conducting an inspection on a parade ground. The howitzers boomed out, muskets crashed and the French surged up towards the crest of the hill.

“Now,” Wellington said very softly, and as if they had heard him, there was a rush of redcoats as Ross’s fusilier brigade charged into the French flank, yelling some kind of unintelligible battle cry. The ascending French seemed completely unprepared for the savagery of the attack and within minutes they were retreating, racing back down the hill leaving many dead and wounded behind them.

The pattern repeated itself across the whole of the ridge. On several occasions a determined French attack forced Wellington’s men back and even established a foothold on the crest but they were driven back by charging troops from the second line. Wellington remained in place, directing operations. Often in battle, he liked to take orders to his various commanders in person and Richard was used to chasing his chief as he rode around the battlefield, but he understood why Wellington was not doing that today. The clear weather and excellent vantage point made it unnecessary and the hilly countryside would make galloping a risky proposition.

Twice Richard was sent out with messages, sending the 27th and 48th infantry from Anson’s brigade crashing into the French flank in a surprise attack. He was then sent back to bring in Byng’s brigade which was in reserve at the rear. Riding over the rough ground mostly one-handed was difficult but these were all short journeys. Wellington had sent his other ADCs on longer missions and Richard did not mind. He preferred to have something useful to do.

When he re-joined his chief, he found him in conversation with a young Spanish soldier. Wellington’s Spanish was fairly good, though not as good as his French. Richard walked Joseph close enough to hear. His Lordship  dismissed the man with a wave and turned to Richard.

“Ammunition,” he said briefly. “It’s not being sent down fast enough, I don’t think the muleteers wish to get that close to the battle. One of the NCOs from the 7th has just managed to drag a couple of mules down to that section of the line, but there’s a problem up on the knoll with the 40th and the Spanish.”

“I’ll go,” Richard said. “I can reach it from the far side, they’re only attacking from the front, probably because of our gun battery to the south.”

“Very well, Captain, but ride over to the gunners first, if you please, to tell them to cease fire. It is bad enough that you will be at risk from the enemy howitzer, but you shall not be shot down by our own artillery.”

Richard set off, wishing briefly that he was not riding Joseph. The horse was fast and sure-footed but he had not yet ridden him into battle and would not have chosen today to test his mettle.

He quickly realised that he need not have worried. Joseph was clearly battle-hardened and did not hesitate amidst the noise and smoke and the shrieking of howitzer fire overhead. Richard thought that the horse seemed far calmer than he was. He galloped to where Captain Sympher commanded Cole’s divisional gun battery to give him Wellington’s message, then made his way up to the rear of the action to find a Spanish muleteer with enough courage to accompany him into the fray.

The man he chose was a stocky, bearded Spaniard who seemed inclined to argue against the mission until Richard drew his pistol and threatened to shoot him. The mule, laden with casks full of ball cartridge, was even less enthusiastic and did not respond to threats. Eventually several other muleteers came forward to shove the animal into motion. Once on the move, it went so quickly that it almost dragged its handler down the slope and along the back of the ridge towards the steep knoll. Richard rode behind to make sure that neither man nor beast turned and fled.

The 40th infantry and two Spanish battalions occupied a steep spur at the far left of Wellington’s line. It had come under heavy attack earlier in the afternoon and at one point the Spanish lines had given way, but the assault had been beaten back by well-organised and lethal volleys of musket fire from the 40th. Since then they had been holding their own very well, but ammunition was obviously in short supply. Richard passed a party of Spanish soldiers who were speedily and systematically going through the pouches of dead and wounded men to find more.

Another screech overhead was followed by an explosion on the far side of the ridge. Richard flinched but the shell landed a long way from the lines of battle and did no damage. As the muleteer halted his recalcitrant animal, a cry went up from an officer of the 40th and men came racing forward to help. Two Spanish infantrymen began working on the straps and the mule was relieved of its burden. The men used rocks and muskets to smash or lever the casks open and hands snatched at cartridges. A line was formed along the ridge to pass the ammunition faster and there was a renewed blaze of firing onto the advancing French.

Richard turned to the muleteer. “Well done. Now get yourself out of here, you’ve done your job.”

The Spaniard did not hesitate but scrambled inelegantly astride his mule and set off back the way he had come. Richard looked over at the fighting men. He felt an irrational urge to join them but knew that he would be far more useful as a messenger in case there was further need. He turned Joseph back towards the path.

They had only gone a few steps when there was a burst of firing much closer at hand. Richard twisted in the saddle to look and saw that a section of French infantry had managed to break through the Spanish line and gain the crest of the knoll. They were directly behind him and he knew that a mounted officer would present an excellent target.

A Spanish officer bellowed an order and men charged in from the right, slamming into the head of the French column. Muskets crashed from both sides as Richard kicked Joseph into a gallop. He would not usually have risked it on ground like this, but he had no choice.

Abruptly, he felt something hit him in the back, once and then again, as if he had been punched hard. It drove him forward over the horse’s neck. For several seconds he was bewildered as to what had struck him. Then the pain knifed into him and began to spread through his upper body in waves of agony and Richard realised he had been shot.

Along with the pain came immediate and terrifying weakness. He felt as though he was about to fall from the saddle and his muddled brain was sure that if he did so, he would be dead. He was weak and both hands felt strangely numb so he could not grasp the reins. All he could think of to do was to put both his arms about the horse’s neck He could feel the animal shaking with fear and with his face pressed against Joseph’s smooth neck and rough mane, he could smell sweat and leather tack. He could also smell blood and he knew it was his own.

Another horse would have been panicked into throwing his rider but Joseph made no attempt to shake him off. Instead, he set off at a fast canter down the slope. Richard could not hope to control him, so he let the horse take charge and prayed that wherever the terrified animal took him, it would not be into the centre of the battlefield.

***

12th August 1813

Richard awoke in darkness and lay very still, listening to his own breathing. It was not the first time he had regained consciousness but it was probably the first time that he had felt genuinely clear-headed. He savoured the feeling.

All of his recent memories were of pain and blood and fever and the filth of army field hospitals. A surgeon had dug out the bullets and dressed the wounds. He was an English surgeon and there was no mention of a prison camp which suggested that Wellington had been victorious on the ridge above Sorauren. That was about as much as Richard could comprehend.

He had been thrown around in a supposedly sprung hospital wagon until he had longed for death and as the two bullet wounds festered and his temperature soared he could remember begging for pen and paper so that he could write to Honoria. They were brought to him but he was too weak to write properly and he cried at the thought of her misery when they told her of his death. It was less than a year since she had lost her beloved father and he knew she was praying for the end of the war so that he could come home and they could be married. He could not bear to be the cause of breaking that gallant spirit all over again. The surgeon shook his head over Richard’s distress and bled him again.

Everything changed after Lord Wellington made an unexpected visit to the dingy little room in a farmhouse where Richard awaited death. There was another wagon which was considerably more comfortable though his wounds opened up again on the journey and he was barely conscious when he was carried into this room.

He had vague memories of his wounds being inspected, cleaned and dressed again and of a crisp female voice issuing orders for his care. For a moment he thought of the Spanish woman and felt his injured wrist. The swelling had gone down and it was no longer painful which suggested that he had been laid up with this wound for several weeks.

He was lying in a real bed, propped up slightly with pillows and the window was open a little. Silvery moonlight made patterns on wooden floor boards. He could make out the shape of a wooden trunk and a chair. A small table held a jug, a pottery cup and what looked like several medicine bottles.

Richard was thirsty. He tried to push himself further up into a sitting position but the pain was so bad that he cried out. As he lay back, sweating with agony, he heard quick footsteps and then the door opened.

“Lie still, Captain Graham. You’re doing very well but you’re not ready to ride into battle just yet and if my wife finds out you’ve been making the attempt you’ll regret it.”

“General van Daan. Where the hell am I? What happened?” Richard’s voice cracked a little. He felt suddenly panicky at how little he could remember.

“Calm down, Richard, you’re safe and she’s fairly sure you’re going to make it, though she wasn’t so convinced a week ago. Do you want some water? You can sit up a bit more. Let me help you.”

Richard allowed the other man to ease him into a sitting position and took the cup of water gratefully. Van Daan went to collect an oil lamp, lit two candles then lowered his tall form into the chair.

“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry. I’m a bit confused.”

“It’s not surprising. When they brought you here ten days ago our surgeon thought we were going to lose you. You were in a field hospital for a few days after they operated on you. They were going to send you down to one of the hospitals in Vitoria but Lord Wellington went to visit you and heard the surgeon say that he didn’t think you’d make it alive. He consulted my wife and they decided you’d be better off back at headquarters. You’re in Lesaca.”

“Are you billeted here?”

“No, we’re back over at Vera. I was invited to dine at headquarters and we stayed up late so they found me a bed. I was just about to settle down for the night. I’m glad I decided to stay, mind. I can give a report to Nan and I suspect she’ll be over to check on you personally tomorrow. She reluctantly deputised the nursing to your orderly and one of Wellington’s servants. It looks as though they’ve followed her instructions very well.”

“Did we beat Soult?”

“Very thoroughly. He’s back over the border and Wellington is making plans for another assault on San Sebastian. Do you remember the battle?”

Richard frowned, dragging up memories with an effort. “Sorauren?”

“That’s the one. I wasn’t there, but I’m told you were something of a hero. You’d been running errands for his Lordship all day and then you took off to haul an ammunition mule to the troops on Spanish Hill. You were successful too, but the French made a final rush and you were shot as you were riding out.”

“I remember. I tried to hold on, but I couldn’t control him. I’d injured my wrist the previous day.”

“You were also bleeding like a stuck pig from two bullet wounds. There’s some damage to your shoulder blade which you’ll feel for a while and the second one broke a rib.”

“Where did they find me?”

“Don’t you remember? That looted horse of yours took you back up to the top of the ridge, to Wellington’s command post. I don’t know what you paid for him, Richard, but it was money well spent.”

“Joseph?” Richard said in astonishment. “Do you mean he’s all right? He didn’t ride off?”

“He’s currently eating his own weight in hay in our horse lines. You won’t be riding for a while, but I’ve told Wellington I’ll arrange for both your horses and the rest of your baggage to be transported home. You’ll be travelling from Santander as soon as you’re well enough.”

“Home?” Richard felt a sudden rush of anxiety. “Home? Oh my God, Honoria? They didn’t write to her, did they? When I was…when they thought I was…?”

“Calm down, lad. That letter would be the responsibility of your commanding officer and you can’t think he’d have written anything to worry her until he was sure. He delegated the task to my wife and she sent off a very reassuring letter a few days ago when she was feeling a lot more confident. I’ll make sure they bring you writing materials tomorrow and you can write to her yourself.”

Richard relaxed. “Thank you, sir.”

“Right, you need to get some sleep. And so do I. I’ve been playing chess with Lord Wellington and it’s exhausting. I’ll call in tomorrow before I set off. It’s good to see you on the mend, Richard.”

Van Daan helped him to lie down again then extinguished the candles and picked up the lamp. He was on his way to the door and Richard was so tired that he was almost asleep when a thought occurred to him and jerked him wide awake again.

“Sir, wait. What was it called again?”

“What was what called?”

“The hill. That knoll out to our left where I was hit.”

“I’ve no idea if it has a name locally. The chap who told me the story called it Spanish Hill, but I assumed that was because during the battle it was defended mainly by the Spanish with a bit of help from the 40th. Or perhaps it was called that before. Does it matter?”

Richard stared at him through the darkness, his thoughts a jumbled whirl. “No,” he said finally. “I just thought I’d heard it before, that’s all. Goodnight, sir.”

***

October 31st 1813

The journey to the coast and the subsequent sea voyage tried Richard severely and he knew, as he waited to disembark, that he was in no fit state for an immediate coach ride to London. He was desperate to see Honoria but reluctantly decided that he needed to find a comfortable hotel in Southampton and rest for a few days.

His orderly had remained with the army, but Morrison, his groom, had travelled with him. His nursing care was rough and ready but Richard was glad of him. He arrived on the bustling quayside feeling weak and exhausted. Morrison hurried away to see to his baggage and search for a cab and Richard found a broken packing case and eased himself down on it with relief. It had been more than two years since he had left England to take up a post on Wellington’s staff and it seemed very strange to be back.

Lost in his thoughts, he was only vaguely aware of the elegant carriage which had pulled up at the edge of the road behind him. Morrison was approaching with his portmanteau while a sailor followed carrying his small trunk and a closed wicker basket. Richard watched them approach. He thought Morrison looked delighted with himself which probably meant he had located a cab and possibly an inn. The sailor lowered the trunk and Morrison handed him a coin.

“Sir, you’ll never believe it. I just met…”

“Richard.”

He rose and turned in astonishment. She had just stepped down from the carriage with the aid of a servant and was coming towards him, her hands held out in welcome. Richard took both of them and lifted one after the other to his lips. He could not take her into his arms so publicly but he could not take his eyes from her face.

“Honoria, I cannot believe you’re here. How in God’s name did you know?”

“Of course I knew, you ridiculous man. I received details of your transport from Mrs van Daan and I have been haunting the shipping office for days; they are heartily sick of me. Oh my dear, how are you? I’ve been so worried. You’re so thin and pale.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Never be sorry. You’re home and you’re whole and I am not letting you out of my sight for a long time. Get into the carriage while Morrison and my groom see to your luggage. Then you may kiss me properly.”

He obeyed, forgetting his weakness the moment he was in her arms. It did not occur to him even to ask where they were going until the carriage was underway and it dawned on him that they were unchaperoned and could not possibly be travelling all the way to London like this.

“Well I would not give a fig as you perfectly well know,” his fiancée told him firmly when he mentioned it. “But as it happens we are not going to London at all for a while. Mother and I have rented a house just outside Lyndhurst. It is no more than eight miles and the horses are well rested.”

“You’ve rented a house?”

“Yes. I’m sorry that I did it without consulting you, Richard. You may not know that I have exchanged several letters with Mrs van Daan. She did not tell me immediately how close you were to dying. I’m grateful for that, I would have fretted myself into a fit and not been able to do anything about it. But when it became clear that you would recover and must come home, she asked if there was anywhere quieter we could go. She thought that London might not be the best place for you to recover. We’d already talked about finding a country home. We’ll do that together, love, when you’re ready. But I decided that in the meantime, we would rent somewhere. I do hope you don’t mind.”

“I’ve never been more relieved in my life,” Richard said. “The thought of another long journey appals me. Honoria, it’s so wonderful to see you. You’re so beautiful. I think I’d forgotten how lovely you are. Kiss me again, would you?”

She moved into his arms. They kissed for a long time and then she settled comfortably against him, enquiring carefully to make sure she was not hurting him. Richard decided he did not care if she did. Holding her made him feel whole again.

They did not talk for a while, content just to be together. Richard dozed a little, exhausted after the voyage and woke with a start to find that she had settled him with a pillow and a woollen rug. He removed the rug, laughing.

“I feel like an elderly relative who always gets chilled in the carriage.”

“You are not at all elderly, Richard. Just not very well. You’re going to have to put up with me fussing over you a little, I’m afraid. I am still reeling at how close I came to losing you.”

Richard took her hand and kissed it. “Fuss as much as you like. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Can you tell me what happened, or is it too soon?”

“I can tell you everything I remember. There are a few weeks after I was wounded which are a bit of a blur.”

“I’d like to know.”

He described the events leading up to the battle. For a while during his illness, his memories even of that had been confused but they were clear again now. She listened attentively and asked intelligent questions. Richard realised that there had been times during the journey when he had worried that he and Honoria might feel awkward with each other, at least at first. They had corresponded very regularly but had not seen each other since their hasty betrothal seven months earlier. He need not have worried. Being with her was like coming home.

He had not intended to mention his odd experience with the Spanish wise woman but he found himself telling her the story of Señora Xarra’s extraordinary prophecies. He was relieved that she did not laugh openly at him or even ask questions. When his story was done she leaned forward and kissed him very gently.

“You’ve had such a terrible time, love. Thank God you’re home.”

“You probably think I sustained a blow to the head at the same time.”

“Your Spanish soothsayer?”

“It’s crazy. I don’t know why I told you.”

“Because you love me and can tell me anything. Richard, I neither know nor care what it was. Perhaps there really were two remarkable coincidences. Or perhaps there is something in that woman…in her family history…that defies our understanding. If that is the case, I’m glad you took it seriously enough to get Lord Wellington off that bridge.”

“I wish I’d taken it seriously enough not to ride up Spanish Hill. Though I’d no idea it was called that at the time.”

“Even if you had, and you’d believed her, you’d still have gone. Because he asked you to and because you will do anything for that man.”

Richard studied her lovely face. “Not any more,” he said. “I’ve watched so many officers struggle back from sick leave before they’re ready. I’m not doing that. I’m going to recover at my leisure, marry my beautiful fiancée and buy a house in the country. He’ll win this war perfectly well without me.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” Honoria said, snuggling comfortably against him again.

They were silent for a while then Honoria shifted and sat up. “What on earth is that noise?”

Richard listened and realised with a qualm that there was a piece of information he had not yet shared with his betrothed.

“Honoria, do you like dogs?”

Honoria stared at him in astonishment. “Of course I like dogs. Why?”

“Do you remember the basket that Morrison was carrying?”

“Is there a dog in it?”

“Yes. A puppy.”

His love did not hesitate.

“On the back, with the luggage?” she demanded indignantly. “Richard, what were you thinking? Stay there. At this moment, I think I can make more noise than you.”

There was a confused and very noisy interlude while an exuberant puppy was transferred from the luggage to the carriage. Richard watched, utterly enchanted, as his beloved cuddled, stroked and played with the puppy. Eventually the animal fell asleep on Honoria’s lap leaving hairs all over her pelisse. Honoria was smiling blissfully.

“What is her name?”

“Bella. Mrs van Daan named her. We can change it if you like.”

“No, it’s perfect. She is so beautiful. Richard, why have you brought a puppy home? Not that I have any objection but it is so unlikely.”

“It was something of an accident. Lord Wellington’s prized hunting greyhound had an unintended encounter with that hairy carpet belonging to the Van Daans. They were looking for homes for the puppies and while I was recovering in Lesaca, Mrs van Daan brought this lady to visit me. I’m not sure how it happened but she ended up travelling to Santander with me. And somehow, she really helped when I felt unwell during the journey. I’m sorry. I should have asked.”

“Don’t be silly, she is wonderful. And so are you, Captain Richard Graham. I love you so much.”

Richard held her close, leaned back against the comfortably padded seats and allowed himself to daydream of a future that did not include gunfire and marching in the rain and the bloody scenes of war. He fell asleep again contentedly, thinking only of Honoria.

The Sight    pdf of the story.

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